Isabel Savory

The Thursday Market—We Might have gone to Glaouia—Leave Marrakesh and set out on Our Last March for the Coast—Flowers in Morocco—On the Wrong Trail—Arab Tents—Good-Bye to El Moghreb.

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CHAPTER XII

The best that we find in our travels is an honest friend. He is a fortunate voyager who finds many. We travel, indeed, to find them. They are the end and the reward of life. They keep us worthy of ourselves; and when we are alone, we are only nearer to the absent.

The great Thursday Market is one of those things in Marrakesh which, once seen, is stamped deeper than a hundred other memories upon the mind. It is held in a sun-baked open space outside the Gate of the Thursday Market, just beyond the city walls, within view of the plains and a distant low range of mountains. Thousands and thousands of tall palms, groves of them, wave in the wind all over the surrounding country: a few great watercourses, worn and eaten out of the red soil, burrow between the forests on their way down to the great river.

To reach the market we rode out along a road thronged with people selling all sorts of goods, from splendid old flintlock guns from the Sus chased with silver and gold and going at three pounds, to striped carpets strong and violent in colouring at seven-and-sixpence each, and second-hand clothes of the most varied description. At last, topping a little hill, we rode down into the market: it is, more correctly speaking, a horse fair,—mules were also for sale. The horses down in the south are without doubt very different from the poor little ponies bred up in the north; but even these, in comparison, for instance, with a thoroughbred hunter at home, fell far short of what my defective imagination had led me to expect of Arab stallions in Morocco. For the most part there was nothing for sale except great heavy brutes with small heads and proud arched necks. Every one of them fell away in the hindquarters.

As usual the sale was prefaced by a prayer: hard bargaining, sharp practice, and much or little swindling, inseparable from horse-dealing, must all of it, first of all, be watered by prayer. Therefore the horsemen formed into a line; the central figure chanted some verses from the Koran; the rest held out their hands palms upwards, then joined in a sort of Amen, the instant afterwards sticking their spurs into their horses and dashing forward, charging in a line over the plain between two rows of spectators, and pulling the horses up on to their haunches at the end, red with spur-marks and white with foam. This was repeated two or three times, the short space in which the riders pulled up out of a full gallop being sometimes almost incredible; then a great circle was formed of would-be purchasers and onlookers, and the horses were ridden into the circle and then round and round to display themselves, each rider at the same time auctioning his own horse, yelling out the bids for it, as they rose, at the top of his voice. When the last bid was made, and he could get no more, the rider, after shouting the price, added that he "would not consult the absent one," meaning thereby that the owner of the horse, whether himself or not, would raise no objection to the animal's being sold for that price. Unless this sentence had been pronounced, the purchaser could not have been certain that the owner would not say afterwards he did not intend to sell for that sum. Most of the horses fetched from three pounds twelve to four pounds ten.

Mules were sold in the same way—the prayer, the parade round the circle, each rider seated almost on his mule's tail, urging him on, with hands and heels, to pace his best, the mule's nose up in the heavens. Some of them were splendid animals, which I would have given anything to have possessed—perfectly made, looking more intelligent than many humans, and full of pluck and staying power: these fetched rather more than double, what the best horse in the whole market sold for. But in criticising the horses, I speak of what I saw on this occasion: there may be, and no doubt are, fine arabs to be had in Southern Morocco—at least so I am told—but I came across only what may be called "a cart-horse stamp."

And yet they look very fine, these same sensible-looking beasts, with their great eyes, and flowing manes and tails, and proud carriage. There is something, too, eternally fascinating in the beautiful seat of an Arab on his horse—not of a fat sheikh or a rich basha or a thriving merchant, but that of the lean and wiry Arab horseman born and bred, who, as he thunders past at full gallop, puts himself into a dozen positions, is at home in them all, shoots behind him, above him, below him, without drawing rein, turning in any direction, while he makes the whole air ring with his wild cries. The Moorish saddle of course helps his grip; but beyond that, there is something cat-like in the lithe swing of his body, and it is that body's right and natural function to be upon a horse. The white turban, the flowing white garments, the gorgeously coloured saddle, the great silvered stirrups, are all part of the whole—and an attractive whole—born of the limitless desert, the great far-reaching sky, the pure wind: it is Arabian, that is all—and so much.

Meanwhile, camels were selling in another corner of the market, being made to lie down and rise and generally show themselves off: they were fetching from three pounds ten upwards. Cows, goats, and sheep were less interesting; but the throng of men which filled up the fair was, as ever, more than a study. Above and beyond all, stood out the wild inhabitants of the Atlas, and men from the Sus, wearing black camel's-hair jellabs with a great russet-red or saffron-yellow patch let into the backs of them. The origin of this striking "badge" is not known, but the jellabs themselves looked absolutely in keeping with the lawless ruffians, on whose shoulders they hung, and the wild blotch of bizarre colour was "just themselves."

Bay, is the colour which in a horse the Moor chooses first—the pearl of colours, sober and most hardy; while a light chestnut brings ill luck, though a dark chestnut is the colour of the wind, can "travel," and was Mohammed's favourite. A horse must have the colour of its saddle in harmony with itself—an apple-green saddle for a black horse, scarlet for a white, the whole beautifully worked and embossed in silk, and when on the horse's back, should be set, perhaps, upon as many as nine different coloured saddle-cloths, one on top of each other.

THE SULTAN'S GARDEN.

The Sultan's Garden.

Photo by A. Cavilla, Tangier.

Of all filthy quarters in the filthiest of cities, I think the Jewish Quarter in Marrakesh has a fair chance of ranking first,—outside it, rubbish, a manure-heap eighty feet high, which no one troubles to remove; inside the walls, black mud, feet deep, streets which are sewers, collections of dead dogs, rotting vegetables, refuse of all sorts; amongst it all, a dirty people, callous beyond belief as regards sanitation, with sore heads, sore eyes, matted rags. Not a butcher's shop which is not black with flies and "high" with rotten meat: flies lie upon every article of food.

And in the very vortex of this muck-heap—astounding to the traveller—are content to live wealthy Jews, happy to flourish all their lives shoulder to shoulder with unutterable squalor.

We went over a house belonging to a Jew millionaire, well built, lavishly decorated, as luxurious as money and Morocco would permit, evidently the pride of the whole family. Probably few of them went far outside the city walls: they were born to the Mellah. His success as a trader might have given the head of the house a country place in England, shady lawns, a carriage and pair to drive in: he preferred his own muck-heap. But I cannot conceive upon what he spent his money, other than the glorification of the inside of his house.

The Sultan's palace looked deserted: it is long, however, since he left it, and high time he was in Fez again; for Fez is more in touch with Europe—Fez means a shade more progression and civilization than life in Morocco City. Round the palace lay bales of goods which had been ordered by him and sent out from England—things such as waggons, motor-cars possibly, which are supposed so much to shock his narrow-minded subjects. They imagine that his Sharifian Majesty wastes vast sums of money; whereas for a great monarch, the ruler of an empire, his private bills are probably absurdly small. He may have fireworks let off every night for ten minutes, horrifying Marrakesh; but the cost of his amusements, considering his position, must be curiously reasonable: so one considered, as one looked at the "parcels" awaiting his return to the capital, which lay in the immense courtyard outside his palace, where "powder play" is held, and where he receives foreign ambassadors, marching through the great gateway which leads to his own private rooms, over which is inscribed in Arabic an odd sentence; it reads literally, "What God wills: there is no power but God."

The days passed, and our time in Marrakesh drew to an end. In spite of all that had been told us in Tangier, of the difficulties and dangers which would attend an expedition into the Atlas Mountains, in spite of the verdict that we should not be given a permit, should be "stopped and not allowed to continue the journey," we found that, once upon the scene of action, there would have been little difficulty in getting at least as far as Glaouia, and in pushing up through one or two other passes.

The ride to Glaouia might take five or six days: there were several other places and a district or two which would have been worth visiting ten times over. The missionaries in Marrakesh were willing to make all arrangements: one of them would have gone with us, and under that escort it would have been possible to travel into the Atlas without risk. We should have gone "privately," without troubling any one, without formality; and in all probability no one would have troubled about us: that, after all, is the only way to travel satisfactorily in Morocco, not with half a dozen soldiers and a vast noise.

But for this year at any rate our travels in Morocco had reached their limit. R. was not strong enough to face more marching: the hot sun, long rides, and general "roughing it" had told upon her, and the responsibility of taking her on farther afield, into remote regions of uncertain climate, was too great.

THE RIVER TENSIF OUTSIDE MARRAKESH.

The River Tensif Outside Marrakesh.

Photo by A. Cavilla, Tangier.

Early one morning we set forth upon our last march, back again to the coast, by the track which leads eventually to Mazagan, a seaport some distance farther north than Mogador. Here we hoped to pick up a steamer, and proceed, vi Tangier, across to Gibraltar, where it would be possible to get a P. & O. boat and head for home.

The march to Mazagan was easy, and contained little incident. After leaving the plains of Marrakesh and its waving palm-trees, and seeing the tall Kutobea disappear at last, we found ourselves in the "Little Mountains," and along the rough road began to fall in continually with parties of tribesmen, Arab country people, all mounted, who had been commandeered to accompany the Sultan as far as Fez, and who were now coming back to their homes. Splendid bronzed fellows they were, dark brick-dust colour, wrapped in long white cloaks, with the hood of an under garment pulled down over their faces: sometimes a white cloth swathed their heads; their chins were hidden in soft folds which reached up to their hawk-eyes, veiling the face, like true sons of the desert, as a protection against sun and wind. Guns were slung across their shoulders: they wore long yellow riding-boots and spurs, with half a dozen saddle-cloths; and all rode horses, strong little beasts, well groomed, some hog-maned, but usually with great locks of hair sweeping over their necks, and their tails almost touching the ground behind. On grey or white countrybreds as a rule, they wound along the mountain path in single file, these tall white-cloaked horsemen, in nowise differing from their ancestors of a thousand years ago—Arabs of unbroken descent: as they emerged from between the wild hills it would have been hard to find a more picturesque sight.

One of the few peaceful camping-grounds between Marrakesh and Mazagan was at a little distance outside an Arab village of about thirty little pointed thatched huts, enclosed within a zareba of thorn-bushes: it was called Smeera. We camped near some trees and water: the fig-trees were full of crows, which came in to roost in thousands, and The Little Owl (Athene noctua) haunted the place. In the early half-light of the morning this wise-looking little bird was found, when we awoke, to be sitting upon the edge of the flap of the tent in the doorway, gazing in upon us with round yellow eyes; nor was it the least nervous.

I recollect how, the evening before, there sat outside Smeera, as so often may be seen outside the like villages, away beyond the huts and the zareba, where it was very quiet, upon some flat grey stones, eight or twelve village men—Arabs. Sitting there in the sunset, wrapped in their white hooded mantles, this conclave of wise white owls, easily to be mistaken for grey stones, so rigid are their backs—of what do they talk as the hours go by? There is no joke nor song nor a drop of liquor going, as in a "public," where our labourers at home would naturally congregate. But this charmed circle sits on, staring into the west: the tall bearded wheat rustles in the wind close to them; the illimitable plain stretches away to the horizon, flat as their own uneventful lives; the sun drops behind the soft straight line of Earth; they do not move,—wondrous picturesque figures, long white folds, peaked hoods, sitting, their knees drawn up to their chins, for how long? What is time to an Arab?

One evening our camel never turned up, and we fully expected to have had to sleep without beds or any other of the night's usual adjuncts. We had started that morning at seven, had ridden till twelve, had halted for an hour and a half, starting again at half-past one, and riding till half-past five; and all the way, after a mile out of Sok-el-Tleta, where we watered the mules at a pond and the trail forked, we were on the wrong road. Only the man with the camel knew the Mazagan line of march thoroughly well: he had explained it beforehand to Omar. Omar made a mistake, and the camel and attendants were behind ourselves. However, news travels oddly fast in uncivilized countries, and the camel-driver heard after a time that the "advance squadron" was on the wrong trail. He set out after us, and ran and walked, and caught us at three o'clock in the afternoon. The wretched camel followed his steps all the way, with Mulai Ombach in charge of our baggage, three donkeys, and a boy, who were afraid of being cut off from us, and dared not risk a night by themselves. The camel-driver put us right, Omar and SaÏd were well cursed, and we began a toilsome journey across rough country, hoping to hit the right trail in time.

We found ourselves in the wildest and dirtiest of Arab encampments now and again, where infuriated dogs, unaccustomed to visitors, rushed out and almost bit us upon our mules, amidst a hail of stones from Omar and SaÏd. A valley luxuriating knee-deep in flowers—the Flower Valley we called it—was the one redeeming feature of that march. There are certain times for seeing the wild flowers in Morocco—perhaps April in the south is the best month: so far we had not been as much struck by them as report would lead one to expect. And yet they were most beautiful. Picture corn-fields full of love-in-a-mist; orchards of fig-trees, with the grass ablaze with golden pyrethrums; red mallow standing up in the barley; the ground carpeted with blue-and-white convolvulus; masses of carmine-coloured convolvulus densely festooned over the thorn-hedges; on the barest, stoniest of soil stretches of cistus, pale pink to faded mauve; asphodels everywhere; sometimes the wild spring form of the cultivated artichoke, the small variety of the ice-plant, the larkspur, the lupin, and several varieties of lavender. All these we met with, over and over again: rarer plants were to be found for the looking. R. collected specimens of them all, to be classified by the authorities at Kew Gardens on our return.

The Flower Valley yielded one or two which we had not seen before, and we would have lingered there, but that time was precious and we had no notion of our exact whereabouts. It was a case of going on and on and meeting no one: evening began to draw near, and still we were off the right track, while our baggage might be anywhere. There was nothing for it but to push forward and trust to luck: in time we cut into innumerable little paths, which snaked side by side in the same direction across the plain, pointing towards the coast, and these we surmised to be the trail to Mazagan, which proved to be correct. But at that moment, though we were anything but certain, it had become absolutely necessary to halt for the night. It was dark, and the mules were done. An Arab village lay on a hillside not far off, and we made for it.

Omar and SaÏd had with them on their mules our tent and two or three necessaries for cooking: we had therefore a roof over our heads, and in time a fire was made, odds and ends were scraped up, and we ate a meal of sorts sitting on the ground beside a candle stuck on a stone. The night grew very cold: there was, however, a bit of thin carpet, which we proposed to wrap ourselves in to sleep. Now and then one of us looked out between the flaps of the tent into the darkness and watched—a case of "Sister Ann! Sister Ann! do you see any one coming?"

ONE OF OUR LAST CAMPS. LOADING THE CAMEL.

One of Our Last Camps. Loading the Camel.

We had, however, grown tired of looking out, and were just arranging ourselves on the ground, when familiar noises sounded outside, and Omar's voice crying joyfully, "Le chameau arrive!"

Perhaps, above all else which was interesting on the road to Mazagan, the little Arab settlements, composed entirely of tents, interested us most. In them, was lived the truly nomad, gipsy life of the wandering Arab, who is a herdsman by heritage, and in following that vocation a roamer par excellence. They live, these Arabs, in tents: the sides are made of straw and wattle hurdles; over the top is stretched an immense piece of brown or black camel's-hair cloth. The tents are barely five feet high in the middle, less at the edges: squat brown mushrooms they look, or something like the keels of boats turned bottom upwards. All of them were open in front, "very public" the world would say; which primitive and open-air mode of living was indeed their great feature. Some of them were divided off down the middle by a hurdle, thus forming two "rooms": the hurdles were occasionally faggots, without straw. Around the tents lay the flocks, chewing the cud or browsing on the scanty grass-land: children ran out to us with bowls of milk: when the grass gave out within reach all round, the tents were taken down, the hillsides deserted, and the families wandered in search of pastures new, carrying a few chickens, some pots and pans, two or three bundles of rags, and leaving behind a good many parasites and a bare patch.

Thus Arab life in Southern Morocco—a thriftless, desultory existence, yet with the charm of continual change and of living with the earth. "To take no thought for the morrow" is the practice of all Moors, whether Arabs or Berbers: no Moor spends money on anything which will not bring him in immediate profit, and this accounts for the fact that trees and forests are never planted, or schemes started for working mines, or roads made, or bridges built; even if the capital were forthcoming, what would be the use of spending money only to be repaid little by little, year by year?—a man may die before he profits for all his trouble!

After all, argues the Moor, who could wish to alter Morocco? Is it not perfect as it is?—veritably, "the tail of the peacock," the sun of the universe!

Its very imperfections are among those things which in this fanatical Mohammedan land so fascinate the traveller. Its sad colours, its air steeped in mystery, its courtly unknowable people, its wild tribes, its white shut houses, its concealed women, its mad fanaticism, its magnificent stoicism—one and all are sufficient to hold the European, and to call him back again long after El Moghreb has forgotten his face. Another of those chains has been forged which bind certain places and certain countries to a soul, each henceforth belonging the one to the other, and each gaining a little something thereby; nor can the links of these chains be broken, since unseen possessions, such as they, are among those things which no power on earth can touch, which can neither be given nor taken away.

Printed by Hazell, Watson & Viney, Ld., London and Aylesbury.

A SELECTION FROM