All things considered, it was a most inauspicious time to attempt a journey to such a place as Tarudant, guarded most jealously itself from Europeans both by the fanaticism of the inhabitants and by the special prohibition of the Moorish Government to any European to pass south of the Atlas Mountains to the plains. Hardly had we well landed in the town, when a report was spread that we were agents of the British Government, or advance couriers in the interest of the syndicate. Our sojourn at the house of so well-known a missionary as Mr. Zerbib in some way allayed the public fear, for no one credited him with any but purely spiritual views of conquest. The fact that we had no arms, suggested our great cunning, for no one doubted that we could lay our hand on stacks of rifles if we chose, though how we could have done so was a mystery, as all the influence of our minister at Tangier proved insufficient to procure me even a pass for a common double-barrelled gun, so much alarmed were the authorities after the recent landing on the coast. No one, except the Turks, more clearly comprehend that only the jealousy of the European nations saves their independence than do the ruling classes of Morocco. They understand entirely the protestations about better government, progress, morality and all the usual “boniment” which Christian powers address to weaker nations when they contemplate the annexation of their territory. On the one hand they see the missionary striving to undermine their faith, and on the other they behold the whisky seller actually sapping their Mohammedan morality; behind them both they see the ironclad arriving in their harbours under frivolous pretences to exact enormous compensation often for fancied injuries, and they well know the official Christian’s God is money, or as they say themselves, “amongst the Nazarenes all is money, nothing but money.” [41] The Moors have vices, plenty of them, some of them well-known in London and in Paris, but in their country a poor Mohammedan, unless in case of famine, is seldom left to starve. Even a begging Christian renegade, of whom there are a few still left, always receives some food where’er he goes, and is not much more miserable than the poor Eastern whom one sees shivering about the docks in London and imploring charity for “Native Klistian” with an adopted whine, and muttered national imprecation on the unsuspecting almsgiver.
The Moors all know when once a European gets a footing in their land, even although that should be brought about by filibustering syndicates financed by London capitalists, that the nation to whom the filibusters belong steps in to guard its subjects, and having once stepped in, remains for ever. They see Ceuta, Alhucemas, el Peñon de la Gomera and Chafarinas all in foreign hands, and like the fact as much as we should like the Russians in the Isle of Wight. Therefore, their irritation about the Sus was most intense, and the jealousy of foreign travellers never keener.
Much has been said about the badness of the Government of Morocco. Most Governments are bad, the best a disagreeable institution which men submit to only because they fear to plunge into the unknown, and therefore bear taxation, armies, navies, gold-laced caps, and all the tawdry rubbish which takes from themselves, to furnish living and employment for their neighbours, under the style and title of national defences, home administration, and the like.
In countries like Morocco, where men still live under the tribal system, all government must be despotic; witness Algeria, Afghanistan, and Russian Tartary. The unit is the tribe and not the individual, and what we understand by freedom and democracy would seem to them the grossest form of tyranny on earth. No doubt no man in all Morocco is secure in the enjoyment of his property; but then in order to be amenable to tyranny one must be rich, and as most tribesmen own but a horse or two, a camel, perhaps a slave, some little patch of cultivated ground or olive garden, it is not generally on them the extortion of the Government descends, but on the chief Sheikh, Kaid, or Governor, who, if he happens to be rich, can never sleep secure a single day, for he knows well some time he will be brought to Fez or to Morocco, thrust in a dungeon underground, and made to give up all he has on earth. True, whilst this very man enjoys his wealth and place he oppresses all the tribe to the utmost of his power; but still I fancy that hardly a Moor alive would change the desultory Eastern tyranny, which he has suffered under all his life, and under which his fathers groaned since the beginning of the world, for the six-monthly visit of the tax collector as in Algeria. When people in Morocco speak of Algeria they admit the safety of the roads, the gathered harvests, no hostile intervention coming between the sickle and the wheat; they admire the railroads, laugh at the figure which the French soldiers cut on their horses, but generally finish by saying, “the Arab pays for all, and in that land they tax your dog, your horses, and you yourself, and all are slaves.”
Most Europeans point with pride to the curious system known as “protection,” and called by the Arabs “Mohalata,” which for at least a hundred years has existed in Morocco, as something to be proud of. The system needs a few words, as generally writers on Morocco, without a word of explanation, talk of the custom and state it is a good one, in the same way that free and fair traders each assume their nostrum is the best, or as professors of the Christian or Mohammedan religions look on their dogmas as being alone fitted for honest men to hold. Briefly, the system of the “Mohalata” was invented to obviate the difficulties of trading in a country so badly governed as is Morocco. The word in Arabic means partnership, but the system has been complicated by the habit of protection by means of which the European partner generally contrives to get his Moorish partner made a citizen of the country to which he himself belongs. Thus, “Mohalata” and “Protection” have come to be so mixed together, that it is rare to find a Moor in partnership with any European and not protected by a European Consul. Once protected, the Moor ranks as a Montenegrin, Paraguayan, Englishman, Frenchman, or Portuguese, or what not, and is removed from the exactions of his own Kaid (governor), and even is placed outside the jurisdiction of his own Sultan.
So far, so good, for no one can pretend the Sultan’s government is good, and under shadow of the protection system many individual Moors have become rich. But in their efforts to escape from their own rule, the wretched Moors often fly from the claws of Moorish tribal feudalism, and fall into the mouth of European commercialism, unrestrained by public opinion, the press, or any of the preventive checks which keep the “cash nexus” system within some sort of bounds in England. The following anecdote may serve to illustrate how the protection system occasionally works out. Mohammed — [44] ten years ago was partner of a European merchant in Mogador. The European (a God-fearing man) purchased three camels on condition that Mohammed — should act as camel-driver, and take the beasts about the country wherever it was profitable to take goods. A camel in Mogador may be worth some thirty dollars. For this business Mohammed was to receive a certain portion of the profits made. For several years all went well; Mohammed made his journeys, took his merchandise about, and got his portion of the gains, feeding the camels at his own expense.
One day the Christian (in Morocco all Europeans pass colloquially as Christians) said to Mohammed, “I intend to leave the place and to return to Europe. My intention is to sell the camels, and we can then divide the profits of the sale according to our deed.” The Arab answered he was willing, and began to cypher up the sum the beasts should bring when sold.
The Christian then informed him that he had a scheme by which he thought that they might each gain much, and if it prospered, that Mohammed could keep the camels for his pains. Mohammed, nothing loath, sat all attention to hear the expected plan by means of which he was to keep his beasts. “You shall take the camels,” said the Christian, “and load them for a journey to the Sus. At some point of the journey thieves shall attack you, and you shall then throw all the merchandise upon the ground, then return home at once, and swear before the Cadi that I entrusted you with two thousand dollars and it is stolen, and I will force the Government to compel the Sheikh of the tribe where the robbery was done, to make all good, and we will share the money, and you can keep the camels for your own.” A scheme of this kind always attracts an Arab; it is just the sort of thing he would invent himself. And when his own ideas are returned to him, passed through the medium of a Christian mind, he is certain that the thing must be all right. Curiously enough, although the Moors are never tired of cursing at the Christian sons of dogs, yet they are well aware of their superior business capabilities, and never seem to doubt their word in matters of the sort. “But,” said Mohammed, “if I tell the Cadi that I had your money and that thieves took it, he will throw me into prison, and there is little chance I shall ever come out alive.” “Have no fear,” said the merchant, “the imprisonment will be a mere formality. I will feed you when you are in prison, and in a few days you will be free.”
The camels were duly loaded, and Mohammed set out upon his journey to the Sus. In a few days he returned, having torn his clothes, rolled himself in the sand, and with some self-inflicted bruises, informed his friend the merchant, who took him to the Cadi to testify on oath.
Most unluckily for the miserable man the place he chose to pitch upon for the scene of his adventure was a few miles outside the town, in a district called Taquaydirt. The Cadi sent for the headman, who came and swore that he had never seen Mohammed, and he himself failed to identify any of the natives of the place, who were presented to him. Seeing the thing looked grave, he went and took sanctuary in the tomb of Sidi M’Doul, [46a] the patron saint of Mogador, about a mile outside the town. Inside the sanctuary the man was safe, and every day his European friend sent him his food, his “Tajin,” [46b] “Couscousou,” [46c] flat Moorish bread, and green tea (called Windrisi from Windres, that is London, from whence it comes), seasoned with mint and sweetened with enormous lumps of sugar broken with a hammer from the loaf. A week passed by, and every day his wife and children came and talked to him, standing outside the shrine, and much elated at the kindness of their European friend, and of the affluence which, in a day or two, was to burst on them through his influence.