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This little corner of the world, close to the meeting of the Atlantic and
Mediterranean waters, epitomises in its own quiet fashion the story of the
land's decay. Now it is a place of wild bees and wilder birds, of flowers
and bushes that live fragrant untended lives, seen by few and appreciated
by none. It is a spot so far removed from human care that I have seen, a
few yards from the tents, fresh tracks made by the wild boar as he has
rooted o' nights; and once, as I sat looking out over the water when the
rest of the camp was asleep, a dark shadow passed, not fifty yards
distant, going head to wind up the hill, and I knew it for "tusker"
wending his way to the village gardens, where the maize was green.
Yet the district has not always been solitary. Where now the tents are
pitched, there was an orange grove in the days when Mulai Abd er Rahman
ruled at Fez and Marrakesh, and then Mediunah boasted quite a thriving
connection with the coasts of Portugal and Spain. The little bay wherein
one is accustomed to swim or plash about at noonday, then sheltered
furtive sailing-boats from the sleepy eyes of Moorish authority, and a
profitable smuggling connection was maintained with the Spanish villages
between Algeciras and Tarifa Point. Beyond the rocky caverns, where
patient countrymen still quarry for millstones, a bare coast-line leads to
the spot where legend places the Gardens of the Hesperides; indeed, the
millstone quarries are said to be the original Caves of Hercules, and the
golden fruit the hero won flourished, we are assured, not far away. Small
wonder then that the place has an indefinable quality of enchantment that
even the twentieth century cannot quite efface.
A STREET, TANGIER
Life in camp is exquisitely simple. We rise with the sun. If in the raw
morning hours a donkey brays, the men are very much perturbed, for they
know that the poor beast has seen a djin. They will remain ill-at-ease
until, somewhere in the heights where Mediunah is preparing for another
day, a cock crows. This is a satisfactory omen, atoning for the donkey's
performance. A cock only crows when he sees an angel, and, if there are
angels abroad, the ill intentions of the djinoon will be upset. When I was
travelling in the country some few years ago, it chanced one night that
the heavens were full of shooting stars. My camp attendants ceased work at
once. Satan and all his host were assailing Paradise, they said, and we
were spectators of heaven's artillery making counter-attack upon the
djinoon. The wandering meteors passed, the fixed stars shone out with
such a splendour as we may not hope to see in these western islands, and
the followers of the great Camel Driver gave thanks and praise to His
Master Allah, who had conquered the powers of darkness once again.
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