It was true that all the time I had been with the two partners, I had noticed that it was always Gorgis who decided, always Gorgis who paid. He had that assurance which comes from the possession of much money and which gives a certain prestige which takes the place of distinction. He was known and bowed down to wherever we went. The gigantic Stavro trailed after him like a little boy. I had the advantage of being a novelty, and especially of possessing four hundred okes of hashish which they hadn’t managed to steal from me. Alone in my room, I counted my banknotes over and over again. I could hardly believe they were real, so little real hope had I had of bringing my enterprise to a successful conclusion. The future seemed brighter now.
THIRTY-ONE
The Bedouins
Early next morning I was awakened by a knock at my door. It was Gorgis. A car was waiting, and whisked us off out of the city, south towards the outskirts of Cairo, covered with kitchen-gardens and fields of clover. Here and there were hamlets with clay houses surrounded by manure-heaps. We reached a station on the line to Helwan. There we took a local train. I wondered why we did not go on in the car – perhaps so as not to attract attention.
Three-quarters of an hour later we got out at a little station right out in the country. On the deserted platform were heaps of vegetables and wooden cages containing hens and rabbits. We set off on foot across gardens and green fields, following winding paths. At last we crossed a wooden foot-bridge over the canal which watered all the country-side. On the other side, without any transition, was the desert. We walked up a dried river-bed towards a chain of neighbouring hills. I wondered where we were going. Stavro had removed his coat, and mopped his forehead, puffing and blowing. I was suffering martyrdom from my shoes, as happens each time a return to civilization compels me to wear the cursed things. Gorgis, who seemed quite at ease, walked ahead, swinging a cane and poking fun incessantly at the weighty Stavro.
What very odd tourists we must have looked in this stony desert under the burning sun. But there was nobody to see us. What reason could any human being have for coming into these solitudes? And yet the rich valley of the Nile was close at hand, stretching green and smiling at our feet, with here and there a rich red patch, where the plough had turned over the alluvial earth brought down from the plateaux of Abyssinia by the river. The irrigating canal we had crossed a little before drew a mathematically straight line between life and death, as if some invisible barrier existed between the teeming life of the plains and the barren stretches of the desert towards which we were making our way. We advanced in silence, all our attention taken up by selecting flat spots on which to put our feet. I could hear Stavro behind me grumbling and swearing at the rolling rocks on which he twisted his feet.
At last by this gentle slope we arrived at the foot of the cliff which crowned the vast plateaux of the hinterland. I turned round to admire the vast Nile valley, which stretched to the horizon which was blurred by that tenuous mist which rises from all the lands watered by its muddy stream. There it lay, majestic and all-powerful, spreading over the plain in a long curve, as wide as an estuary. Hundreds of white sails, those great triangular sails of the flat boats of the Delta, taut on their lateen yards, were coming up the peaceful course of its yellow waters. Other sails flitted across the fields along the innumerable and invisible canals, looking like butterflies in clover fields. The chalky cliff behind me was all hollowed out by the galleries of disused quarries. The blocks of stones for building the Pyramids were hewn out of this living rock. The same scenery had spread before the eyes of Pharaoh’s slaves as they glided the great cubes of stone down this slope to the brink of the river where they were awaited by great, flat-bottomed boats exactly like those of today. The same north wind had brought them there, and the same tranquil current would take them back as far as Giza.
Suddenly we came on a sort of crevice in the cliff, into which was inserted a narrow ravine. It was so burning hot here that I thought of an oven door, but hardly had we passed the entrance when we came out on a vast sandy circus, covered with harsh, dry grass. A herd of camels was peacefully grazing; we were surprised to see them, yet the camel is such an extraordinary-looking animal that its presence rather contributed than otherwise to the desolate appearance of this waterless desert. A clump of thorn bushes and of greyish shrubs showed that the scanty rains must linger in the hollow of this basin. Towards this oasis, if I might call it an oasis, Gorgis now walked.
A Bedouin, dressed like those of Upper Egypt, came out of the bushes and strolled tranquilly towards us. He was carrying carelessly on his shoulder a Remington rifle, with the barrel pointing to the ground. He seemed to know my two companions very well, and greeted them with great deference. Then he turned and walked away, motioning to us to follow him. We were approaching a camp. I could see plump, bronze children running about naked, hiding behind the rocks to watch us pass from a safe distance. At last we saw a house, or rather a hut made of planks covered with corrugated iron. All round were the nomads’ dwellings, light, dome-shaped tents made of mats thrown over curved branches. As we came near men came out of these tents with the dazed air of those just awakened from sleep. Probably these Bedouins lived by night and slept all day.
The wooden hut was forty feet long by eighteen wide, and was partitioned off into two rooms, with a small window at each end. There was no furniture, and the floor was of beaten clay. In a corner were a few blackened stones and open tins, which were probably used as pots and pans. A Bedouin brought an old chair and two empty wooden cases, and invited us to sit down. Gorgis manifested considerable impatience, tapped angrily on the ground with his foot and asked in furious tones:
‘Why is Omar not here? He knew very well we were coming this morning.’
‘Be calm, my master, he is coming,’ replied the Bedouin tranquilly, continuing to sweep up the rubbish which littered the ground, with a palm-leaf broom. I noticed how different was the Arabic spoken by these natives from that spoken in Cairo. This was the dialect of Upper Egypt, and I had some trouble in understanding it.
At last Omar appeared, surrounded by a troop of Bedouins. I wondered how so many people could suddenly have sprung up in this seemingly deserted place. He was very tall, like many Egyptians, with very broad, square shoulders. In spite of his slimness he gave an impression of force and endurance, for he had powerful bones, rather like those of camels. He wore a rich mantle of fine, dark cloth, with very wide sleeves, over a guellabia of black-striped yellow silk. He was not more than forty, and had calm, noble and rather haughty features, and very soft brown eyes lengthened by kohl. They were like the eyes of these desert creatures which always seem to keep the melancholy of wide spaces and limitless horizons. His hands were white and delicately shaped, though not small, and they were covered with curious tattooings. His nails and palms were reddened with henna, and on his little finger he wore a silver ring in which was set a stone bigger than a hazel-nut. The blue tattoo marks on his cheeks indicated to which tribe he belonged. He was obviously a chief, whose riches consisted in innumerable flocks and herds on the mountains and plains. Gorgis adopted quite a different attitude to him, and his impatience changed into amiable smiles and words. I was introduced and obliged as a sign of honour to take the only chair.
The men were sent to kill a sheep, for our presence was the signal for a fête. Gorgis whipped off his coat, rolled up his shirt-sleeves and declared that he would see to the cooking of it. He had become once more the handy sailor, ready to turn his hand to anything. While the sheep was being roasted whole before a heap of glowing wood, we discussed how best we could deliver my cargo.
The camels I had seen were most exceptional beasts, trained to speed and endurance. Some of them were worth as much as five hundred pounds. These were racing dromedaries which could cover about seventy miles in a single night. They were castrated and trained never to utter a cry. This last quality was the most precious in the eyes of smugglers, and it was this which gave them their great value.
&nbs
p; The camp where we were was a sort of caravanserai where the camels coming from the mountains laden with sheep and goat skins and smoked butter could halt, and where on their return they could take loads of cloth, potteries, petroleum, sugar and grain – in short, everything that could be needed by the nomads of the mountains. But this commerce was only a cover for less innocent traffickings, as was the case now. Omar was the chief of all the Bedouin tribes between the Red Sea and the Nile, north of Ras Gharib. Farther south, the country was under the domination of other chiefs. When some merchandise was landed on the coast, an agreement had to be made with the chief of the region, who in turn made agreements with his neighbours, for the safe transport of the goods to Cairo. What gave Omar his power and immense wealth was the fact that his territories touched Cairo, so that everything had finally to go through them, and nothing could be done without his consent. The goods were handed over to him at a given point on the coast, and for a fee which varied with the condition of business, the nature of the merchandise and the season, he undertook to transport them and hold them at the disposal of his customer wherever he wanted. He could even have them taken into Cairo or any other town in Egypt. Not, of course, in a single delivery – that would have been impossible – but little by little as the customer needed them.
Omar had hiding-places in the mountains, known to him alone, absolutely safe from discovery. On the dreary plateaux of those infernal mountains there were regions made inaccessible by the lack of water. In order to visit them it was necessary to carry a considerable provision of water, and also to make sure of having a supply for the return. In these deserted zones the Bedouins hid their merchandise. To reach them they chose the most rocky and torrid regions to cross, where there was not the slightest trace of either paths or water. At certain places they buried reserves of water and grain in the sand. After each expedition these places were changed, and to minimize the risk of treason, only the guide of the caravan knew where they were. In this way a light caravan could penetrate into those murderous deserts carrying only the consignment of goods. In these circumstances, what danger was there of unexpected pursuit after these swift camels rushing across this country of death? After a three or four hours’ chase the pursuers would have to give up, for if the provision of water they carried at their saddle-bows gave out, it meant certain and horrible death. We discussed everything in great detail, and it was finally settled that I should deliver the goods to the caravan the following Friday, three days later, leaving just sufficient time for the camels to get to the coast.
Business being over, two Bedouins now carried in the sheep, spitted on a long stick. It was placed on two forked stands over an earthen dish filled with black wheaten pancakes to catch the gravy. I had luckily a good hefty pocket-knife; Gorgis had a magnificent cutlass at his girdle, worn on the right hip, sailor fashion. But poor Stavro searched through all his pockets, and finally produced a minute pearl-handled penknife. I had expected the gigantic brigand to draw from his belt a terrifying dagger at the least, and I could not repress a smile at sight of this dainty object in his colossal hand. Gorgis roared with laughter, and a charitable Bedouin handed Stavro his djembia, and we fell to.
I admired Gorgis, who had gone back to his sailor days. He held a huge bone in his hand, tearing the flesh away with powerful teeth, and the big diamond in his ring sent red and violet flashes between the grease streaming down his fingers. I heartily enjoyed this fashion of eating this hot juicy meat, beautifully cooked, which we swallowed greedily without bread and practically without chewing. It is far and away the best way to eat roast meat. The remains were taken out for the servants and camel-drivers, who were sitting in a circle outside in the shadow of the hut. They were all relatives of Omar’s. A boy of fourteen, handsome as a god in his long, pale blue shirt, poured water on our hands, then brought Omar’s pipe. Stavro smoked with him, Gorgis and I preferred cigarettes.
‘You can see’, he said to me, ‘how different these Arabs are from those of the plains. These men are still half-savage and will remain so for long. I am not very well up in such matters, but I believe they must be of a different race, for they are as warlike, abstemious and loyal as the fellahs are cowardly, treacherous and lazy. They hold human life very cheap, of course; their own as well as that of others. They would find it most natural to attack a caravan, pillage it and massacre those in charge. They would do it without pity, and it would never enter their heads that they were guilty of a criminal act. But on the contrary, if you confide your goods to them, they will give their lives to defend them, once they have passed their word.’
‘That is rather like the Arabs of Yemen and even the pirate Zaranigs,’ I replied. ‘I shouldn’t wonder if these mountaineers come from the same race.’
‘It’s quite possible, for Omar has many relatives round about Yenbo, and even much farther south. There is much intermarrying between the people of his tribe and those of the Nedj. Ouahabites and Chamars.’
‘That is where my faithful Djebeli comes from,’ put in Stavro, who had been listening to us while he smoked his narghile.
‘You promised to tell me his story,’ I said to Stavro; ‘this seems a good moment for keeping your promise.’
‘Oh, it’s not exactly a story, it’s a very ordinary incident, one of those obscure dramas played out with no other witness than the desert or the sea.’
THIRTY-TWO
The Story of Djebeli
‘Before he got the name of Djebeli,’ he was called Moussa, and he earned his living fishing along with his brother and his tiny son, the only child left him by his wife, who had died away on the Arabian coast. It was when he was nursing her for the small-pox of which she died that he caught the disease and lost an eye from it. Moussa and his brother were economical, like all the Arabs of the Omran tribe, who are the Scotsmen of Arabia, and had saved enough to buy a fishing-boat, or rather to get one on credit. They came to Suez, where there was a good sale for fish, and worked hard a whole summer. Fish was plentiful, and before winter they had paid off all their debts. These two men were united by a great friendship and also by their common love for the child they both adored. Life seemed very good to them; they had all they wanted. They resolved to continue fishing in the Gulf of Suez for some time before going home.
‘In order to understand what follows, you must bear in mind that customs officers and coastguards make an excellent living out of hashish smuggling. I speak of the chiefs, who remain comfortably in their offices. The others, the soldiers who patrol the coasts, or toss on the seas, are just brutes, generally freed slaves, who carry out orders without trying to understand them. They can always be bribed with a few thalers, but it is dangerous to try that.’
Gorgis nodded his head emphatically at this point.
‘All the same, if one wants to make profits out of the hashish smuggling, one must show zeal in the service. So they arrange for the petty smugglers to be captured. They are treated with merciless severity. When twenty okes of hashish have been taken, all the newspapers praise the vigilance of the chief of police or customs of the place, and he is decorated and promoted. When they run short of victims, some poor devil is paid to act the part. It is not hard to find some miserable creature who prefers the peace of a prison to starving to death in the streets. So the customs people give him a little hashish, which they always keep in reserve for such occasions, and he goes and gets himself captured at the place indicated to him. So now you understand how important the seizure of even a very small amount of hashish is for the men who are charged with the suppression of the smuggling. The quantity does not matter; that there had been a capture is the main thing. The newspapers, who know their job here as elsewhere, spin it out to the required importance.
‘The coasts of the Gulf, the Asiatic as well as the Egyptian, are patrolled daily by guards mounted on swift camels. They go along the seashore to observe if there are any suspicious marks in the sand. They always go in pairs, and leave their posts at such hours as to time the
mselves to meet their comrades from the neighbouring post, fifty miles from theirs, about halfway. There they tell each other what they have noticed, then go on their way. Next day they repeat the same performance in the contrary direction.
‘At this time Gorgis and I were in touch with the staff of certain steamers which threw us the merchandise into the Bay of Suez. Some time before, we had lost at sea a six-oke sack containing hashish. This happens sometimes when the weather is bad and the night very dark. I remember very well that on this occasion we had to go away without picking up the sacks because of a little steamer which was coming towards our boat. It was a white steamer with very high masts, and we were terrified by its strange appearance, but it was only a pleasure yacht going south, which had steered towards us simply in order to get a close view of a fishing-boat. Probably it was the first time it had ever been in the Red Sea, and the owner expected to see savages and strange beings. There was a most elegant company of passengers on board. The ladies in their light dresses, and the gentlemen with their admirals’ caps, laughed heartily as they watched our little boat dancing in their backwash.
‘This little entertainment, these bursts of laughter, were to be the forerunners of a terrible drama. These people passed gaily on their way, little guessing that death was to result from this amusement, which had delayed us in picking up our sacks, so that we lost one. All night and next morning we searched for it in vain. Perhaps it had sunk to the bottom; anyhow, thinking it was lost, we went back to Suez. But it had floated.
‘It must have stayed a long time on the surface of the water, carried hither and thither like the germ of a catastrophe. Some time after two coastguards from the post of Zafrana found it cast up by the sea. This packet had been exposed to sun and water for weeks, and its contents were completely spoiled. If they hadn’t been, the two worthies would have got a friend to dispose of them, but they were worthless. But the sack had kept its shape, the name of the manufacturer was still legible and a vague odour indicated what it had contained. This was enough for the two honest coastguards. They dried the sack in the sun and hid it in the sand at a point where the fishermen often put in for shelter. Some days later they saw a boutre making for the shore, to avoid the storm which had aroused the sea to fury. It was the boat of Moussa and his brother. They anchored and almost immediately fell asleep, worn out with the night’s hard work. The boy began to prepare their modest meal, over a handful of sticks set on top of a box of ashes. He sang happily to himself, full of the careless joy of all young things. The two soldiers saw from afar that here at last were victims. They came full speed on their camels to surprise them. The little boy saw them coming, and woke his father and uncle. Nobody likes having to do with coastguards, it is so well known that they are unscrupulous and capable of working much harm, so the best thing to do is to avoid them whenever possible. Moussa and his brother had no contraband on board their vessel, but they had been away from Suez a long time, and their papers were a little out of date. They were afraid that the coastguards might create trouble for them, so they decided to flee.
Hashish Page 20