Miserably cold it was when we girded up our loins and packed our little donkeys for the start, and at such moments as these I almost felt inclined to abandon my risky journey and turn back. The thought that all these hardships would have to be gone through on the return journey, and in far colder weather, was no pleasant one; but I felt I could face them rather than fail to accomplish my object, and so I persisted—until at length my efforts were crowned with success.
In the cold grey dawn we forded the river and ascended the steep slope on its eastern bank, reaching at the summit the commencement of the plain of Anbed, which forms the watershed between the rivers flowing east and west—that is to say, between the basin of the Wad Todghrá, which joins the Gheris near Ul Turug, some ninety miles to the east, and the Wad Dads, the chief tributary of the Wad Draa. Not a vestige of vegetation was to be seen beyond the few dried-up tufts of wild thyme, but a distant view of gazelle and a flock of muflon show that there must be some pasture, probably a little rank grass in the hollows where water lies in the wet season.
The tramp across the dreary desert of Anbed is some fifteen miles in length. The whole way one proceeds almost due east, parallel with the range of Jibel Saghru, and distant from it some eight or ten miles. The same dreary outlook presents itself as did in crossing the strips of desert before arriving at Dads—stone-strewn barren plain and verdureless mountain-ranges on either hand. The peep we obtained of gazelle and muflon—Barbary wild sheep—was the only time that, beyond domestic animals, we saw any mammal, with the exception of a striped jerboa, and of these only one or two, during the whole journey from the foot of the Atlas to Tafilet. Hyena I heard of, however, and several of the graveyards we passed were heaped with large stones to prevent their scratching up the bodies.
About twelve miles east of Dads a valley opens up in the plain of Anbed, descending by which one reaches the Wad Imiteghr, which crosses the end of the valley at right angles. There were appearances that the torrent in the gorge must be large in the rainy season, or rather after heavy rainfall—for there is no regular wet season, rain being very scarce, but at this period it was quite dry. A few caves on the north side are used for housing sheep in, at such times as moisture allows of a little grass to grow. The road was very rough, and the bleaching bones of animals showed clearly enough that the boulder-strewn path had proved fatal to many a beast of burden. The descent from Anbed by this valley brings one to a continuation of the plain at a lower level, which extends, falling the while, as far as the valley of the Wad Gheris. On the farther (east) bank of the Wad Imiteghr are a few ksor, with an attempt here and there to raise a garden amongst the boulders. The most prosperous of the castles, and that a poor enough place, was pointed out to me as Ighir.
My road from this spot onwards diverged from that usually pursued by caravans between Dads and Todghrá, for while the principal track takes a slightly more northerly direction, we turned a little to the south and followed the course of the Wad Imiteghr, about half a mile from its north bank. The river was at this period tolerably well supplied with water, though the rains had been very scarce and not a drop had fallen since we had left Marakesh three weeks before.
During a long way we only passed two sets of habitations—the settlement of Imiteghr already mentioned, and a few miles further on the still poorer village of Timatruin. In this name, as in so many others amongst the Berbers, the prefix T is only a contraction of the Shelha word Aït—“sons of”—and therefore the literal spelling of the name of the place should be Aït Imatruin. The same fact exists in the word Tafilet, which, derived from the Arabic Filàl, a district in Arabia, has received from the Berbers the initial T—the contraction of Aït; while in this case the final lt, or lat as it should be spelt, is a feminine termination.
Ten miles after fording the Wad Imiteghr near Ighir, we reached a group of ksor lying under a spur of Jibel Saghru, which here juts out into the plain, although the river has worn a passage through it by a narrow gorge which divides it from the main range of the Anti-Atlas. The district is inhabited by Aït Mulai Brahim, descendants of the famous Shereef Mulai Brahim, whose tomb is a place of pilgrimage, and is situated above Agregoreh on the northern slope of the Atlas. The same family has given another great saint to Southern Morocco, Mulai Abdullah ben Hoseyn, who lies buried at Tamslot, a few miles south of Marakesh. These tombs, with their large offerings made by pious pilgrims, have much enriched this branch of the Shereefian family, and the present representative, living at Tamslot, Mulai El Haj ben Said, is perhaps the wealthiest man in Southern Morocco.
We were kindly received by the Shereefs, and shown into the mosque, a large building for so small a collection of ksor, with a tank for ablutions, and a domed mihrab or niche toward the east.
A few of the Shereefs spoke Arabic, and what with half a dozen other travellers who had sought the mosque of the zauia for a night’s rest, we were a pleasant little party. Sunset prayers over, we sat down on the clean matting and passed the evening in conversation. The topic turned more than once on Christians—for such the natives call all the European peoples, though amongst the Berber the term Rumin, or Romans, is more common than Nazarani. The ignorance of the Shereefs on all questions out of their own particular sphere was astonishing. They seemed to lack all the brightness and rapidity of thought that I had noticed at Dads, and to have sunk into a sort of sleepy indifference to everything beyond their own immediate surroundings. They asked if Christians were like men and women, and I think doubted my men and myself when we told them they were. I could not venture to point myself out as an example, as not only would I have run a risk of getting my throat cut anywhere in the country, but here in the sacred precincts of the mosque death would have been a certainty, so I satisfied their curiosity by telling them that I had often seen Christians, and that they much resembled “true believers” to look at, but that their language was not the same, but sounded like the gibberings of apes. The conversation took many directions, and I was not greatly surprised to find these far-away Shereefs as ignorant of their own religion as they were of the Christians. I took the opportunity of giving a little discourse on Islam, a by no means difficult task, filling in the gaps with romances as to the doings of Moorish saints, whose histories, or rather, I should say, the traditions relating to whom, are nearly all known to me. Such a good reputation did I obtain for theological knowledge and religious devotion that the Shereefs felt bound to bring me supper from their ksar, and my men and I feasted merrily on boiled turnips, while several “true believers” went to bed supperless,—and the infidel and his wicked associates filled themselves with the offerings of the pious. This was by no means the first time on the journey that my knowledge—slight though it is—of Islam and its traditions stood me in good stead, and I am proud to say that wherever I spent a night I left behind me an impression of extreme religious fervour—which must have been sadly upset on my return journey, when, protected by a strong guard against insult or attack, I made my nationality and my disguise known. But of this I shall have more to say anon.
Leaving the ksor of Aït Mulai Brahim before dawn on November 14, we entered, close by, the gorge through which the Wad Imiteghr flows. It is only a mile and a half in length, and ends just as abruptly as it commences. No doubt its formation is owing to the river having forced its way through the projecting spur of Jibel Saghru, which is now separated by this valley from the main chain. The gorge is known by the name of Imin Erkilim—imin (Arabic fûm) meaning “a mouth,” while Erkilim may or may not be Hercules, for on my inquiries as to who Erkilim was, I was told that Erkili was a great man, a sort of god, who did something no one quite knew when. From the name given me being Erkili, I presume the final m to distinguish the genitive case; but this is merely a surmise.