In Morocco | Page 5

roof where skinny Spaniards are serving thick
purple wine and eggs fried in oil to a party of French soldiers. The heat
has suddenly become intolerable, and a flaming wind straight from the
south brings in at the door, with a cloud of blue flies, the smell of
camels and trampled herbs and the strong spices of the bazaars.
Luncheon over, we hurry on between the cactus hedges, and then
plunge back into the waste. Beyond El-Ksar the last hills of the Rif die
away, and there is a stretch of wilderness without an outline till the
Lesser Atlas begins to rise in the east. Once in the French protectorate
the trail improves, but there are still difficult bits; and finally, on a high
plateau, the chauffeur stops in a web of criss-cross trails, throws up his
hands, and confesses that he has lost his way. The heat is mortal at the
moment. For the last hour the red breath of the sirocco has risen from
every hollow into which we dipped, now it hangs about us in the open,
as if we had caught it in our wheels and it had to pause above us when
we paused.
All around is the featureless wild land, palmetto scrub stretching away
into eternity. A few yards off rises the inevitable ruined koubba[A]
with its fig-tree: in the shade under its crumbling wall the buzz of the
flies is like the sound of frying. Farther off, we discern a cluster of huts,
and presently some Arab boys and a tall pensive shepherd come

hurrying across the scrub. They are full of good-will, and no doubt of
information; but our chauffeur speaks no Arabic and the talk dies down
into shrugs and head-shakings. The Arabs retire to the shade of the wall,
and we decide to start--for anywhere....
[Footnote A: Saint's tomb. The saint himself is called a marabout.]
The chauffeur turns the crank, but there is no responding quiver.
Something has gone wrong; we can't move, and it is not much comfort
to remember that, if we could, we should not know where to go. At
least we should be cooler in motion than sitting still under the blinding
sky.
Such an adventure initiates one at the outset into the stern facts of
desert motoring. Every detail of our trip from Tangier to Rabat had
been carefully planned to keep us in unbroken contact with civilization.
We were to "tub" in one European hotel, and to dine in another, with
just enough picnicking between to give a touch of local colour. But let
one little cog slip and the whole plan falls to bits, and we are alone in
the old untamed Moghreb, as remote from Europe as any mediaeval
adventurer. If one lose one's way in Morocco, civilization vanishes as
though it were a magic carpet rolled up by a Djinn.
It is a good thing to begin with such a mishap, not only because it
develops the fatalism necessary to the enjoyment of Africa, but because
it lets one at once into the mysterious heart of the country, a country so
deeply conditioned by its miles and miles of uncitied wilderness that
until one has known the wilderness one cannot begin to understand the
cities.
We came to one at length, after sunset on that first endless day. The
motor, cleverly patched up, had found its way to a real road, and
speeding along between the stunted cork-trees of the forest of Mamora
brought us to a last rise from which we beheld in the dusk a line of
yellow walls backed by the misty blue of the Atlantic. Salé, the fierce
old pirate town, where Robinson Crusoe was so long a slave, lay before
us, snow-white in its cheese-coloured ramparts skirted by fig and olive
gardens. Below its gates a stretch of waste land, endlessly trailed over

by mules and camels, sloped down to the mouth of the Bou-Regreg, the
blue-brown river dividing it from Rabat. The motor stopped at the
landing-stage of the steam-ferry; crowding about it were droves of
donkeys, knots of camels, plump-faced merchants on crimson-saddled
mules, with negro servants at their bridles, bare-legged water-carriers
with hairy goat-skins slung over their shoulders, and Arab women in a
heap of veils, cloaks, mufflings, all of the same ashy white, the caftans
of clutched children peeping through in patches of old rose and lilac
and pale green.
Across the river the native town of Rabat lay piled up on an orange-red
cliff beaten by the Atlantic. Its walls, red too, plunged into the
darkening breakers at the mouth of the river, and behind it, stretching
up to the mighty tower of Hassan, and the ruins of the Great Mosque,
the scattered houses of the European city showed their many lights