SYYEDSYYED KHUDAR THROWING THE CIRCULAR NET.
SYYED KHUDAR THROWING THE CIRCULAR NET.
SYYED KHUDAR THROWING THE CIRCULAR NET.
The Chinaman could speak no English, but his Arabic, though ungrammatical, was fluent enough to enable me to extract much interesting information. The slugs like shallow water with a sandy bottom. On hot, sunny days when the sea is calm they lie on top of the sand, and, though they have no fins, can swim quite well. If the weather is cloudy and the sea rough they burrow into the sand and lie low. They are most easily caught on clear calm days with a circular throwing net, smaller than the ordinary throwing net but of precisely similar construction. This net is of the same shape as a spider's web, is weighted all round the outside with small pieces of lead. When the net, which is of fine cotton string, is held in the centre by the hand lifted as high as the head of a medium-sized man the weights are well on the ground. The net is doubled over and over on the back of the right hand until the pieces of lead are just clear of the fingers. A few of the lead weights are caught lightly in the fingers of the left hand and with a circular sweep of the right arm the net is thrown. The left hand atthe same moment being drawn gently back as its fingers release their hold. This ensures the full spread of the net, which opens out like the loop of a well-thrown lasso, the lead weights lying in a circle on the sandy bottom of the shallow water in which alone it is used. The right hand retains hold of a cord in the centre of the net which gradually takes the form of a spherical cone (as the hand is raised), the base of which is held to the bottom by the weights. The net is then gradually raised and these weights drag along the bottom until, at last, they meet, and in the folds of the net above them is the quarry that has been unwary enough to allow the near approach of the fisherman.
Before leaving the island I was curious to hear to what use the dried sharks' tails and fins are put. A Chinaman picked at a dried fin with his knife, exposing a number of white fibres within. These, he said, were what were eaten, and I was shown a biscuit tin full of the prepared article that was exactly like transparent shredded gelatine. It is used for thickening soups and giving a highly appreciated flavour to meat dishes. Nothing is wasted, I am informed, even the shark's liver being boiled down for oil, and good skins saved for fancy work. Yes! I heartily agree with that statement. In neither the French nor Chinese camp is there any sign of waste.
Saying good-bye I sailed away from one of the most sporting little communities it has ever been my lot to visit. Syyed is of the same opinion.
A half-hour's sail and a two mile walk, in an unbearably fierce sun, brought us to El Kori, a small police post on the Anglo-French border. What a barren spot! One small police hut and the gurgi[6]of an old man employed to pack water on his donkey for the police here, and the men on the island. There is a Somal burial ground, and the graves are well cared for. Some are ringed round with stones, on which are laid sea shells and the mounds made of red, blue, black, and white coloured stones. The graveyard is the cheeriest spot at El Kori.
By three o'clock I had finished my business, the camels were saddled, and we were soon wending our way home along a good hard track. Three miles outside Zeila we stopped at Tokusha, where are the wells that supply the town with water. Here are several native gardens, the best one being owned by an ex-Pathan soldier, who, after taking his discharge in India, returned to Zeila where lived his Somal wife, whom he had married whilst serving in her country. His garden of lime and orange trees, flowering shrubs and vegetables, irrigated from the wells, is a beautiful little spot, which the old manloves with heart and soul. 'Tis a pity there are not more of his kind in Somaliland.
Home from the wells to find the boat has returned hours ago. Syyed is waiting with a beautiful old Arab box, the like of which I have been hunting after for years, and, when it changes owners at a reasonable price, I feel that I have spent a perfect day.
The waters of the Somaliland coast literally team with fish. At one spot in particular it would be possible to load a ship with crabs. I once saw His Majesty's Commissioner send two servants with a bucket each to bring crabs from this place. He might have been ordering them to bring sand from the seashore, so certain he seemed they would find crabs. Within three-quarters of an hour the men were back with both buckets brim full. For such a splendid supply surely there must be a market somewhere in the world. But I think I have written enough about fish for one day.
Pearl dhows and finance—Methods and materials—"God alone knows"—Pearl divers—A pearl story—Juma Bana, pearl merchant.
Pearl dhows and finance—Methods and materials—"God alone knows"—Pearl divers—A pearl story—Juma Bana, pearl merchant.
Pearling dhows look romantic enough in all conscience—from a distance—but at close quarters the smell—ugh! They are of all sizes, and the ordinary Zeila pearler may ship a crew of anything from five up to twelve men, under a nachoda or native captain. The equipment required is simple. A small canoe or boat, a paraffin-tin cut in half, with a pane of glass soldered in the bottom, a few pieces of bent iron wire to close the divers' nostrils when they dive. Such comprises the outfit. A very primitive one indeed.
When a dhow wishes to fit out the following is the procedure. The captain—who, like the majority of his class, is generally up to his neck in debt—waits on a pearl buyer to ask for an advance. The latter makes inquiries as to the size of the dhow, the crew, and other particulars. These completed to his satisfaction he issues supplies of rice, dates, and other food, with perhaps a dash in the way of solid cash, and in return the nachoda agrees that thebuyer will participate in the profits of the dhow over a given period. The arrangement is generally thus: to the buyer, or financier, the return of all moneys expended, and after that one third of what remains; the remaining two thirds are divided equally between the captain on the one hand and the crew on the other.
All preliminaries arranged the dhow puts to sea. There are no sleeping quarters provided for the crew, who sleep as best they can. But what does that matter in a climate where man for choice always sleeps in the open air, with the sky for roof. Cooking is done over a wood fire burning in an old barrel filled with mud or sand. When the pearling ground is reached the dhow is anchored from time to time and the canoe lowered. Into it descend a couple of divers armed with their nostril-closing devices, and the paraffin-tin with the glass bottom. One of the men presses this latter about an inch below the surface of the water, keeping his head inside the tin. The glass gives a clear unruffled surface through which he can see the bottom of the sea, on which he keeps a sharp look out for shells, or likely ledges. Should his trained eye sight anything, a motion of his hand to the other man, who is gently paddling, brings the canoe to a standstill. The diver adjusts his nose-iron, stands up and dives. Down, down, down he goes from ten to fifteen times the depth ofwater that could be measured between the tips of his fingers—from right hand to left—when the arms are extended at right angles to the body; for it is thus the divers measure depth.
With a knife he quickly severs three pearl oysters from the rock, arranging them one under the left arm, one in the left hand, and one in the right palm, so that it will not interfere with the raising stroke of his arm, as he strikes out for the surface. Then up he comes, bringing with him what one diver graphically described to me as, "God alone knows." He may have found a pearl worth thousands of rupees; he may have two good pearls; he may have three bad ones, or, as often happens, he may have no pearls at all.
When a good patch is found a line is lowered with a basket attached. Into this the divers place the shells they have gathered, sending up a great many at one time to the surface. During such operation some divers descend on the rope by means of a stone weight. When an oyster becomes sensible of the approach or touch of an enemy it closes its shell, should it be open, with a powerful snap. It often happens, therefore, that a diver's fingers are caught, in which case they are badly pinched, and often severely cut.
Of course, there are divers who own their own boats and work independently of the buyers. Themajority of these are Soudanese, who, though clever at their profession, show anything but business-like aptitude in disposing of their spoils. I know of one man who dived for a pearl worth some thousands of rupees, and which he finally disposed of to a wily trader for ten sovereigns, a small canoe, and a wife. When the money had all been spent on clothes for the woman's back she left her husband, who was not in the least perturbed. To Syyed Khudar, the Arab, who remonstrated with him on his folly, he replied, "Never mind, I shall go back and dive for another pearl."
"Just," Syyed remarked, "as if he owned the sea and all the pearls that are in it."
The divers are fearless, stout-hearted fellows, and be there, to their certain knowledge, ever so many sharks in the vicinity, once they have located shell down they go. For their temerity they may have to pay with their lives, but no such thought deters them. "Who knows but that this dive I am going to make will make my fortune or end my life. If either way it has already been written in the book of fate, so be it," is the diver's philosophy. But more lives are lost than fortunes are found by the men who dive. When the gods smile upon them, and their pockets are lined with rupees, they fritter their money away without a thought. Sanguine in the extreme, by very virtue of their calling, theygive no thought to the future. Deep in their hearts is an invincible belief that they are bound to strike lucky again.
A pearl from our waters may change hands many times ere at last it adorns the neck of some fair lady in Europe, or a darker sister in Bombay. What stories some pearls could tell if they could only speak of the cut-throats and "sharks" in whose pockets and waist bands they have travelled. Many a story of treachery and blood letting, too, I warrant, that would disturb the dreams not a little of their gentle owners. Even in dealing with the stones there is as much excitement as in diving for them. The tale goes that once upon a time a diver entered a cloth-dealer's shop in Aden, the proprietor of which was absent. He approached a young Indian assistant, and drawing a pearl from the folds of his waist-cloth offered it for sale. The Indian was so struck by the size and beauty of the stone that, although he knew nothing whatever of pearls, he agreed to purchase it for five hundred rupees. But how to pay for it? He had not a penny in the world. Ah, his master's safe was full of rupees. He helped himself, paid for the stone and repaired hurriedly to the house of a dealer whom he knew, where he offered the stone for sale, hoping to make at least a hundred rupees clear profit for himself, and to replace his master's money.
The buyer examined the stone and said: "I shall give you two thousand rupees for it."
The Indian thought the other was having a little joke at his expense and said, "Ah, my friend, do not laugh at me."
The buyer thought he had to do with a man who knew a little about pearls and said, "Very well, I'll give you three thousand rupees for it."
"Come, come, be serious!" said the Indian, "and do not waste my time with your jokes."
"Very well," replied the other, "I shall give you four thousand rupees for the stone."
The Indian, at last perceiving the dealer was in earnest, and very excited, wisely stood out for more. He sold for seven thousand rupees. Drawing five hundred rupees on account he raced back to the shop in time to replace the money he had extracted from the safe before its disappearance had been discovered. He considered he had done a very good day's work, and set up a shop of his own. The pearl was re-sold in Bombay for twenty-four thousand rupees!
Nowadays Zeila pearls, or most of them, are supposed to find their way into the hands of the only buyer, an Indian, who finances the divers on a large scale. But when the dhows are working they remain out for days, with the result that the shells open in the sun. The result is that many astone is extracted and hidden away, the buyer's share thus being not so large. Of course, for every stone so concealed, one third its value is practically stolen from the buyer, but, apart from the ethics of such action it is very bad policy on the part of the diver. Stones so kept back are always sold to rogues who give only about one-third their real local value. Thus, all the thieves gain out of it is a bad conscience and a doubtful reputation.
Juma Bana, the Indian merchant I speak of, has always a little assortment of stones, wrapped up according to quality, in small pieces of red or white cloth. He is by way of being the local expert, and, by aid of his magnifying glass, will pick out the better grade stones from the inferior, telling you what is wrong with the latter as he does so. To please Juma a stone must be perfectly round, of a good colour, and without flaw. An almost microscopic scratch or spot constitutes a flaw. And yet it is Juma's misshapen collection of pearls that I love best to examine, even though he assures me that they are of no value at all. To my mind their very irregularity accentuates the beauty of their delicate indescribable lights. What happens to them I know not, but one can buy dozens of the smaller kinds for a song. Poor stones!
The pearl shells are worthy homes for the stones.They are very beautiful. It is as if they were lined with dissolved pearl to provide tiny baths for the fairies. They are, however, used for less romantic purposes, being made into buttons and ornaments for every day mortals. But no ornament could possibly be more beautiful than a plain mother-o'-pearl shell with its cool, pure lining of ice-white, bordered with delicate and deep greens, as the colour of the tropical sea in certain changing lights.
Adan Abdallah and his story—Another story in which I play a part.
Adan Abdallah and his story—Another story in which I play a part.
Adan Abdallah was born somewhere in the Soudan, and belongs to the class formed from mixed tribes belonging to that country, and known in North and East Africa as Soudanese. This means that he is Mahomedan, and has severed all connection with his mother tribe, whatever it may have been. Many years ago a rich Arab, making the holy pilgrimage from Khartoum to Mecca, was accompanied by Adan in the capacity of servant. On the return journey the Arab succumbed to smallpox at Jeddah, and Adan, being without a penny in the world, and having had some experience on the large sailing boats of the Nile, shipped as a sailor on a dhow trading between the Arabian coast and Zeila. At Zeila he left the Arab boat and joined a pearler. In the course of time he did so well that he was able to purchase a dhow of his own, marry a Somal girl and make a little home for himself and wife in the town.
That is many years ago, and nowadays there areas many young Adans running about as years have passed since he married. Once he changed his place of residence from Zeila to Djibouti, but left the latter place in disgust for the following reason. He had sailed his dhow from the French port down the British coast to Wakderia, beyond Berberaing and fired off their rifles as a sign they were returning to the rescue. Hearing this the Arabs ran for their dhow, but not before they had killed the small boy, and a couple of their own number were lying prostrate in the bottom of the boat.
Adan returned to Djibouti, calling in at Zeila on his way to report the occurrence.
Some time after his arrival at Djibouti the same Arab dhow put in there, and Adan, thinking Allah had delivered the murderers into his hands, went quickly to the French officer and laid a charge against them. He was informed, as the occurrence took place off the British coast, the French authorities could do nothing. Adan felt very sore and was under the impression that his story was not believed.
"All right," said he, using the expression that comes so handy to greater men than he when they are up against a stone wall, "wait and see!"
As the Arabs hung around Djibouti for some time Adan was convinced they were waiting for him to put to sea, in order that they might attack him, and so avenge themselves for the loss of a couple of their number, whom he now learned had died from wounds received at his hands.
Again he repaired to the French authorities to report his suspicions, but they, having no corroborative evidence, would take no action.
"All right," said he again, "wait and see!"
Whether the Arabs were tired of waiting for Adan, or had no actual designs upon him at all, and had finished their business, they, at any rate, put to sea at last. Only a few miles outside the harbour they attacked a French dhow, killing five of the crew of eight. Of the remaining three two were too old to be of any use, so they were run ashore on a small island, with their dhow, and abandoned. The two old men got safely back to Djibouti, where they reported what had happened. The third was carried off to Arabia as a slave.
Then the French Hakim sent for Adan and asked, "What's this story you have been telling concerning these piratical Arabs?"
Said Adan, "As you would not believe me when you had a chance to lay these fellows by the heels, what's the use of troubling me now that they have gone?"
The French Hakim smiled—Adan claims that smile was a graceful admission of the mistake he had made—and pointed out how hard it was for him to act on a vague opinion formed by Adan that some, seemingly harmless, Arabs were going to kill him.
Adan replied that if men in his trade did not take strict heed of what their wits tell them may happen, that thing is sure to happen, as bad men do notwrite letters to the people they wish to kill, but just kill them, and when they least expect it. He concluded this piece of wisdom by asking the French Hakim, "What about the fight at Wakderia?"
"Yes, what about it?" said the Hakim, "it took place in British waters, and, in any case, we could take no action on your evidence. Why, you admit yourself, you killed two Arabs."
"If that is the case," said Adan, "I am going back to Zeila, and if ever those Arabs come there I'll have them punished. Should I stay here you'll let them come and kill me before you raise a hand."
And at Zeila he has made his home ever since.
Fitting out from there he proceeded to the Arabian coast, and, at a point between Sheikh Sa'eed and Khor Omeira, the dhow ran short of water. Adan, with half a dozen sailors, put off in a boat for the mainland, and having filled the goat-skins they had brought with them at a well, they were about to look for firewood when a party of Arabs armed with guns appeared, and asked who the devil had given them permission to land there.
"We are getting water and collecting firewood," explained Adan, "and have no intention of staying here or of doing any harm."
"Well, we want to collect something from you," said the Arab Sheikh in charge. "Thirty riales you'll pay us, and a good supply of jowari grainmust be landed for us from yonder dhow ere you ever set foot aboard her again."
"Ya, Sheikh," said poor Adan, "I have only three riales in the world. Here they are. Tie them up in your cloth like a good man, and in the name of God let us go in peace. We can do without the firewood to-day!"
"You pay us thirty riales, oh, sailor," said the Sheikh, "and you land the grain, or you die, together with these men who accompany you."
Well, Adan had no grain aboard his dhow, and would have been only too glad to get out of the position he found himself in by paying thirty riales had he had them.
"I was explaining this," he told me, "to the Sheikh, a very quick-tempered man, when without a word of warning,CHAP! he fired off his gun and hit me in the leg with the pieces of iron he'd loaded it with. I fell to the ground and lay like a log whilst my men took to their heels and made a run for the boat, with the Arab party hot on their tracks. Thinking I was dead the Sheikh paid no further attention to me. Aboard the dhow we had some Gras rifles, with which the sailors, who had not come ashore, opened fire, and easily drove off the Arabs, who were armed with old muzzle loaders. In the excitement that ensued I crawled the short distance to the beach, and the sailors seeing me,sent off a boat and I got away. But when I came back to Zeila the doctor cut off my leg, and Gyyed the carpenter made me this wooden one, which I can get about on quite comfortably. Thank God, I can still dive!"
"Do you mean to tell me," I exclaimed in astonishment, "that you still dive?"
"What else do you think I could do?" replied Adan. "It is my bread and butter."
I should say Adan is a very shrewd man and knows how to look after his money, even though he no longer possesses a dhow of his own.
A few days since I had an opportunity of observing that his wife and children were as well dressed as any in the town.
As next-door neighbour he has a blind Arab, who lodged a complaint that Adan made a door through his compound. There was a lengthy argument in the court, which, in spite of the fact that of the two disputants one was blind and the other was minus a leg, led me to fear, unless the matter was settled, it might develop into something serious. I told both men to go away and keep quiet until the evening, when I should come myself to their houses and see for myself what was the matter. On arriving there later I found that these two men lived in houses of the same size, built side by side and so close together that I could neither walk norsee between them. In front, as well as behind, was a street. From the centre of the Arab's house a grass and wood fence ran onto the street fence, dividing the space between the two houses and the street into two compounds. When Adan walked out of his door he was in a compound, one side of which was walled in by his own house and half the Arab's house. The width of the Arab's compound on the other side was only equal to half that of his own house; obviously a very unfair arrangement. Opening out of Adan's compound onto the street was a wooden door.
I was inclined to decide against Adan, but he pointed out that on the other side of the houses the arrangement was reversed, and that half his house-back was in the Arab's compound. This I found to be the case, and, pointing out to the Arab that what was sauce for the goose was sauce for the gander, said that he could not have matters changed on one side of the houses to suit his convenience, unless he conformed to similar changes on the other.
The old man did not like this idea, and then the true cause of complaint was revealed. He loves his afternoon nap, but is unfortunately a very light sleeper. Just at the time when his head touches the pillow it appears to be the busiest time of the day for Adan's thirteen children, who seem to be perpetually passing through that wooden gate.Like all gates in Zeila it is latched on the inside, and every time a youngster comes to it from the outside he bangs it with a stick, until someone from the inside opens. Now, as bad luck will have it, the gate is in front of the Arab's half of the house that is in Adan's compound, and very near to the old man's head. So that with the everlasting procession of kiddies—sheitans he calls them, which means devils—passing to and fro, plus the banging of the gate, an afternoon siesta is out of the question. It was all right until Adan, but two weeks before, had bought the unlucky wooden door.
"But now," said the old man, pounding viciously on the ground with his long stick, "it is all wrong."
Adan agreed it was trying. He had noticed the nuisance himself, and if the old man had told him before, he would have had it remedied. He was quite prepared to have a muster now, and thirteen young imps of mischief—they were all there, every mother's son and daughter of them—were paraded and informed that, between the hours of two and four p.m. daily, the wooden door on side number one was barred to all children under pain of being flayed alive, cut to pieces, or sent to jail, or all three. There was a grass door on side number two, which no one could bang, and which was at their service. By which order and threats, I am sure, Adan made the wooden door near the old Arab'shead, when he is lying down, the most irresistible spot in the world to bang. There'll be more to come of it. "Wait and see!"
What with Arab pirates, Arab robbers, truculent Arab neighbours, a livelihood that requires diving for with only one leg—not to speak of sharks, and thirteen young sheitans requiring a strong right arm to keep them in order—I shall surely not be accused of exaggeration when I describe the life of Adan Abdallah, the Soudanese, as being an eventful one.
Hayoun the Jew "At Home"—Hayoun's largesse—Hindus, Parsees and vaccination—Buralli's knowledge of legs.
Hayoun the Jew "At Home"—Hayoun's largesse—Hindus, Parsees and vaccination—Buralli's knowledge of legs.
The élite of our town is composed almost entirely of Arabs, Indians, and Jews, who mix little with the Somals. Of course, money talks, and Haji Abdi Kheiri, the rich Somal trader, is getting his foot into the higher circles, but as yet he is little at ease amid the gaiety of social gatherings. Yesterday Hayoun the Jew invited all the notabilities, of whom I am one—I must speak up for myself—to a gathering at his house. There were present the Indian customs superintendent, the Hindu assistant-surgeon, the District Clerk, two Parsees, a Goanese clerk, a few Arabs, Haji Abdi Kheiri, and myself. Everyone was courteous and polite, and all were most obsequious to me. As I climbed on to the flat open roof to join the party Haji Abdi Kheiri fired off his gun five times. This in my honour, but being unused to such displays I thought I had been drawn into an ambush placed ready to take my life, and, for a second, I had an instinct to jump back and down the steep steps. One acts hurriedlyon such occasions, I mean when one thinks there's danger, but, fortunately for my reputation, I caught a glimpse of Hayoun's face. He was cool and unexcited; so reasoning that he would not look like that were there any trouble, as his date of decease in such a case would not be many seconds later than mine, of which fact he would be well aware, I advanced with a laugh and said, "Good afternoon."
The party—after my arrival—being all present, and correct, and Haji Abdi Kheiri having put away his gun (much to my relief) festivities commenced. I sat at the head of a table where tea was served. The whole town had been ransacked for table-covers, the colours of which gave me a pain in the head. I opened the ball by drinking a bottle of ginger pop. My glass was at once replenished with lemonade. Fruit—out of tins—was served, and this partaken of Hayoun arose from his chair and made a speech, saying how rejoiced the whole community were the great British nation had emerged so successfully from the fiery ordeal of the greatest war in the history of the world, and pointing out that at that table sat men of five different creeds—Hindu, Parsee, Mahomedan, Jewish, and Christian—who were entirely in agreement with the sentiments he had expressed.
Then Haji Abdi went for his gun again.
"God knows," said I to myself, "whether, or not,he is going to rectify the matter according to his lights, and make the party all one religion—his—by disposing of the other four. In any case it is time I took a hand."
"Haji Abdi Kheiri," said I, "put that gun down, sir, or you'll be shooting someone before we break up."
"But Djibouti is firing salutes, and we must also fire," said Hayoun the Jew. "I have especially arranged with Haji that he should do this in honour of the signing of peace. Will not your honour grant permission?"
As we listened we heard the Djibouti gun booming away, and what else was to be done but to allow the salute to be fired. It could not be heard as many hundreds of yards away as the French gun could be heard miles. But at last I insisted on Haji putting away his firearm for keeps, and thanked the party for the nice things their spokesman had said about our nation. I told them how proud I was to find men of five creeds, as far apart as five equal points of the circle, able to meet under one flag, in friendship and unity, and to pay it such a tribute.
After that a long silence, during which I drank another bottle of ginger pop and ate more fruit. Clearly I'd had as much as was good for me, so, jumping to my feet, I prepared to say "Good-bye."But there were other things to be done. All the town's children had collected under the walls of the house, and Hayoun sent for ten rupees worth of pice, making a grand total of six hundred and forty coins to be distributed as largesse. Had I any suggestions to make?
Yes, I had. It was a clear case for a scramble. The coins were tossed from the roof, and you never saw such a confusion of legs and arms as that which followed. Little girls, little boys, all mixed up like fruit in a salad, and, with the usual luck that attends cats, drunken men and little children, no one was seriously hurt.
Describe the men I met at that party? As well set out to describe the ever-changing sea. Something about their worldly affairs. Yes, I could do that if I cared to abuse confidences; also something about their very private affairs. Whose wife is not above reproach; whose daughter is causing him some anxiety; the main causes of sleepless nights. But beneath it all—of the man's heart—I know nothing. What his outlook on life is. What he really thinks about is as a sealed book sewn up in canvas, weighted with lead and thrown into the ocean.
Sometimes I think I know, that I understand, but it is just at such times I am farthest from the truth. When I realise my abysmal ignorance, and trust toblind instinct to guide me along a course inspired by a superficial knowledge, I know I am working on sound lines.
Haji Abdi Kheiri, the pure-blooded Somal, who has to-day fired off his gun in my honour, and who sat with me at table looking as harmless as a school miss about to partake of Holy Communion for the first time, is not the same man who came alone to my bungalow, puffed up with pride and prosperity, to donate twenty rupees to the poor fund, as a small boy might who takes one sugar plum from a full bag to present it to a street urchin, the while an admiring mamma looks on. Neither is he the same Haji Abdi Kheiri who yesterday, at the "Peace" sports, behaved like a maniac because the town team was beaten at its first pull by the police in the tug-o'-war. I had counted the men myself ere giving the signal, "Go," and was satisfied that it was a fair pull. But he insisted otherwise. He is no sportsman, and there were few of his breed at that sports meeting who could lay claim to be so called. The second pull I stopped. The spectators were surreptitiously giving a hand to whichever side they fancied, and Haji himself I caught in the act. Finally, when I gave the pull to the police, there was a scene I can liken to nothing else so much as a pack of mad dogs barking and snarling at one another, yet afraid to bite.
It is this sort of thing almost makes one lose heart. On this occasion I said to myself, "If I had a machine gun and turned it on to these canaille, no matter how guilty I might appear in the eyes of man, God, Who understands human nature as He meant it to be, and Who knows, would forgive and understand the act." At other times I say to myself, "I know these people are devils, but they are fascinating devils. I like them, and shall make allowances for their devilries."
Then, there is always Mahomed Fara, and he is not quite an uncommon type in Somaliland. To have met and known him makes one look for the good side in his tribal brethren.
But even I, who owe much to Somals and have always championed them, admit it is exasperating to have to watch them—hiding that better side away. But such they are; in some cases men who will spend their day praying, and then rise from their knees to smash in a poor woman's skull—a woman who is within a month of giving birth to a child, and because she refuses to hand over the skin of water she has carried three miles on her back that her small children may drink. Such men are almost past redemption.
My pen has run away with me. Since I sat down to write such an incident as that of which I speak has been reported and so creeps into the page. Asfor Hayoun the Jew, the Hindus, the Parsees and myself, we have one point in common. We are strangers in a strange land, so perforce try to understand one another, and work together. Even then there are barriers between us.
A few days ago the assistant-surgeon came to my office and reported smallpox in the town. I have already described Zeila so it is unnecessary to point out how serious this outbreak might become.
"Of course everyone must be vaccinated," I said. "Call the town-crier and let him tom-tom such an order through the town!"
"Women as well as men?" asked the surgeon.
"Women as well as men," I replied.
"We'll have trouble with the Indian and Arab purdah women," said the surgeon, who is a Brahmin.
"Yes," I said, "but surely there is some way of overcoming that difficulty."
"Let the doctor go in and vaccinate them all," said the helpful Buralli. "If they are not afraid to show their bare legs, there's no harm in showing their arms, and they need not unveil their faces to show their arms rather than their legs."
"And pray what do you know about their legs, Buralli?"
"Just this," said he, "that you can see for yourself, any day you like, that an Arab woman thinks nothing of tucking up her skirt above theknees; and as she wears no stockings you can't help seeing her legs if you have eyes in your head. And, given half a chance, if you are a good-looking young fellow, she does not mind showing her face; and what harm does it do her or anyone else? Let the doctor go in and vaccinate them."
The District Clerk, a highly educated Indian Mahomedan, then said, "I prefer to go to prison before I allow the surgeon to vaccinate my wife."
"Here is a good subject to reason with," I reflected, and I produced every conceivable argument I could think of to prove how stupid he was to take up such a position. I might have been the Pope of Rome trying to convince an Ulsterman that "Home Rule" was the best thing that could happen to Ireland. It was left to me to solve the problem by suggesting an old woman should be trained to vaccinate, and sent in to the purdah women to operate on them. And this old lady is now hard at work. God alone knows what diseases she is spreading through the town with her dirty needles, for, of one thing I am convinced, once she is out of sight of the surgeon she will never trouble to clean them.
As for the clerk's wife, quite unknown to him, and possibly to her, I have seen her unveiled and have not heard she has suffered in consequence. Iam not hankering to see her face again, for of whatever charms she may be possessed this is most certainly not one. It is the sort of face that can only be improved upon by being covered up. She should therefore be encouraged to keep it well covered.
Mrs Kar Krishna and Saleha—Mrs Ibrahim and a few reasons—Whisperings and consequences—Saleha's statement.
Mrs Kar Krishna and Saleha—Mrs Ibrahim and a few reasons—Whisperings and consequences—Saleha's statement.
Mrs Kar Krishna is the wife of a Hindu gentleman, and Mrs Krishna, who is a very nice woman, may be seen by common or garden Christians. She is very ill, and at times is in such pain that her screams may be heard all over the town. Saleha, an Arab purdah woman, the wife of a shop-keeper, lives near to Mrs Krishna, and, in the absence of her husband, has been known to run from her house, climb the stairs to Mrs Krishna's room and rub the poor woman's legs. That's what I have been told. As I happen to know the seat of Mrs Krishna's pain is situated higher up I can't conceive why Saleha should rub her legs instead of higher up. I'm not trying to be vulgar. I've heard exactly what is the matter with Mrs Krishna from Mr Kar Krishna. It's what you used to get when you were younger and ate of the apples that were green. It's a mysterious thing that she should suffer from a long protracted bout of "what you used to get," for there are noapples to be had here for love or money; and it is still stranger that, though Saleha's massaging did apparently do some good, the only reliable remedy is an injection of morphine. At least so Mrs Krishna says, and if she does not get it the pain becomes unbearable, and she screams—when Saleha will come to rub her legs.
But Saleha's kindness of heart has brought bitter trouble into her own life. Of course other things—the wife of Ibrahim, the barber, is one—have helped matters along. Mrs Ibrahim is a Pathan woman, a Mahomedan, whose first husband died at Zeila years ago and left her with a small family, now grown up. She is still handsome, and Ibrahim, an Arabianised Indian, starting business in the town, fell a victim to her charms, and made her his very own. She is not afraid to show her face, and walks round the town like a Somal woman, or the poorer Arabs, but nevertheless has decided views as to the correct behaviour of purdah women, to which latter class Saleha belongs. Being a constant visitor at the Krishnas' house Mrs Ibrahim, an Arabianised Indian, starting business of running round to massage Mrs Krishna's—I shall not say it again.
Mr Krishna is a fine looking man, and it is whispered that ere Mrs Ibrahim met Ibrahim she was quite a friend of his; therefore what was morenatural than that she should resent the other woman entering his house. She knows Mr Krishna better than you or I do. Saleha is reported to be a very beautiful woman—I have not seen her unveiled, so speak from hearsay—and her husband is of a jealous, violent disposition. Once upon a time in Arabia, during the course of an argument with another Arab, he lost his temper so badly that he drew a knife, andsnick! That was the end of the other fellow. It is also why Saleha's husband lives in Zeila; for the other man's relatives are waiting for him over there in Arabia. A bad man to upset.
However, Mrs Ibrahim did upset him by whispering in his ear that, during his absence in the day-time at the shop, his wife left the house to visit at the Krishnas'. Foolish Saleha had not asked his permission to do so, and when, one day on returning unexpectedly from the shop, her husband found her away he awaited her return, and, not liking her explanations, in a fit of mad fury tore the clothes from her back and drove her from the house. Saleha told me so herself. She said he had kept all her clothing, silken and other kinds, two amber armlets, two silver anklets, the property of her small daughter, a gold nose ring, forty rupees in cash, ten rupees' worth of rope she had plaited with her own hands, and her brass-bound chest. That is how she came to see me,to ask me to get her things back, and accompanied by her daughter, aged seven, a pretty little child, who would have passed anywhere in Europe as a European.
Saleha talked sensibly, and told me she had been married three times. Her first husband, the girl's father, was dead. The second divorced her, and now the third had turned her out. Marriage she considered a failure. I sent for the husband, and, after seeing the pair together, realised it was a hopeless case. The man had conformed to Mahomedan law, since he had thrust his wife from his house, by sending her six annas daily, as musroof or maintenance. He did not want to take her back. She did not want to go; but they both professed otherwise. There was a reason.
Under Mahomedan law a woman, becoming openly disobedient, and forcing her husband to divorce her, may forfeit all right to her mehr or dowry. Therefore, in the court, and particularly in the Kathi's court where all matrimonial cases are sent, she must be careful what she says, and how she acts. Also, outside the courts she must walk circumspectly. Foolish conduct may be misunderstood, or seized upon as a pretext to deny her her rights.
If a man is tired of a woman he may, in sundry ways, lead her a dog's life, keeping well within thesharia[7]himself. When she is tired of it all, and asks for a divorce, he can keep her dangling on until at last the woman, in desperation, will offer to give up her mehr for her liberty. That is, very often, the man's price; he will then divorce her three times before witnesses. In such a case, if she can prove his little game, she has still a remedy in the courts. This is the weakest point in the Mahomedan marriage laws, for the man may marry four wives, and, whilst the poor woman is kept hanging on as a grass widow, he may enjoy all the comforts of married life. She may not marry again until he has agreed to divorce her, or she has proved such outrageous conduct on his part that the Kathi will take the matter into his own hands. What is called "outrageous treatment" of a woman under European law is not always so defined under Mahomedan jurisdiction.
When I sent Saleha and her husband to the Kathi the man proved his wife was disobedient. Had she not left her house to go visiting without his permission? Did she not now refuse to return to him, prepared as he was to forgive her? The woman said she was willing to go back on the condition that he first returned her property. The man swore on the Koran she possessed nothing of that which she claimed, excepting the rope, the box,the nose ring and her clothes. That settled it. She got these articles, but firmly refused to return to him until all were forthcoming. They were both playing a game.
We are now awaiting the return, from Perim, of her brother with whose wife she lives, in the hope that he will be able to patch up the trouble. Such is the history of this year's biggest divorce case in the high society in Zeila.
Meanwhile, I am informed that Mrs Ibrahim, Mrs Krishna, Saleha, and all the other great ladies, meet on fairly friendly terms; whilst Mrs Ibrahim declares hotly that it is quite untrue she ever dropped a hint in the ear of Saleha's husband that if he returned unexpectedly from the shop he might find his wife absent from the house.
Orders for Hargeisa—Salvage and propositions—A camel, a girl and my policeman—Bokh and water—The sin of water wangling—Camel-packing—The "White Running Water"—Mahomed Gaileh's sheep—Four Sahibs—A Somal dance—Hargeisa and flowers.
Orders for Hargeisa—Salvage and propositions—A camel, a girl and my policeman—Bokh and water—The sin of water wangling—Camel-packing—The "White Running Water"—Mahomed Gaileh's sheep—Four Sahibs—A Somal dance—Hargeisa and flowers.
Orders to proceed to Hargeisa, hurrah! The work entailed in preparing for the journey is a pleasure to perform. We are to cross overland by camel transport. Boxes are overhauled, re-packed, and bound with cord. Calculations are made as to the number of rations required for our followers and escort, the water to be carried and tanks for the same. All is made ready, and all is checked; from the tin-opener to the forage for the riding animals; from the salt to the ammunition in the escort's belts.
On a Saturday afternoon the baggage camels move out. I, accompanied by mounted police, shall follow on riding camels two days later and catch them up.
Every miserable man, woman and child who has an unsettled claim chooses this day to attend court and ventilate it. The D.C. cannot be allowed to go away without a reminder of the important mattershe is leaving behind. Patiently but quickly the people are heard; then a dreadful thing happens. A dhow, bound from Aden to Bulhar with merchandise, was wrecked off Sad-du-din more than a week ago. Such of her cargo as had been salved was brought here. As I near the end of my work there walk into the court the agents of the Bulhar merchants, armed with powers of attorney from their principals, to claim the salvaged goods. Some of these men have travelled from afar. It would be wiser for me to wait a day than to put them off. However, I know the affair by heart. Here are all the papers and accounts complete to date. They show, among many other things, that the identification marks on many of the salvaged goods have been washed off. But if the agents agree with a scheme I have already worked out in my mind we can finish the business in an hour. I propound it, they listen patiently, and make notes of what I say. As I finish they leave the court to talk over my proposition. I await their return—and watch the clock. A quarter to one—ten minutes to one—one o'clock! Ah! here they come. "We accept your scheme," they say. "Thanks very much." That is all. I sign the statement ready on my desk, hand it to the clerk, and leave the office.
At the bungalow the chowkar has a snack of lunch waiting. The cook and head boy have gone.
At two-thirty p.m. the riding camel and one mule, all saddled, are waiting at my door. I am ready.
"It is a very hot time of day, Inspector Buralli," I say, "to set out on a journey."
"It is," he replies, "but the road is long and there is no water. The camels will stand the heat better now, at the commencement of the journey, than to-morrow morning should the sun catch you when they are tired. Besides, there is a good breeze from the right direction that will help them."
"Good for you. But what about this miserable mule?"
"It will follow the camels. What they can do he is up to."