Morocco, Its People and Places

by Edmondo De Amicis

In this manner we arrived near the cuba of Sidi-Hassem, where our camp was to be pitched.

Poor Hamed Ben-Kasen Buhammei! Until now I have but glanced at him; but remembering how I saw him that morning, he, general of the armies of the Scherif, helping to plant the supports of the Ambassador’s tent, I feel the need of expressing my admiration and gratitude toward him. What a good fellow of a general! From the moment of our departure he had not bastinadoed soldier or servant; had never shown ill temper; always the first to rise, and the last to go to bed; never had allowed to transpire, even to the most prying eye, that his stipend of forty francs a month might seem a trifle scanty; had not a particle of self-conceit; helped us to mount, saw that our saddles were secure, gave a passing blow with his stick to our restive mules; was always ready for every thing and everybody; rested, crouched like a humble mule-driver near our tents; smiled when we smiled; offered us cùscùssù; sprang to his feet at a sign from the Ambassador, like a puppet on wires; prayed, like a good Mussulman, five times a day; counted the eggs of the muna, presided at the killing of sheep, looked over the artists’ sketch-books without blenching; was, in short, the man of all others whom his Imperial Majesty should have chosen for that mission among all the crew of barefooted generals. Hamed Ben-Kasen often related with pride that his father had been a general in the war with Spain, and sometimes spoke of his sons who were with their mother at Mechinez, his native city. “It is three months,” he would say, with a sigh, “since I have seen them.”

That day, after having witnessed the presentation of the muna, when there was a monstrous dish of cùscùssù that took five men to carry it, we took refuge, as usual, in our tents, to endure, also as usual, the forty degrees centigrade which lasted from noon until four o’clock, during which time the camp was immersed in profound silence. At four life woke again. The artists took their brushes, the doctor received the sick, one went to bathe, another to fire at a mark, another to hunt, another to walk, another to visit a friend in his tent, to see the escort charge, to visit the cook in his struggle with Africa, to go to the nearest duar, and thus, every one at dinner-time had something to tell, and conversation burst forth like a firework.

At sunset I went with the commandant to see the escort at their usual exercises, in a vast field near the camp. There we found about a hundred Arabs sitting in a row along the edge of a ditch looking on. As soon as they discovered us they rose and came in groups to follow us. We pretended not to see them. For a few minutes not one of them spoke; then one said something that set the others laughing. Then another, and a third spoke, and everybody laughed as before. They were evidently laughing at us, and we were not long in discovering that their laughter corresponded with our movements and the inflections of our voices. It was the most natural thing in the world; to them we were ridiculous. We were curious to know what they were saying, and as one of the interpreters was passing, made a secret sign for him to come and translate, which he did.

Presently one made an observation which was received with a burst of laughter. “He says,” said Morteo, “that he does not know what the skirts of your coats are for, unless to hide your tails.” Again, “He says that the parting up the back of your head is the road where certain insects make the lab-el-baroda.” A third speech, and a third shout of laughter. “He says that these Christians are strange creatures; that in their ambition to seem tall they put vases on their heads and two props under their heels.”

At this point a dog from the camp came and lay down at our feet. There was a remark and a loud yell of laughter. “This is rather too much!” said Morteo; “he says that a dog has come to lie down with the other dogs. I will teach them——” As he spoke, he turned abruptly to the Arabs and said something in a tone of menace. It was like a flash of lightning. In one instant they had all vanished.

Poor fellows, let us be just! they were not so far wrong after all! Ten times a day, while they skirmished about us on their superb horses, we remarked to each other: “Yes, we are civilized, we are the representatives of a great nation, we have more science in our heads, we ten men, than exists in the whole empire of the Scherifs; but planted on our mules, dressed in these clothes, with these hats, in these colors, among them, goodness knows, we are hideous!” And it was true. The least among those ragged figures on horseback was more noble, more dignified, handsomer, more worthy of a lady’s glance, than all the dandies of Europe in a bunch.

At table that evening there was another curious little scene. The two oldest of the caids of the escort came in and sat down, one on each side of the Ambassador. He asked them whether they had ever heard of Italy. Both together, eagerly making the sign of “no” with the hand, replied, in the tone of those who wish to dissipate a suspicion, “Never! never!” The Ambassador, with the patience of a master, gave them some geographical and political information respecting our mysterious country. They listened with wide-open eyes and gaping mouths, like children.

“And how many people live in your country?” one asked.

“Twenty-five millions,” answered the Ambassador.