Tafilet

by Walter Harris

One emerges from the narrow valley, with its cliffs of rock on either hand, close to the village of Aït bu Kanifen, the inhabitants of which are celebrated robbers, often attacking any caravan that may chance to use this route in the valley the end of which their ksor commands. A few hundred yards of desert beyond and we entered the luxuriant palm-groves of Tiluin, or Aït Iluin, where is a large and flourishing ksar. These were the first palm-trees we had come across since Askura, for at Dads and the other oasis we had passed through they were entirely absent. Issuing from the pleasant shade of the groves, we crossed again a couple of miles of desert, at the termination of which we entered the southern extremity of the oasis of Todghrá, the immense palm-groves of which were clearly visible winding for many miles up the river of the same name. It is close to this spot that the Wad Imiteghr empties itself into the Todghrá at an elevation of 4250 feet above the sea-level.

We only skirted the border of the palms of Todghrá, and in half an hour were in the desert again, which extends from here to Ferkla, our night’s resting-place, with the exception of the little district of Tabsibast, near which are some fertile gardens. From here on we trudged for sixteen miles along a weary road of stone and sand, black stone on yellow soil, with not a speck of anything green in sight. The road runs parallel to the Wad Todghrá, on the southern slope of a low line of hills, distant from the north bank of the river from one to three miles. Equidistant on the southern side rises the dismal black line of Jibel Saghru. This barren district is known as Seddat, and is said to be a favourite ground for the horsemen of the neighbourhood to pillage caravans upon,—nor could a more suitable spot be chosen, for not only was no habitation visible, but we saw no sign of life, beyond a few gazelle, the whole way.

The wad proceeds through the district of Seddat first directly east, but when rather more than half its length has been accomplished—say some ten miles—the track turns slightly more to the north, continuing this direction until the large and important oasis of Ferkla is reached.

Just at sunset, having been fourteen hours on the march, and on foot the entire time, we entered Ferkla. I was too tired, and too hungry, to admire the magnificent forest of palms, the walled gardens over the top of which showed up fruit-trees of many varieties, and jasmine and roses, and the multiplicity of canals that, confused as a spider’s web, carried the clear sparkling water in every direction. The presence of these canals, however, was a relief, for from Tabsibast we had seen no water, and the heat had been very great during the afternoon. Although we carried enough in a stone jar on the back of one of our donkeys to assuage thirst, there was not a sufficient quantity to allow us to bathe our weary and blistered feet. The formation of the soil of this desert—in fact, of all the country from Ghresat to Tafilet—is such as to render walking very unpleasant, though the roads are nearly all level. Moorish slippers are impossible, owing to the movement of the shoe on the foot at every step that is taken, which, the shoe being full of sand, quickly rubs the sharp grains into the sole of the foot, causing most painful blisters at once. On this account the natives never use the shoe, preferring a sandal, which, consisting only of a leather sole tied over the ankle and between the toes with a narrow band of raw hide, does not hang loosely on the foot, nor tend to collect sand. But I found that this method was equally painful, owing to the fact that the raw hide bands, unsoftened by tanning, cut deeply into the skin. At length I was obliged to abandon both and proceed barefoot, a plan which, though it caused me much pain for a time, eventually hardened the skin so that it became impervious to the roughness of the sandy or stony roads.

We wandered on for what seemed to me an interminable distance amongst the palm-groves, passing many ksor, at each of which I hoped in turn we were about to take up our quarters for the night, and each of which we passed by without entering. I had placed myself and my plans entirely in the hands of the zitat—our guarantee—from Dads, and left everything to him. He was an excellent fellow, and his opinion of myself seemed to increase when he found I could trudge my forty miles or so a-day with an appearance—though by no means a true one—of little inconvenience. He was a typical Berber this latest addition to our party, some 6 feet in height, with a fair white skin and dark eyes and eyebrows. His face was clean shaven except for the small pointed beard on the end of his chin, and a remarkably handsome face it was. But his heart was better even than his looks, and more than once, as we tried to sleep of a night, our teeth chattering with the frost, he would cover me with his warm cloak, sharing it with me until I slept, when he would give up his half so that I might be warmer—and in the morning tell a dozen lies, saying that he had been so hot he had kicked it off, and it was only by accident that I had found myself warm and comfortable, and him half frozen.

I think the only qualms of conscience I felt at being in disguise were with this good fellow, for as yet he had not the faintest idea of my identity. So much did this trouble me that I took advantage of our lying huddled together under his warm cloak that night to tell him the whole story of my journey, whispered, lest we should be overheard. He said but little, but I knew full well that I could trust him, and in the morning I was warm, wrapped up in his haidus, and he, only in his chamira, shivered with the frost. If anything his attention to my comforts increased after I had confided to him the fact of my disguise; and every now and then he would burst out into the merriest of laughs as we trudged along, thinking the whole affair a tremendous joke, and reiterating his approval of my venturing where none had ever trod, and where my life if discovered was worth probably about half-an-hour’s purchase. Nor was his astonishment at my knowledge of Arabic—imperfect though it is—a small one; for, himself a Berber, he too spoke it as a foreign tongue, and if anything not so fluently as myself.

At length after dark we reached the principal ksar of Ferkla—Asrir by name—where we put up for the night. It was the largest village we had as yet come across in the Sahara, enclosed in high tabia walls, and boasting a number of well-built houses, and even a few shops. It lacked, however, the picturesque appearance of many ksor that we had seen upon our road; for the tall towers with their decorations and battlements and turrets were absent, the style of architecture resembling far more that found in the towns of Morocco. In fact, Asrir may be more fitly described as a town than a ksar, for within its walls it is divided up into streets, many of them of the same tunnel-like formation as one is so used to in Fez, for instance, the houses meeting overhead. In a large square near the gateway—for there is only one entrance to Asrir—were collected a number of soldiers on horseback and mules and camels, almost the first signs we had as yet come across of the proximity of the Sultan’s army, which had a few days previously reached Tafilet. These soldiers consisted for the most part of mounted messengers returning to Morocco, and it was piteous to hear them asking questions as to the length of the road before them, and the state of the pass over the Atlas; for after their weary wandering of some eight months in the fastnesses of the mountains and the desert beyond, both they and their poor horses were well-nigh starved. I came across one little party of five or six men, all of whom were well known to me, servants of one of the Kaids, or governors, of a district in North Morocco. The recognition gave me at first a start; but I quickly realised that it was scarcely likely to be mutual, and that it was by no means probable they would discover under the dirt and rags of a donkey-driver the man whom they had known travelling with a large camp in European costume. None the less I gave them a wide berth, and was glad to hide myself away in the darkest corner of a caravanserai, where we took up our quarters for the night. The place consisted of an open yard surrounded on all sides by a covered arcade, the roof of which was supported on pillars of tabia. Quite a crowd was collected here for the night, for not only were there a number of soldiers from the Sultan’s camp, but also camp-followers returning homewards, and Jews bound for Tafilet to see what they could pick up in the oasis, where Mulai el Hassen, the Sultan, was, accompanied by some 40,000 people.

Several tribes hold districts of Ferkla, a state of affairs that leads to constant warfare. The principal divisions are members of the (i.) Aït Merghad, (ii.) Aït Isdeg, (iii.) Aït Yafalman, and (iv.) the Arab tribe of Alh Ferkla. There are also several mellahs of Jews.

The oasis, which is very extensive, is watered from the Wad Todghrá, which flows through its midst, supplying innumerable canals. Altogether it is said to contain upwards of forty large ksor, one or two of which, I was informed, can put as many as from 300 to 400 men into the field in time of war. I found the elevation of Asrir to be 3260 feet above the sea-level.

Stowed away in the corner of the fondak, or caravanserai, I ran no risk of detection, and was able to watch the scene around me from a point of vantage offering not only safety from detection, but also some shelter from the frosty night-air. The crowd, illumined by the lanterns that many of them bore, passed and repassed, struggling for barley for their animals and food for themselves. Near us was a rough extemporised oven of earth, at which a number of half-nude Haratin, natives of the banks of the Wad Draa, were cooking shua—boiled mutton—in tiny, and none too clean, wooden bowls. We procured a couple of these for a small price, and enjoyed the luxury of real meat.