VI. In the Great Atlas Mountains

I will never forget the delightful April evening when, within a few hours, I found myself transported from the stifling tent on the marketplace in [Marráksh] to [Amnäs]’s gardens on the farthest protruding slopes of the Atlas Mountains. The evening sun cast its red-gold rays on the alpine landscape in the background, the gardens were resplendent in their most beautiful spring garb, and from the groves wafted the sounds of my homeland, for I heard the cuckoo call. Spring in the Atlas Mountains is the most wonderful thing that Morocco can offer. Nowhere is the vegetation richer than in its deep valleys. Further down, the date palms mingle with other trees, higher up walnut trees are dominant, somewhat bleary-eyed and brownish after their hibernation; and everywhere there is water, which comes flowing down the mountains and through small channels spreads itself over the fields on the terraced hills, to eventually come together in the river that runs along the valley floor. For now, however, we had only just reached the gates of paradise.

The hospitality in [Amnäs] was splendid. I was given as my accommodation a house with a garden – and then the food began to arrive. Three sugarloaves, two bags of tea, a score of eggs, seven chickens, three large plates of prepared food and finally a live sheep, which was ceremoniously led into my room. That is how one is treated when one travels as a guest of the sultan. And much the same thing occurred throughout most of my Atlas trip. When in the autumn I returned to the coast after completing the journey, I counted that if I had kept all the sheep that had been given to me, I would have had with me a flock of thirty – not to mention the chicken run.

The next day, we move on and come to a river called [Asif nĕ-Nffis], which we ride over without any problem. On the opposite shore lies a delightful grove with a village, a white-washed shrine where seven holy men ([]) are supposed to be buried, and a big pond teeming with turtles. The place is usually called [Lälla Tákĕrkust], ”her grace [Tákĕrkust]”, after an apocryphal woman who is said to have kept house for the seven men. It is a well-known place for a cure, much visited by those who believe they are afflicted with [], or disease spirits residing in the body. By the pond, the patient slaughters a goat or a sheep, which he then flays and throws into the water as an offering to the turtles. He then smears his hand or foot with yeast and dips it in the pond. If he now truly has , the turtles will come and bite him, freeing him immediately of his illness. Once, a Jew snuck there in the night to cure himself in the customary manner. The turtles, which in the dark could not see who was there, came and bit him and the Jew became well. But after that incident, they disappeared from the pond, and many more sacrifices were required to cajole them to return; the sultan had five oxen slaughtered in order to placate them. It was therefore not so strange that the village men, when they now saw another infidel approach the pond, demanded that I dismount from the horse and take off my boots. But however much it pained me to offend their religious sensibilities, I decided to avail myself of the right of the mighty, remaining in the saddle instead of paying respect to the holy turtles and wandering barefoot through the grove.

In the evening, we arrived in [Amzmiz], a small town approximately a thousand metres above sea level. I was given lodgings in the governor’s castle, which had been turned almost into a ruin after the unrest following the previous sultan’s death. The night was restless. I had not lain on my mattress on the floor for very many minutes before I noticed on the blanket a hum of activity like in an ant’s nest; I had been set upon by an invading army of hungry bedbugs and fled head over tail into another room, where I tried to isolate myself as best I could. The next morning, I had my camp set up in the shade of some large olive trees, in an enchanting place with a view of snow-covered alps. I intended to stay here for some time in order to become acquainted with a group of people I had not previously encountered. According to tradition, the hospitability obligation is limited to three days: on the first evening, the welcome is the most lavish; by the second day it becomes decidedly stingier; and by the third day, the guest finds that it is best to depart. I too was generally subject to this rule during my Atlas journey, though I had managed to secure special permission to remain longer in certain areas, one of which was [Amzmiz].

The Great Atlas Mountains, like the province of [Sūs] further south, are inhabited by a Berber group called [shlöḥ]. The name is Arabic and is originally derogatory. The Berbers have returned the courtesy by calling the Arabs [], which means ”rope”. As mentioned earlier, there is certainly much Berber blood flowing through the veins of the so-called ”Arabs”, which is why the difference between these groups is less to do with race rather than language and such idiosyncrasies that depend on the different living conditions. The Arab accuses the Berber of being irreligious, unhospitable and hot-headed, and about the Berber language – shelḥa – he has a saying that goes: ”Shelḥa is not a language, millet is not food, oil is not fat”. The Atlas Berber, in turn, believes that without him there would be nothing worthwhile about Morocco, and the fact is that many of the Moorish government’s most capable servants or strongest allies have been [shlöḥ]. He is in general cleaner and lives better than the Arab; the latter, I was told, gladly marries a Berber as she is neat and cooks well, whereas the Berber never marries an Arab woman on grounds of her uncleanliness. The Atlas Berbers live in comparatively comfortable houses built of stone and clay with flat roofs, never in tents or straw huts as the Arabs do. The walls are often equipped with loopholes, and in many villages, there is also a fort where each adult man has his assigned spot. Some of the governors’ castles make for a truly imposing sight, such as in [Glawi], [Gindâfi] and [Ntugga]; there dwell mighty native castle owners who are among the kingdom’s foremost dignitaries, but who can also transform into the most terrible rebels. [Shlöḥ] are a freedom-loving people who must be handled with great care by the government – wherever it holds any authority at all. The tribes ruled by governors are actually the exception and can be found almost exclusively on the northern slopes of the Atlas Mountains. The others are in fact independent of the sultan’s realm, veritable minor republics governed by an elected council with a president, which at least in some of them is appointed for life, although he can be ousted if he shows himself to be unfit.

But even though the Atlas Berber undoubtedly sees himself as a much finer gentleman than the Arab, he gladly acknowledges the latter’s superiority in one respect: his own mother tongue cannot in any way be compared with Arabic. It is a simple language that is spoken but not written. They have neither literature nor their own written characters. This has little significance in terms of the religion: prayers must be read in Arabic and the Koran must not be translated. The Berber is happy to learn Arabic when he has the opportunity to do so, and in his own speech he uses affectionately Berberised forms of Arabic words. For a man to use the Berber numerals higher than nine would be ridiculous, and often he counts in Arabic already from the number three; the Berber numerals are ”women’s language”. When they found out that I wished to learn Berber, they laughed heartily – no Arab had bothered to do so. But all the while, they showed much interest in my studies; they clearly felt flattered by the attention. And later on, the disdained Berber language became for me a key that opened the door to many hearts.

Despite the absence of a literature proper, the Berbers had many stories, proverbs and poems that had been passed down orally from one generation to the next. Most of the proverbs originate with the wise man [Sîdi Ḥámmu], who, according to tradition, lived five hundred years ago. They contain many wise words about patience and contentment, about pride and arrogance, about greed and avarice, about friendship and love. He sings about women:

[]
”Whoever passes a woman and a fig tree, he looks at them, Even if they do not have anything within themselves, his mind does not pass them by.”

And also:

”The woman, the wind, the slave, the lion and the current, Whoever expects something good of them can find nothing but evil.”
”In women, if my mother were not one of you, A fire would await you and you would be burned in it.”
”O womenfolk, you seed of evil, you oleander seed! It burns the innards of one who consumes it, and his peace is gone.”

In addition to the Berbers, there are approximately two hundred Jews in [Amzmiz], who live in a separate quarter. The Jewish quarter is an organic part of every large Atlas village, although in some cases it is located outside the village proper inhabited by Berbers, and in this way forms its own complex. The Jews in the Atlas Mountains have a history that differs from others of their faith in the coastal towns. Their forefathers have lived in Morocco since ancient times; already the first Arab immigrants who came to the country at the close of the seventh century found Jews living there. While the Jews on the coast speak Spanish and Arabic, the Atlas Jews have Berber as their mother tongue. They subsist for the most part through trade and handicrafts, but also practice some farming, although they are not allowed to own any land themselves. Often in the Atlas Mountains one meets small groups of Jews who are travelling on some type of business; they are easy to recognise due to their black fezzes and the long locks of hair hanging from their temples on each side of their face. They can thus roam about without great risk, as long as they each have a Berber as their master and protector. The Berber ensures that no-one shall, without punishment, ill-treat his Jew more than what can be considered appropriate for such a dog as a Jew, and in this respect true believers have fairly extensive privileges; but to rob the Jew is not done, for this would be almost the same as stealing the master’s own moneybag. On the other hand, the Jew must naturally richly repay the protection he enjoys. His Berber master can in fact do with him what he wishes. But as it is hardly in the interest of the master to torment and pressure him to the extreme – in fact a successful and high-earning Jew is beneficial to him – the Atlas Jew can, at least in many cases, be said to lead a fairly tolerable existence. Some of them are very manly and carry weapons. I visited a small Jewish village further to the east where the men had even made a name for themselves as highwaymen.

As to the Jews in [Amzmiz], they seemed comparatively well-off and satisfied. They were very interested in my humble self. Immediately upon my arrival, they gathered to welcome me (see the photograph on this page) and one afternoon several of their women and children came only ”to look at me”, as they said, whereby I ceremoniously sat myself outside of my tent and let them stare at me (see the photograph on this page). I was also invited to one of their houses and was treated there to a type of dark wine, which is made only by the Jews.

The governor’s son, who in his father’s absence acted as my host, also showed me much attention. He came now and then to my tent, sat himself down with visible satisfaction in my tent chair – he had probably never before sat in a chair – and asked to look through my binoculars. He became so enamoured by all of these things and praised them so unreservedly that I understood that he wished to have them. Custom actually dictated that I should now bestow them upon him: to leave a wish of this kind unfilled is considered to be not only impolite but also unwise, as the evil eye of an unsatisfied person is a dangerous enemy. If a person shows that he wishes to buy, for example, my gun or horse, it is wisest for me to sell it, lest the gun easily break or the horse die; and if someone praises a thing that belongs to another without adding the blessing [], it will be of no use in the future. It was distasteful to me to be impolite towards my hospitable host, but it was impossible for me to dispense with my chair and binoculars. It then struck me that I could repay him in kind. He had come to me riding on a splendid mule. When he began singing the praises of the chair and binoculars, I began praising his splendid mule. He then immediately changed the topic of the conversation. And the danger passed.

One Tuesday, I visited the market outside of [Amzmiz]. Everywhere in Morocco there are open spaces at regular intervals, where markets are held regularly on set days of the week. At other times, the marketplaces are empty and deserted: they can only be recognised from the trampled and grassless ground, the scraps left behind by the shoemakers and other craftsmen, the butchers’ three-legged stands assembled from branches, or perhaps some pitiful huts that stand there, abandoned by their owners. But when market day dawns, the deserted place begins to hum with activity. Already in the early hours of the morning, long lines of people and animals can be seen wending their way down the paths, and before the sun has reached the midpoint of its ascent toward the zenith, the dead, colourless spot has been transformed into a vibrant and shifting mass and the deep silence has turned into a choir of clamouring human voices, barking dogs and braying donkeys, which at a distance sounds like the purling of a stream. Here can be found everything that a person might need: homespun woollen cloth and imported muslins, sandals and leather bags, baskets and pitchers, tea and sugar and candles, oil and rancid butter, raisins and dried figs, seasonal fresh fruit and vegetables, and the meat of goats and sheep that have only just fallen by the butcher’s knife and whose innards are still steaming on the ground. But people do not come here only to buy or sell, but also to see the entertainers or to meet acquaintances, to hear news and gossip, to engage in politics or conspire. It is at the marketplaces where issues such as war with a neighbouring tribe or a rebellion against the government are discussed. But one must be on one’s guard against the governor’s spies and soldiers. At a market in Atlas, I saw almost only women: the men did not dare go there for fear of their governor.

From [Amzmiz] I went on an expedition to the miraculous spring [Imi n-Täla]. I headed directly south, towards the heart of Atlas. We first traversed across an idyllic meadow, strewn with flowers and growing crops, olive trees and grapevines. We then rode up a mountain ridge from whose crest we had a spectacular view over the valley that leads up to [Imi n-Täla]. Deep beneath our feet a bubbling stream, on either side of the narrow valley towering mountains, their lower slopes or foothills dotted with small Berber villages and verdant terraces, and at the top of the valley the snow-topped ”[Jbel Tezah]”, one of the massive vertebrae of the Atlas Mountains’ spine. We stayed for a good while at a significant height over the valley floor, even though the trail was miserable. At times it followed the edge of a precipice, at others it went up or down a bare ledge where the animals could only just gain a hold with their hooves. Luckily, I had been able to borrow in [Amzmiz] a mule that had just come over the Atlas Mountains and was used to its dreadful trails, and it got along splendidly, positively dancing down the slopes; but my men who rode horses were forced to dismount and carefully lead their animals over the most dangerous places. The vegetation up there consisted of scrub made up of , holly, strawberry trees and thuja; about the latter, which is also called the tree of life, Pinius claims that it is at home in the Atlas Mountains. But after we descended lower down towards the bottom of the valley, the nature took on a richer appearance: ash trees, poplars, walnut, carob, almond and pomegranate trees shaded the natives’ terraces.

Already upon entering the valley we had heard the sound of gun volleys, and the further along we got, the louder the shots became. Our guide enlightened us of the fact that a family feud was currently ongoing, but assured us that we would be left alone. A moment later, we saw some gun muzzles sticking out over a rock directly above our heads, and a dozen armed Berbers appeared by the path. We rode past them without stopping. The shereef turned around suspiciously and I noticed that he became as white as a sheet. ”What is going on?” I asked. ”Nothing,” he answered. But afterwards he said he had seen the men pointing their guns at us and thought they meant us harm.

We rode across the stream and past some houses and mills, and came to a ravine carved out in layers of white and gold limestone and sandstone, beautifully draped with ivy, brambles and honeysuckle. The landscape became ever wilder, the ravine narrower and darker. Finally, we come upon a large spring whose crystal-clear water bubbles out of a hole at the bottom of the sheer cliff face. It is [Imi n-Täla], our destination.

We sit ourselves down at the edge of the spring and take out our travel provisions, which do us good after our efforts over the past four hours. But we are not alone for long. Suddenly, a gang of around thirty armed men appear nearby, one of them, who is better dressed than the others, riding on a mule. The rider dismounts, approaches me and bids me welcome with a handshake. Now all is clear to me. The shots we had heard in the valley had been a salute, the armed troop that we met on the way had been a guard of honour, and the man now greeting me was the sheik of the valley. Afterwards, I heard that he owned land near [Amzmiz] and was therefore anxious that no harm should come to me while I found myself within his territory.

We were told that [Imi n-Täla] is a haunt for jinn, which can, however, sometimes be quite amiable towards humans. If a person washes his hands or face in its water, his skin stays healthy. When the mountain people are feuding with their neighbours on the plain, they throw a stone into the spring whereupon a storm of such force erupts that those below can barely stand; and it does not calm down until they placate the jinn with a large plate of porridge, prepared without salt, which is how they like it. If the spring’s water level falls markedly, it is a sign that the sultan has met with an accident; and for the spring to fill up again, one must make a sacrifice at its edge. []”, ”In the name of God the beneficent, the merciful”, [ʿAbdŭlkrim] exclaimed in fright when he heard their terrible stories; ”Well, where else would there be jinn if not here!”. The Atlas Mountains are a world of wonders. But usually it is not jinn but dead saints that are associated here with things of mystery and wonder. On our return journey to [Amzmiz], I spotted a lone stone pine at the top of a bare peak. In its shade, [Sîdna ʿAli] – the prophet Muḥammad’s cousin and son-in-law – had rested after he had driven away the Christians. In other places, there were five marks in the mountain made by his fingers, a print of the hoof of his horse [Särḥan], which was really an angel, and a circle where the horse had run around when its master fought the infidels. [Sîdna ʿAli] is the great hero-saint, who wiped Atlas clean of the prophet’s enemies. The Jews in [Amzmiz] are descendants of the few he spared in the holy war.

One day, outside of [Amzmiz], I met a poor man who carried a chicken in his hands. He said he was on his way to the governor who had ordered his subjects to supply him with twenty chickens and four sheep each day; he required them to entertain the sultan’s guest. So this is how it was with my host’s wonderful hospitality! He gave me five chickens and one sheep each day and kept the others for himself. I lived at the expense of the poor and was used as a means to exploit them. This was thus the secret of my halcyon days in [Amzmiz].

We first headed back to [Amnäs] and then continued our journey along the slopes of the Atlas Mountains in a westerly or north-westerly direction to [Urîka], [Mesfíwa], [Sîdi Ráḥḥal], [Srághna] and [Demnat]. As a rule, we stayed for two nights in the places where we stopped, setting off again before noon on the third day. In [Asgin] in [Urîka] I was met in a peculiar manner by the governor’s deputy. He came to me in the company of another man, but he neither offered me his hand nor spoke one word to me. Instead, he turned to his companion and asked him to welcome me; he belonged to a sect or order that must have nothing to do with infidels. In [Iminzzat] in [Mezfíwa] I pitched my tent in an olive grove outside the governor’s dwelling, but in [Sîdi Ráḥḥal], which lies in the Arab area [Zémran], I was given lodgings in a neat, white-washed house with a garden.

In the latter place, the caliph arranged for me a so-called []. At one end of an open space, riders in festive garb and their horses are lined up in a long formation. They then ride slowly forwards; but at a signal from the leader, who rides in the middle, they dig their spurs into their horses and charge forward at a full gallop, swinging their guns over their heads. At a new signal from the leader, they fire their guns, all at once, and then suddenly halt their horses when reaching the end of the course, whereupon they return to the starting point at a slow walk, only to repeat the whole process after a short break. I saw the performance from a low hill and photographed the riders. When I later thanked my host for the honour that was shown me, he asked me with a suspicious expression: ”What did you have in your hand?” ”Only this,” I answered and showed him my small camera; ”My eyes are slightly bad and I need help in order to see at long distances. Do you see the picture on the glass?” The caliph looked at the camera window, and when he saw the garden reflected therein, his face lit up and he said with relief: ”Oh so that is all it was? I thought that you had made pictures of us.” The Moroccan is afraid of being photographed; he thinks that a person who has his picture also holds power over him. The good relationship between myself and the caliph thus remained unsullied, and as a sign of his friendship, he gifted me a wild boar piglet. Often in Morocco, they have tame wild boars in their stables to protect the horses from the evil eye and other misfortune, but what the caliph thought I might do with the piglet was not clear to me – perhaps he thought it could run after us, racing my dog. My reputation probably improved because my servant Tousi was a descendant of the great saint [Sîdi Ráḥḥal], whose sepulchral chapel is the heart and pride of the area. He naturally went to kiss his ancestor’s tomb and felt like a person of consequence.

On the other side of [Sîdi Ráḥḥal] we had to ride over the river [Tásaut], whose steep banks and strong currents caused us trouble. We now left the [Zémran] area and came to another Arab area, [Srághna]. The landscape continued to be uninteresting and treeless, but in a couple of hours from the river, we came upon olive groves and orchards, and the terrain became more hilly. From a height, a delightful view over the Demnat valley opened up. The path led down a steep hill and up an even steeper one, then it became less difficult and more shaded, and finally emerged as a veritable arcade, which wound its way under an archway of pomegranate and fig trees, their branches draped with honeysuckle and wild roses. And the ear was caressed by the burbling water, which eddied between the stones or threw itself down in small cascades and spread itself over the fields with their succulent crops.

At a distance, Demnat with its forts and city wall is an almost imposing sight, but when one enters the small town, it gives a poor and decaying impression. If one discounts the governor’s palace, the foremost mosque and some other public buildings, it consists mostly of clay huts and ruins. Just such a lousy windowless hovel was appointed as my dwelling, but I refused the offer at once and had my tent pitched in an olive grove outside the city wall. This naturally did not please the governor, as he was responsible for my safety; and he immediately sent some of the town’s notables to try and convince me to move into the town. I answered that I would be glad to do as he wished as long as he procured for me tolerable lodgings, as I could not cram myself and all of my servants and animals into a single small room. After a brief negotiation, they promised to give me a garden, and thus the conflict was settled.

The garden was neither shady nor spacious, but still quite passable, as I typically spent my days exploring the surrounding area. I found myself a literate Berber as a teacher, and with him as a guide, I visited one holy place after the other. And the area is full of such places. On the top of a holy mountain, two solitary trees stand in a cairn. Marriage-mad women make pilgrimages here and sacrifice a cock to [Lälla Tug-lkhäir], ”her grace Bellevue”, who is said to be buried under the stones. In the deep of a glen lies a holy spring where another female saint, [Lälla Tabakîut], once bathed, leaving behind a morsel of her holiness. Considerably further from [Demnat] can be found the so-called [] or [], ”the camel”, a cliff that juts out of the ground, the shape of which is reminiscent of the back and neck of a camel. Between the ”back” and ground, there is an opening through which the ill crawl to become healthy, and barren women to have a child. But not everyone is able to crawl through it: if the person attempting to do so has been disobedient to his parents and been cursed by them, he shall become stuck in the hole and only with great effort will be able slip out the same way he entered. Some people say that the has received its holiness from [Sîdi Yáḥya], whose sepulchral chapel is located nearby, but those living in the area claim that another saint, [Sîdi Búlhua], lies buried there. The lower photograph on page 168 shows us the kind boy Tousi, who has just crawled through the opening without difficulty. The same cannot be said for [ʿAbdŭlkrim] when he attempted the experiment: he became stuck there so firmly that we were forced to pull him out backwards. He appeared very upset but calmed down somewhat when I suggested that his misadventure might possibly have had a cause other than his parents’ curses, namely his own portliness.

The most agreeable of all my excursions was the one to [Imi n-Ifri], ”the mouth of the cave”, several kilometres south-east of Demnat. We rode down the slope on which the town is located, to the stream that lies a hundred metres below. We then headed up the valley, which at times is squeezed between the sheer cliffs garnished with ferns, bushes and vines, and at others widens out in the form of terraces covered in orchards, fields or natural meadows with their carpets of flowers. Down by the stream, some mills were at work, higher up a village or two could be seen, crouched on a ridge or on top of a high hill, or half-hidden behind a grove of grey-green olive trees. At one spot, the stream is dammed to ensure that the small irrigation channels supplying the lower parts of the valley do not run dry in the summer. Above the dam, the valley narrows suddenly. The riding trail ends, and we continue the journey on foot over huge boulders, until we come to a cliff face, 50 to 75 metres high, with a waterfall, which plunges down between bushes and leaves, and a dark opening that gapes at us and emits a swirling mass of water from deep inside the mountain. With some difficulty, we make our way to the gigantic portal and enter a magnificent cave, whose ceiling of stalactites arches 30–50 metres above our heads, and whose stalagmite floor is roomy enough to offer us a dry spot beside the water. When we push our way deeper into the cave, it becomes lighter, and a patch of blue sky can be glimpsed through a hole in the ceiling. The soldier that the governor of [Demnat] had given us as a guide and protector attempted to persuade me to climb up onto the outer face of the mountain through this opening, a suggestion the shereef saw as a covert attempt at murder. Instead, we climbed there along an alternate route and found that the valley widened again up there.

I had expected to hear the cave described as a haunt for jinn, but all they could tell me about it was that in ancient times, Christians had hidden there. The stream, which up here is called [Asif n-Sîdi Nâṣar u Mhâṣar], is named after a saint who is said to lie buried under some stones in a small waterfall just outside the mouth of the cave, or to have sat on them during his lifetime. The sick come here on pilgrimage in search of healing, married women to conceive, and young girls in hopes of an early marriage.

[] – the tenth day of [Moḥarram], the first month in the Islamic calendar – occurred during my stay in Demnat. Early in the morning, I went down to the stream and found there women and children with large clay pitchers, which they were filling with water. Throughout Morocco, it is the custom on that morning to pour water on the graves of one’s ancestors, and in many places people also throw water on one another and sprinkle their livestock, tent or rooms with water; as now there is , ”holiness” or lucky forces, in all of the springs and streams, and they use this opportunity to revive the dead and to clean themselves and their friends of infectious substances and seeds of evil. In the evening, the Atlas Berbers light fires, which have an equally cleansing and protective effect on people and domestic animals, and in [Demnat], girls who wish to marry boil water over these fires and then clean themselves with it to make their longing come true. When I heard that a large fire had been set in the governor’s courtyard, I snuck there dressed in Moorish clothing and saw people jump back and forth over the fire in order to, as they said, shield their lives until next year’s []. Unfortunately, I was recognised in the bright glow, and the next morning, the entire town knew what I had been up to.

Earlier, they had been quite pleased with me – they claimed that my arrival had brought with it rain and cheaper food prices; but my trick in the evening on [] was greatly frowned upon, and it was said that even the governor was annoyed. In the beginning, he had spared no courtesy: he had held a large tea party for me in his garden, and the daily provisions had been quite generous. But I quickly realised that he became irritated because I had stayed so long; and eventually he let me know that he wished me long gone. So on 14 May, I left after having stayed in [Demnat] for more than two weeks. With a feeling of melancholy, I turned my back on its burbling waters, its fields strewn with red poppies, its gardens and olive groves where the cuckoo called all day and the nightingale sang to me in the quiet of the night. I would now return to [Marráksh] to be able to work in peace. The governor, who had earlier refused to give me any assistance in my studies, even made a last-minute attempt to put obstacles in my path by expressly forbidding my Berber teacher from accompanying me to [Marráksh]. But my teacher was not bothered by the prohibition and came with me anyway.

I took the road to [Draʿ], or as the place is called in Berber, [Ighil], in order to visit the grave of the great Jewish saint [Rábbi Dawĭd]. Outwardly, the grave consists of a section of stonework embedded in palm bushes, onto whose leaves the sick and others seeking help tie pieces of cloth, hoping to impel the saint to grant them their wishes. [Rábbi Dawĭd] is significant because he is not only worshipped by Jews but also by Moslems, even though it is well known that he was an old Jew who came to Morocco from Jerusalem – God knows when. He is happy to accept the gifts and sacrifices of Moslems, but does not like that they build their dwellings directly opposite his grave with the doors facing it; this he had already forbidden during his lifetime, and now punishes the disobedient by occasionally allowing the houses to collapse. Meanwhile, he deserves to be recognised for his tolerance, when one compares him to his Moslem colleagues, who allow neither Jews nor Christians to visit their graves.

When I came to [Marráksh], I was naturally once again forced to set up my camp in a dusty marketplace, but already the next day, the [shereef] was able to secure a small house for me, rented from a resident. My host, [Ḥajj ʿAli], belonged to the [Sîdi Bôno] brotherhood, whose speciality was to climb date palms. But [Sîdi Bôno’]s or holiness manifests among his followers also in slightly less innocent ways than in their ability to climb: if anyone touches their ears, they become so furious that they could do almost anything. I must therefore be careful not to pinch my host’s ear.

The house into which I now settled was small and low like most of the other houses in [Marráksh], with two rooms and a kitchen, which opened up onto an uncovered, enclosed space from which a covered gateway led into the street. There was also a well filled with water of a dubious nature in the house. [Ḥajj ʿAli] had himself vacated the house but had left behind both the vermin and the scorpions. One morning, a scorpion was found under my pillow and another was found crawling among my papers. We thought that they had dropped down from the moss on the old roof and therefore we stretched a sheet out above the beds so as to catch the uninvited guests.

The longer the summer went on, the hotter it became. The temperature in my room rose to 30–35 degrees, but the air was dry, and the heat was therefore not too terrible. During the daytime, I remained indoors for the most part, dressed in a single garment of white cotton and busy with my work, while Tousi filled one glass after the other with steaming hot lemon water, which I found to be a splendid refreshment in the heat. Closer to sunset, I went out to look at the street life or to visit the bazaars or (sometimes) the slave market. In this manner, one day followed the next, and the work progressed with ease. The [shereef] arranged for a literate Berber from [Glawi] in the Great Atlas Mountains to be my teacher – a splendid fellow who worked with me for six months. Once he asked to come to his lesson a little later than usual; he did not give a reason and when he arrived, I could not tell that anything unusual had occurred. But the shereef later told me that his wife had died the day before, and that he had needed the morning to bury her; but I could not acknowledge the matter in any way, as one must not speak about another’s wife, even after she is dead.

There was also another addition to my staff. A young Arab came to me one day and asked me if I had any use for him as a scribe. He had been in the service of a missionary, but the missionary had become angry at him and driven him away. What exactly had he done? He was ashamed to say. But when he saw that I was insistent, he finally whispered with a sheepish chuckle: ”I called him []”. It is a name that Moroccans would call missionaries among themselves. It essentially means ”Epicurus” or ”epicure”. That it has later become synonymous with ”missionary” can be explained in the following way. In earlier times, Moroccans had grown used to seeing Christian consuls and merchants in their country, people who worked. But suddenly, one fine day, there appeared a new class of Christians who lived in magnificent houses, walked about in nice clothes, kept horses and grooms, and yet seemed to have nothing to do. The Medieval Arabs were, as we know, well-versed in Greek philosophy, and the tradition about Epicurus as a bon vivant had been passed down to their descendants. As the Arab had excellent handwriting, I felt that I could forgive his rudeness to the missionary and employed him in the role of private secretary, copyist and language tutor. He came with us to [Mogador] where he caused a fight and was dismissed.

There was also another addition to my staff. A young Arab came to me one day and asked me if I had any use for him as a scribe. He had been in the service of a missionary, but the missionary had become angry at him and driven him away. What exactly had he done? He was ashamed to say. But when he saw that I was insistent, he finally whispered with a sheepish chuckle: ”I called him [bikurus].” It is a name that Moroccans would call missionaries among themselves. It essentially means ”Epicurus” or ”epicure”. That it has later become synonymous with ”missionary” can be explained in the following way. In earlier times, Moroccans had grown used to seeing Christian consuls and merchants in their country, people who worked. But suddenly, one fine day, there appeared a new class of Christians who lived in magnificent houses, walked about in nice clothes, kept horses and grooms, and yet seemed to have nothing to do. The Medieval Arabs were, as we know, well-versed in Greek philosophy, and the tradition about Epicurus as a bon vivant had been passed down to their descendants. As the Arab had excellent handwriting, I felt that I could forgive his rudeness to the missionary and employed him in the role of private secretary, copyist and language tutor. He came with us to [Mogador] where he caused a fight and was dismissed.

I then, once again, saw the stifling, dust-filled [Marráksh] disappear behind me, as I travelled on over the brown-yellow plain. But the heat I could not escape. We rested in an olive grove, and it was not easy to set off again as the heat became more and more unbearable the later it got. My clothes burned on my body, the reins burned in my hands, the wind that blew against my face felt like the fan of a burning oven. And my throat screamed out for water, water! The provisions we had brought were gone, and we quenched our thirst with rainwater from a cistern by the road, which was squirming with large red worms.

For the night, we set up camp in a small Berber village. They gave us milk, something I had not seen for two months. A bridal party passed our tents. A mad dog came to visit us but was shot where it stood.

Before sunrise, we had set off again. The hours between 10 o’clock in the morning and 5 in the afternoon were spent in the shade of some olive trees near running water, and a couple of hours later we entered the village of [Frûga], followed by a troop of riders who had come to meet us with the caliph in the lead. The village was ruled by the Moorish minister of war, who had informed his caliph of my impending arrival and the reception was impressive as a result. We were provided with a garden and a small house as our camping ground. As provisions, we were gifted with four live sheep, a large basket of chickens, another basket with grapes, and so on and so on. My tent bed was placed on a terrace, and I spent the night under the stars. What bliss! I bathe my limbs in the sweet coolness of the dew-free summer night. On the ceiling above my head, the twinkling stars are so big, bigger than I have ever seen them before. They seem so near, so near. They pull me up towards them. I imagine myself floating as a body in the infinite space. Poor children of the earth, toiling and struggling below! I fall asleep, but wake up again to gaze at the stars.

A day’s rest in this peaceful oasis restores our strength that was drained by the heat. Escorted by a guard of seven riders, who follow us to the tribal border, we set our heading towards the mountains and arrive after a journey of four hours at the governor’s castle [Nzûḍa]. Early the next morning, I sneak out with a few of my men to go on an excursion into the mountains, but we are intercepted by the governor, who has clearly suspected mischief. ”Where are you off to?” The response is evasive. The governor commands one of his servants to go with us and we disappear among the trees. We ride up a narrow valley hemmed in by towering mountains. The valley becomes increasingly tighter, the brush becomes more troublesome, and finally we must stop. The guard wishes to turn around. Yes, I am happy for him to do so, but I will not. High up on the mountain lies a Berber village, where we intend to climb. The guard protests, [Si Muhammed] – the sultan’s soldier – likewise. They may do exactly as they wish. One of my men stays behind with the mules while the shereef and my Arab scribe go with me.

After an hour’s struggle up the steep mountain, we come to the village, which is a veritable fortress with a large fort where every man fit for service has his assigned loophole. There is not a single person to be seen, the village is lifeless. What does this mean? The scribe is sent to scout out the terrain. He is gone for a moment, but finally returns in the company of two men who welcome us: we must sit ourselves down and not leave until we have eaten. They serve us partridge cooked in oil, freshly baked bread, honey and grapes. Now the guard and [Si Muhamed], who have been carefully observing us from down in the valley, also arrive, only mustering their courage when they saw that all went well. ”We were afraid that you do not like to see strangers in your village”, one of us said during the meal. To this, our hosts openheartedly responded that they owned land in the vicinity of the governor’s castle and for that reason have no interest in causing trouble.

We were still not at the top of the mountain, and who can remain halfway up when the top beckons and the alpine winds whisper their siren calls? The shereef complains about backache but it makes no difference. My lungs fill with air and my limbs quiver with happiness. Here one is happy, here one is free! Ha ha! Down there in the dale sits the governor, squirming because the bird has flown. It serves the old fox right.

In the evening when we return, the guard receives a thorough tongue-lashing, but naturally I take the whole of the blame on myself. The next morning we set off, and to avoid any further scandals, we are escorted by a soldier on horseback, who has been ordered not to leave us until we arrive at our next way station – a poor governor’s estate in the [Ulad Bu-sbaʿ] area, a distance of approximately three hours from [Nzûḍa]. The soldier spits on the coin I give him as a tip – to stop it flying the coop and persuading all of the other coins in the bag to go with it. In the evening, I entertain my host and his people by burning Bengal lights, which I was given by the sultan’s fireworker in [Marráksh].

We are now out on the plains. But the next day, we head towards the mountains and arrive after a journey of four hours in [Imintânut], a village at a height of more than one thousand metres above sea level, beside one of the passes that leads over the Great Atlas Mountains to [Sūs]. The area has a bad reputation, and the reception is anything but friendly. It is only after much negotiation that they give us the key to a small Berber house, where we spend the night, the men and animals on the lower floor, and I in a room on the roof.

The journey then takes us through a desolate mountain range in the direction of [Ntugga], where one of the great Atlas governors lives in his castle. That day I sit in the saddle for eight hours. In the evening, we enter the castle courtyard, which is full of horses, mules and people; the governor is said to have as many as two thousand servants and slaves. He himself is also sitting out there and greets me with the expression of a man who is aware of his worth and power. [Si Muhammed] hands him the sultan’s letter, which he kisses and reads. A spacious floor in the castle is placed at my disposal. Food supplies flood in. A riding contest is arranged in my honour.

The next day we visit the marketplace, and on the third day, we depart as usual. We begin by following a river valley, and then ride up one hill and down the next. The night is spent with a sheik in [Shiáḍma]. We have now arrived at the famed argan forest. At first glance the argan tree is reminiscent of the olive tree, but the similarity is only superficial; and the oil that is pressed from its fruit cannot be compared to that of the olive. What is wonderful about this tree is that its occurrence is not only limited to Morocco, but mainly to the two provinces [Shiáḍma] and [Ḥáḥa]. Attempts have been made to grow it in other countries with a similar climate, but the attempts have gone awry.

While riding through the argan forest, I am met with good tidings, the first ocean breeze. How I had longed for this moment when I was suffocating in [Marráksh]’s hot dust or being burned alive by the glare of the August sun! To arrive at the ocean, to breathe in its cool saltiness and bathe in its waters – this had been my dream all summer; and now that dream would come true. I enjoy it immensely for an hour or two. But what is this? Small shivers creep up my back. I begin to feel a little chilly. I am actually freezing. And when I finally reach the shore of the Atlantic, nothing in the world could have convinced me to throw myself into its waves. That is how relative temperature sensations are. The air temperature was probably at least twenty degrees in the shade.

After twelve days of travel, we thus arrive in [Mogador] on 17 August. The city’s governor assigns me a roomy [] – a garden with two white-washed rooms placed across from one another, with access from the garden. I had not expected to come across such an oasis in this sandy desert. In the garden are fig and banana trees and blooming bushes of various kinds, and in the middle splashes a fountain. The governor apparently had no idea that I intended to stay here for a couple of months, if it was at all possible. [Mogador] is Morocco’s cleanest town and known for its even climate: the summer is not too hot, and in the winter the temperature rarely falls below fifteen degrees. The city itself is not very interesting; but there are many Berbers from [Sūs], and as it is impossible for me, as it is for every other European, to study the [Sūs] Berbers in their homeland, they must come to me. Next follow two months of hard work. My upstanding Berber from [Glawi] shall remain, but [Si Muhammed], the soldier, is sent back to [Marráksh].

On 23 October, we left [Mogador] in order to settle down on a Berber farm in [Ḥáḥa], in the middle of the great argan forest. On the ground floor lived my servants, while the upper floor was allotted to me. There was a hole in the floor through which I was able to gain a glimpse into the Berbers’ more intimate family life, but this unique opportunity was used with much discretion. There was a water shortage, which however benefitted my studies. My teacher from [Galawi] could not in fact wash his clothes, and that prevented him from carrying out his five daily prayers, which had always caused tiresome interruptions to our lessons.

One Sunday morning began the ploughing. My host hitched a pair of oxen to the plough. A small boy handed him a plate with argan oil and a lump of [] (roasted barley and salt) in oil. With the plate in hand, the farmer then walked in a circle around the oxen and plough, sprinkled them with a few drops of the oil and mumbled a few blessings with the usual [], ”in God’s name”. He dipped a pinch of [] in the oil and gave it to one of the boys to eat, and then repeated the ceremony with all of us who were present, one at a time. The sprinkling of the oil is apparently a method for transferring the ploughman’s blessing to the agricultural work, and the eating of the roasted barley is intended to improve the harvest. Like begets like, in accordance with the principle of homeopathic magic; and that is why a sacramental meal increases the food stores.

But my old longing for the Atlas Mountains took hold of me again. One fine day, the horses and mules were saddled, and we headed for [Ḥáḥa]’s glorious mountain ranges. The tour lasted a week, during which I was able to enjoy more of the Atlas governors’ wonderful hospitality. In [Azaghar n-Äit Bîhi] in the [Ait Zĕlḍn] area, we set up our tents in a garden outside the governor [Igîder]’s castle. The first night I was woken by gunshots. The shooting made me apprehensive, but as it soon ended, I fell asleep again. The next evening, already before the sun had set, my camp was overrun by guards, and the governor’s closest man came armed with a sabre, a rifle and a revolver and spent the evening in my company. In the morning, I was told by my Berber from [Glawi] what had occurred. My host was at war with the governor of the neighbouring district, who was contriving to become his successor. As previously noted, in Morocco, the office of governor is given to the highest bidder, and if a person who has succeeded in acquiring such a position is later outbid by another, the governor is dealt with summarily: he is summoned to the sultan’s current place of residence, imprisoned, and remains in detention until he can ransom himself, while his successor meanwhile makes himself at home in the governor’s castle. They told me that my host’s post had already been bought by the neighbouring governor, and that he himself had been ordered by the sultan to go to [Marráksh]. But in his stronghold in the mountains, he thought he could defy the order and stayed put. Meanwhile, his rival had heard that [Igîder] had a Christian guest and in the night sent men to attack the Christian. If the scheme had succeeded, [Igîder]’s fall would have been inevitable as he was responsible for my safety. Let us hope that the entire ugly tale was a figment of [Igîder]’s suspicious imagination, and that the shots were fired into the air against imaginary enemies. There is nothing so abominable that a governor in Morocco cannot inflict it on his colleagues.

From [Azaghar n-Äit Bîhi] we found our way down to the narrow flood valley that leads up to [Timsurîyin], located in the [Inĭknâfĕn] area. We stopped at [Imi n-Taqqándut], widely known as a place for a cure. The place consists of two immense caves, which are separated by a thin wall of rock, but are connected to one another through a hole in the wall. The ill make pilgrimages here from near and far. Both inside and outside the caves, one can see countless small stacks of stones, constructed by the patients. Before they stack the stones, they rub them on the afflicted body part, and if someone should afterwards knock over the stack, the illness shall transfer to him. In the cave to the right, there are oleander branches strewn about, with which the sick have whipped themselves to drive out the disease devils. In the cave to the left, they sacrifice chickens or, sometimes, sheep to the cave spirits, who drink the blood of the sacrificed animal, but leave the body untouched – as long as it is not a black cock, which they devour entirely. It is also here that the spirits’ spokesman, [Sîdi ʿAbdrráḥman], gives his ordinations – naturally in the language of jinn – which are then translated into Berber or Arabic by the [], or care-taker, of the place.

My servant [Tousi] pretends to be ill and says that he wishes to sacrifice a chicken to the spirits. The care-taker turns his face towards one of the passages leading from the cave into the mountain and calls for [Sîdi ʿAbdrráḥman]. We immediately hear a whistling, and the [] informs the spirits’ spokesman of the offering made. Now another whistle is heard, and [Sîdi ʿAbdrráḥman] shows the place in the cave where the sacrifice will be made. He then speaks once more and informs the [mqáddem] that the ill man will become well, but explains that he does not wish to say anything more while there are Christians in the cave (I was joined on my journey to [Timsurîyin] by two Englishmen from [Mogador]). Afterwards, the [] was interviewed both by the shereef [ʿAbdsslam] and myself. In the interior of the mountain, he said, there is a big city inhabited by jinn, who are more numerous than the stars in the firmament. In the old days, when people were better than they are in our day, the jinn would often come out in daylight with their children and livestock, but nowadays they only leave their city at night. Their ruler is called [l-Ḥajj Knuz]. They are on friendly terms with both saints and people, for they are true believers, not heathen or Jewish or Christian jinn. Their spokesman, [Sîdi ʿAbdrráḥman], often sends patients who consult him to a highly esteemed shrine to complete their cure. They are particularly closely associated with the great saint [Sîdi Mḥămmĕd u Slîman], who is buried in the neighbourhood: he is their [̃], who teaches them the Koran, and the meat from the sacrificial animals slaughtered in the cave is sent, for the most part, to the college affiliated with his shrine, to be eaten by the scribes and students.

The next day I passed [Imi n-Taqqándut] again. But then the jinn clearly made their displeasure at my visit known; my horse stumbled and fell with its full weight onto one of my men who carried a gun; he was lame for several days and the gun was broken in two. And when I passed the same place for the third time when returning from [Timsurîyin], the cave spirits sent a pouring rain over us.

I would have gladly also inspected the college by the tomb of [Sîdi Mḥămmĕd u Slîman]. But my Berber from [Glawi], who had himself studied there in his youth, opposed such a mad undertaking most emphatically. ”Did you not see,” he said, ”how incensed the jinn were? Do you believe that the saint will be more delighted with you?” We therefore rode quickly past the shrine and its associated buildings where – if I remember correctly – a couple of hundred Berber youth were studying to become scribes. The students only learned the Koran off by heart. When I asked whether they were also taught Arabic to understand what they were reading, the response I received was: ”No person can understand the Koran”. Its power to provide blessings lies in the Arabic words themselves.

On 20 November, I returned to [Mogador] and celebrated my birthday with a swim in the Atlantic, whose waters were almost as warm as in the summer. I asked the governor to provide me with, or allow me to rent, a house in the town, but he refused; he had clearly had enough of me. He referred to the fact that the sultan’s letter said not a single word about him having to acquire lodgings for me. He was right about that, I responded, but he was obliged to watch over my safety. As I could not live on the street, I was forced to set up my camp outside of the town; and I now proposed to take myself and all my baggage to the nearest grove, nearby the grave of the patron saint [Sîdi Mogdul]. The governor was responsible for my life and my property, and I wished to tell him that my papers were worth several thousand dollars.

The governor became furious: this was out of the question, the place was a den of thieves. But it did no good. In the end, a company of soldiers was sent to watch over my camp.

At the beginning of December, I was ready to start my long return journey. My upstanding Berber from [Glawi] had a short while earlier returned to [Marráksh] so that he could marry before the start of [Ramaḍān] – the fasting month – and the Arab boy [Thämi] was sent to [Rabat] by steamboat. Even my number of pack animals was reduced as the pack horses were replaced by two splendid mules. Their loads were slightly too heavy, but I was counting on soon catching up with some camel driver and transferring some of the baggage onto his animals. And things went just as I had hoped.

We headed in a north-westerly direction, along the Atlantic Ocean’s coast. On the second day, we came to the mouth of the river [Tensift]. There was no ferry available, but on the shore we met a dozen men prepared to help travellers over the river, which was swollen with autumn rains and raging violently. All of our things are carried across on the backs of two camels, and the men, who can only just reach the bottom of the river, hold on to the camels so as not to be swept away by the current. The same safety measures are taken with the horse and mules on which I and my servants ride. [ʿAbdŭlkrim] screams with fear. The swirling water makes me giddy, but I close my eyes and think about something else. We are told that, at that very spot, a missionary was swept away by the river and drowned in the ocean.

We come to [Saffi], a small, picturesque coastal town of Carthaginian origin. We then leave the coast for a time and travel across [ʿAbda]’s monotonous plains, where we spend one day in the mighty [Si ʿIsa ben ʿOmar]’s strongly fortified castle. At the time, he was in [Marráksh], which is why his sons took over the role of host; but a few years later, when he was the foreign minister for [Mûläi Ḥâfid̮], I met him in Fez. We then continue on our journey through [Dukkâla], stop to quickly visit our old friends in [Ulad Râfa], and make our way past [Azemmur] to Casablanca the same way that we had travelled before. We arrive there in quite a deplorable condition. During the last few hours, the rain has poured down so that we have not a dry stitch of clothing on our bodies. We have had nothing to eat all day, and our money has run out; I gave my last coin to the night watchman. I am supposed to have a certified letter at the post office, but it is Sunday today and the post office is closed. How would we now be able to get ourselves some supper? The only one of my men who might possibly have some money is the camel driver [ʿAli]. He claims of course that he does not have any, but perhaps he is lying. We check his bag and find seven pesetas; and so we rob him. It is of course unfair, but we will be getting supper at least. And the next morning, [ʿAli] is repaid his money with substantial interest.

The trip from [Mogador] had taken eleven days. We had made small stops here and there, and were therefore not in need of a longer rest. But we still ended up staying in Casablanca for two whole weeks. It namely rained incessantly, one day after the other. Although we had nothing to complain of, since we had a roof over our heads in a small, primitive house, supposedly the oldest in the entire city. It was located near the judge’s house. When my servants spread out the tent on the roof to dry, one of the governor’s soldiers arrived and ordered them to immediately come down off the roof lest they see the judge’s wives from there. As far as I was concerned, the soldier added politely, there was no impediment to me going up on the roof. Somewhat of a backhanded compliment.

What I remember best from that Christmas time in Casablanca is the []’s singing from the minaret of a mosque that stood near my house. We found ourselves now in the month of [Ramaḍān], when one rises before dawn to eat so that one can survive until the evening. Around four o’clock, I was regularly awakened by the sounds of a hymn, most likely of Catholic origin, which, deep and protracted, roared through the dark space, rising and falling and then dying in the quiet of the night, only to come to life again in a new key with a more vigorous rhythm. And so one hymn replaced the other, and I listened and enjoyed myself and thought that I had never in my life heard a more glorious tune. And when I fell asleep again, I dreamed of my home in Finland. For it was Christmas.

When the rain had stopped and the ground had dried somewhat, we set off. [Tousi’s] father came with us to Rabat, but then my entire company consisted only of [Sîdi ʿAbdsslam], [ʿAbdŭlkrim] and Tousi. [Sîdi ʿAbdsslam II], the cook, who had long been under the weather, returned to Tangier by steamboat and took with him some of my things. As usual, a lone wanderer would attach himself now and then to our small caravan. He is one of Morocco’s most typical figures. Often, he hardly knows himself why he is wandering and where he wishes to go; perhaps he is doing it only in order to enjoy the freedom and sunshine. He is not at risk of being robbed as he owns nothing; and he receives food for free in the villages he visits or from a traveller whom he does small favours for. One fine day, the travel companion has disappeared, and one does not see him again.

We spent some wonderful January days in [Ras d-daura] in [Thämi]’s village. The village men attempted to convince me to settle there. They promised to build me a straw hut for five dollars and sell me cows and sheep. I would naturally also be given a wife; a young beauty already seemed to be enlisting for the role, for she came into my tent and touched everything she saw with her dirty hands. I admitted that the proposal was attractive and bore thinking about, but in any case, I must first travel back to my own tribe.

The remaining portion of the journey went quickly. The pack animals had light burdens, and the weather was cool and radiantly beautiful. By mid-January, we were back in Tangier. My journey had thus taken fourteen months. During a period as long as this, much can happen to a traveller in a land such as Morocco. With this in mind, I had every reason to feel pleased. I had also learned much, although there was a great deal more for me to learn. I had especially discovered the extraordinarily significant role that the belief in supernatural beings and forces plays in the lives and imaginations of the Moroccan. This is a topic that I shall now explore a little more closely while we rest after the long journey.

Reading text

VI. In the Great Atlas Mountains

Facsimile