CHAPTER IV

SIWA TOWN

“Through sun-proof alleys,

In a lone, sand hemm’d

City of Africa.”

SIWA town is like no other place that I have seen either in Egypt, Palestine or the Sudan. It is built on a great rock in the centre of the oasis, and from a distance it resembles an ancient castle whose rugged battlements tower above the forests of waving palm trees, and the rich green cultivation. It is somewhat similar to St. Michael’s Mount, but the inside of the town reminds one more of those enormous ant hills which are found in Central Africa. The houses are built of mud, mixed with salt, with occasional large blocks of stone from the temples let into the walls. The builder works without a line, gradually adding to the wall, sitting astride the part which he has completed, so few of the walls are straight. Another architectural peculiarity is that owing to the necessity of constructing walls thicker at the base than at the top most of the houses, especially the minarets of the mosques, become narrower towards the summit. The houses are built one above the other against the face of the rock, and the outer walls form one great line of battlements, pierced by little groups of windows, encircling the town, and rising sheer above the ground, in some places to a height of almost 200 feet. The original site of the town was the summit and sides of two limestone rocks which rise abruptly from the level of the plain; but as the population increased more houses were built on the top of the old ones, and the town, instead of spreading, began to ascend into the air, house upon house, street upon street, and quarter upon quarter, till it became more like a bee-hive than a town. Fathers built houses for their sons above the parental abode, till their great-grandsons reached a dizzy height on the topmost battlements. The mud of which the walls were built gradually hardened and became almost of the consistency of the original rock.

In course of time the inside of the town has become a vast warren of houses connected by steep, twisting tunnels, very similar to the workings in a coal mine, where one needs to carry a light even in daytime, and two persons can scarcely walk abreast. This labyrinthine maze of dark, narrow passages, with little low doors of split palm logs opening into them from the tenements above, forms the old town of Siwa. In some places the walls are partly ruined and one gets little views of the green oasis, or the lower part of the town with its flat roofs and square enclosures, framed by the jagged ruined masonry. It took me nearly two years to know my way about this part of the town, at the expense of hitting my head many times against the palm log beams supporting the low roofs which are in most cases only about 5 feet high.

This human warren is surprisingly clean and free from the smells that one would expect in a place where there is such an absence of light and ventilation. One of the most curious things that one notices is the subdued hum of human voices, from invisible people, and the perpetual sound of stone-grinding mills, above, below and all around. When one meets people, groping along these tortuous passages, they loom into sight, silently, white robed, like ghosts, and pass with a murmured greeting to their gloomy homes. It is a great relief after stooping and slipping and barking one’s shins to reach the open roof on the highest tower of the town where, for a moment, the brilliant sunlight dazzles one’s eyes, accustomed to the murky gloom of the lower regions. When, on rare occasions, I had visitors, I used always to take them up to see the view from the highest battlements, with a few stout Sudanese Camel Corps men to help pull, push and propel the sightseers. But most of them, especially the elderly colonel type, were too hot and exhausted to appreciate the view when they finally arrived, so I eventually kept this “sight” for only the most active visitors.

High up in the heart of the town, in a little open space surrounded by tall grim houses, there is an ancient well cut out of the solid rock. It contains excellent water. Apparently there is a spring in the centre of the rock which supplies the well, and two smaller ones close by. Half-way down the well, about 30 feet from the top, just above the level of the water, there is a small entrance, wide enough to admit a boy, which leads into a narrow tunnel bored through the rock, terminating in the precincts of a mosque on the level ground. Nobody has traversed this passage for many years, owing to fear of snakes—which certainly exist, also jinns and afreets. The tunnel is about 150 yards long, and must have taken years to complete, but it is difficult to guess its original object. This old well is specially popular with women, as by drawing water here they can avoid going out to the springs where they would necessarily meet with men. Often when I passed out from the narrow entrance of a passage I would see a dozen women busy with their pitchers, veils cast aside, laughing and chattering—in a moment, like magic, every one would have silently vanished, and only the eyes peering from the adjoining windows would show any signs of life.

Below the old high town, huddled at the base of the mighty walls, there are more houses, and these, too, are surrounded by an outer wall. Beyond this more modern houses have been built when there was less fear of raids from hostile Arabs. Most of the sheikhs and the rich merchants have deserted the high town and built large, comfortable houses down below, or among the gardens in the adjoining suburbs of Sebukh and Manshia. Many of them have also country houses, where they retire in the summer when the heat in the town becomes intolerable, on their estates in different parts of the oasis. Residences of sheikhs and notables are distinguished by a strip of whitewash across the front, but woe betide a poor man if he decorates his house in a like manner. Tombs of sheikhs and holy men are whitewashed all over every year, at public expense. One of the most wealthy, and most unpopular, merchants covered the whole of his house with whitewash. This innovation caused grave disapproval among the conservative sheikhs of Siwa. They complained to me, saying that from time immemorial the notables had distinguished their houses by the strip of whitewash, but nobody had ever whitened the whole house—therefore nobody should! When a few days later some thieves broke into the “whitewashed sepulchre” and stole twelve pounds, the whole population agreed that it was a just retribution on unseemly pride.

The three date markets are large walled-in squares where every merchant and family have a space to spread their dates for sale; one of them is common, the other two belong to east and west respectively. There is a little house by the entrance of each market where an old Sudanese watchman lives, paid in kind by contributions from everybody who uses the market. In the autumn thousands of Arabs come from Egypt and the west to buy dates, which are considered among the best in Egypt. Round the markets there are enclosures for camels and lodgings for the Arabs, who are only tolerated in the town because they come to trade. At the height of the season there is a busy scene. Hundreds of white-robed Arabs wander among the heaps of red, brown and yellow dates, arguing and bargaining loudly, while their camels gurgle and snarl outside, and over everything there rises a swarm of flies. Half-naked negroes toil and sweat as they load the camels with white palm-leaf baskets pressed down and full with sticky dates. Lively diversions occur when a shrill-voiced she-camel shakes off her load and runs wildly through the crowd, scattering the people, with her long neck stretched out like an agitated goose. Arab ponies squeal and shriek, donkeys bray and the pariah dogs snarl and yelp. There is a custom in Siwa that anybody may eat freely from the dates in the markets, but nobody is allowed to take any away; so the beggars, who are very numerous, crawl in among the buyers, clutching greedily with filthy hands at the best dates, and adding their whining complaints to the general din. Also all the dogs, children, chickens, goats and pigeons feed from the dates before the owners sell them. The most popular form of date food is a sort of “mush,” which consists of a solid mass of compressed dates with most, but not all, of the stones removed. I used to like dates, but after an hour in the markets one never wishes to eat another.

The square white tomb of Sidi Suliman dominates the date markets. Although not actually a mosque it is the most venerated building in Siwa. Around it there are a few white tombstones, and on most nights the building is illuminated with candles burnt by votaries at the shrine of the saint. Close by there is a large unfinished mosque which was built by the ex-Khedive, who left off the work owing to lack of funds. Mosques in Siwa are conspicuous by their curious minarets, which remind one of small factory chimneys, or brick kilns; otherwise they are very similar to houses, except that they generally include a large court with a roof supported by mud pillars. In several of the mosques there are schools, and one sees a number of small boys sitting on the ground, with bored expressions, droning long verses of the Koran in imitation of the old sheikh who teaches them.

Lately the “Powers that Be” decided that a regular school would be beneficial to the youth of Siwa. With some difficulty I secured a building and a teacher. The school began in great style. Almost every boy in the town attended. They learnt reading and writing, and after sunset they did “physical jerks” and drill, marching round the market square, much to the admiration of their parents. But the novelty palled. Attendance diminished. Attendance at school was to be quite voluntary, so I could do nothing. In about a month it had ceased to exist, and the little boys sat again at the feet of the old sheikhs in the mosque schools. Such is the conservatism of Siwa.

Shopping in Siwa is very simple. Each shop is a general shop and contains exactly the same as the others. Prices do not vary, so one deals exclusively with one merchant; the shops are sprinkled about the town and the customers of each are the people who live nearest. The shops themselves are hardly noticeable. There is no display of goods, nothing in fact to distinguish a shop. One enters a little door and the room inside looks rather more like a storeroom than a living room; sometimes there is a rough counter, some shelves and a weighing machine, but measures consist mostly of little baskets which are recognized as containing certain quantities. The sacks and cases round the room contain flour, beans, tea, rice and sugar; in one corner there are some rolls of calico and a bundle of coloured handkerchiefs hung on a nail from the ceiling.

In the storeroom which opens out of the shop there are more sacks, tins of oil, and perhaps a bundle of bedouin blankets. Yet some of the Siwan merchants clear over a thousand pounds a year by their shops and a little trade in dates. Egyptian money is used, the silver being much preferred to the paper currency, and credit is allowed, which enables the merchants to obtain mortgages and eventually possession of some of their customers’ gardens.

The merchants’ wives attend to the lady customers. There is a side door in every shop which leads to an upper room, and here the Siwan ladies buy their clothes, served by the wife or mother of the merchant. Their purchases are mainly “kohl” for darkening the eyes, henna for ornamenting fingers and hands, silver ornaments, soft scarlet leather shoes and boots, blue cotton material manufactured at Kerdassa, near Gizeh, grey shawls, silks for embroidery, dyes for colouring baskets and very expensive flashy silk handkerchiefs made in Manchester, which they wear round their heads when indoors. Some of the merchants’ wives sell charms and amulets besides clothes. The women are very conservative in their fashions, only certain colours being worn. I once wanted a piece of green material to use in making a flag. I sent to every single shop in the town, but without success. However, it caused great excitement, and I heard, on the following day, that the gossips of the town had come to the conclusion that I was going to marry, and the green stuff was to be part of the lady’s trousseau. They were disappointed.

There is nothing in Siwa that compares with the gorgeous bazaars of Cairo, or the gaily decked shops in the markets of provincial towns. These dark little shops have no colour, only a queer, rather pleasant smell, a potpourri of incense, spices, herbs, onions, olive oil and coffee. Meat is bought direct from the butchers, who combine and kill a sheep or a camel. Sugar and tea are the most popular necessities on the market. During the war, and for some time after, there was a sugar shortage. The supply for Siwa arrived at the coast, but rarely reached the oasis. When a small quantity did reach Siwa it was bought up immediately, and the merchants who obtained it took to gross profiteering. The price of an oke (2½ lbs.) reached as much as 40 piastres (8s.), which in Egypt is an excessively high price. Eventually the sale of sugar was supervised by the Government and sugar tickets were issued. Even then there were cases of sugar being smuggled across the frontier to Tripoli, where the shortage was even more severe. Arabs or Siwans are simply miserable if they have to go without sugar in their tea. It makes them cross and tiresome, and they say themselves that it injures their health. For the rest people depend on their garden produce, on dates, onions, fruit and coarse native bread. The women make their own clothes, and generally their husbands’ too, sometimes weaving the wool for the long “jibbas,” worn by the working men, on rough handlooms. There is a carpenter in the town and several masons, but as a shopping “centre” Siwa is not much of a catch.

Although Siwan houses are unprepossessing from the outside their interiors are comparatively comfortable. What I personally objected to was the exceeding lowness of the doors, and yet the Siwans on the whole are tall. They told me that doors were made small for the sake of warmth. Roughly the houses are built on the usual Arab pattern; on the ground floor there are storerooms, stables, and servants’ quarters, upstairs there are guest-rooms, harem, and living rooms. The entrance hall has seats of mud similar to the walls, and is usually screened from sight by a corner inside the door. Stairs are steep and narrow with sudden sharp turnings; they are always pitch dark, as only the rooms in the outer walls receive any light. Each house consists of two or three storeys and above them there is an open roof, sometimes with several rooms built on to it. The old houses of the high town are different, only those on the topmost level have open roofs. The immense thickness of the walls makes the houses cool in summer when the temperature often reaches 112 degrees in the shade, and warm in winter when icy winds sweep down from the high desert plateau. The rooms in the houses of the better classes are large and high, lit by little square windows, which are made in groups of three, one above and two below in order not to put unnecessary strain on the masonry. Each window has four divisions with a shutter to each division; these shutters are kept open in summer-time. The windows are very low, a few feet above the level of the floor, which allows people sitting on the ground to see out of them. The ceilings are made of palm trunks covered with rushes and a layer of mud; the ends of the trunks, if they are too long, project outside the walls and serve as pegs on which to hang bundles of bones to avert the “Evil Eye.” Mud, which becomes as hard as cement, is used not only for the walls, but for the stairs, the divans, ovens, and most of the kitchen utensils. Old stone coffins, discovered near the temple or in some of the rock tombs, are utilized as water-troughs in most houses. The floors are covered with palm matting, and an occasional old Turkish or Persian carpet; the divans are furnished with a few cushions, white bolster-like objects, or beautifully stamped leather from the Sudan. The walls are whitewashed and sometimes ornamented with crude coloured frescoes, and in almost every room there are several heavy wooden chests, handsomely carved, sometimes of great age, which are used for keeping valuables. Occasionally one sees a couple of chairs and a round tin table, like those which are used outside cafes, but personally I have always felt much more comfortable sitting cross-legged on a heap of cushions near the window than perched up on a rickety chair above my hosts. A brass tray, a low round table, a few baskets and an earthenware lamp hanging on the wall, completes the furniture of a guest-room. I have spent many pleasant hours sitting in one of these high rooms looking out over the feathery palm trees and watching the colours change as the sun sank behind the mountains, gossiping to some old sheikh, puffing a cigarette, and drinking little cups of sweet, green tea.

[Illustration: THE WESTERN QUARTER FROM AN EASTERN ROOF]

In summer-time the people sleep on the flat roofs of their houses, which for that reason are surrounded by low mud walls to ensure privacy from the neighbours. They lie on the roofs, men, women and children, always with their faces covered from the moon, because they say moonlight on sleeping faces causes madness. In the daytime the women gossip on the housetops and carry on intrigues, for there is nothing easier than hopping over the walls from one roof to the other, and it is not considered _comme il faut_ for husbands to frequent the roofs in daytime. Often when I climbed up to the citadel and looked down over the town I saw a group of girls sitting on the roofs, generally singing and dressing each other’s hair. When they caught sight of an intruder watching them from above they bolted down the steep stairs like rabbits to their burrows. One sees real rabbits, too. Almost all the natives breed them, and for safety’s sake they are kept on the housetops.

One of the features of Siwa town are the “Dululas,” or sun shelters. They consist of spaces shaded from the sun by a roof of rushes and mud, supported by mud pillars. Often in the centre there is a stone basin containing water, which is kept always full at the expense of one of the sheikhs in memory of a deceased relation. Here the greybeards of the town assemble in the evenings, strangers sit and gossip when they visit the town, and the Camel Corps men wander through to hear the latest news. It is a sort of public club, and one hears even more gossip than at a club at home. The largest of these sun shelters has become a little market, and a few decrepit old men spread out their wares in its shade—a few baskets, a dozen onions, an old silk, tattered waistcoat and some red pepper would be the stock-in-trade of one of these hawkers. What they say in the “suk” corresponds to the “bazaar talk” in India, and it is incredible how soon the most secret facts are known there.

The Siwans are a distinct race quite apart from the Arabs of the Western Desert, but in appearance they differ very slightly from their bedouin neighbours. Owing to their isolated dwelling-place they have retained their original language, which appears to be an aboriginal Berber dialect. They are unquestionably the remnants of an aboriginal people of Berber stock, but constant intermarriage with outsiders has obliterated any universal feature in their appearance, and through intermarriage with Sudanese they have acquired a darker complexion and in some few cases negroid features. On the whole one does not see the Arab type, or the Fellah, or the Coptic type among the Siwans.

The men are tall and powerfully built, with slightly fairer complexions than the Arabs. In some cases they have light straight hair and blue eyes, and one whole family has red hair and pink cheeks, though they themselves do not know where this originated. Most of the younger men are singularly ugly and have a fierce and bestial expression, but with age they improve, and the elders of the town are pleasant, dignified-looking men, though effeminate in their manners. The children are pallid and unhealthy in appearance. The Siwans have high cheek-bones, straight noses, and short, weak chins. They are very conceited and think much of their looks; on feast days even the oldest men darken their eyes with “kohl” and soak themselves with evil-smelling scent.

The wealthy Siwans wear the usual Arab dress—white robes, a long silk shawl twisted round the body and flung over one shoulder, a soft red, blue-tasselled cap and yellow leather shoes. On gala days they appear in brilliant silks from Cairo, and coloured robes from Tripoli and Morocco, but on ordinary occasions the predominating colour is white. The servants and labourers, who form the bulk of the population, and include many Sudanese who were brought from the south as slaves, wear a long white shirt, white drawers, a skull cap and sometimes a curious sack-like garment made of locally spun wool ornamented by brightly coloured patterns in silk or dye. Siwa is the only place in Egypt where one does not see the natives apeing European dress or slouching about in khaki trousers or tunics—remnants of the Egyptian Expeditionary Force.

The women are small and slender, and very pale owing to the inactivity of strict seclusion. The palest women are the most admired. Their large black eyes are ornamented with “kohl,” and their small hands are tinted with henna. In public they wear a universal dress which is quite distinctive. It consists of a dark blue striped robe, reaching below the knees, with full sleeves, cut square and embroidered round the neck, white drawers with a strip of embroidery round the ankles, and a large square grey shawl with a dark blue border, which covers them when they go abroad. Their ornaments consist of innumerable silver ear-rings, with bunches of silver chains and little bells, silver bangles, anklets, and necklaces. An unmarried girl is distinguished by a “virginity disc,” which is an engraved silver disc about the size of a saucer, suspended round the neck by a heavy silver ring. These rings are generally very old and beautifully engraved with arabesques. When a Siwan woman is wearing all her silver ornaments she tinkles like a tinsmith’s cart, but her husband poetically compares her to a caparisoned pony. Their general appearance is quite pleasing, but they are very unlike the handsome, healthy-looking Arab women of the coast.

At home the wealthier women wear coloured silks and richer clothes. They wear their straight black hair thickly oiled and dressed in a complicated coiffure. A fringe of short curls hangs above the eyes, and a number of plaited braids are worn on each side of the face, like the fringe of a mop. Strips of scarlet leather are twisted into the tresses, which must always be of an uneven number, and on the ends of the leather are hung silver bells, rings and amulets. One of the first travellers to Siwa remarked on the strength of an ear that could bear such heavy silver ear-rings, but instead of hanging from the actual ear the rings are fastened to a leather band across the top of the head. All the material for women’s clothes is made by one family of Egyptian merchants at Kerdassa, near the Pyramids. One brother has a shop in Siwa, and the others live in Egypt. Owing to this the price of clothing is very great, yet none of the Siwan merchants have ever considered setting up an opposition trade.

Women of the upper classes rarely appear in public during the day, except at funerals, when hundreds of them squat round the house, like a crowd of grey crows, howling and shrieking. When one rides past they hop up from the ground and run a few steps, with long grey shawls trailing behind them on the ground, and then they squat down again, like vultures scared off a carcase. They never work in the fields or drive the flocks to pasturage like the Arab women, or the fellahin, but occupy themselves in making baskets, or pottery, and in household duties. When one woman calls on another she wears all the clothes she possesses, and gradually discards them in order to impress the people she is visiting with her wealth. When I met a woman in the streets she would scuttle into the nearest doorway, or if there was not one handy she would pull a shawl over her face and flatten herself against a wall; even hideous old harridans affected an ecstasy of shyness on seeing an Englishman. Hardly any of the women can speak Arabic, and it is owing to their strange secretive lives that the Siwans have retained their language and are so unprogressive to-day. They resolutely oppose all innovations, refusing even the help and advice of the Egyptian Government doctor. It is to their influence as mothers that the women owe what power they have, because Siwan men care very little for their wives. Most men keep one wife only at a time, but they often marry as many as twenty or thirty, if they can afford to, divorcing each one when she ceases to please.

The Siwans are typically Oriental. They are hospitable, dishonest, lazy, picturesque, ignorant, superstitious, cheerful, cunning, easily moved to joy or anger, fond of intrigue and ultra conservative. They are not immoral, they simply have no morals. The men are notoriously degenerate and resemble in their habits the Pathans of India. They seem to consider that every vice and indulgence is lawful. It is strange that these people who are among the most fanatical Mohammedans of Africa should have become the most vicious. Yet most of the Siwans are Senussi, members of that Mohammedan sect which corresponds in a way to the Puritanism of Christianity. It advocates a simple and abstemious life, and condemns severely smoking, drinking and luxury. Yet the most religious sheikhs are generally the most flagrantly outrageous.

In spite of their unenviable reputation the Siwans are quite satisfied with themselves, and speak with tolerant pity of the Arabs and the Sudanese. The Siwan Sudanese have become like their original masters, and do not seem to object to being called “slaves,” but there are constantly furious rows between the natives and the Camel Corps originating with the word “slave” being used with reference to the latter. The Arabs, and to a greater extent the Siwans, consider themselves very superior to the Sudanese who, until quite recently, they could buy and sell.

The population is divided into two classes, the one consisting of the sheikhs, merchants and landowners, the other of the servants and labourers. The former class is an all-powerful minority. There is no middle class. There is also a religious division; the Senussi predominate in numbers, but the Medinia sect is the richest. The latter sect is said to be the successor of the Wahhabi confraternity; it is connected with the Dirkawi, which was founded by Sheikh Arabi el Dirkawi. It was established about one hundred years ago by Sheikh Zafer el Medani, who was born at Medina in Arabia. His doctrines found favour in Tripoli and were adopted by the Siwans some time before the arrival of the Senussi, and Sheikh Zafer himself visited Siwa on several occasions. The two sects are very similar. The Medinia have still several religious centres in Egypt and Tripoli, but they lost ground considerably on the advent of Senussiism. In spite of their similarities the two sects are by no means well disposed to each other. Membership is hereditary, and no one has been known to change from one party to the other. They have their own mosques, sheikhs and funds, and on religious festivals they hold their meetings in different parts of the town. I used always to make a point of visiting the gatherings of each sect. There are two other less important religious bodies known as the “Arusia” and the “Sudania,” but they only consist of a few dozen old men who perform strange dances on festivals in honour of their particular saints. The Siwans are very religious, more so than the average Arab, but this is probably owing to the fact that their mosques are conveniently near, and if one is absent from mosque the neighbours notice, and talk about it! One has heard of such things at home.

The prosperity of the people depends almost entirely on the date harvest. The date groves, which form the wealth of the oasis, are watered by some two hundred fresh-water springs. The water rises through natural fissures, or artificial bore-holes, from a sandstone bed about 400 feet below the surface. The largest springs, such as the “Fountain of the Sun,” measure as much as 50 yards in diameter, with a depth of about 40 feet. Each basin is fed by a group of little water-holes, and the water comes up from the ground sometimes in continuous streams of bubbles, and sometimes with sudden bursts, so the surface seems constantly moving. There is a theory that an underground river flows east towards the Nile and its water comes to the surface in the various oases between Egypt and Tripoli. The fact that Siwa lies considerably below the level of the desert plateau, and even below sea-level, supports this theory. Or possibly the water comes from the high desert plateau north of Siwa, where there is a heavy rainfall; but the water supply never varies, and has never been known to run dry. The water in the springs differs considerably. In some it is very brackish, in others it is quite sweet, and some springs are flavoured with sulphur; again, some springs are warm, and others are several degrees colder, so one can chose a bathing-place, hot or cold, according to inclination. Many springs, often the sweetest ones, rise a few feet away from the salt marshes, and one spring, which used to be salt, has now become sweet. The largest springs are edged to a certain depth with squared stones and blocks of masonry, which looks as if it might have been finished yesterday, though it was probably built almost a thousand years ago. The basins are generally round, shaded by a ring of palm trees, beyond which lie the gardens.

The sides of the basins have been gradually built higher and higher, so that the surface of the water is now several feet above the level ground, and little brooks run down from the spring heads into the gardens in all directions. They are regulated by rough sluice gates, made generally of a large flat stone, which is removed to allow the water to flow, and replaced, with a plaster of mud, when the water is no longer needed. Each spring forms the nucleus of a garden which belongs to a number of different people. The gardens are divided into little beds of a uniform size, about 8 feet square, lying an inch or two lower than the level of the ground. These beds are known as “hods.” When the water is flowing the labourer goes in turn to each “hod” and scoops a passage with his hands connecting the “hod” with the water channel, which is on a higher level, then he makes a rough dam across the channel so that the water flows into the “hod” and fills it; afterwards he closes the entrance of the “hod” with a handful of mud, pushes aside the mud dam, and the stream flows on to the next “hod,” where the same thing occurs. I have seen little boys at the seaside doing just the same sort of thing. In some cases two water channels cross, and then one of them flows through a hollowed palm trunk.

The cultivation round every spring is made up of a number of gardens owned by different men, some of them consisting of no more than half a dozen palm trees and a couple of “hods.” All the ground is watered by the central spring, so a careful water system has been evolved by which the water is divided and portioned out to each piece of garden. For each spring there is a ponderous tome called “Daftar el Ain”—the Book of the Spring, which records the exact quantity of water, or rather the time of water, that each garden is allowed. This is followed with the greatest care by the Keeper of the Spring, who regulates the irrigation, and is paid by the owners of the adjoining garden in proportion to the number of trees that they own. Each day is divided into two halves, from sunrise to sunset, and sunset to sunrise; this again is subdivided into eighths, and each subdivision is called a “wagabah.” Thus if Osman Daud’s garden receives an allowance of four “wagabah” every other day, it means that he receives the full strength of the water from the springs for twelve hours on consecutive days.

When one buys a garden the water rights are included, but men often sell part of their water right to a neighbour, this, of course, being recorded in the Book of the Spring, which is kept by one of the sheikhs. The “Ghaffir el Ain,” or Guardian of the Spring, takes his time from the call of the muezzin, or in distant gardens by the sun and the stars. At night a special muezzin calls from one of the mosques for the benefit of the watchmen on the springs out in the gardens. The system has been in force for so many centuries that there are very rarely any disputes on the subject. All questions are referred to the books, which serve also as records of ownership of the gardens.

Each Siwan, however poor, keeps a book of his own in which he enters, or rather pays a scribe to record, an account of his property. It states the boundaries, number of trees and water rights of his garden. When a man buys a garden he writes down the particulars in his “daftar,” and this is signed by the person who sold the garden, and witnessed by several responsible sheikhs or “nas tayebin”—respectable people. This entry serves as a title-deed for the purchase. When I was at Siwa there was a lengthy and involved law case about the ownership of some property, in which one party, in order to prove inheritance, forged an entry in his “daftar.” But cases of forgery were not frequent—fortunately, as they added considerable complications to an already difficult case.

There is more water in Siwa than is required for irrigating the gardens, and in many cases sweet water flows to waste among the salt marshes. The Siwans are unenterprising. They only cultivate just sufficient for their own needs, and not always that: they only work in the gardens where the soil, after centuries of watering and manuring, has become very rich. They grow a very little wheat and barley, but not enough to supply the population, who depend on imported barley from the coast, yet there are many fertile plots of land which would raise corn, and which could easily be irrigated. Lack of labour and implements is their excuse when one questions them, but in the spring numbers of Siwans go up to the coast and hire themselves out to the bedouins as labourers, preferring to work on the coast instead of increasing the cultivation in their oasis.

The palm groves of Siwa are very beautiful. It seems a veritable Garden of Hesperides when one arrives there after a long trek on the waterless desert which surrounds the oasis. One appreciates the slumberous shade of the luxuriant gardens, long, lazy bathes in the deep cool springs, and feasts of fruit on the banks of little rushing streams. Perhaps it is not surprising that the Siwans are lazy and indolent, for their country is in many ways a land of Lotus Eaters. The natives have a happy-go-lucky Omar Khayyámish outlook on life which is accentuated by the place they inhabit.

The gardens consist mainly of date groves with some olive orchards. But among the date palms there are many other trees—figs, pomegranates, pears, peaches, plums, apricots, apples, prickly pears, limes and sweet lemons. The numerous vineyards produce quantities of exceptionally fine grapes, which last for several months and are so plentiful that large quantities rot on the branches. The natives are not very fond of them and no wine is made in Siwa, except “araki,” which is distilled from ripe dates. Dates and a little olive oil are the only exports, and it is on the produce of the date palms that the life of the people depends. The poorer Siwans live almost entirely on dates; the beams and the doors of the houses are made from palm trunks; mats, baskets and fences are made from palm fronds; saddle crossbars are made from the wood; saddle packing consists of the thick fibre, the branches are used for fuel; the young white heart of the budding leaves is eaten as a special delicacy, and the sap of the palm makes “lubki,” a drink which is much liked by natives. The wealth of the whole community is derived from the sale of dates, so it is not surprising that they watch anxiously in springtime to see if the crop will be a good one. Generally, on alternate years, there is a good crop, then a fair crop, and when dates are plentiful olives are few. Nature seems to have made this careful arrangement.

The cultivation of dates is by no means as simple as it would appear. The trees need careful watering, manuring and trimming, and one notices very clearly the difference in crops from well or badly cared for gardens. In the early spring the work of artificial pollination is carried out by special men who are skilled in the process. A branch is cut from the male date tree, which bears no fruit, sharpened, and thrust into the trunk of the female tree. Unless this is done to every tree the fruit becomes small and worthless. There are about 170,000 trees, each of which bears, after the fifth year, an average of three hundred pounds of fruit. Little attention is paid to the other fruits which deteriorate from lack of pruning, but with a little trouble and proper methods they would improve. Formerly the oasis produced rice, oranges, bananas and sugar canes, but these no longer grow as they needed more trouble to cultivate. Only dates and olives are sold, and it is considered very shameful for a man to sell other fruit; the same idea applies to milk. Siwans either eat fruit themselves, give it to their friends, or let it rot; only the very poor natives sell any. I had considerable difficulty in getting a regular supply, but eventually I accepted “gifts” daily from certain men, and repaid them with sugar, which they liked, though if I had offered them money they would have considered themselves grievously insulted.

While at Siwa I dried large quantities of figs and apricots—mish-mish—which were very successful, and especially useful for taking out on trek when fresh fruit is unobtainable. None of the natives had attempted drying fruit, though the excessive heat and the flat roofs offer excellent opportunities, and quite an industry could be developed in this way. A variety of vegetables are grown, but only by a very few people. The most common are onions, watercress, radishes, pepper, cucumbers, gherkins, egg fruit, mint, parsley and garlic.

The gardens are manured with dry leaves and dried bundles of a thorny plant called “argoul,” which grows about the oasis and is much liked by camels. Bundles of it are cut and left for some months to dry, and finally dug into the soil round the fruit trees. The streets, markets and stables are all swept carefully, and the manure is sold to owners of gardens. The contents of public and private latrines are all collected and used as manure in the gardens. It is a good system, as it ensures sanitary arrangements being promptly carried out. The soil of Siwa is strongly impregnated with salt. In many places there are stretches of “sebukh” which consists of earth hardened by a strong proportion of salt which feels, and looks, like a ploughed field after a black frost. It is almost impassable, and the occasional deep water-holes, hidden by a layer of thin soil, make walking as dangerous as it is difficult. Two large salt lakes lie one on the east and one on the west of the town. The water in these lakes rises irregularly during the winter months, and subsides in the summer, leaving a glistening white surface of pure salt which looks exactly like ice, especially in places where the dark water shows between cracks in the salt. One can lift up white slabs of salt in the same way as ice, and send a piece skimming across the surface, like stones on a frozen pond at home. Sometimes there are deep pools in the midst of the marshes where the white salt and the vivid blue sky combine to colour the water with the most brilliant greens and blues. Causeways built by the natives traverse the marshes, and by these alone it is possible to cross them. In ancient days the Ammonians sent a tribute of salt to the kings of Persia, and such was the quality of the salt that it was used for certain special religious rites. The glitter of the salt lakes in the middle of the day is intensely trying to the eyes, but at sunset they reflect and seem to exaggerate every colour of the brilliant sky.

The salt lakes, the numerous springs, and the stagnant water lying about the gardens bred mosquitoes and fevers. Formerly this low-lying oasis was a hotbed of typhoid and malaria. Its evil reputation was known to the bedouins who never stayed there a day longer than was necessary, and even now they speak of almost every fever as “Siwan fever.” The natives themselves attributed the fever to fruit, and still call it “mish-mish fever,” owing to its prevalence during the season when apricots are ripe. But nowadays conditions are enormously improved. Typhoid is practically unknown, the malarial mosquito has been banished from Siwa, though it still swarms in the neighbouring oases; several thousand pounds has been spent by the Egyptian Government in draining and filling up stagnant pools, and fish have been imported by the Ministry of Health which breed in the springs and feed upon the mosquitoes’ eggs. The town is kept clean and there are very strict regulations about sanitation, and thousands of sugar-coated quinine tablets are distributed to the people each week. They have discovered now just how much of the sugar can be licked off before the quinine begins to taste. The result is that since the war there have been very few new cases of malaria, though many of the people are so sodden with fever that it is impossible to cure them.

[Illustration: CLEANING TAMOUSY SPRING]

It is supposed that the fever is a form of malaria, but when I got it myself, very badly, and had several blood tests taken in Cairo, no germ of any known fever was found. The same thing happened to three other Englishmen who caught the fever in Siwa. So far no careful analysis has been made of the disease, which is spoken of as “malaria” because it is certain that malaria exists in the oasis.

Each spring in Siwa is cleaned out once in every two years in the summer-time. On these occasions the owners of the gardens give a free meal to the labourers, and a luncheon party to their friends. It is a popular and pleasant entertainment. Almost all the men in the town turn out and work in relays of fifty or a hundred, baling out the water from the springs with old kerosene tins, leather buckets and earthenware pitchers. It is a slow proceeding; some of the largest springs take several days to finish, and the work must be continuous, as the basins are continually filling. The men and boys, covered with mud, shout and sing as they work, every now and then diving into the water and swimming round. Every man, woman and child in Siwa can swim, and most of them are expert divers. The women swim like dogs, with much splashing, but the men are very good. A pump would drain a well in a single day and save much labour and wasted time. As the water sinks masons and carpenters repair the sides of the basin, fitting in new stones and patching up old ones. A curious custom terminates these occasions. Each guest and labourer is presented by the owners of the spring with a handful of berseem—clover—as a partial payment for his labour. When the men ride home in the evening they twist the clover in wreaths round their heads and round the donkeys’ ears, then, when they arrive at the town, the donkeys are allowed to eat it.

One of the “characters” of Siwa, always very much in evidence on these occasions, was an old, half-witted man known as “Sultan Musa.” He suffered from a delusion that he was the Sultan of Siwa, but I fancy that he was trifle less foolish than he pretended to be. He played the part of court jester at all entertainments. The Siwans found him intensely comic; they asked him questions—how old was he, how many wives, and what he had done; when he mumbled that he was 100 years old and had 20 wives, and various other domestic details, they simply shrieked with laughter. I got heartily sick of the old imbecile and announced that I did not wish to see him when I went anywhere. Sometimes when I arrived at a party I would catch sight of him being hurriedly bundled out of sight, and later I heard the servants in the background laughing hilariously at his dreary witticisms.

A few days after my arrival at Siwa I received an invitation to a luncheon in the garden of one of the leading sheikhs. The messenger announced that Sheikh Thomi would call for me at eight o’clock on the following morning; I wondered at the hour—but accepted the invitation. The next morning, while shaving before breakfast, I was disturbed by a terrific hullabaloo. My dogs, who strongly object to unknown natives, a trait which I encouraged, were circling furiously round a party of Siwans who sat on their donkeys below the house. My servants went out and rescued them, explaining that I would be down soon; a few minutes later I joined them. After many salutations and polite inquiries I was introduced to the other guests, a crafty-looking, one-eyed merchant, two venerable, white-bearded sheikhs and several notables of the town. They were all dressed very distinctly in their best, wearing coloured silks or spotless white robes. Sheikh Thomi, a cheerful, rotund little man, with the reputation of being the richest sheikh in Siwa, wore a long white burnous and a gorgeously embroidered scarlet silk scarf, and rode a big black donkey with a satanic expression. I was offered the choice of a number of donkeys. I picked out the largest one, and off we went. The donkeys have no bridles or reins; one steers them by beating their necks with a stick, and very occasionally they go the way one wants them to. Mine was the fastest, so I led the cavalcade, hoping that my mount was sure-footed. We dashed through the town with a tremendous clatter and a cloud of dust, scattering children, hens and old women, out on to the roads, and then for a mile or so at a hard gallop towards some gardens. My donkey knew the way. We arrived at the garden as it was beginning to grow hot, and were met at the entrance by a troop of servants who took the donkeys.

Sheikh Thomi led me, slightly dishevelled, through a thick palm grove, followed by the rest of the party, to a large summer-house built of logs and thatch, set on the edge of a round spring from whose green-blue depths constant streams of silver bubbles rose to the surface. Little green frogs swam in the water and numbers of scarlet dragon-flies hovered over it. The walls of the summer-house were hung with gaily striped Tripoli blankets—vermilion, white and green—the floor was covered with beautiful old Persian carpets, and cushions were ranged round the sides. Through the open ends of the building I saw long vistas of palm trunks, and the sun caught the scarlet blossoms of the pomegranates and the shining, purple grapes on their trellis frames. The air was heavy with the scent of orange blossom and “tamar-el-hindi,” and the deep shade inside the hut was a welcome relief. Outside the white-robed servants hurried to and fro, carrying baskets and dishes, while two boys, in the distance, sang curious Siwan songs, answering each other back as they swung to and fro high up on two palm trees. Sheikh Thomi, with much whispering and smiling, went outside. I leant back on my cushions lulled by “the liquid lapse of murmuring streams,” thinking how absolutely Eastern the whole scene was.

Suddenly—to my horror—I heard a hideous grinding sound and a shrill, raucous voice with a pronounced American accent began singing, “Waiting for the Robert E. Lee,” a tune which I always object to. It was a gramophone, very old and decrepit, the most prized possession of Sheikh Thomi. I tried to look as if I enjoyed the tune, which was played over and over again for about half an hour, and followed by some slightly less repulsive records of native music.

After listening to this musical interlude a servant brought in a bunch of pink and white sweetly scented China roses which were distributed among the guests, and then the meal began. A dozen boys served as waiters, carrying the dishes from an open-air fire round the corner where several cooks presided over the food. At first it was suggested that I should eat alone, in solitary state, but I protested, so Sheikh Thomi and three others ate with me, while the rest of the guests retired outside to eat later, probably with more ease in my absence. We sat cross-legged on the ground, a position that without considerable practice causes the most agonising “pins and needles.” The meal was eaten almost in silence, broken only by the noisy sounds of eating.

A round wooden table was placed in the centre, and each guest was provided with several flat round wheaten loaves, which served as plates, and some strips of thin native bread, which looks rather like pancake, only darker and more solid. The meal consisted mostly of mutton, cooked in various ways—boiled, fried and stewed—with different kinds of vegetables, salads, spices, curries and flavourings. One of the dishes, a very excellent one, was stewed doves, eaten with fresh grapes. The pudding was the least appetising dish on the menu, it was made of crumbled bread, mixed into a sticky mass with “semna” oil and sugar. There were about a dozen courses. Each one was brought in in a big dish of polished ebony and placed on the table. The guests ate from the central dish, using the thin bread to pick up the meat. One takes a piece of thin bread between finger and thumb, dips into the dish, sandwiching the meat in the bread. It sounds a messy proceeding, but after a little practice I found it quite simple. Servants brought round a brass ewer, and each guest washed his hands after every course; the Siwans also rinsed their mouths—noisily. Every now and then some one would fish out an extra succulent morsel and hand it to me, or if one man had secured a tasty bone he would tear off the meat and heap it on to my loaf. Towards the end of the meal a few loud hiccoughs are not considered amiss, and to loosen one’s belt, very obviously, is thought most complimentary. One needs it too!

The food was very good, excellently cooked, and so tender that there was no difficulty in separating the meat from the bones. When I thought, and felt, that we had finished, there followed an enormous dish heaped high with perfectly plain boiled rice. This is called “Shawish”—The Sergeant—because it clears away the other dishes! Afterwards an enormous copper tray was carried in by two boys loaded with every kind of fruit—plums, peaches, pears, grapes, apricots and figs. Last of all came tea, and bowls of palm wine for those who liked it. It is made from the sap of the date palm, and when freshly drawn it tastes like sweet ginger-beer, but a little goes a very long way.

Tea-drinking in Siwa is as solemn a ceremony as after-dinner port at home. The host either dispenses it himself, or as a compliment invites one of the guests to pour out. Towards the end of my time at Siwa I was thought to have acquired sufficient experience, and occasionally I poured out myself. The guest invariably pretends to refuse, protests that he is not worthy, but eventually accepts the honour. The pourer-out is called the “Sultan” of the party, and every “Sultan” tries to make the best tea in the town. People are very critical, and opinions vary as to who is the super Sultan in Siwa. As soon as the “Sultan” takes over the job he becomes, for the time, master of the house. He calls loudly for more sugar, boiling water, and scolds the servants as if they were his own. If he doesn’t like the quality of the tea, he says so and the host apologises. A servant brings a low table with a number of little glasses about 4 inches high, a locked chest containing three divisions for red and green tea, and sugar, and a bowl of hot water to rinse the cups. One is asked which kind of tea is preferred, red or green, and the safest and most popular reply is “A mixture of both.” The “Sultan” then very deliberately rinses the glasses from a kettle of boiling water which stands on a little brazier at his side, measures out the tea into the pot, adds a little water, pours it away, then carefully makes the tea, pours out a little, tastes it, and finally, if he approves of the flavour, hands one glassful to each guest. The tea is drunk with no milk; the first brew is rather bitter, with a very little sugar, the second is very sweet, and the third, and best, is flavoured with rose petals, orange blossom, or fresh mint. Each guest drinks one glass only of each brew, and what is over is poured out and sent to the servants, or into the harem. It should be sipped noisily, and satisfaction expressed in the sound of drinking. One drinks either three glasses, six, or nine. I have known twelve, but that is considered rather an excess in polite society. Personally I consider it one of the best drinks I know, but at first people dislike it.

The Siwans are greedy, when they get the chance, and on these occasions their appetites are enormous. They have the greatest admiration for anyone who eats copiously. A certain Government official, whose fondness for large meals was famous, came down to Siwa. He attended a luncheon party, which was given in his honour by some of the sheikhs. The meal was a matter of some dozen or fifteen courses. I myself, by using the greatest discretion, and only eating a few mouthfuls of each dish, managed to last out. But the guest of the day took, and ate, a liberal helping of each course. The Siwans themselves became a trifle languid towards the end of the meal, but he persevered. Even the plain boiled rice did not daunt him, or the sticky oily pudding. It earned him an everlasting admiration in Siwa, and his name is always mentioned at Siwan parties as a really fine fellow, “The Englishman who ate of everything.”

Meat is difficult to get in the oasis. When a bedouin convoy arrives the Arabs often slaughter and sell a camel. There are a few sheep and goats imported from the coast, but the price of meat makes it impossible for the poorer folk to buy it. I had with me a number of dogs. One of them, an attractive mongrel, produced a litter of pups. Several people asked me to give them one, and I did so. I was pleased to see how well their new owners looked after them; they appeared even fatter and fitter than when I had them. Then I went into Cairo on local leave. When I returned, about a month or so later, I inquired after the puppies. One of the men who had taken one told me, “They were fine, so fat and so large——” But “Where are they now?” I asked. He looked surprised, pointed to his stomach, which was a very obvious one, and explained that they had all been eaten last month on the “Eid el Kebir,” one of the Mohammedan festivals. He said that nobody could ever imagine that I had given them away for any other reason than for eating. There was nothing to be done, but I never gave away another puppy. I drowned the next litter, and it was considered extremely wasteful.

The Siwans eat cats too, and mice and rats. At one time there were many cats in Siwa and no rats. Now there are rats but no cats. Cats were easier to catch than rats, so they went first. One man, a merchant, complained that his house and shop was overrun with mice and rats. He had gone to great trouble and brought a cat from Egypt, but as soon as it was full grown it disappeared! Dogs are considered “unclean” by the Mohammedan religion, and they are never eaten in any other places in Egypt.

Dogs are useful at Siwa both as watch-dogs and companions. My dogs used to sleep on the high terrace of the house, and they always gave one warning of anybody coming over the half mile of sand from the town. Besides, dogs are the most human and affectionate of all animals, and one gets to feel the need of companionship at Siwa. It is a solitary life. One either likes it or hates it; there is no compromise, and most men hate it. Sometimes one does not see a single white man for several months, and then, when a car patrol arrives, they stay a few hours in the town and dash back on the same day. One needs a certain temperament to stand living at Siwa. In the summer the heat is so great that one does not go out much in the middle of the day, unless there is urgent necessity, consequently for many hours every day there is nothing to do. If one sleeps much in the daytime one is unable to sleep at night. A man at Siwa must have some form of hobby in which he can interest himself without needing the assistance of other people. Painting, writing, photography and reading all serve the purpose. I mention them as they formed my own spare-time occupations. But without something of this kind life becomes unbearable. It is an ideal place for painting and photography. The strangely varied scenery, the brilliant sunshine, the picturesque natives, and the wonderful colouring, especially the sunsets, provide a variety of subjects on every side. Siwan men quite enjoy being photographed, but the women strongly dislike it. Eventually by teaching my Sudanese servant to use a camera I managed to secure a few indifferent photos of women. When one “snaps” people they immediately demand a copy of the photo, imagining that the camera is also a simultaneous printer and developer.

According to the proverb “Two is company, three is none,” but I think most men who have experienced it would agree that in an isolated district three is generally company and two is purgatory. The odds are one in a thousand that “the other man” will be congenial, and if he is not life is insufferable. If there is a third man things feel better, but to live for months on end with one other man, who one does not really like, results in mutual detestation. This may sound morbid and unnatural, but one sees so many examples. I knew two quite ordinary normal men posted in a lonely district where they rarely saw another Englishman. For the first month they lived together quite happily, in the second month they quarrelled, in the third month they took to living in separate houses, and at the end of four months they were not on speaking terms! Then there are other men who cannot stand living alone. They have no personal occupation, they become depressed, take to whiskey in large quantities—or worse, and therein lies the way to madness.

Then there is the question of marriage. In most cases the authorities do not encourage, or rather do not allow, men to marry. They very reasonably consider that married men are unsuitable for desert work; they either leave their wives in Egypt, and worry about them, which is not surprising, or they manage to “wangle” a permission out of the powers that be and take their wives out to the desert. Then, of course, a married man is stationed in a pleasanter place than one who has no wife. It is a difficult problem, and in most cases results in men wasting the prime of their life in a bachelor condition on the desert.

But one was kept fairly busily employed at Siwa. A considerable part of the work consisted in judging cases, similar to the duties of a magistrate at home (this, to my mind, was the most interesting part of the routine); also there was a section of Camel Corps to keep in training, and the local police. I went out on patrol for a few days every month, but after once exploring the whole neighbourhood these “treks” were not exciting. Most of the law cases were not of great interest; they consisted mainly of petty thefts, assaults and infringement of Government regulations. Divorce and questions of inheritance were not supposed to be dealt with by me, as they came before a special Mohammedan court, whose representative, an old kadi, went on circuit every year, though he always avoided Siwa, owing to the tedious journey and the huge file of cases that were waiting for his decision. The Siwans knew almost to the penny how much they would have to give him for a favourable decision on any case.

Sometimes, however, I did get curious cases, and the following one illustrates the social conditions in the town.

A young Siwan woman called Booba, about fifteen years old, after a series of very varied matrimonial experiences, married an Arab who was settled in the town. Although she had been married many times she was considered a very respectable person and related to one of the leading sheikhs. Divorce is considered no disgrace, and a divorced woman does not lose caste as in other parts of the country. Very soon the Arab husband died. This occurred in January, by the end of March she had married again; this time her husband was a Siwan merchant. He quickly grew tired of her and divorced her after a month of married life, but he treated her well and paid the residue of her marriage money to her brother who was her nearest male relation. She returned to her brother’s family, who were by no means pleased to see her. Being an exceptionally good-looking girl she was courted again by another man, the young son of a sheikh, who was considered rather a “catch.” He married her in June, and very soon after she gave birth to a child. As the child was a girl, the husband divorced her two days after its birth. The wretched woman was turned out of the house in the night by her late mother-in-law. She managed to get to her own home, but her brother’s wife refused to let her in. The brother himself was away. Eventually she found a lodging with an old woman, a relative of one of the earlier husbands, who had, it seemed, some liking for the girl. While staying here the child died—possibly from exposure, possibly from other reasons.

Immediately the families of the last three husbands hurried to give information against her, and charged her with murdering the child. The doctor examined it and found signs of possible suffocation. I listened for several days to the evidence of a number of witnesses, mostly repulsive old women who enlarged with horrid keenness on the most disagreeable details. But eventually nothing was proved, and the girl was acquitted. It was a disagreeable case, but one could almost find parallels to it in the English police-court news.

Female witnesses at Siwa were very difficult to manage. They never spoke or understood any Arabic, so the six sheikhs, who acted as a jury, interpreted for them. I used to sit on a platform at one end of the room, and the six sheikhs occupied a bench along one side. Women pretended to hate coming into the court-house, but I think they really rather enjoyed it. The orderly, one of the police, would firmly propel the lady into the middle of the room, she being completely covered from head to foot with clothes. As soon as the orderly retired she sidled over to the wall and propped herself against it, generally with her back turned on me. The sheikhs would remonstrate, “For shame, turn round Ayesha, daughter of Osman, and speak to the noble officer.” The lady would wriggle round a little and allow one eye to appear through the drapery. When questioned she mumbled inaudible replies, growing slightly more coherent if she was personally concerned in the case, but if there was another woman giving evidence she would gradually lower her veils, speak louder, and finally show her whole face as she shrieked abuse at her opponent—quite regardless of the eyes of the court. The sheikhs were invaluable on these occasions; it would have been very difficult to work without them.

One woman, who sued her neighbour for throwing stones at her hens, disturbed the court considerably. When she was led in by the policeman she appeared particularly cumbered with clothes. Suddenly a terrific disturbance began among her shawls and draperies; she gave a shrill squeal and two hens disentangled themselves from her clothes and dashed madly round the court-house. Two of my dogs, who were lying at my feet, sprang after the birds and chased them round the room, which plunged the proceedings into the wildest confusion. The woman had carried in the hens intending to confront her opponent, at the critical moment, with the injured victims. Judging from their activity they had not been much injured.

One man, Bashu Habun, son of the old sheikh who was hanged, caused more legal work than the whole of the rest of the population together. He spent his time appropriating the property of one of his brothers who was in prison. The brother had an agent in Siwa, a foolish old sheikh called Soud, who was too honest, or stupid, to withstand the sly cleverness of Bashu Habun. At one time there were seven cases between them, involving many hundreds of pounds. I settled the first three, but found that the latter dealt with inheritance, and so were beyond my jurisdiction, but I got heartily sick of the sharp, foxy face of Bashu Habun and the noisy, foolish obstinacy of old Sheikh Soud. Both of them tried to secure my support by sending donkey-loads of fruit to my house before the cases were tried, and on one occasion the servants met both bringing presents, and returned together with their offerings to the town. The idea of “baksheesh” is so firmly planted in the native mind that it takes a long while to die out. Still, one finds that the natives really appreciate and prefer an impartial administration of justice, in place of justice—of sorts—which depends on which of the two parties can offer the highest bribe to the judge. The Senussi were by no means above this method, but they let political considerations weigh equally with “baksheesh” on their scale of justice. In the days when a Turkish governor ruled in Siwa he made his money by accepting and extorting bribes, and if, when British Administration retires from Egypt, the oasis is ruled again by a native mamur, the same system will possibly flourish.

[Illustration: IN THE WESTERN QUARTER]