There is nothing like a bazaar in Jôf, nor even streets, as one generally understands the word, only a number of narrow tortuous lanes, with mud walls on either side. As we rode into the town, we found the lanes crowded with armed men, all carrying swords in the way we had seen at Kâf, dark-visaged and, we thought, not very pleased to see us. They answered our “salaam aleykum” simply, without moving, and let us pass on without any particular demonstration of hospitality. To suppose them indifferent, however, was a mistake; their apparent coldness was only Arab formality, and when Mohammed began to inquire after the house of his relations, they very civilly pointed out the way, and one or two of them came with us. We were led down a number of narrow byways, and through the palm-gardens to the other side of the town, and then out by another gate beyond to one of the isolated farms we had seen from the cliff. It was close by, not a quarter of a mile, and in a few minutes more we had dismounted, and were being hospitably entertained in the tidy kahwah of Huseyn’s house.
What Huseyn’s exact relationship is to Mohammed, I have not yet been able to discover—Mohammed himself hardly knows—but here it is evident that any consanguinity, however slight, is considered of high importance. We were no sooner seated by Huseyn’s fire, watching the coffee roasting, than another relation arrived, attracted by the news of our arrival, and then another, both loud in their expostulations at our having accepted Huseyn’s hospitality, not theirs. Mohammed was kissed and hugged, and it was all he could do to pacify these injured relatives by promising to stay a week with each, as soon as our visit to Huseyn should be over. Blood here is indeed thicker than water. The sudden appearance of a twentieth cousin is enough to set everybody by the ears.
A lamb has been killed, and we have each had the luxury of a bath in our own tent, and a thorough change of raiment. The tent is pitched in a little palm garden behind the house, and we are quite at peace, and able to think over all that has happened, and make our plans for the future.
January 6.—Last night, while we were sitting drinking coffee for the ninth or tenth time since our arrival, two young men came into the kahwah and sat down. They were very gaily dressed in silk jibbehs, and embroidered shirts under their drab woollen abbas. They wore red cotton kefiyehs on their heads, bound with white rope, and their swords were silver-hilted. Everyone in the kahwah stood up as they entered, and we both thought them to be the sons of the Sheykh, or some great personage at Jôf. Wilfrid whispered a question about them to Huseyn, who laughed and said they were not sons of sheykhs, but “zellemet Ibn Rashid,” Ibn Rashid’s men, in fact, his soldiers. The red kefiyeh, and the silver hilted sword, was a kind of uniform. They had come, as it presently appeared, from Dowass, the acting governor of Jôf, to invite us to the castle, and though we were sorry to leave Huseyn’s quiet garden and his kind hospitality, we have thought it prudent to comply. Neither Huseyn nor anyone else seemed to think it possible we could refuse, for Ibn Rashid’s government is absolute at Jôf, and his lieutenant’s wishes are treated as commands, not that there seems to be ill-feeling between the garrison and the town; the soldiers we saw appear to be on good terms with everybody, and are indeed so good-humoured, that it would be difficult to quarrel with them. But Jôf is a conquered place, held permanently in a state of siege, and the discipline maintained is very strict. We have moved accordingly with all our camp to the precincts of the official residence, and are encamped just under its walls. The kasr, which, as I have said, is outside the town, was built about twelve years ago by Metaab ibn Rashid, brother of the Emir Tellál (Mr. Palgrave’s friend), and though so modern a construction, has a perfectly mediæval look, for architecture never changes in Arabia. It is a very picturesque building with its four high towers at the corners, pierced with loopholes, but without windows. There is one only door, and that a small one in an angle of the wall, and it is always kept locked. Inside it the entrance turns and twists about, and then there is a small court-yard surrounded by the high walls, and a kahwah, besides a few other small rooms, all dark and gloomy like dungeons. Here the deputy governor lives with six soldiers, young men from Haïl, who, between them, govern and garrison and do the police work of Jôf. The governor himself is away just now at Meskakeh, the other small town included in the Jôf district, about twenty miles from here. He is a negro slave, we are told, but a person of great consequence, and a personal friend of the Emir.
Jôf, as far as we have been able to learn through Mohammed, for we don’t like to ask too many questions ourselves, was formally an appanage of the Ibn Shaalans, Sheykhs of the Roala, and it still pays tribute to Sotamm; but about twenty years ago Metaab ibn Rashid conquered it, and it has ever since been treated as part of Nejd. There have been one or two insurrections, but they have been vigorously put down, and the Jôfi are now afraid of stirring a finger against the Emir. On the occasion of one of these revolts, Metaab cut down a great many palm trees, and half ruined the town, so they are obliged to wait and make the best of it. In truth, the government can hardly be very oppressive. These six soldiers with the best will in the world cannot do much bullying in a town of four or five thousand inhabitants. They are all strong, active, good-humoured young fellows, serving here for a year at a time, and then being relieved. They are volunteers, and do not get pay, but have, I suppose, some advantages when they have done their service. They seem quite devoted to the Emir.
Four years ago, they tell us, the Turkish Governor of Damascus sent a military expedition against Jôf (the same we heard of at Kâf), and held it for a few months; but Ibn Rashid complained to the Sultan of this, and threatened to turn them out and to discontinue the tribute he pays to the Sherif of Medina if the troops were not withdrawn, so they had to go back. This tribute is paid by the Emir on account of his outlying possessions, such as Kâf, Teyma, and Jôf, which the Turks have on various occasions attempted to meddle with. He is, however, quite independent of the Sultan, and acknowledges no suzerain anywhere. The greatness of Ibn Saoud and the Wahhabis is now a thing of the past, and Mohammed ibn Rashid is the most powerful ruler in Arabia. We hear a charming account of Nejd, at least of the northern part of it. You may travel anywhere, they say, from Jôf to Kasim without escort. The roads are safe everywhere. A robbery has not been known on the Emir’s highway for many years, and people found loafing about near the roads have their heads cut off. Ibn Rashid allows no ghazús against travellers, and when he makes war it is with his enemies. The Ibn Haddal and Ibn Majil are his friends, but he is on bad terms with Sotamm and the Sebaa Sheykhs.
There are two twelve pounder cannons of English make in the castle. They are ancient pieces of no value, but were used, it appears, in the siege of Jôf by Metaab.
The Jôfi are of a different race from the Shammar of Nejd, being as mixed in their origin almost as the Tudmuri or the villagers of the Euphrates. Huseyn our first host here, tells us he belongs to the Taï, and that others of his neighbours are Sirhán or Beni Laam. He is not really a cousin of Mohammed’s, but a cousin’s cousin; the real cousins living at Meskakeh. Though we were very comfortable with him, we are not less well off here; and it is more interesting being at the kasr. Dowass, the deputy governor, is a very amiable man, and all his soldiers are exceedingly civil and obliging. They are a cheerful set of people, talking openly about everything with us, politics and all. They assure us Ibn Rashid will be delighted to see us, but we must see Jôhar, the black governor, first. There are several real slaves in the fort, but no women. The soldiers leave their wives behind at Haïl when they go away on service. There are no horses in Jôf, except one two-year-old colt belonging to Dubejeh, one of the soldiers, who all admire our shagra (chestnut mare) amazingly, saying that there is nothing in Nejd so beautiful. Neither are there any beasts of burden, not even asses. The few camels there are in the town are kept for drawing water; and the only other four-footed creatures I have seen are a few goats and three half-starved cows at the kasr. There is not an atom of vegetation within miles of Jôf, and the camels and these cows have to eat chopped straw and refuse dates.
Our dinner to-day consisted of a lamb and three other dishes—one a sort of paste like the paste used for pasting paper, another merely rancid butter with chopped onions, and the third, bread sopped in water—all nasty except the lamb. There was, however, afterwards an extra course brought to us as a surprise, a fillet of “wild cow” (probably an antelope) from the Nefûd, baked in the ashes, one of the best meats I ever tasted.