Chapter V

AFTER lunch—and the tea that followed—we started off to pay a visit to Sheykh Mohammed el Mawhub, the representative of the Senussi in the oasis, at his _zawia_ (monastery) close to the town.

His history is interesting, as throwing some light on the methods of the Senussi sect. He was born somewhere between 1840 and 1850, at Jalo, in Tripoli, and early in life became a member of the Senussia. While still quite a young man, probably under thirty, he was sent by the head Senussi sheykh to try to convert the inhabitants of Dakhla Oasis.

He arrived with practically no possessions beyond the clothes he stood up in, and began to expound the doctrines of his order to the inhabitants. He soon succeeded in collecting a following, upon whom, after the manner of his kind, he lived.

His next step was to apply to the authorities in the oasis for a permit to sink a well, and, having obtained it, asked his followers to help him in the work. The first well he sank—Bir Sheykh Mohammed—lies some four miles to the west of the village of Qasr Dakhl, and, when sunk, turned out to be an extremely good one. Soon afterwards, he sank a second well—Bir el Jebel—rather nearer to the village, which proved to be an even better one than Bir Sheykh Mohammed. This well was also sunk mainly by voluntary labour. The two wells together irrigated a considerable area. Close to them _ezbas_ (farms) were built, which were inhabited by Sheykh Mohammed’s sons. These farms being on the road from Dakhla to Kufara, the headquarters of the Senussi, and well removed from the village, without any of the ordinary _fellahin_ of the oasis near them, enabled the Mawhubs to come and go to Kufara, a journey always conducted by them with a considerable amount of mystery, without fear of being observed by the other natives of the oasis.

While the property round these wells was being developed, the building of his _zawia_ was also being proceeded with. This also was largely carried on by voluntary workers, not only from the members of his sect, but also from other villages, who, without actually belonging to the community, were sympathetic towards it and considered it a pious act to assist in the building of a religious edifice to be devoted to the service of Allah. Later on other wells were sunk.

The _zawia_ consisted of a courtyard surrounded by a very high wall of mud bricks that was not even plastered. The whole building had no pretensions to any architectural beauty. I glanced into the court through the door as we passed it. A man, sitting on the floor of a small room opening out of it close to the entrance, and three small boys he was teaching, were the only inhabitants to be seen.

Sheykh Mawhub’s house was of the same simple character as the rest of his _zawia_. We were led up into a guest chamber of the usual type, with settees round the walls, and were left for some time to our own devices. After about ten minutes’ waiting a Sheykh Ibrahim—whom I recognised as the schoolmaster I had seen in the courtyard of the _zawia_—came in and announced that tea was coming shortly, and that Sheykh Mawhub himself would follow it—he evidently considered this a mark of considerable condescension on the part of the sheykh.

Tea in due course appeared, and Sheykh Ibrahim, having seen that we had all been duly served, departed and another interminable delay occurred.

At length we heard sounds of slow shuffling footsteps, punctuated by halts and questions and answers in a low voice in the distance, and the _mamur_ whispered to me that he thought it must be Sheykh Mawhub who was coming. He seemed to stand rather in awe of him.

The sheykh himself at last appeared in the doorway, respectfully—it would hardly be too much to say reverently—supported by Sheykh Ibrahim. He seemed to be in the last stage of nervousness. He just touched hands with us in an almost lifeless manner, and then, still supported by Sheykh Ibrahim, sat down huddled up on a settee in the far corner of the room, being tenderly tucked into his place by the attendant sheykh. Hardly had he settled himself into his corner than, rather to my surprise, Qway came in, just spoke to him casually and then went and sat down as near as possible to the tea. It was evident that Sheykh Mawhub was the friend that Qway had asked leave to visit, and that he had already seen him, as the usual greetings were omitted on his entry.

A very resplendent young man followed close on Qway’s heels, went up and kissed Sheykh Mawhub’s hand, and then immediately went out again and stationed himself just opposite the door with his back to the wall of the passage, where he remained watching the assembled guests. This proved to be Sheykh Ahmed, the eldest son of Sheykh Mawhub.

It was noticeable that the native Government officials, who, while at Rashida and during the journey through the oasis, had behaved in the usual boisterous manner of their kind, laughing and chaffing each other and perpetually bawling out orders, apparently for no other object than to hear their own voices and assert their authority, were all most subdued and almost timid in the presence of Sheykh Mawhub.

His stage management was excellent, and he was certainly rather an impressive looking individual. Since his access of prosperity, and the advent of his sons to manhood, he had led an extremely retired life and become practically a recluse, seldom emerging from his _zawia_ or seeing anyone except his followers, leaving the management of his property largely to his sons and the men, such as Sheykh Ibrahim, who were attached to his _zawia_. It was popularly supposed that he devoted his whole life to study, the affairs of the sect to which he belonged and to his religious observances. It was probably this method of life, combined with the influx of so many strangers, that accounted for his obvious nervousness.

The old sheykh, from the time of his entry, entirely dominated the meeting. His manner was so quiet and subdued as to be almost an affectation. He spoke at first in such a low voice as to be scarcely audible, and replied to the remarks of the officials as briefly as possible.

The _mamur_ took it upon himself to explain to the sheykh that I was going off to map the desert, and had been making enquiries about Zerzura; so, as he had introduced the subject, I asked Sheykh Mawhub if he had ever heard of the place. He thought for a moment, and then said he had. It was an enchanted oasis, and all the inhabitants and cattle had been turned into stone, and would only come to life when someone had been sacrificed there.

He then for a few moments gazed out of the window at the sky with the rapt expression of a stained-glass saint, and added in a tone of dreamy reminiscence that a Greek had once tried to look for Zerzura, but that he had not been able to find it, and had died of poison on his way back to Europe. He then came down to earth again and glanced at me in an absent-minded way; but I thought that I detected something like a twinkle in his bleary eyes.

Afterwards we got on the subject of natural history. The sheykh woke up and became interesting. I had a long conversation with him on a variety of subjects. Towards the end he rather overcame his reserve and seemed to be trying to please, for on my expressing regret that my knowledge of his language was insufficient to enable me to converse with him, except through an interpreter, he volunteered to teach me Arabic, if I would come to his _zawia_.

I own I was tempted. The chance of completing my education in a Senussi monastery was unique; but it would have been an “eye-washy” sort of job, and I had other work to do—besides I doubted his motives, so I declined. He seemed genuinely disappointed. He had hoped, I suppose, to keep me learning Arabic in his _zawia_, instead of going off to explore the Libyan Desert that the Senussi looked upon as their private property.

After some further conversation, the sheykh invited us all to be his guests for the night at the _ezba_ belonging to his son, Sheykh Ahmed.

Sheykh Ahmed’s _ezba_ lay some five miles to the west of the _zawia_. The first part of the way was mainly over uncultivated land. As soon as he was removed from the restraining influence of his father’s presence, Sheykh Ahmed shook off his odour of sanctity and appeared in his true character of a very cheery and slim young scamp. He and his two brothers, Sheykhs Mohammed and ’Abd el Wahad—both of whom joined us before reaching the _ezba_—had by no means the reputation in the oasis for sanctity that their father possessed. Sheykh Ahmed was reported to be an extremely slim fellow to deal with, and, even among the natives, had the character of being “the biggest liar in the oasis.” ’Abd el Wahad, the youngest brother, was still in his ’teens, and had not then attracted the gossip of the oasis. But Sheykh Mohammed was considered to be even more tricky than his elder brother.

It was the old, old story; too much pious teaching in the youth is apt to lead to a reaction later on. One meets clergymen’s sons, for instance, who are famous for many things, but excessive piety is seldom one of them. History being based on human nature is proverbially apt to repeat itself, and those _in loco parentis_ would, I fancy, always do well to remember that Robert the Devil was the son of Richard the Good—he frequently is!

Old Sheykh Mawhub’s religion was obviously a very real and genuine thing, but that of his sons was, from all I heard and saw, largely a matter of conforming to the outward formalities of their order. But the prestige of the sect they belonged to was so great that, with the simple inhabitants of the oasis, their backslidings were overlooked, and almost regarded as one of the privileges of their holy character. In North Africa it is only necessary to label yourself as a holy man, to say enough prayers and fast occasionally, and you can do pretty much what you like in the meantime.

A ride of something over an hour brought us, just as the sun was setting, to Sheykh Ahmed’s _ezba_. His guest house, like that of the _’omda_ of Rashida, was built on to his private dwelling, where his wives and family lived. The house, and its guest house, were surrounded by a series of open yards forming the farm buildings, and used as places in which to house the stock at night, as threshing-floors and so on.

Enormous quantities of very strong tea are drunk by the natives, the making of which is a regular ceremony. Note the large copper urn on the left. (p. 39).]

The guest chamber was a long narrow room about twenty-five feet from east to west by twelve from north to south. Two windows and the door opened on to a kind of terrace, while on the opposite side three windows looked out, to the north, on to a garden, in which was the well that watered the _ezba_, and where a number of palms and other fruit trees were planted, over the tops of which could be seen the cliff bounding the oasis in the blue distance.

The windows were draped with red curtains, and a doorway, leading into a small bedroom on the western end of the room was covered by a pair of heavy and rather dusty velveteen curtains of the same colour. The floor was carpeted, a few mats being placed here and there over the carpet. The roof, which seemed to be built in the usual way with palm trunk rafters supporting _jerids_ (palm leaf stems), was covered with a thin coating of plaster, whitewashed like the walls and painted with broad red stripes—a form of decoration which, though roughly executed, was both effective and tasteful, and, taken with the subdued hues of the rugs on the floor, formed a colour scheme of which a European artist need not have been ashamed.

Knowing the reputation that the Senussi bear for leading the simple life, and their supposed aversion to adopting any European innovations, the contents of the room filled me with complete surprise.

On a plate by an open window, so as to be in the draught, stood the inevitable _gula_—a porous terra-cotta bottle for cooling water, to be found in every native’s house in Egypt. Nailed to the wall were circular paper fans of Japanese make and two or three of a curious hatchet shape, ornamented with bits of red cotton stuff, such as are made in the oasis. A gaudy red and black print of Mecca was nailed to the wall opposite to the door, and a second long print in silver on silk, which stretched nearly across the eastern wall, showed another view of the same subject in villainous perspective, together with some other scenes of Eastern towns that I was unable to identify, the spaces between the views being filled up with texts and Arabesque ornamentations.

The remainder of the furniture was pure European—a shelf, with a mirror beneath it fixed to the wall, might have been bought in Tottenham Court Road; a hammock chair and some of bent wood with cane seats of the usual type, a couple of deal tables, on one of which stood a nickel-plated paraffin lamp and a sparklet bottle, and on the other a few books, an ordinary black japanned tray, with a glass water bottle and tumblers, and a gramophone. On one side of the gaudy print of the sacred Ka’aba at Mecca, was a coloured oleograph of the Khedive, and on the other was one of King Edward VII!

Having seen us all settled comfortably in our places, Sheykh Ahmed excused himself from attending on us any further, explaining that it was time for the _maghrib_ prayer, and departed downstairs, where shortly afterwards we heard him fervently leading the prayers in the room beneath us.

Soon after he returned with a servant bringing the inevitable tea. Having seen that we were all served, Sheykh Ahmed departed again to change his clothes, and returned in a more gorgeous raiment than before.

While waiting for dinner to appear, Sheykh Ahmed’s two brothers—Sheykh Mohammed and Sheykh ’Abd el Wahad—came in, went up and kissed his hand and then remained standing till he waved them permission to sit down.

The Senussi—or the better class among them at any rate—keep up the ceremonious manners of the old patriarchal system of the Arabs. Sheykh Ahmed, for instance, would not even stay in the room with his father in the _zawia_, much less sit down in it without his permission. His younger brothers, in his own home, kissed his hand when they came into the room and waited his permission to sit down. They stood up whenever he did, and remained standing till he went out of the room, or till he signed them to be seated. When Sheykh Mohammed, the second brother, came in, the youngest, Sheykh ’Abd el Wahad, at once stood up.

When dinner arrived the two younger brothers left, to go, I understood, to Sheykh Mohammed’s _ezba_, which was not far from that of Sheykh Ahmed. Sheykh Ahmed himself helped to lay the cloth. A folding iron table was brought up to near where we were sitting, and an enormous round tray in red enamel, having views of Switzerland in panels all round it, was laid on the table. A cloth was spread over it, and on this the dinner was laid. At nearly all the _’omdas’_ houses we stayed at we ate with our fingers in the native way; but at Sheykh Ahmed’s _ezba_ we had nickel-plated spoons and forks, plates, tumblers and knives with plated handles.

Sheykh Ahmed himself, in accordance with the strict Arab etiquette, with his sleeves carefully rolled up to prevent them from being soiled by coming in contact with the dishes, waited on his guests at first—he was a good “bun hander”—and it was not till I invited him to join us, that he took his seat at the table and joined in the conversation. I was unfortunately unable to follow a good deal that he said, as my Arabic at that time was not of the best, but from the laughter that greeted many of his remarks, he was clearly an amusing and witty talker. He joined freely in the chaff of the Egyptian officials, and had evidently a gift of quick repartee.

The Mawhub family prided themselves upon keeping the best table in the oasis, and the dinner that he provided for us was, without any exception, the best meal I ever had the good fortune to take part in, and I took a large part in it.

The _mamur_ was one that the Senussi hoped to convert to their sect—if they had not already done so. Much of their influence in Egypt was gained by this form of “pacific penetration.” Sheykh Ahmed was no fool, and probably realised that the easiest road to an Egyptian’s heart is through his tummy. He had accordingly borrowed his father’s cook from the _zawia_ at Qasr Dakhl to do honour to the occasion. This man was said in the oasis—probably correctly—to have been at one time a chef to the Sultan of Turkey, and Turkish cooking is probably the best in the world.

I do not know whether we in Europe borrowed our monastic system from the Arabs, whether they got it from us, or whether we both got it from some common source; but certainly there are a great many points of resemblance between ours and theirs. The reputation for “good living,” enjoyed by the monasteries of the Middle Ages in Europe, when

“No baron or squire or knight of the shire

Lived half so well as a holy friar.”

has its exact counterpart in most of the Moslem monasteries at the present day. That cook from _zawia_ of the Senussi sect—so famed for their abstemious simple life!—in Qasr Dakhl, was a past-master in his art, and that dinner must have been one of his finest efforts.

First arrived a large basin full of broth with two or three young chickens that had been boiled in it. The broth was strongly flavoured with lemon, which is an acquired taste.

Then came the _pièce de résistance_—a turkey. The police officer who was sitting next to me, who was himself an excellent cook, and quite knew what he was talking about, said it had been boiled in milk and then buttered, covered over with some sort of paste and put into the oven for a few minutes. It was stuffed with almonds, rice, raisons and _ferikh_, a sort of pop-corn, made, I believe, of green corn fried in butter. The stuffing had also some sort of spice in it that I was not able to identify.

The meat seemed to have lost all its fibre and almost melted in one’s mouth; the skin was crisp and tasted like pastry; the stuffing—but to give an idea of what that stuffing was like is beyond me—no one but a poet could describe it.

After the turkey came chickens, roasted and also stuffed. Rissoles, flavoured with some delicious herbs, followed.

By the time the rissoles had been finished, I already felt that I had done more than justice to Sheykh Ahmed’s hospitality, and that to attempt to pay him any further compliments in this direction might be attended by serious consequences. I hoped that the end of the meal might be in sight. But not a bit of it.

“The hardships of the lonely white man in Africa” have often been described, but they have never been really done justice to—they’re frightful! After the rissoles came an endless succession of sweets, made as only a Turkish cook can make them. A spongy kind of blancmange eaten with jam. Jam-tarts—the jam being apparently made from dates. Crisp, thin flakes of pastry, covered with whipped cream, coloured pink and eaten with honey. A kind of very sweet nougat, also eaten with cream, followed by unmistakable Turkish Delight, thickly covered with powdered white sugar, which was infinitely superior to the best “Rahat lakum” that could be bought even in Cairo—rahat lakum, by the way, was a name that no one seemed to have even heard.

After dinner of course came tea, and following that _kerkadi_, or Sudan tea—a drink made from the dried flowers of a plant that grows somewhere in the Sudan.

The latter I had heard of in Egypt, but had never seen, so hearing that Sheykh Ahmed had some, I asked for it. It is not only considered by Moslems to be quite correct to ask your host to produce any little thing in this way, but it is even considered as a compliment.

The _kerkadi_ was first made cold. A few flowers were dropped into a tumbler and stirred round for a few minutes till a pale pink decoction was produced, and then sugar was added to sweeten it.

When made in this way it produced a drink with a curious slightly acid flavour, that would have been very pleasant and refreshing on a hot day. It can also be drunk hot, in which case it is made exactly in the same manner as ordinary tea. But it is not nearly so good when made in this way, and when it has been left standing for some time it takes a strong acrid flavour, that would not be likely to appeal to European tastes. But as a cold drink it is surprising that it is so little known.

The policeman told me in a whisper that the tea which preceded the _kerkadi_ was of extremely fine quality, adding native-like that Sheykh Ahmed must have paid a guinea a pound for it. He was very likely correct, for this is by no means an unusual price for one of the richer natives of the oasis to give for his favourite Persian tea.

When dinner and tea were over, and our cigarettes had been lighted, the Coptic doctor took possession of the gramophone, and we were regaled by Arab songs and tunes. Songs, band pieces and an occasional recitation followed each other for about half an hour. At length a very dreary tune was put on, and, as everybody voted it a bore, Sheykh Ahmed went over to the pile of records and began sorting them over, saying that he would find something better.

The record that he put on the machine proved to be a dialogue between a man and his wife, who after a few sentences started to quarrel violently, abusing each other and calling each other all the filthy and disgusting names that even the Arabic language could produce. This record evidently appealed to the audience, for they fairly roared with laughter at some of the remarks. As soon as it was finished and had been repeated, Sheykh Ahmed put on a song, which I was quite unable to follow, but which, from the remarks of the audience, must have been of an exceedingly racy character.

That gramophone was a great institution, but one that in my second year in the desert nearly led to unpleasant complications. On my return to Cairo, after my first season in the desert, I ordered half a dozen records to be sent to Sheykh Ahmed as _bakhshish_—leaving the choice of them to the shop assistant, as being more likely to know what would appeal to native tastes.

I visited Sheykh Ahmed again during my second season, and the gramophone was once more brought out and my records produced. Sheykh Ahmed had kept them in a separate place from the others in his collection, and I suspect had never put them on his gramophone before. But he placed them, one by one, on his machine and sat over it, beating time to the music, politely pretending to be thoroughly enjoying them. From this I gathered that he was entirely unaware of the nature of the music that his gramophone was producing—for they were certainly not records that I should have selected to send to a Senussi sheykh.

Some years later, owing to a slight difference of opinion with the Government authorities, Sheykh Ahmed found it convenient to clear out suddenly with his family and belongings to Kufara.

If some future visitor to that oasis should hear proceeding from a native house a fine baritone voice, announcing that he will “sing him songs of Araby and tales of fair Kashmir,” or a choir of voices, accompanied by a brass band, exhorting him to further efforts by the inspiring strains of “Onward, Christian soldiers! marching as to war,” he will be able to locate Sheykh Ahmed’s house, and will know where those records came from.

I called at the shop, when next I was in Cairo, to ask why records so entirely inappropriate for a present to a Senussi sheykh had been sent to him. During the course of a rather heart-to-heart talk on the subject, the shop assistant explained that, as he had not expected me to go out again to the oasis, he had chosen those records as “a joke.” It certainly had a humorous side; the sight of that unsuspecting Senussi sheykh politely beating time to “Onward, Christian soldiers!” was quite worth seeing!

But to return to my first visit to Sheykh Ahmed’s _ezba_. When that gramophone’s repertoire came to an end, a lengthy and serious discussion took place as to whether our digestion of the dinner was sufficiently far advanced to allow us to go to bed. Although it was then past two o’clock in the morning, the conclusion that was unanimously arrived at was that we should give our digestions some further time to continue their work before we retired. The company had evidently determined to make a night of it.

It was decided at first that we should have a little more music. The policeman during the morning had manufactured a sort of penny whistle out of a piece of cane. The _mamur_ got hold of an iron tray, which he proceeded to use as a _tamtam_. The Coptic doctor, having had the advantage of an education under European teachers at the Qasr el ’Aini hospital in Cairo, was more civilised in his choice of an instrument—he managed to get hold of a comb from somewhere, and, with a piece of paper added, proved to be a first-rate performer. Having thus improvised a jazz band, they proceeded to make the night hideous by singing over again some of the songs they had heard on the gramophone.

At length, tiring of that amusement, they proceeded to play a childish game, in which one of them thought of something and the others, by questioning him in turn, tried to find out what it was. This caused considerable amusement, and the fun waxed fast and furious. The game was evidently a popular one. But the things that that sanctimonious Senussi sheykh thought of—well! they _were_ Eastern! so much so that I eventually went to bed, and left them still playing—so austere were the Senussi!

These oases are irrigated by artesian wells of unknown antiquity, they are all lined with wooden pipes. Similar wells are being sunk to this day. (p. 312).]

Sometimes the upper stories of the houses are built over the streets to keep the roadways cool in hot weather. (p. 49).]

After a somewhat disturbed night’s rest, I was aroused by a renewal of the concert by the jazz band. Coming out of my room I found the whole party in various stages of undress, sitting on the mattresses on which they had spent the night, smoking cigarettes, singing, banging trays and waiting the arrival of the barber to shave them. Sheykh Ahmed, himself, was not to the fore, he had retired to his private house for the night, and had not then put in an appearance.

The arrival of the barber and two servants with washing appliances put an end to the pandemonium. The barber went the round of each of the native guests in turn, shaving them and trimming their hair, while the remainder washed their hands as the attendants poured water over them. These preliminaries having been got through they proceeded to dress.

Sheykh Ahmed, gorgeously arrayed as usual, soon came in from his house, and proceeded with the help of the servants to lay the table for breakfast.

The meal having been concluded, tea made its appearance, and this having been consumed, we were taken by our host to see his well and garden. In one of the small-walled enclosures built round his house, he showed us his oven, round which were lying a number of rough earthen plates, pots and basins. The oven itself was a small beehive-shaped erection, slightly ornamented on the dome with raised patterns, among which a device like an inverted Y was conspicuous. This may possibly have been his _wasm_—tribal cattle brand.

The Senussi sect itself has a _wasm_ of its own, consisting of the word “Allah,” to show that the beasts and slaves branded with it are consecrated to His Service. I have never seen any slaves marked with this brand, but have often seen their camels, which had been marked in this way. In each case, however, the word took the form [Symbol]. This may have been due only to bad writing on the part of the man who branded the beast, but it may also be a kind of conventionalised form of the correctly written word.

Sheykh Ahmed’s two brothers arrived just before his house party broke up. So when we had gone back to the guest chamber to pack our belongings, I took the opportunity of photographing them together. I afterwards tried to induce Sheykh Ahmed to be photographed in his white praying clothes; but I made rather a _faux pas_ there. He looked very angry for a moment, then stiffly replied that that was impossible as it was _haram_—forbidden by his religion. But he soon recovered his temper and was all smiles by the time we left.