"A climb with a friend is a descent."

Moorish Proverb.

One of the sights of Tangier is its market. Sundays and Thursdays, when the weather is fine, see the disused portion of the Mohammedan graveyard outside BÁb el Fahs (called by the English Port St. Catherine, and now known commonly as the SÔk Gate) crowded with buyers and sellers of most quaint appearance to the foreign eye, not to mention camels, horses, mules, and donkeys, or the goods they have brought. Hither come the sellers from long distances, trudging all the way on foot, laden or not, according to means, all eager to exchange their goods for European manufacturers, or to carry home a few more dollars to be buried with their store.

Sunday is no Sabbath for the sons of Israel, so the money-changers are doing a brisk trade from baskets of filthy native bronze coin, the smallest of which go five hundred to the shilling, and the largest three hundred and thirty-three! Hard by a venerable rabbi is leisurely cutting the throats of fowls brought to him for the purpose by the servants or children of Jews, after the careful inspection enjoined by the Mosaic law. The old[page126] gentleman has the coolest way of doing it imaginable; he might be only peeling an orange for the little girl who stands waiting. After apparently all but turning the victim inside out, he twists back its head under its wings, folding these across its breast as a handle, and with his free hand removing his razor-like knife from his mouth, nearly severs its neck and hands it to the child, who can scarcely restrain its struggles except by putting her foot on it, while he mechanically wipes his blade and prepares to despatch another.

Eggs and milk are being sold a few yards off by country women squatted on the ground, the former in baskets or heaps on the stones, the latter in uninviting red jars, with a round of prickly-pear leaf for a stopper, and a bit of palmetto rope for a handle.

By this time we are in the midst of a perfect Babel—a human maËlstrom. In a European crowd one is but crushed by human beings; here all sorts of heavily laden quadrupeds, with packs often four feet across, come jostling past, sometimes with the most unsavoury loads. We have just time to observe that more country women are selling walnuts, vegetables, and fruits, on our left, at the door of what used to be the tobacco and hemp fandak, and that native sweets, German knick-knacks and Spanish fruit are being sold on our right, as amid the din of forges on either side we find ourselves in the midst of the crush to get through the narrow gate.

Here an exciting scene ensues. Continuous streams of people and beasts of burden are pushing both ways; a drove of donkeys laden with rough[page127] bundles of cork-wood for the ovens approaches, the projecting ends prodding the passers-by; another drove laden with stones tries to pass them, while half a dozen mules and horses vainly endeavour to pass out. A European horseman trots up and makes the people fly, but not so the beasts, till he gets wedged in the midst, and must bide his time after all. Meanwhile one is almost deafened by the noise of shouting, most of it good-humoured. "Zeed! Arrah!" vociferates the donkey-driver. "BÁlak!" shouts the horseman. "BÁlak! Guarda!" (pronounced warda) in a louder key comes from a man who is trying to pilot a Minister Plenipotentiary and Envoy Extraordinary through the gate, with Her Excellency on his arm.

At last we seize a favourable opportunity and are through. Now we can breathe. In front of us, underneath an arch said to have been built to shelter the English guard two hundred years ago (which is very unlikely, since the English destroyed the fortifications of this gate), we see the native shoeing-smiths hacking at the hoofs of horses, mules, and donkeys, in a manner most extraordinary to us, and nailing on triangular plates with holes in the centre—though most keep a stock of English imported shoes and nails for the fastidious Nazarenes. Spanish and Jewish butchers are driving a roaring trade at movable stalls made of old boxes, and the din is here worse than ever.

Now we turn aside into the vegetable market, as it is called, though as we enter we are almost sickened by the sight of more butchers' stalls, and further on by putrid fish. This market is typical.[page128] Low thatched booths of branches and canes are the only shops but those of the butchers, the arcade which surrounds the interior of the building being chiefly used for stores. Here and there a filthy rag is stretched across the crowded way to keep the sun off, and anon we have to stop to avoid some drooping branch. Fruit and vegetables of all descriptions in season are sold amid the most good-humoured haggling.

Emerging from this interesting scene by a gate leading to the outer sÔk, we come to one quite different in character. A large open space is packed with country people, their beasts and their goods, and towns-people come out to purchase. Women seem to far outnumber the men, doubtless on account of their size and their conspicuous head-dress. They are almost entirely enveloped in white hÁÏks, over the majority of which are thrown huge native sun-hats made of palmetto, with four coloured cords by way of rigging to keep the brim extended. When the sun goes down these are to be seen slung across the shoulders instead. Very many of the women have children slung on their backs, or squatting on their hips if big enough. This causes them to stoop, especially if some other burden is carried on their shoulders as well.

THE SUNDAY MARKET, TANGIER.
Cavilla, Photo., Tangier.
THE SUNDAY MARKET, TANGIER.

On our right are typical Moorish shops,—grocers', if you please,—in which are exposed to view an assortment of dried fruits, such as nuts, raisins, figs, etc., with olive and argan oil, candles, tea, sugar, and native soap and butter. Certainly of all the goods that butter is the least inviting; the soap, though the purest of "soft," looks a horribly repulsive mass, but the butter which, like[page129] it, is streaked all over with finger marks, is in addition full of hairs. Similar shops are perched on our left, where old English biscuit-boxes are conspicuous.

Beyond these come slipper- and clothes-menders. The former are at work on native slippers of such age that they would long ago have been thrown away in any less poverty-stricken land, transforming them into wearable if unsightly articles, after well soaking them in earthen pans. Just here a native "medicine man" dispenses nostrums of doubtful efficacy, and in front a quantity of red Moorish pottery is exposed for sale. This consists chiefly of braziers for charcoal and kesk'soo steamers for stewing meat and vegetables as well.

A native cafÉ here attracts our attention. Under the shade of a covered way the kÁhwajÎ has a brazier on which he keeps a large kettle of water boiling. A few steps further on we light upon the sellers of native salt. This is in very large crystals, heaped in mule panniers, from which the dealers mete it out in wooden measures. It comes from along the beach near Old Tangier, where the heaps can be seen from the town, glistening in the sunlight. Ponds are dug along the shore, in which sea water is enclosed by miniature dykes, and on evaporating leaves the salt.

Pressing on with difficulty through a crowd of horses, mules and donkeys, mostly tethered by their forefeet, we reach some huts in front of which are the most gorgeous native waistcoats exposed for sale, together with Manchester goods, by fat, ugly old women of a forbidding aspect. Further on we come upon "confectioners." A remarkable[page130] peculiarity of the tables on which the sweets are being sold in front of us is the total absence of flies, though bees abound, in spite of the lazy whisking of the sweet-seller. The sweets themselves consist of red, yellow and white sticks of what Cousin Jonathan calls "candy;" almond and gingelly rock, all frizzling in the sun. A small basin, whose contents resemble a dark plum-pudding full of seeds, contains a paste of the much-lauded hasheesh, the opiate of Morocco, which, though contraband, and strictly prohibited by Imperial decrees, is being freely purchased in small doses.

On the opposite side of the way some old Spaniards are selling a kind of coiled-up fritter by the yard, swimming in oil. Then we come to a native restaurant. Trade does not appear very brisk, so we shall not interrupt it by pausing for a few moments to watch the cooking. In a tiny lean-to of sticks and thatch two men are at work. One is cutting up liver and what would be flead if the Moors ate pigs, into pieces about the size of a filbert. These the other threads on skewers in alternate layers, three or four of each. Having rolled them in a basin of pepper and salt, they are laid across an earthen pot resembling a log scooped out, like some primÆval boat. In the bottom of the hollow is a charcoal fire, which causes the khotbÁn, as they are called, to give forth a most appetizing odour—the only thing tempting about them after seeing them made. Half loaves of native bread lie ready to hand, and the hungry passer-by is invited to take an al fresco meal for the veriest trifle. Another sort of kabÁb—for such is the name of the preparation—is being made from[page131] a large wash-basin full of ready seasoned minced meat, small handfuls of which the jovial chef adroitly plasters on more skewers, cooking them like the others.

Squatted on the ground by the side of this "bar" is a retailer of ripened native butter, "warranted five years old." This one can readily smell without stooping; it is in an earthenware pan, and looks very dirty, but is weighed out by the ounce as very precious after being kept so long underground.

Opposite is the spot where the camels from and for the interior load and unload. Some forty of these ungainly but useful animals are here congregated in groups. At feeding-time a cloth is spread on the ground, on which a quantity of barley is poured in a heap. Each animal lies with its legs doubled up beneath it in a manner only possible to camels, with its head over the food, munching contentedly. In one of the groups we notice the driver beating his beast to make it kneel down preparatory to the removal of its pack, some two hundred-weight and a half. After sundry unpleasant sounds, and tramping backwards and forwards to find a comfortable spot, the gawky creature settles down in a stately fashion, packing up his stilt-like legs in regular order, limb after limb, till he attains the desired position. A short distance off one of them is making hideous noises by way of protest against the weight of the load being piled upon him, threatening to lose his temper, and throw a little red bladder out of his mouth, which, hanging there as he breathes excitedly, makes a most unpleasing sound.[page132]

Here one of the many water-carriers who have crossed our path does so again, tinkling his little bell of European manufacture, and we turn to watch him as he gives a poor lad to drink. Slung across his back is the "bottle" of the East—a goat-skin with the legs sewn up. A long metal spout is tied into the neck, and on this he holds his left thumb, which he uses as a tap by removing it to aim a long stream of water into the tin mug in his right hand. Two bright brass cups cast and engraved in Fez hang from a chain round his neck, but these are reserved for purchasers, the urchin who is now enjoying a drink receiving it as charity. Tinkle, tinkle, goes the bell again, as the weary man moves on with his ever-lightening burden, till he is confronted by another wayfarer who turns to him to quench his thirst. As these skins are filled indiscriminately from wells and tanks, and cleaned inside with pitch, the taste must not be expected to satisfy all palates; but if hunger is the best sauce for food, thirst is an equal recommendation for drink.

A few minutes' walk across a cattle-market brings us at last to the English church, a tasteful modern construction in pure Moorish style, and banishing the thoughts of our stroll, we join the approaching group of fellow-worshippers, for after all it is Sunday.

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