“O that the desert were my dwelling-place.”
Byron.
It can with all truth be said that in springtime the Desert of Mesopotamia blossoms as a rose. Two years ago we travelled from Mosul to Aleppo by the northern route viâ Mardin, Diabekir, and Orfa. We left Mosul about the 20th June, just as the harvest had all been gathered in and the earth had once more resumed its parched-up appearance for another summer. No sooner had we left the neighbourhood of Mosul behind us than we were surrounded again on all sides by fields of waving corn, in many instances still green, and this continued the whole way to Aleppo; the harvest becoming later as we travelled north. Where the land was not cultivated the wild flowers were a perfect delight, and the desert air was filled with their sweetness. In one place the effect of these flowers was peculiarly enchanting. As far as the eye could see, the fields were covered with hollyhocks of all hues, the different shades being grouped together; thus a vast expanse of red hollyhocks would be succeeded by a field of white ones, these again changing to a delightful mauve. I have never anywhere seen such a wealth of wild flowers as we saw in that so-called desert journey from Mosul to Mardin. To try to enumerate the countless tiny flowers of the desert would be futile; they go very near to rival in number and beauty the wild flowers of Palestine. Once we were sitting in a field waiting for our caravan, and my husband said he would see how many different kinds of flowers he could pick without moving. In a minute or two he had gathered over a dozen, all within arm’s reach. In that field alone there must have been at least a hundred varieties of flowers.
As we approached Aleppo the flowers became scarcer, and fruit-trees took their place. One day I was riding on the top of the pack mule, when suddenly the animal (who had only one eye) stumbled, and I was deposited on the ground before I realised what had happened. Feeling rather hot and bruised, I looked about for a place to rest in. Fortunately we were near an orchard, so finding a delightfully shady tree, we decided to make this our lunching-ground. As we sat and rested ripe apricots fell from the tree into our laps. The owner of the orchard informed us we could eat as many as we liked—for a consideration!
But desert travelling is not all as pleasant as this. Were we to retrace our steps a month or two later we should see no beautiful flowers or waving corn-fields, nothing but burnt-up desert land.
The direct route from Mosul to Aleppo lies through land almost entirely desert. For two whole days nothing is to be seen save an occasional Arab encampment, and sometimes not even that.
The Arabs of Mesopotamia belong as a rule to the great Shammar tribe. They wander up and down the country living in black tents made from camel or goats’ hair. When wishing to seek pastures new they migrate from one place to another with all their flocks and herds, the tending of which forms one of their chief occupations. The Arab women are most industrious: in addition to the ordinary cares of the family, they fetch the water, carrying it home from the well or river in large jars balanced on their heads; they drive the flocks to pasture, milking them night and morning; they spin the wool of the sheep and goat, and weave it into cloth for the men’s garments or for the tent canvas. In fact, there is hardly anything the Arab woman does not do, while her lord and master passes the time in scouring the country on horseback, or settling quarrels with his neighbours. Arabs of different tribes are very quick to go to war against each other, and will fight for the merest trifle, though blood is rarely shed, the consequences of a blood feud being so dreaded. With the Arab it must be blood for blood, and once blood has been shed, there can be no rest till vengeance has been satisfied.
The Arabs are very proud of their horses, as they have every reason to be, a true Arab horse being a lovely creature. As a rule they do not shoe their horses at all.
One day two men from an encampment near Mosul were walking along when they saw something on the road which attracted their attention. Picking it up, they examined it very carefully, turned it over and over, but could not come to any satisfactory conclusion regarding it. The object under discussion was a horseshoe, but as neither of them had ever seen such a thing before they could not guess its use. After discussing it gravely for some time one Arab said to the other, “Of course I know what it is. This is an old moon which has fallen down from heaven!”
The Arabs are very hospitable people, and were often profuse in their invitations for us to eat with them. I have once or twice joined the women in sitting round a big cauldron full of “borghol” (crushed corn boiled with plenty of fat) and dipping with them into the one dish, and thoroughly enjoyed it. When you have a desert appetite it is possible to enjoy anything. Once my husband and I accepted an invitation to a meal with an Arab, and were regaled with chicken boiled with a green vegetable called “barmiya,” and pillau. Our host would not eat with us, but employed himself brushing the flies away from the food as we ate.