These were my reasons: the Sultan of Morocco, when he gives a European a permit to travel in his territory always writes on it, after the usual salutations to his various governors, “we recommend this Christian [56a] to you, see that he runs no danger.” The Moor, reading between the lines, sees that the Sultan wishes him to stop the Christian visiting any unfrequented place, and naturally he puts a lion in the path. Thus, had I gone to Agadhir furnished with guard and Sultan’s letter, the governor would have received the letter, kissed it, duly placed it on his forehead, called to his scribe to read it, made me welcome, and informed me that it was quite impossible for me to go farther, as certain bastards, [56b] who feared neither God nor Sultan, would be sure to kill me on the road. I should have told him: “well, my death be on my own head,” and he would straight have answered, “be it so in God’s name, if it were only yours, but who will shelter me from the anger of our Lord the Sultan if you are killed?” Persuasion, bribes, and everything would have been in vain, and had I then insisted, I should have found myself politely escorted back by a guard of cavalry, as all the Sultan’s governors are well aware that their liege lord admits of no mistakes, but punishes mistakes and faults alike.
Just as I had determined to risk the journey by the way of Agadhir, news came that the Howara tribe was in rebellion, and that the road was shut. There still remained two mountain passes through the Atlas, one starting from a place called Imintanout, and going by Bibouan to Tarudant, and still another from Amsmiz, a town close to Morocco city, which crossed the Atlas at its greatest breadth and led to Tarudant, across the River Sus at a place called Ras el Wad, a whole day’s journey from Tarudant. Needless to say both roads were longer and much more difficult than the coast route, and by either of them I should have employed at least eight days to reach my destination.
Choosing the shortest road I then determined to go by Imintanout, and set about at once to make my preparations for a start.
Mohammed el Hosein brought his own mule and with it another belonging to one Ali of the Ha-Ha [57] tribe, that is to say Mohammed hired a mule from Ali who accompanied us (as I learned upon the road) to see his animal was not ill-treated. Ali I suspect received no pay, but was a sort of general homme de peine, and quite contented so that he received his food and that his mule was fed, and even thought himself quite fortunate when he received a pair of cast-off shoes. He had no idea where we were going to, and when we told him, wished to return, and would have done so had we not laid hands upon his mule, which seeing, he resolved to brave all dangers rather than trust it to the tender mercies of Mohammed el Hosein. For the rest Ali was a muleteer, which race of men, whether Spaniards, Mexicans, Turks, or Brazilians is all alike, singing all day while sitting sideways on their beasts, smoking continually, eating when there is food, and sleeping quite contentedly (as the unjust all sleep), their heads resting upon a pack saddle, feet to the fire, and with a tattered blanket covering their faces from the dew at night. Lutaif, following his character of a man of letters, rode on a mule, perched on a high red pack saddle, which, loosely girthed, after the Moorish fashion, swayed about and made it quite impossible for him to mount or to dismount without assistance. By this time we had bought our Moorish clothes, in which Lutaif, being a Syrian, looked exactly like one of the figures on the outside of a missionary journal, which assume to represent biblical characters, and really are a libel on the Syrian race. Having arranged to represent a Turkish doctor, I put on the clothes with some misgivings, and left my room in the Palmera with the air of one who has assumed a fancy dress. On my appearance all declared that I need never say I was a Turkish doctor, for I looked so like a man from Fez, in type and colouring, that it was better to say nothing as to who I was, and that the passers-by would take me for a travelling Sherif. A Sherif being a holy character generally rides upon a horse, and so I purchased one through the good offices of Mohammed el Hosein, who happened to know of “the best horse in all the province which his owner wanted to dispose of—with saddle and bridle all complete—for a mere nothing, being short of cash.” I purchased the whole “outfit” at nine-and-twenty dollars, a third more than a native would have paid. The saddle was rotten, and felt like riding on a bag of stones, but the horse, though lean in condition, was full of quite unsuspected spirit, sure-footed, and excellent upon the road. Equipped with horse, high Moorish saddle covered with red cloth, dressed in white, but with a blue cloth cloak to cover all, a fez and turban, head duly shaved, and yellow slippers, with, of course, a pair of horseman’s boots (called temag by the Arabs) buttoned up the back with green silk buttons, embroidered down the sides with silk and silver thread, a leather bag to sling across the shoulders and act as pocket, I was ready for the start.
Tents and the general camp equipment of a European journeying in Morocco, did not trouble me. We had a little tent packed on a mule, just large enough to serve as sleeping quarters for myself and for Lutaif. The men had to sleep by their mules after the Moorish fashion, and if it rained to come for shelter under the lea side of our tent. Cooking utensils were but a kettle and an iron pot; we had no forks or spoons, as being dressed as Moors we had to eat after the Moorish fashion with our hands, our only luxuries being a rather gim-crack brass tea tray, a pewter German teapot, and six small glasses to drink green tea flavoured with mint, and made as sweet as syrup. In my anxiety to be quite the native, I even left my camera, an omission which I regret, as had I taken it I might have published a book of views of the Atlas, and saved much trouble to the public and myself.
A European who came to see us off looked at our modest equipage with some disgust, and said that he had never seen a Christian start like a Susi trader, and that we should soon repent the want of European comforts. Your European comfort when in Europe is in place; but on the march in a wild country everything additional you take is as the grasshopper in the adage, which I think soon made its presence felt. It is customary for fools and serious men, when setting out on any journey (say to Margate), finishing books, entering into the more or less holy state of matrimony, becoming bankrupt, or entering holy orders, going to sea, meeting their first love, burying their most disagreeable relation, or being jilted, thrown from a bicycle, being kicked or knighted, in fact in any of the disagreeables, which like rain fall on the just and the unjust, but always show a preference for the poor honest man, to sit down and record exactly how they felt, what thoughts occurred to them, and generally to disport themselves as if another mortal in the world cared they were even born, except their mothers and themselves.
Time-honoured institution, from which no scribbling traveller should depart. If you have naught to say, why write it down, extend it, examine into it, and write and write till after writing you persuade yourself you have written something; and if upon the other hand you happen to have aught worth writing, keep it to yourself, and go to bed remembering that to-morrow is another day, that thoughts will keep and mules are ever better saddled about an hour before the sky on the horizon begins to lighten, and the first faint flush of dawn spreads slowly like a diurnal Aurora Borealis and drives the morning star back to its night; for then, as mules are cold and empty, they cannot swell their stomachs out so much and stop the muleteers from drawing home the girths.
CHAPTER III.
Leaving the International Sanatorium of the Palmera at the hour that Allah willed it, which happened to be about eight in the morning of the 12th October, dressed in Moorish clothes, our faces far too white, and our ample robes like driven snow, the low thick scrub of Argan, dwarf rhododendrons, and thorny sandarac, and “suddra” [61a] bushes after five minutes’ riding swallowed us up, quite as effectually as might have done a forest of tall trees. Mohammed el Hosein, fully aware of the importance of getting accustomed to the Moorish clothes before at once emerging on the beaten track which leads from Mogador to Morocco city, engaged us in a labyrinth of cattle tracks, winding in and out for full two hours through stones and bushes, following the beds of water courses dry with the twelve