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CHAPTER
III. CAIRO TO
BEDRESHAYN. A RAPID
raid into some of the nearest shops, for things remembered at the last
moment –
a breathless gathering up of innumerable parcels – a few hurried
farewells on
the steps of the hotel – and away we rattle as fast as a pair of
rawboned greys
can carry us. For this morning every moment is of value. We are already
late;
we expect visitors to luncheon on board at midday; and we are to weigh
anchor
at two P.M. Hence our anxiety to reach Boulak before the bridge is
opened, that
we may drive across to the western bank against which our dahabeeyah
lies
moored. Hence also our mortification when we arrive just in time to see
the
bridge swing apart, and the first tall mast glide through. Presently,
however, when those on the look-out have observed our signals of
distress, a
smart-looking sandal, or jolly-boat, decked with gay rugs and cushions,
manned
by five smiling Arabs, and flying a bright little new Union Jack, comes
swiftly
threading her way in and out among the lumbering barges now crowding
through
the bridge. In a few more minutes, we are afloat. For this is our
sandal, and
these are five of our crew; and of the three dahabeeyahs moored over
yonder in
the shade of the palms, the biggest by far, and the trimmest, is our
dear,
memorable ‘Philæ.’ Close
behind the Philæ lies the Bagstones, – a neat
little dahabeeyah in the
occupation of two English ladies who chanced to cross with us in the Simla
from Brindisi, and of whom we have seen so much ever since that we
regard them
by this time as quite old friends in a strange land. I will call them
the M.
B.’s. The other boat, lying off a few yards ahead, carries the
tricolor, and is
chartered by a party of French gentlemen. All three are to sail to-day.
And now we
are on board, and have shaken hands with the captain, and are as busy
as bees;
for there are cabins to put in order, flowers to arrange, and a hundred
little
things to be seen to before the guests arrive. It is wonderful,
however, what a
few books and roses, an open piano, and a sketch or two will do. In a
few
minutes the comfortless hired look has vanished, and long enough before
the
first comers are announced, the Philæ wears an aspect as cosy and
home-like as
if she had been occupied for a month. As for the
luncheon, it certainly surprised the givers of the entertainment quite
as much
as it must have surprised their guests. Being, no doubt, a pre-arranged
display
of professional pride on the part of dragoman and cook, it was more
like an
excessive Christmas dinner than a modest midday meal. We sat through it
unflinchingly, however, for about an hour and three quarters, when a
startling
discharge of firearms sent us all running upon deck, and created a
wholesome
diversion in our favour. It was the French boat signalling her
departure,
shaking out her big sail, and going off triumphantly. I fear
that we of the Bagstones and Philæ – being mere mortals and
Englishwomen –
could not help feeling just a little spiteful when we found the
tricolor had
started first; but then it was a consolation to know that the Frenchmen
were
going only to Assuân. Such is the esprit du Nil. The
people in
dahabeeyahs despise Cook’s tourists; those who are bound for the
Second
Cataract look down with lofty compassion upon those whose ambition
extends only
to the First; and travellers who engage their boat by the month hold
their
heads a trifle higher than those who contract for the trip. We, who
were going
as far as we liked and for as long as we liked, could afford to be
magnanimous.
So we forgave the Frenchmen, went down again to the saloon, and had
coffee and
music. It was
nearly three o’clock when our Cairo visitors wished us ‘bon
voyage’ and
good-bye. Then the M. B.’s, who, with their nephew, had been of
the party, went
back to their own boat; and both captains prepared to sail at a given
signal.
For the M. B.’s had entered into a solemn convention to start
with us, moor
with us, and keep with us, if practicable, all the way up the river. It
is
pleasant now to remember that this sociable compact instead of falling
through
as such compacts are wont to do, was quite literally carried out as far
as Aboo
Simbel; that is to say, during a period of seven weeks’ hard
going, and for a
distance of upwards of eight hundred miles. At last
all is ready. The awning that has all day roofed in the upper deck is
taken
down; the captain stands at the head of the steps; the steersman is at
the
helm; the dragoman has loaded his musket. Is the Bagstones ready? We
wave a
handkerchief of inquiry – the signal is answered – the
mooring ropes are
loosened – the sailors pole the boat off from the bank –
bang go the guns, six
from the Philæ, and six from the Bagstones, and away we go, our
huge sail
filling as it takes the wind! Happy are
the Nile travellers who start thus with a fair breeze on a brilliant
afternoon.
The good boat cleaves her way swiftly and steadily. Water-side palaces
and
gardens glide by, and are left behind. The domes and minarets of Cairo
drop
quickly out of sight. The mosque of the citadel, and the ruined fort
that looks
down upon it from the mountain ridge above, diminish in the distance.
The pyramids stand up sharp and clear. We sit on
the high supper deck, which is furnished with lounge-chairs, tables,
and
foreign rugs, like a drawing-room in the open air, and enjoy the
prospect at
our ease. The valley is wide here and the banks are flat, showing a
steep verge
of crumbling alluvial mud next the river. Long belts of palm groves,
tracts of
young corn only an inch or two above the surface, and clusters of mud
huts
relieved now and then by a little whitewashed cupola or a stumpy
minaret,
succeed each other on both sides of the river, while the horizon is
bounded to
right and left by long ranges of yellow limestone mountains, in the
folds of
which sleep inexpressibly tender shadows of pale violet and blue. Thus the
miles glide away, and by and by we approach Turra – a large,
new-looking mud
village, and the first of any extent that we have yet seen. Some of the
houses
are whitewashed; a few have glass windows, and many seem to be
unfinished. A
space of white, stony, glaring plain separates the village from the
quarried
mountains beyond, the flanks of which show all gashed and hewn away.
One great
cliff seems to have been cut sheer off for a distance of perhaps half a
mile.
Where the cuttings are fresh, the limestone comes out dazzling white,
and the
long slopes of débris heaped against the foot of the cliffs
glisten like snow-drifts
in the sun. Yet the outer surface of the mountains is orange-tawny,
like the pyramids. As for the piles of rough-hewn blocks that lie ranged along
the bank
ready for transport, they look like salt rather than stone. Here lies
moored a
whole fleet of cargo boats, laden and lading; and along the tramway
that
extends from the riverside to the quarries, we see long trains of
mule-carts
coming and going. For all
the new buildings in Cairo, the khedive’s palaces, the public
offices, the
smart modern villas, the glaring new streets, the theatres, and
foot-pavements,
and cafés, all come from these mountains – just as the pyramids did, more than
six thousand years ago. There are hieroglyphed tablets and sculptured
grottoes
to be seen in the most ancient part of the quarries, if one were
inclined to
stop for them at this early stage of the journey; and Champollion tells
of two
magnificent outlines done in red ink upon the living rock by some
master-hand
of Pharaonic times, the cutting of which was never even begun. A
substantial
new barrack and an esplanade planted with sycamore figs bring the
straggling
village to an end. And now,
as the afternoon wanes, we draw near to a dense, wide-spreading forest
of
stately date-palms on the western bank, knowing that beyond them,
though
unseen, lie the mounds of Memphis and all the wonders of
Sakkârah. Then the sun
goes down behind the Libyan hills; and the palms stand out black and
bronzed
against a golden sky; and the pyramids, left far behind, look grey and
ghostly
in the distance. Presently,
when it is quite dusk and the stars are out, we moor for the night at
Bedreshayn, which is the nearest point for visiting Sakkârah.
There is a
railway station here, and also a considerable village, both lying back
about
half a mile from the river; and the distance from Cairo, which is
reckoned at
fifteen miles by the line, is probably about eighteen by water. Such was
our first day on the Nile. And perhaps, before going farther on our
way, I
ought to describe the Philæ, and introduce Reïs Hassan and
his crew. A
dahabeeyah, at the first glance, is more like a civic or an Oxford
University
barge, than anything in the shape of a boat with which we in England
are
familiar. It is shallow and flat-bottomed, and is adapted for either
sailing or
rowing. It carries two masts; a big one near the prow, and a smaller
one at the
stern. The cabins are on deck, and occupy the after-part of the vessel;
and the
roof of the cabins forms the raised deck, or open-air drawing-room
already
mentioned. This upper deck is reached from the lower deck by two little
flights
of steps, and is the exclusive territory of the passengers. The lower
deck is
the territory of the crew. A dahabeeyah is, in fact, not very unlike
the Noah’s
Ark of our childhood, with this difference – the habitable part,
instead of
occupying the middle of the vessel, is all at one end, top-heavy and
many-windowed; while the fore-deck is not more than six feet above the
level of
the water. The hold, however, is under the lower deck, and so
counterbalances
the weight at the other end. Not to multiply comparisons unnecessarily,
I may
say that a large dahabeeyah reminds one of old pictures of the
Bucentaur;
especially when the men are at their oars. The
kitchen – which is a mere shed like a Dutch oven in shape, and
contains only a
charcoal stove and a row of stew-pans – stands between the big
mast and the
prow, removed as far as possible from the passengers’ cabins. In
this position
the cook is protected from a favourable wind by his shed; but in the
case of a
contrary wind he is screened by an awning. How, under even the most
favourable
circumstances, these men can serve up the elaborate dinners which are
the pride
of a Nile cook’s heart, is sufficiently wonderful; but how they
achieve the same
results when wind-storms and sand-storms are blowing, and every breath
is laden
with the fine grit of the desert, is little short of miraculous. Thus far,
all dahabeeyahs are alike. The cabin arrangements differ, however,
according to
the size of the boat; and it must be remembered that in describing the
Philæ, I
describe a dahabeeyah of the largest build – her total length
from stem to
stern being just one hundred feet, and the width of her upper deck at
the
broadest part little short of twenty. Our floor
being on a somewhat lower level than the men’s deck, we went down
three steps
to the entrance door, on each side of which was an external cupboard,
one
serving as a storeroom and the other as a pantry. This door led into a
passage
out of which opened four sleeping-cabins, two on each side. These
cabins
measured about eight feet in length by four and a half in width, and
contained
a bed, a chair, a fixed washing-stand, a looking-glass against the
wall, a
shelf, a row of hooks, and under each bed two large drawers for
clothes. At the
end of this little passage another door opened into the dining saloon
– a
spacious, cheerful room, some twenty-three or twenty-four feet long,
situate in
the widest part of the boat, and lighted by four windows on each side
and a
skylight. The panelled walls and ceiling were painted in white picked
out with
gold; a cushioned divan covered with a smart woolen reps ran along each
side;
and a gay Brussels carpet adorned the floor. The dining-table stood in
the
centre of the room; and there was ample space for a piano, two little
bookcases, and several chairs. The window-curtains and portières
were of the
same reps as the divan, the prevailing colours being scarlet and
orange. Add a
couple of mirrors in gilt frames; a vase of flowers on the table (for
we were
rarely without flowers of some sort, even in Nubia, where our daily
bouquet had
to be made with a few bean blossoms and castor-oil berries); plenty of
books;
the gentlemen’s guns and sticks in one corner; and the hats of
all the party
hanging in the spaces between the windows; and it will be easy to
realize the
homely, habitable look of our general sitting room. Another
door and passage opening from the upper end of the saloon led to three
more
sleeping-rooms, two of which were single and one double; a bath-room; a
tiny
back staircase leading to the upper deck; and the stern cabin saloon.
This
last, following the form of the stern, was semicircular, lighted by
eight
windows and surrounded by a divan. Under this, as under the saloon
divans,
there ran a row of deep drawers, which, being fairly divided, held our
clothes,
wine, and books. The entire length of the dahabeeyah being exactly one
hundred
feet, I take the cabin part to have occupied about fifty-six or
fifty-seven
feet (that is to say, about six or seven feet over the exact half), and
the
lower deck to have measured the remaining forty-three feet. But these
dimensions, being given from memory, are approximate. For the
crew there was no sleeping accomodation whatever, unless they chose to
creep
into the hold among the luggage and packing-cases. But this they never
did.
They just rolled themselves up at night, heads and all, in rough brown
blankets, and lay about the lower deck like dogs. The reïs,
or captain, the steersman, and twelve sailors, the dragoman, head cook,
assistant cook, two waiters, and the boy who cooked for the crew,
completed our
equipment. Reïs Hassan – short, stern-looking, authoritative
– was a Cairo
Arab. The dragoman, Elias Talhamy, was a Syrian of Beyrout. The two
waiters,
Michael and Habîb, and the head cook (a wizened old cordon
bleu named
Hassan Bedawee) were also Syrians. The steersman and five of the
sailors were
from Thebes; four belonged to a place near Philæ; one came from a
village
opposite Kom Ombo; one from Cairo, and two were Nubians from
Assuân. They were
of all shades, from yellowish bronze to a hue not far removed from
black; and
though, at the first mention of it, nothing more incongruous can well
be
imagined than a sailor in petticoats and a turban, yet these men in
their loose
blue gowns, bare feet, and white muslin turbans, looked not only
picturesque,
but dressed exactly as they should be. They were for the most part fine
young
men, slender but powerful, square in the shoulders, like the ancient
Egyptian
statues, with the same slight legs and long flat feet. More docile,
active,
good-tempered, friendly fellows never pulled an oar. Simple and
trustful as
children, frugal as anchorites, they worked cheerfully from sunrise to
sunset,
sometimes towing the dahabeeyah on a rope all day long, like
barge-horses;
sometimes punting for hours, which is the hardest work of all; yet
always
singing at their task, always smiling when spoken to, and made as happy
as
princes with a handful of coarse Egyptian tobacco, or a bundle of fresh
sugar-canes bought for a few pence by the river-side. We soon came to
know them
all by name – Mehemet Ali, Salame, Khalîfeh, Riskali,
Hassan, Mûsa, and so on;
and as none of us ever went on shore without one or two of them to act
as
guards and attendants, and as the poor fellows were constantly getting
bruised
hands or feet, and coming to the upper deck to be doctored, a feeling
of
genuine friendliness was speedily established between us. The
ordinary pay of a Nile sailor is two pounds a month, with an additional
allowance of about three and sixpence a month for flour. Bread is their
staple
food, and they make it themselves at certain places along the river
where there
are large public ovens for the purpose. This bread, which is cut up in
slices
and dried in the sun, is as brown as ginger-bread and as hard as
biscuit. They
eat it soaked in hot water, flavoured with oil, pepper, and salt, and
stirred
in with boiled lentils till the whole becomes of the colour, flavour
and consistence
of thick pea-soup. Except on grand occasions, such as Christmas Day or
the
anniversary of the Flight of the Prophet, when the passengers treat
them to a
sheep, this mess of bread and lentils, with a little coffee twice a
day, and
now and then a handful of dates, constitutes their only food throughout
the
journey. The Nile
season is the Nile sailors’ harvest-time. When the warm weather
sets in and the
travellers migrate with the swallows, these poor fellows disperse in
all
directions; some to seek a living as porters in Cairo; others to their
homes in
Middle and Upper Egypt, where, for about fourpence a day, they take
hire as
laborers, or work at Shâdûf irrigation till the Nile again
overspreads the
land. The Shâdûf work is hard, and a man has to keep on for
nine hours out of
every twenty-four; but he prefers it, for the most part, to employment
in the
government sugar-factories, where the wages average at about the same
rate, but
are paid in bread, which, being doled out by unscrupulous inferiors, is
too
often of light weight and bad quality. The sailors who succeed in
getting a
berth on board a cargo-boat for the summer are the most fortunate. Our
captain, pilot, and crew were all Mohammedans. The cook and his
assistant were
Syrian Mohammedans. The dragoman and waiters were Christians of the
Syrian
Latin church. Only one out of the fifteen natives could write or read;
and that
one was a sailor named Egendi, who acted as a sort of second mate. He
used
sometimes to write letters for the others, holding a scrap of tumbled
paper
across the palm of his left hand, and scrawling rude Arabic characters
with a
reed-pen of his own making. This Egendi, though perhaps the least
interesting
of the crew, was a man of many accomplishments – an excellent
comic actor, a
bit of a shoemaker, and a first-rate barber. More than once, when we
happened
to be stationed far from any village, he shaved his messmates all
round, and
turned them out with heads as smooth as billiard balls. There are,
of course, good and bad Mohammedans as there are good and bad churchmen
of
every denomination; and we had both sorts on board. Some of the men
were very
devout, never failing to perform their ablutions and say their prayers
at
sunrise and sunset. Others never dreamed of doing so. Some would not
touch wine
– had never tasted it in their lives, and would have suffered any
extremity
rather than break the law of their Prophet. Others had a nice taste in
clarets,
and a delicate appreciation of the respective merits of rum or whisky
punch. It
is, however, only fair to add that we never gave them these things
except on
special occasions, as on Christmas Day, or when they had been wading in
the
river, or in some other way undergoing extra fatigue in our service.
Nor do I
believe there was a man on board who would have spent a para of his
scanty
earnings on any drink stronger than coffee. Coffee and tobacco are,
indeed, the
only luxuries in which the Egyptian peasant indulges; and our poor
fellows were
never more grateful than when we distributed among them a few pounds of
cheap
native tobacco. This abominable mixture sells in the bazaars at
sixpence the
pound, the plant from which it is gathered being raised from inferior
seed in a
soil chemically unsuitable, because wholly devoid of potash. Also it is
systematically spoiled in the growing. Instead of being nipped off when
green
and dried in the shade, the leaves are allowed to wither on the stalk
before
they are gathered. The result is a kind of rank hay without strength or
flavour, which is smoked by only the very poorest class, and carefully
avoided
by all who can afford to buy Turkish or Syrian tobacco. Twice a
day, after their midday and evening meals, our sailors were wont to sit
in a
circle and solemnly smoke a certain big pipe of the kind known as a
hubble-bubble. This hubble-bubble (which was of most primitive make and
consisted of a cocoa-nut and two sugar-canes) was common property; and,
being
filled by the captain, went round from hand to hand, from mouth to
mouth, while
it lasted. They
smoked cigarettes at other times, and seldom went on shore without a
tobacco-pouch and a tiny book of cigarette-papers. Fancy a bare-legged
Arab
making cigarettes! No Frenchman, however, could twist them up more
deftly, or
smoke them with a better grace. A Nile
sailor’s service expires with the season, so that he is generally
a landsman
for about half the year; but the captain’s appointment is
permanent. He is
expected to live in Cairo, and is responsible for his dahabeeyah during
the
summer months, while it lies up at Boulak. Reïs Hassan had a wife
and a
comfortable little home on the outskirts of Old Cairo, and was looked
upon as a
well-to-do-personage among his fellows. He received four pounds a month
all the
year round from the owner of the Philæ – a magnificent
broad-shouldered Arab of
about six foot nine, with a delightful smile, the manners of a
gentleman, and
the rapacity of a Shylock. Our men
treated us to a concert that first night, as we lay moored under the
bank near
Bedreshayn. Being told that it was customary to provide musical
instruments, we
had given them leave to buy a tar and darabukkeh before starting. The
tar, or
tambourine, was pretty enough, being made of rosewood inlaid with
mother-of-pearl; but a more barbarous affair than the darabukkeh was
surely
never constructed. This primitive drum is about a foot and a half in
length,
funnel-shaped, moulded of sun-dried clay like the kullehs, and covered
over at
the top with strained parchment. It is held under the left arm and
played like a
tom-tom with the fingers of the right hand; and it weighs about four
pounds. We
would willingly have added a double pipe or a cocoa-nut fiddle1 to
the strength of the band, but none of our men could play them. The tar
and
darabukkeh, however, answered the purpose well enough, and were perhaps
better
suited to their strange singing than more tuneful instruments. We had
just finished dinner when they began. First came a prolonged wail that
swelled,
and sank, and swelled again, and at last died away. This was the
principal
singer leading off with the keynote. The next followed suit on the
third of the
key; and finally all united in one long, shrill descending cry, like a
yawn, or
a howl, or a combination of both. This, twice repeated, preluded their
performance
and worked them up, apparently, to the necessary pitch of musical
enthusiasm.
The primo tenore then led off in a quavering roulade, at the end of
which he
slid into a melancholy chant to which the rest sang chorus. At the
close of
each verse they yawned and howled again; while the singer, carried away
by his
emotions, broke out every now and then into a repetition of the same
amazing
and utterly indescribably vocal wriggle with which he had begun.
Whenever he
did this, the rest held their breath in respectful admiration, and
uttered an
approving “Ah!” – which is here the customary
expression of applause. We thought
their music horrible that first night, I remember; though we ended, as
I
believe most travellers do, by liking it. We, however, paid them the
compliment
of going upon deck and listening to their performance. As a
night-scene,
nothing could be more picturesque than this group of turbaned Arabs
sitting in
a circle, cross-legged, with a lantern in the midst. The singer
quavered; the
musicians thrummed; the rest softly clapped their hands to time, and
waited
their turn to chime in with the chorus. Meanwhile the lantern lit up
their
swarthy faces and their glittering teeth. The great mast towered up
into the
darkness. The river gleamed below. The stars shone overhead. We felt we
were
indeed strangers in a strange land. 1 Arabic – Kemengeh.
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