Inside the Village of Aït bu Haddu, at Dads.
we had arranged to meet again later in the afternoon, and walk about in the gardens which line the river-banks.
Meanwhile, I think some description ought to be given as to the appearance of the men I found myself among and their womenkind.
Certainly of all the tribes and peoples that I have come across in Morocco, those of Dads far exceed the rest in good looks and handsome build. As a rule, all the men are well above average height, gracefully and strongly formed, withal possessing an appearance of athletes. In colour they are fair, the eyes sometimes blue, but generally dark, while the eyelashes and eyebrows are black. The nose, contrary to the general Berber type, is aquiline, and the mouth finely cut and well shaped. Although they follow the rule of shaving the head, they do not, like the Arabs, allow the beard and moustache to grow, but entirely shave off the latter, and leave only a small pointed beard on the extremity of the chin, which extends to the ears in a fine line of closely cut hair on either side. Their hands and feet are small and well shaped, the former showing no signs of manual labour, all of which is performed by the women, the men being the warriors, as it were, and, unless employed as caravan-drivers, spending their time in idleness or bloodshed.
It is impossible in such a description as this to really reproduce the type of the Berber of Dads, for his charm, and undoubtedly he possesses much, is owing more perhaps to his manner and innate politeness than to his outward form, though even in the latter respect he is superb. Fierce as they are in war, the people of Dads are when at peace the gentlest of creatures, extremely devoted to their children, and living a home-life absolutely unknown amongst the Arabs. Just as in appearance, so in moral character, do they excel, and the vices so common amongst the Moors are unknown in the homes of the Berbers. They seem to possess none of that uncontrollable passion that is so large a feature in the Arab character, and its place is taken by affection and sincerity. Seldom marrying more than one wife, prostitution is absolutely unknown, with the result that the health of the tribe is excellent, and one never sees those horrid disfigurements of feature so common in other portions of Morocco. No doubt to a great extent the moral character of the Berbers is due to the fact that their women are allowed entire liberty, do not veil their faces, and mix on almost all occasions with the men. One of the first things that struck me on my arrival at Dads was the good-humoured and innocent chaff that passed between the men and the girls of the tribe, even in the streets of the ksar, and still more when they brought us our food to the minzah on the house-top. The women are distinctly pretty, with very fair skins and clear complexions; but they detract much from their appearance by the strange manner in which they adorn their features with henna and kohl, the former a red dye, the latter antimony. Usually five red streaks pass from the top of the forehead to the eyebrows, while each cheek contains a triangular patch of the same hue. The eyebrows and lashes are darkened with the kohl, a black patch is put upon the tip of the nose, another at each point of the mouth, and still another on the chin. The neck is often slightly tattooed in a narrow design running from under the chin as far as the breasts.
The costume of the women of Dads consists almost entirely of khent—indigo-blue cotton—the dress being formed of two pieces, which fasten over the shoulder and hang as if “cut square,” back and front. Under the arms the two strips of khent are sown together as far as below the knees. A girdle—usually a cord of red wool wound several times round the body, and the ends hanging down in long tassels—takes the place of the wide hazam of the Arab women, and is infinitely more graceful. Often a second strip of khent is worn as a shawl, being brought over one shoulder and fastened below the other arm. Necklaces of silver beads and pendants with coral and amber form the chief ornament; and often the head-dress of khent is decorated in silver, while bangles and a few anklets are worn. The women usually go barefoot, a few of the richest only seeming to wear shoes; while with the men the sandal—generally of raw hide—is almost universal.
The men’s dress is picturesque. Over the long wide-sleeved shirt, or chamira, is worn a haidus of thick black woollen material, or else the same hooded garment in white wool, often varied with narrow stripes of cotton interwoven. On the head a small white turban, leaving the crown bare, is the customary covering; but many affect, too, the kheit, or soft wool string, and still more go bareheaded. As is usual with all Berbers, no belt or sash is worn, the long chamira hanging ungirdled from the neck to the ankles.
All sorts and varieties of hairdressing are to be found amongst the children. Some have the crown bare, and the hair on the sides of the head long, just for all the world like the babies of Japan, while others possess a regular patchwork design of hair and bald spots all over the head. They seem a happy good-natured lot these children of Dads, and spend nearly the entire day at play, seldom fighting or quarrelling. The principal occupation of the boys seems to be slinging, at which they are remarkably adept. The sling is formed of a small net of close-woven string, with two long cords attached, and even quite small urchins can send a stone to a great distance. Another amusement, absolutely unknown to the Arabs so far as I am aware, is the modelling of little figures out of clay. Some that I saw were excellent, principally men on horseback, and most creditable performances for children who have nothing but their fingers to work with. The horsemen were generally stood up a few yards off and pelted with stones until broken, the excited urchins meanwhile shouting, “The Arabs! the Arabs!”—the common war-cry of their tribe when fighting with the latter race.
In spite of the great size of the ksor of Dads, with their castellated towers and fortified walls, the place is an extremely poor one, and little or no money circulates, except amongst the men employed in caravan-work. Even in this case it is very few indeed who possess more than a couple of mules, such being considered a large capital, and the long and wearisome journey to Morocco City and back usually brings only some five dollars or so of profit per mule; that is to say, an absence of a fortnight, with some 250 miles of desert and mountain, the latter often snow-clad, may, if robbers be escaped and favourable luck be met with, bring in some sixteen shillings of English money. But, as a rule, the population of Dads subsist upon the dried figs and other scanty produce of their gardens, which are poor enough little fields, well irrigated certainly, but with inferior soil and scanty products. The figs are plucked ripe and laid out on to the flat house-tops to dry in the sun, and eventually stored for the winter. So hard do they become that we were obliged to crush them between stones before we were able to make any impression upon them with our teeth. Very few cattle are to be found, such as there are being entirely stall-fed, fsa—a kind of lucerne—being grown for the purpose. There being absolutely no grazing land, the cows seldom leave the yards of the house. They are invariably fed out of mangers, built of tabia, and raised about 12 to 18 inches from the ground. The women attend to the cattle as to everything else, it being their duty to fetch and carry water and firewood, in fact to do almost all the work with the exception of tilling the soil, and in a few cases I saw them even so occupied. As a rule, the cultivation is done by paid workmen, who take piecework, the digging of an acre of soil preparatory to its being sown with turnips bringing the labourer about two shillings English money. These labourers are not of the Dads tribe, for they think it below their station to dig, but usually come from the banks of the Wad Draa, and are known, both amongst themselves and all over Morocco, as “Haratin”—that is to say, “freemen,” and not slaves. In type they form much in common with the negro, and seem too not unlike him in good humour and docility. Their language is a variety of Shelha, called “Drauia,” but is only partially comprehensible to the tribes
A Woman of Dads.
speaking the pure dialect. Numbers of these “Haratin” are to be found all over Morocco, where they usually pursue the calling of water-carriers, and thus become members of the fraternity of Mulai Yakub, to whose tomb, at the hot springs near Fez, they have to make a pilgrimage before taking to the guerba or “water-skin,” from which they peddle the liquid to the crowd. They are usually an honest and trustworthy people and excellent labourers, talking and laughing while they dig or ply whatever trade they have taken to, but they seem incapable of skilled labour of any sort.
Having now briefly sketched the character and manner of life of the people of Dads, a few words must be written as to the country their tribe inhabits.
The division of the Berbers which takes its name from the river Dads possesses the entire banks of that river from the spot where it leaves the valley of the main chain of the Atlas to where it changes its course from north and south to east and west, a few miles from the northern slopes of Jibel Saghru, the Anti-Atlas, where the tribe of Aït Yahia, a division of the larger Seddrat, commences. The distance thus in the hands of the Dads tribe is a narrow strip of land on both banks of the river, some twenty-five miles in length. The fact that their district extends from the Atlas range to the Anti-Atlas gives them a power altogether beyond their numerical strength amongst the Berbers of trans-Atlas Morocco, for by their position they hold entire command over the caravan-roads from Marakesh to Tafilet and the intermediate places. Whichever road be chosen—whether it be by the valleys of the Warzazat and Idermi, by the Glawi Pass, or by Demnat and Aït bu Gemmés—the traveller is obliged to pass through Dads, and in order that caravans may do so with immunity, it is necessary that alliances be made with the tribe by the surrounding people. This, too, empowers the inhabitants of Dads to trade with far more security than those of the other districts, for the fact that they allow caravans to pass through without plundering them gives them the same right elsewhere; and should another tribe rob or attack a Dads caravan, woe betide the next band of men of the tribe in question that passed through Dads. Thus it was that I heard on my return from Tafilet that a small caravan from Askura, coming from the east, met with a reception that amply repaid the loss of the property of the mule-drivers who had accompanied us through Askura, and whose plundering we had witnessed. Again, the strength of Dads is owing, no doubt, not a little to the fact that the tribe is undivided, and collected at one spot, whereas, I believe without exception, all the other Berber tribes are scattered over various parts of the country, none inhabiting one district, as is the case with Dads. Although continual blood-feuds are springing up amongst the inhabitants of the various ksor, the tribe unites in the case of attack from without, all intervillage quarrels being left until the enemy is driven off. But so firm a position have the people managed to obtain for themselves, and so renowned are they for their pluck and bravery, that nowadays attack from other tribes is uncommon. However, a few years since the powerful Aït Atta marched in force against the inhabitants of Dads, accompanied by a large number of horsemen; but the superiority in numbers, and the fact that the Dads people possessed no horses, did not suffice to give them victory, and they were, after a long struggle, eventually driven back to the east across the plain of Anbed. A few Aït Atta ksor which had formerly stood at Dads, inhabited by friendly tribesmen, were thereupon destroyed, and the Attauis driven out or put to the sword.
In all those wars and blood-feuds no quarter is given, any one old enough to carry a gun or dagger, the two weapons of the country, being considered fair game. Prisoners taken alive are stabbed to death with the curved dagger of the place, powder and shot being too valuable. Contrary to this barbarous custom, the women and children are spared, the former being permitted to go free, and a strict code of honour prevents their being violated. Immediately a ksor is besieged the women and children are allowed to pass out untouched, and are even helped on their way to safe quarters by the enemy. In many cases of this sort strange incongruities are found amongst the Berber people. In the case of the Arabs, prisoners of war might be spared, but the women would be a prize too tempting to be allowed to escape, and would one and all be outraged, and the children as likely as not sold.
The river flows through the centre of the valley, flat gardens extending from its banks to where the parallel cliffs rise to the level of the plain east and west. The ksor for the most part lie immediately below these cliffs, though in the upper portion, particularly in Aït Iunir, they are found scattered amongst the gardens, rising most picturesquely above the tree-tops. These gardens are usually walled, and contain little but figs, and these of a poor quality, though they give large crops. The upper portion of the valley seems to be far more fertile than near Aït bu Haddu, for instance, for the fruit-trees reach a far larger size, and the vegetation is richer altogether. Apples, pears, plums, and apricots abound here, though below few are found, and pomegranates are not uncommon. The date-palm is absent altogether.
As at Askura, one is struck by the labour that has been expended in ensuring a continual supply of water for the gardens. This is done by means of innumerable small canals. On account of the level of the gardens being somewhat higher than that of the river-bed, the water has in almost all cases to be drawn off from the main stream far above the ksor and gardens it is to supply, and this fact is a constant cause of warfare; for when a village is separated from the river by a couple of miles perhaps of canal, on which it entirely depends for its supply, the enemy soon take advantage of the fact and cut off their water, which raises the siege at once, and a sortie has to be made by the defenders. Nor is it only during war, for, more often still, the original commencement of the strife is the fact that some one has drawn off the contents of some one else’s canal, and a feud commences. The water, however, serves a purpose in warfare other than raising sieges by being cut off, for the very opposite policy is often resorted to, and water brought to play upon the soft tabia walls of the ksar, a channel being dug right up to the building. Strong as it is to withstand the effects of climate, tabia is like blotting-paper before water, and almost as soon as the walls are reached the building commences to crumble away from the foundations, imperiling the lives of all within, and necessitating a sudden flight, and probably the falling into the hands of the enemy waiting without. In order to prevent their enemies from approaching the ksor and cutting off or turning on the water, both equally disastrous, watch-towers are built along the banks of the canals. The äudin, as the natives call them, are usually square towers some 30 to 40 feet in height, and full of loopholes. In case of war they are garrisoned with a handful of men who are supplied with sufficient quantities of water and provisions to stand a siege, and from them a guard can be kept over the canal and its banks, while their position—the summit, as a rule, of mounds—prevents the water being turned on to their foundations. The whole of the Dads valley is sprinkled with these towers, which add a by no means unpicturesque feature to their scenery.
Looking down from the tops of the cliffs upon the valley of Dads, the district presents an appearance the like of which I have seen nowhere else in the world. It is not that it is beautiful scenery, or that its fertility calls for admiration; rather it is the fact that in its curious position and architecture it is unique. The valley, with the river flowing through its midst, is entirely shut in on both sides by high cliffs of yellow soil. From amongst the gardens crop up everywhere the ksor with their battlements and towers, each one of which would be considered a large building in Europe. As a frame to this strange scene there is the barren desert, bounded on the north by the rocky snow-clad peaks of the great chain of the Atlas, and on the south by the irregular line of Jibel Saghru.
The district of Dads is divided into six portions, each of which contains many ksor. These subdivisions of the tribe are respectively, commencing from the south—
| (i.) | Arbaa miya. “the four hundred”; |
| (ii.) | Iutagin; |
| (iii.) | Aït u Allel; |
| (iv.) | Aït Hammu; |
| (v.) | Aït Iunir; |
| (vi.) | Aït Tamuted. |
Of these the first-named, Arbaa miya, is decidedly the largest, strongest, and altogether most powerful. It contains some forty ksor. It is at the north end of Aït Tamuted that the Wad Dads leaves the valleys of the Atlas to enter the plain.
I spent five days at Dads, and very pleasant ones they were, while the rest after the weary tramp refreshed men and beasts wonderfully. During the heat of the day we would wander down to the banks of the river, and saunter through the gardens, or sit and talk under the shade of the fig-trees. So accustomed had I become to playing the part of a native that my life with the Berbers caused me no anxiety lest my identity should be discovered, and I even became lax in my attentions at prayers, attending merely the noon and sunset “services.” The mosque of Zauia Aït bu Haddu was a small enough place, with a roof supported on heavy beams of rough walnut-wood, and a minaret in bad repair. Water for the purpose of ablutions had to be brought from the nearest canal, for the zauia stands above the level of the gardens, almost immediately below the cliffs. Being a sanctuary of Shereefs, it was not built on the same plan of defence as the generality of the ksor, though its entrances were mostly guarded with gates. No doubt the fact that most of its inhabitants are descendants of the Prophet renders it less liable to attack, and less likely to be embroiled in the intertribal feuds which are of everyday occurrence.
Close to the village was a “Mellah,” or “Ghetto,” of Jews, living by themselves in a separate quarter, which also was undefended, from the fact that they do not in any way participate in the wars. The Jews exist at Dads, as elsewhere among the Berbers, under the system of debeha, or sacrifice, so called from the fact that a sheep or ox is supposed originally to have been offered to the Berbers in order to obtain protection. The families of Jews here too live in a feudal state, each being dependent upon some Shleh family for immunity from ill-treatment and robbery: in return for this they pay a small yearly tribute to their protectors. As a rule they are the skilled workmen of the place, being particularly renowned at Dads for their guns, which are often gorgeously decorated in silver. The shops, too, are almost entirely in the mellahs, though little can be purchased except indigo-blue cotton—khent—candles, and sometimes tea and sugar. Money is so scarce, however, that the trade is very small, though large quantities of merchandise pass through Dads en route to Tafilet, and dates on their way to Marakesh.
Young Jew of Dads.
The cliffs that bound the river east and west are in many places fretted with caves, but all tradition as to their former use is lost. I was told that some copper implements of agriculture were found in one or two only a short time before my visit, but the manner in which I was travelling prevented my making many inquiries upon the subject. However, I was enabled to enter many of these caves, and they appear to have been used as dwellings by their inhabitants, a supposition much strengthened by the fact that farther up the Wad Dads there are several settlements of cave-dwellers existing to-day, known as Aït Iferi, “the sons of the caves.” I did not enter these inhabited caves, though I passed them, but from all outward appearance they seemed to resemble those near the Zauia Aït bu Haddu, several of which I explored. These varied somewhat in size and shape, but three chambers seemed to be the average number. These rooms were all small, the largest I measured being some 13 feet by 7 feet, while the smaller averaged some 7 feet by 6. The walls are very rough, pieces of rock often projecting a foot or so, and in all respects they did not show nearly so much skill in their excavation as those I had previously seen at Imin Tanut, some two days’ journey south-west of Marakesh, near the residence of the Kaid of Mtuga. Nor are the caves of Dads situated in the face of the precipices as are these others; for whereas at Imin Tanut it is impossible to enter any but a very few, those at Dads are easily accessible, being one and all placed at the bottom of the cliff. One larger than the rest lies at the back of the mellah of Jews near the zauia, and is used by them for a place in which to wash their dead, and here their corpses lie for a night before burial.
With the exception of these caves I found but little signs of antiquities, the ruins I had been told of before leaving Marakesh turning out to be merely the remains of “tabia” ksor, the age of which it was impossible to determine. Once allowed to fall out of repair, it takes a very short time for these buildings, constructed with such a soft material, to crumble away, though when properly attended to, and the rain kept off, they seem to last for a great time. One curious ruin exists near Dads, which I was enabled to visit, but I refrain from giving any attempt at a minute description here, as I was unable to take satisfactory measurements. Suffice it to say that it stands on a circular hill of bare rock, and is built of large blocks of stone, without mortar. I attach considerable importance to this ruin, and hope to be able to return on some future occasion and more minutely explore it. The hill is known as Jibel Korah, and is well known to every native of Dads. The ruin has a bad reputation, and is said to be inhabited by devils. A similar building exists near Todghrá, on a rocky slope to the south-west of that oasis.
As the roads ahead of us were reported to be infested with robbers, especially deserters from the Sultan’s army which was now at Tafilet, we thought it best to leave behind at the zauia my two mules, and proceeded on our way with only a couple of donkeys, one belonging to the Shereef’s nephew, the other mine. Our party, too, diminished in numbers. The old Shereef had reached his destination, and was to go no farther; his son was a useless creature, and I decided not to take him; while our pilgrim, the devotee of the sect of the Derkauiya, turned aside to seek his home. A good fellow he had been, and heartily sorry I was to lose his company, though he seldom said much or intruded his presence upon us. Yet he was by far and away the most interesting of our little band, and exhibited the strange case of the fanatical devotee, all whose ideas had been overthrown by his pilgrimage to Mecca. His loathing for Christians had received a blow in the kindness of the captain of the steamer he had travelled on, and, in spite of his religious detestation of the “Nazarene,” he confessed to a secret partiality for their character. Before leaving the Sahara, in fact, he had formed his judgment of the whole world on his surroundings and the traditions of his people; but now his eyes were opened, and he was sorely bewildered. Had I dared, I would like to have made a more careful study of this man’s mind and opinions, but it must be remembered that I was passing as a Moslem, and therefore had to be guarded in my conversation.
Our party from Dads to Tafilet consisted of five—the Shereef’s nephew, to whom no words of praise could do justice; my Riffi servant, Mohammed; the miserable cur of a negro whose conduct caused us so much anxiety, but who paid for it on our return to Marakesh; a Dads tribesman, who went as our zitat, or guarantee against robbery and murder; and myself, still in my torn chamira and jelab, barefooted, browned by the cold and sun, and as hard as nails: and a merry little band we were, as—our two donkeys packed with our scanty baggage, only a few pounds in weight—we shook hands with all the friends who had been so kind to us at Dads, and, receiving their blessing, set out. The last to leave us was Hammu, my friendly caravan-man, and he accompanied us some way up the valley, until, reaching a district with which his ksar had a blood-feud, he bade us “adieu” and turned back. For a quarter of an hour or so we could hear his voice rising and falling in the strange cadence of the Berber songs until it died away in silence.
Although we left the Zauia Aït bu Haddu on November 12, we spent that night in the province of Dads, our road having merely taken us some twelve miles up the river’s course, as far as a ksar in the district of Aït Iunir, which I had promised to visit en route, as it was from near this point that the main road to Tafilet leaves the valley to cross the plain of Anbed. The path, for it is no more, winds about amongst the gardens and ksor, every few minutes crossing one of the small canals that irrigate the fields, &c. These, where not too deep, are forded, but in many places are crossed with little bridges—merely the trunks of trees laid across from bank to bank, and covered with stones and soil. Only two places of any note are passed on the way, the tomb and sacred groves of Sid bu Yahia, and close to it the sôk, or market, of the Khamis, or Thursday. The tomb of the saint is built of tabia, and consists of two rooms, in one of which the remains of Sid bu Yahia lie, while the other serves as a mosque. A pointed dome of green tiles covers the former. Near by is the grove of trees, so common an adjunct to sanctuaries in Morocco. They are silver poplars, and of great size. The market-place is only an open space, and the day not being Thursday, it was deserted. There is a second large sôk at Dads—the Arbaa, or Wednesday—a little to the south of Zauia Aït bu Haddu: we had passed through it when nearing Dads on the day of our arrival.
Close to the Sôk el Khamis are the remains of seven villages of Aït Atta, which were destroyed when that tribe made an unsuccessful attempt to wrest the valuable strategical position along the river from its present holders. Up to that date the Attauis had possessed these seven villages; here they were allowed to live in peace, but on the breaking out of open hostilities their ksor were razed.
Sometimes our road led us close to the river’s banks, at others almost under the cliffs that rise to the level of the plain. The water in the river is clear, and of a brilliant blue colour. Fish abound; but although the natives speak of three varieties, I was able to see only one—the barbel. Nor do they keep to the main stream; for the canals, even where only a few feet wide, often contain large shoals of them.
At a large ksar, with frowning towers and battlements, the very picture of the dwelling of a Berber chief, we stopped for the night. Our host met us at the gate and welcomed us, taking our donkeys to a stable, where barley was given them to eat, and then leading us within. We ascended innumerable steps until a small suite of rooms, opening on to a piece of flat roof, was reached; here we were installed. It was a charming spot, for far more care and art had been expended upon the building than in any other ksar we had seen; and the walls were clean with whitewash, while the ceiling consisted of a layer of canes, stained red and black, in strange designs, the whole supported on neatly cut beams of unpolished walnut wood. A few rough rugs lay strewn over the floor, and a semblance of comfort was given to the place by some shelves containing a teapot, some bright little cups and saucers, and a brass tray and kettle. Food was soon brought us, the usual kuskusu and boiled turnips, with the extra luxury of a chicken—no small honour in these parts—then tea and dates.
The view from the flat roof on to which the window of the room opened was a very charming one. The vegetation in Aït Iunir is far better than that of the lower districts, and big trees, especially cherry, pear, and walnut, abound. From the summits of the trees rose the surrounding ksor, one and all crowned with towers, and of very considerable size. The house in which we were must have covered a couple of acres of land. Yet even here were apparent the signs of the constant state of warfare in which the people of Dads exist, for the walls of the minzah were perforated with bullet-holes, shots from the next-door neighbour, whose castle stood only a couple of hundred yards away. It was on this account, that the feud was still proceeding, that our host made us sit down under the parapet of the wall to eat our meal, lest our appearance might bring down upon us a volley from the people over the way.
In this house I again noticed what I had already seen at the Zauia Aït bu Haddu—namely, the manner in which bees are hived amongst the Berbers. A hollow space is left in the wall of the house, opening into a cupboard within, from which the honey can be removed. A small hole, often only a hollow cane, on the outside of the wall, allows a means of ingress and egress for the bees.
Altogether, the ksar in Aït Iunir where we spent the night of November 12 showed far more signs of prosperity than any we had as yet visited. Not only was it very extensive, but the women wore far more jewellery, their necks being hung with large silver necklaces and coral and amber beads, while the clothes of the men were newer and of better material than usual. Added to this, the presence of such little luxuries as tea-trays and cups spoke of better living than the usual hard fare of the people.
In spite of the long march before us we sat up late, our host insisting on not leaving us until past midnight, and I was only able to snatch a couple of hours of sleep before we were told that it was time to be off.
Miserably cold it was when we girded up our loins and packed our little donkeys for the start, and at such moments as these I almost felt inclined to abandon my risky journey and turn back. The thought that all these hardships would have to be gone through on the return journey, and in far colder weather, was no pleasant one; but I felt I could face them rather than fail to accomplish my object, and so I persisted—until at length my efforts were crowned with success.
In the cold grey dawn we forded the river and ascended the steep slope on its eastern bank, reaching at the summit the commencement of the plain of Anbed, which forms the watershed between the rivers flowing east and west—that is to say, between the basin of the Wad Todghrá, which joins the Gheris near Ul Turug, some ninety miles to the east, and the Wad Dads, the chief tributary of the Wad Draa. Not a vestige of vegetation was to be seen beyond the few dried-up tufts of wild thyme, but a distant view of gazelle and a flock of muflon show that there must be some pasture, probably a little rank grass in the hollows where water lies in the wet season.
The tramp across the dreary desert of Anbed is some fifteen miles in length. The whole way one proceeds almost due east, parallel with the range of Jibel Saghru, and distant from it some eight or ten miles. The same dreary outlook presents itself as did in crossing the strips of desert before arriving at Dads—stone-strewn barren plain and verdureless mountain-ranges on either hand. The peep we obtained of gazelle and muflon—Barbary wild sheep—was the only time that, beyond domestic animals, we saw any mammal, with the exception of a striped jerboa, and of these only one or two, during the whole journey from the foot of the Atlas to Tafilet. Hyena I heard of, however, and several of the graveyards we passed were heaped with large stones to prevent their scratching up the bodies.
About twelve miles east of Dads a valley opens up in the plain of Anbed, descending by which one reaches the Wad Imiteghr, which crosses the end of the valley at right angles. There were appearances that the torrent in the gorge must be large in the rainy season, or rather after heavy rainfall—for there is no regular wet season, rain being very scarce, but at this period it was quite dry. A few caves on the north side are used for housing sheep in, at such times as moisture allows of a little grass to grow. The road was very rough, and the bleaching bones of animals showed clearly enough that the boulder-strewn path had proved fatal to many a beast of burden. The descent from Anbed by this valley brings one to a continuation of the plain at a lower level, which extends, falling the while, as far as the valley of the Wad Gheris. On the farther (east) bank of the Wad Imiteghr are a few ksor, with an attempt here and there to raise a garden amongst the boulders. The most prosperous of the castles, and that a poor enough place, was pointed out to me as Ighir.
My road from this spot onwards diverged from that usually pursued by caravans between Dads and Todghrá, for while the principal track takes a slightly more northerly direction, we turned a little to the south and followed the course of the Wad Imiteghr, about half a mile from its north bank. The river was at this period tolerably well supplied with water, though the rains had been very scarce and not a drop had fallen since we had left Marakesh three weeks before.
During a long way we only passed two sets of habitations—the settlement of Imiteghr already mentioned, and a few miles further on the still poorer village of Timatruin. In this name, as in so many others amongst the Berbers, the prefix T is only a contraction of the Shelha word Aït—“sons of”—and therefore the literal spelling of the name of the place should be Aït Imatruin. The same fact exists in the word Tafilet, which, derived from the Arabic Filàl, a district in Arabia, has received from the Berbers the initial T—the contraction of Aït; while in this case the final lt, or lat as it should be spelt, is a feminine termination.
Ten miles after fording the Wad Imiteghr near Ighir, we reached a group of ksor lying under a spur of Jibel Saghru, which here juts out into the plain, although the river has worn a passage through it by a narrow gorge which divides it from the main range of the Anti-Atlas. The district is inhabited by Aït Mulai Brahim, descendants of the famous Shereef Mulai Brahim, whose tomb is a place of pilgrimage, and is situated above Agregoreh on the northern slope of the Atlas. The same family has given another great saint to Southern Morocco, Mulai Abdullah ben Hoseyn, who lies buried at Tamslot, a few miles south of Marakesh. These tombs, with their large offerings made by pious pilgrims, have much enriched this branch of the Shereefian family, and the present representative, living at Tamslot, Mulai El Haj ben Said, is perhaps the wealthiest man in Southern Morocco.
We were kindly received by the Shereefs, and shown into the mosque, a large building for so small a collection of ksor, with a tank for ablutions, and a domed mihrab or niche toward the east.
A few of the Shereefs spoke Arabic, and what with half a dozen other travellers who had sought the mosque of the zauia for a night’s rest, we were a pleasant little party. Sunset prayers over, we sat down on the clean matting and passed the evening in conversation. The topic turned more than once on Christians—for such the natives call all the European peoples, though amongst the Berber the term Rumin, or Romans, is more common than Nazarani. The ignorance of the Shereefs on all questions out of their own particular sphere was astonishing. They seemed to lack all the brightness and rapidity of thought that I had noticed at Dads, and to have sunk into a sort of sleepy indifference to everything beyond their own immediate surroundings. They asked if Christians were like men and women, and I think doubted my men and myself when we told them they were. I could not venture to point myself out as an example, as not only would I have run a risk of getting my throat cut anywhere in the country, but here in the sacred precincts of the mosque death would have been a certainty, so I satisfied their curiosity by telling them that I had often seen Christians, and that they much resembled “true believers” to look at, but that their language was not the same, but sounded like the gibberings of apes. The conversation took many directions, and I was not greatly surprised to find these far-away Shereefs as ignorant of their own religion as they were of the Christians. I took the opportunity of giving a little discourse on Islam, a by no means difficult task, filling in the gaps with romances as to the doings of Moorish saints, whose histories, or rather, I should say, the traditions relating to whom, are nearly all known to me. Such a good reputation did I obtain for theological knowledge and religious devotion that the Shereefs felt bound to bring me supper from their ksar, and my men and I feasted merrily on boiled turnips, while several “true believers” went to bed supperless,—and the infidel and his wicked associates filled themselves with the offerings of the pious. This was by no means the first time on the journey that my knowledge—slight though it is—of Islam and its traditions stood me in good stead, and I am proud to say that wherever I spent a night I left behind me an impression of extreme religious fervour—which must have been sadly upset on my return journey, when, protected by a strong guard against insult or attack, I made my nationality and my disguise known. But of this I shall have more to say anon.
Leaving the ksor of Aït Mulai Brahim before dawn on November 14, we entered, close by, the gorge through which the Wad Imiteghr flows. It is only a mile and a half in length, and ends just as abruptly as it commences. No doubt its formation is owing to the river having forced its way through the projecting spur of Jibel Saghru, which is now separated by this valley from the main chain. The gorge is known by the name of Imin Erkilim—imin (Arabic fûm) meaning “a mouth,” while Erkilim may or may not be Hercules, for on my inquiries as to who Erkilim was, I was told that Erkili was a great man, a sort of god, who did something no one quite knew when. From the name given me being Erkili, I presume the final m to distinguish the genitive case; but this is merely a surmise.
One emerges from the narrow valley, with its cliffs of rock on either hand, close to the village of Aït bu Kanifen, the inhabitants of which are celebrated robbers, often attacking any caravan that may chance to use this route in the valley the end of which their ksor commands. A few hundred yards of desert beyond and we entered the luxuriant palm-groves of Tiluin, or Aït Iluin, where is a large and flourishing ksar. These were the first palm-trees we had come across since Askura, for at Dads and the other oasis we had passed through they were entirely absent. Issuing from the pleasant shade of the groves, we crossed again a couple of miles of desert, at the termination of which we entered the southern extremity of the oasis of Todghrá, the immense palm-groves of which were clearly visible winding for many miles up the river of the same name. It is close to this spot that the Wad Imiteghr empties itself into the Todghrá at an elevation of 4250 feet above the sea-level.
We only skirted the border of the palms of Todghrá, and in half an hour were in the desert again, which extends from here to Ferkla, our night’s resting-place, with the exception of the little district of Tabsibast, near which are some fertile gardens. From here on we trudged for sixteen miles along a weary road of stone and sand, black stone on yellow soil, with not a speck of anything green in sight. The road runs parallel to the Wad Todghrá, on the southern slope of a low line of hills, distant from the north bank of the river from one to three miles. Equidistant on the southern side rises the dismal black line of Jibel Saghru. This barren district is known as Seddat, and is said to be a favourite ground for the horsemen of the neighbourhood to pillage caravans upon,—nor could a more suitable spot be chosen, for not only was no habitation visible, but we saw no sign of life, beyond a few gazelle, the whole way.
The wad proceeds through the district of Seddat first directly east, but when rather more than half its length has been accomplished—say some ten miles—the track turns slightly more to the north, continuing this direction until the large and important oasis of Ferkla is reached.
Just at sunset, having been fourteen hours on the march, and on foot the entire time, we entered Ferkla. I was too tired, and too hungry, to admire the magnificent forest of palms, the walled gardens over the top of which showed up fruit-trees of many varieties, and jasmine and roses, and the multiplicity of canals that, confused as a spider’s web, carried the clear sparkling water in every direction. The presence of these canals, however, was a relief, for from Tabsibast we had seen no water, and the heat had been very great during the afternoon. Although we carried enough in a stone jar on the back of one of our donkeys to assuage thirst, there was not a sufficient quantity to allow us to bathe our weary and blistered feet. The formation of the soil of this desert—in fact, of all the country from Ghresat to Tafilet—is such as to render walking very unpleasant, though the roads are nearly all level. Moorish slippers are impossible, owing to the movement of the shoe on the foot at every step that is taken, which, the shoe being full of sand, quickly rubs the sharp grains into the sole of the foot, causing most painful blisters at once. On this account the natives never use the shoe, preferring a sandal, which, consisting only of a leather sole tied over the ankle and between the toes with a narrow band of raw hide, does not hang loosely on the foot, nor tend to collect sand. But I found that this method was equally painful, owing to the fact that the raw hide bands, unsoftened by tanning, cut deeply into the skin. At length I was obliged to abandon both and proceed barefoot, a plan which, though it caused me much pain for a time, eventually hardened the skin so that it became impervious to the roughness of the sandy or stony roads.
We wandered on for what seemed to me an interminable distance amongst the palm-groves, passing many ksor, at each of which I hoped in turn we were about to take up our quarters for the night, and each of which we passed by without entering. I had placed myself and my plans entirely in the hands of the zitat—our guarantee—from Dads, and left everything to him. He was an excellent fellow, and his opinion of myself seemed to increase when he found I could trudge my forty miles or so a-day with an appearance—though by no means a true one—of little inconvenience. He was a typical Berber this latest addition to our party, some 6 feet in height, with a fair white skin and dark eyes and eyebrows. His face was clean shaven except for the small pointed beard on the end of his chin, and a remarkably handsome face it was. But his heart was better even than his looks, and more than once, as we tried to sleep of a night, our teeth chattering with the frost, he would cover me with his warm cloak, sharing it with me until I slept, when he would give up his half so that I might be warmer—and in the morning tell a dozen lies, saying that he had been so hot he had kicked it off, and it was only by accident that I had found myself warm and comfortable, and him half frozen.
I think the only qualms of conscience I felt at being in disguise were with this good fellow, for as yet he had not the faintest idea of my identity. So much did this trouble me that I took advantage of our lying huddled together under his warm cloak that night to tell him the whole story of my journey, whispered, lest we should be overheard. He said but little, but I knew full well that I could trust him, and in the morning I was warm, wrapped up in his haidus, and he, only in his chamira, shivered with the frost. If anything his attention to my comforts increased after I had confided to him the fact of my disguise; and every now and then he would burst out into the merriest of laughs as we trudged along, thinking the whole affair a tremendous joke, and reiterating his approval of my venturing where none had ever trod, and where my life if discovered was worth probably about half-an-hour’s purchase. Nor was his astonishment at my knowledge of Arabic—imperfect though it is—a small one; for, himself a Berber, he too spoke it as a foreign tongue, and if anything not so fluently as myself.
At length after dark we reached the principal ksar of Ferkla—Asrir by name—where we put up for the night. It was the largest village we had as yet come across in the Sahara, enclosed in high tabia walls, and boasting a number of well-built houses, and even a few shops. It lacked, however, the picturesque appearance of many ksor that we had seen upon our road; for the tall towers with their decorations and battlements and turrets were absent, the style of architecture resembling far more that found in the towns of Morocco. In fact, Asrir may be more fitly described as a town than a ksar, for within its walls it is divided up into streets, many of them of the same tunnel-like formation as one is so used to in Fez, for instance, the houses meeting overhead. In a large square near the gateway—for there is only one entrance to Asrir—were collected a number of soldiers on horseback and mules and camels, almost the first signs we had as yet come across of the proximity of the Sultan’s army, which had a few days previously reached Tafilet. These soldiers consisted for the most part of mounted messengers returning to Morocco, and it was piteous to hear them asking questions as to the length of the road before them, and the state of the pass over the Atlas; for after their weary wandering of some eight months in the fastnesses of the mountains and the desert beyond, both they and their poor horses were well-nigh starved. I came across one little party of five or six men, all of whom were well known to me, servants of one of the Kaids, or governors, of a district in North Morocco. The recognition gave me at first a start; but I quickly realised that it was scarcely likely to be mutual, and that it was by no means probable they would discover under the dirt and rags of a donkey-driver the man whom they had known travelling with a large camp in European costume. None the less I gave them a wide berth, and was glad to hide myself away in the darkest corner of a caravanserai, where we took up our quarters for the night. The place consisted of an open yard surrounded on all sides by a covered arcade, the roof of which was supported on pillars of tabia. Quite a crowd was collected here for the night, for not only were there a number of soldiers from the Sultan’s camp, but also camp-followers returning homewards, and Jews bound for Tafilet to see what they could pick up in the oasis, where Mulai el Hassen, the Sultan, was, accompanied by some 40,000 people.
Several tribes hold districts of Ferkla, a state of affairs that leads to constant warfare. The principal divisions are members of the (i.) Aït Merghad, (ii.) Aït Isdeg, (iii.) Aït Yafalman, and (iv.) the Arab tribe of Alh Ferkla. There are also several mellahs of Jews.
The oasis, which is very extensive, is watered from the Wad Todghrá, which flows through its midst, supplying innumerable canals. Altogether it is said to contain upwards of forty large ksor, one or two of which, I was informed, can put as many as from 300 to 400 men into the field in time of war. I found the elevation of Asrir to be 3260 feet above the sea-level.
Stowed away in the corner of the fondak, or caravanserai, I ran no risk of detection, and was able to watch the scene around me from a point of vantage offering not only safety from detection, but also some shelter from the frosty night-air. The crowd, illumined by the lanterns that many of them bore, passed and repassed, struggling for barley for their animals and food for themselves. Near us was a rough extemporised oven of earth, at which a number of half-nude Haratin, natives of the banks of the Wad Draa, were cooking shua—boiled mutton—in tiny, and none too clean, wooden bowls. We procured a couple of these for a small price, and enjoyed the luxury of real meat.
One fact that I had been noticing all along the road here thrust itself before me more than ever—namely, the entire absence of the camel. One would naturally expect to find him in this portion of trans-Atlas Morocco, but except for a few coming from the camp at Tafilet, I saw absolutely none. The fact is, the Berbers have never taken to the camel, and for some reason or other highly disapprove of him—why, I was unable to discover. However, on more than one occasion I have heard the Berber in chaff call an Arab a camel-driver—no doubt a term of reproach in his eyes. For beasts of burden the small mules of the district seem to have taken their place, and no doubt they are more economical with food. The camel, it is true, is easily fed where there is grazing to be found; but in these dry districts where all its fodder would have to be grown for the purpose, his keep would be far more heavy than that of the tiny mules in use, which scarcely eat more than a donkey, and subsist largely on dates.
We left Asrir at dawn on November 15, passing out of the ksar as soon as the gate was open, for it is kept closed during the night, a custom in practice all through these districts.
Our road lay for an hour through the palm-groves, ever crossing the little canals of clear water. We picked up a good supply of dates from beneath the trees for one day’s provisions for the march, and a handful or two were given us now and again by the natives, many of whom were engaged in harvesting the fruit, and who, evidently attracted by the string of big wooden beads round my neck, mistook us for a party of wandering devotees of the sect of the Derkauiya. Whatever may have been their object in bestowing upon us charity, it was welcome enough, and for once we set out on our day’s tramp with the certainty of a mid-day meal.
We forded the Wad Todghrá, first, at a spot where it flows over its wide bed amongst the palm-groves, and then again near where it issues from the oasis to pursue its course to the east. Then desert again, only here a scrubby bush covered the arid waste, thorny mimosas for the most part, called by the Arabs sidra, with spikes all over it that tear one’s clothes as one proceeds. To the north-east the horizon was bounded by a low line of yellow cliffs, close beneath which we could distinguish the oasis of Gheris, to which De Foucauld, after leaving Ferkla, pursued his journey of exploration. Our roads had been parallel, and in some places identical, from Dads to this spot, but from here on to Tafilet I had an untrodden and unmapped way before me. To the east again of Gheris the palm-trees of Tiluin—Aït Iluin—were to be descried. This oasis is said to be the original home of the tribe, which we had already come across near the southern end of Todghrá, and through another territory of which we were to pass the following day.
A few miles outside the limit of the palm-groves of Ferkla the road passes between two conical hills, of no great altitude, that on the right (south) being, however, the larger of the two. On the slope of the smaller one a ruined saint’s tomb stands; but I was unable to find out the name of the man whose bones lie in this desolate spot. On my return journey from Tafilet we followed another road more to the south, which passes to the farther side of the southernmost of these two hills, near the small settlement of Islef, a division of the tribe of Aït Merghad.
Half a mile to the east of these two hills is a ruined kasba, or residence of a governor, who is said to have shared the same fate as his castle—to have been pulled to pieces.