Morocco | Page 4

prevailing in the
country markets, but quite low enough for Europeans.
This little corner of the world, close to the meeting of the Atlantic and
Mediterranean waters, epitomises in its own quiet fashion the story of
the land's decay. Now it is a place of wild bees and wilder birds, of
flowers and bushes that live fragrant untended lives, seen by few and
appreciated by none. It is a spot so far removed from human care that I
have seen, a few yards from the tents, fresh tracks made by the wild
boar as he has rooted o' nights; and once, as I sat looking out over the
water when the rest of the camp was asleep, a dark shadow passed, not
fifty yards distant, going head to wind up the hill, and I knew it for
"tusker" wending his way to the village gardens, where the maize was

green.
Yet the district has not always been solitary. Where now the tents are
pitched, there was an orange grove in the days when Mulai Abd er
Rahman ruled at Fez and Marrakesh, and then Mediunah boasted quite
a thriving connection with the coasts of Portugal and Spain. The little
bay wherein one is accustomed to swim or plash about at noonday, then
sheltered furtive sailing-boats from the sleepy eyes of Moorish
authority, and a profitable smuggling connection was maintained with
the Spanish villages between Algeciras and Tarifa Point. Beyond the
rocky caverns, where patient countrymen still quarry for millstones, a
bare coast-line leads to the spot where legend places the Gardens of the
Hesperides; indeed, the millstone quarries are said to be the original
Caves of Hercules, and the golden fruit the hero won flourished, we are
assured, not far away. Small wonder then that the place has an
indefinable quality of enchantment that even the twentieth century
cannot quite efface.
[Illustration: A STREET, TANGIER]
Life in camp is exquisitely simple. We rise with the sun. If in the raw
morning hours a donkey brays, the men are very much perturbed, for
they know that the poor beast has seen a djin. They will remain
ill-at-ease until, somewhere in the heights where Mediunah is preparing
for another day, a cock crows. This is a satisfactory omen, atoning for
the donkey's performance. A cock only crows when he sees an angel,
and, if there are angels abroad, the ill intentions of the djinoon will be
upset. When I was travelling in the country some few years ago, it
chanced one night that the heavens were full of shooting stars. My
camp attendants ceased work at once. Satan and all his host were
assailing Paradise, they said, and we were spectators of heaven's
artillery making counter-attack upon the djinoon.[1] The wandering
meteors passed, the fixed stars shone out with such a splendour as we
may not hope to see in these western islands, and the followers of the
great Camel Driver gave thanks and praise to His Master Allah, who
had conquered the powers of darkness once again.
While I enjoy a morning stroll over the hills, or a plunge in the sea,

Salam, squatting at the edge of the cooking tent behind two small
charcoal fires, prepares the breakfast. He has the true wayfarer's gift
that enables a man to cook his food in defiance of wind or weather.
Some wisps of straw and charcoal are arranged in a little hole scooped
out of the ground, a match is struck, the bellows are called into play,
and the fire is an accomplished fact. The kettle sings as cheerfully as
the cicadas in the tree tops, eggs are made into what Salam calls a
"marmalade," in spite of my oft-repeated assurance that he means
omelette, porridge is cooked and served with new milk that has been
carefully strained and boiled. For bread we have the flat brown loaves
of Mediunah, and they are better than they look--ill-made indeed, but
vastly more nutritious than the pretty emasculated products of our
modern bakeries.
Bargain and sale are concluded before the morning walk is over. The
village folk send a deputation carrying baskets of eggs and charcoal,
with earthen jars of milk or butter, fresh vegetables, and live chickens. I
stayed one morning to watch the procedure.
The eldest of the party, a woman who seems to be eighty and is
probably still on the sunny side of fifty, comes slowly forward to where
Salam sits aloof, dignified and difficult to approach. He has been
watching her out of one corner of an eye, but feigns to be quite
unconscious of her presence. He and she know that we want supplies
and must have them from the village, but the facts of the case have
nothing to do with the conventions of trading in Sunset Land.
"The