CHAPTER X.

MENAKHA TO HODAIDAH.

The road from Menakha to the coast leads one for the first few miles along the mountains on the southern side of the valley, gradually ascending the while, until, an hour or so after leaving the town, an altitude of eight thousand feet above the sea-level is reached. At this spot a spur in the mountain is crossed, near to which is the remarkable village of Kariat el-Hajra, a rock crowned with tall stone houses, many of which are built in the strange fashion of towers. A precipice surrounds the village on every side, the lower slopes of which are cultivated in terraces. The place has the appearance of being a large and important one, and from its position must be exceedingly strong. The country immediately surrounding this spot is very beautiful, there being an abundance of water and no lack of trees, while the terraces and fields were, at the time of my visit, green with young grass and crops, and gorgeous with wild-flowers. Leaving Hajra on the right, the road begins to descend, and soon another village, more extraordinary than that we had already passed, came into sight. This is Attara. From an expanse of terraced slope rises a single pinnacle of rock some hundreds of feet in height, split perpendicularly into two divisions. On the very summit, on which there is only just room for it to stand, is a large building, apparently a house and tower. Although unable to see the track by which this, to the eye, apparently unscalable position is reached, my men informed me that there is a stairway cut in the solid rock, by means of which the inhabitants ascend and descend. Close nestling under the pinnacle is the rest of the village, built tier above tier on the steep mountain-side. The path by which we were descending zigzags down until one arrives in a sort of amphitheatre, of which the village forms an apex. The ground here is richly cultivated with coffee-trees and bananas, growing upon terraces. In one place the jungle seems to have gained possession of what was originally cultivated land, and appears in a mass of euphorbiæ and other strange trees and plants. Here, too, jasmine grows in wonderful abundance, the whole air being filled with its sweet fragrance.

Zigzagging down the mountain-side, we arrived before mid-day at the _café_ of Wisil, wonderfully perched on the very edge of the precipice. The place is poor enough, but a few shady huts of grass and mats have been erected round a little terraced garden, over the wall of which one gazes far down into the valley beneath. Here under a shady tree we spread our carpet and refreshed ourselves, revelling in the magnificence of our surroundings. This resting-place was situated at an elevation of a little over four thousand five hundred feet above the sea-level, so that since the morning we had descended some three thousand feet.

[Illustration: THE VILLAGE OF EL-HAJRA.]

From this spot is obtained perhaps the most extraordinary view of the terraced mountains we had as yet obtained. These surrounding ranges are celebrated for their coffee, principally Jibel Masar and Safan, both of which lie to the north of the road. Away above the terraces the mountains rise in perpendicular precipices, and nearly every peak is crowned with one of the curious towers already described.

The view from Wisil was the last we were to see of its kind, for we were fast leaving the mountains behind and descending to the plains, or Teháma, and even from here the change to the country was appreciable, for far away to the west the great mountains became lower, and the horizon was bounded with rough barren hills, very like those we had seen around Jibel Menif, when we left the desert beyond Lahej. A weird old lady served us with coffee and food at our resting-place—a parchment-skinned grinning old hag, half clothed in torn dark-blue rags, with a lot of what looked like dirty bandages wound round her head; but she was a cheery old gossip, and Saïd took advantage of her to exhibit his wit and sarcasm, much to her amusement as well as our own.

[Illustration: _View near Wisil._]

Poor Saïd! The wear and tear of the last month had worn him a bit. Fever had paled his skin, and left him thinner than he was when he had started from Aden; but no weariness, no fever, had caused him to pay less attention to his personal charms than before, and his curly locks were as soft and silky and glossy as ever, although his loin-cloth and sash told tales of travel. Still, in all our hardships he had been ever bright and gay, and as we neared civilisation once more, and there seemed some chance of his seeing his paradise—Aden—again, his eyes regained their former twinkle, and his laugh grew more cheery than ever. With Abdurrahman it was different, and the strain and exertion he had been through had told on his more delicate constitution. Brought up in the bracing mountains of Morocco, where frosts are common, and even in the daytime the heat is never oppressive, he had felt severely the sudden changes of the tropics. All his gaiety had left him, and he scarcely spoke. It was with difficulty that we could rouse his spirits, try hard as we did, Saïd and I. Almost every evening, in spite of arsenic and quinine, fever would seize him, and he would lie awake of a night, tossing and moaning in a way that was pitiful to see and hear.

Leaving Wisil, the road descends, by a zigzag track, the steep mountain-side. Here were apparent one at least of the advantages of the Turkish occupation of the Yemen, for the road was wide and in good repair, supported by a stone embankment, and planted on either side with mimosa-trees, which no doubt help in some degree to prevent the floods which the heavy rainfalls occasion from washing the stones away, and which will eventually prove no small advantage to the traveller by their shade. At length the bed of the water-course was reached, down which the road proceeds, roughly and unpleasantly, over great boulders and stones that tired our poor little mules, and necessitated our proceeding on foot. Thick vegetation, principally trees of the mimosa type, fringe the edge of the river-bed, which, except for an occasional pool or spring, contained no water.

On and on, until the gorge narrows and enters a defile, merely the water-course and walls of rock on either hand, some eighty feet perhaps in height. Here was a sight that caused us an hour or so of amusement and laughter, for the precipices were the haunt of hundreds of apes and monkeys, which scampered away at our approach, and sat chattering and grinning at us from their perches. So tame many of them were, that we were able to approach within fifteen or twenty yards of them before they would seek refuge in the nooks and crannies of the rocks. My men were eager to shoot one or two, but I would not allow it, as it was a real pleasure to watch the funny creatures in their antics, and to listen to their squeaking and chattering. In some cases the larger apes were carrying their young in their arms, and handling them as carefully as a woman does her child. Even Abdurrahman awoke from his melancholy, and laughed heartily at the strange creatures, which bounded from rock to rock, or showed their rows of chattering white teeth from some hole in the cliff.

Continuing along the bottom of the valley for some little way farther, we turned eventually from the water-course, and climbed a bare rocky hill to the north of the river, and, crossing a small plateau, descended to the village of Hojaila, which we reached an hour or two before sunset.

At this point we had said farewell to the mountains, for although the foot-hills extend farther into the Teháma, beyond Bajil in fact, we were to see no more of the greater ranges. But not only is Hojaila the finishing spot of the mountains, but the people entirely change, becoming from that point Arabs of the plains, dwelling in mud and thatch houses, and different in appearance and habits.

We had passed during the day’s march through a part of the country the inhabitants of which need investigation, and about which I, unfortunately, can say but little here. These are people of a religious sect who called themselves Makarama, but of the origin of which, except that their belief is said to be of Indian extraction, I have found it impossible to discover anything. These Yemenis are in language and appearance like their Moslem neighbours, although several names in the vicinity tell of India. Principal amongst them is the “Dar el Hinoud,” or Indians’ monastery or house, farther on in the Teháma. Of their belief but little was to be ascertained. It is summed up, however, in two lines of poetry, of which I was able to obtain the translation:—

“God is indiscoverable, by day or by night. Do not worry about anything, there is neither heaven nor hell.”

Professing these strange tenets, there is this sect on the highroad from Hodaidah to Sanaa. As to their observances, the only man of their belief I met with would say but little, while the Moslems, although uninfluenced by the fanaticism one would expect to find, are careless. They have, I was told, the old Judaic observance of the scapegoat, and a particular night in the year in which they shut themselves into their houses, and are said to practise incest. This, however, may be possibly the Moslem idea of what really takes place. Were this to be absolutely depended upon, the fact might point to a Karmathian origin, for Ibn Fadl allowed the drinking of wine and this practice; but then it is scarcely likely that a Karmathian superstition should survive in a belief which is in direct contravention to Islam. It is known that in certain Phœnician rites incest was allowed, and the practice of a certain nightly annual feast in which the houses are illuminated might point to the worship of Adonis, certain remains of which, I am informed, are found amongst the mountaineers of the Himalayas. My information on this sect of the Makarama continues that they are at times visited by natives of India, who prize the charms that they are in the habit of writing; and most probably their origin may be found in that country, for Hodaidah has always been largely frequented by Indian traders.

[Illustration: TURKISH CAMP OF HOJAILA.]

Hojaila is but a small place, more a collection of huts than a town, as it is elsewhere described, though at the time I passed through it was augmented by a large Turkish camp, pitched near the _jimerouk_, or custom-house. There seems, with the exception of this building, a large, low, square place, to be no other of importance, though the Sheikh resides in a house two storeys in height, painted red and white in bands, which stands a curious landmark on the edge of a steep incline leading down to the river-bed. A few trees are scattered about the place, and under these were lolling Turkish soldiers, while the tents, and sentries passing and repassing, gave quite a martial appearance to the otherwise dreary scene; for, with the exception of these trees and the oleanders in the river-bed, the country was dull and sun-dried.

Only a short rest was allowed me here, although we had been travelling, almost without interruption, since the early morning. However, as I was entirely in the hands of the Turkish guards who had been sent to see me to Hodaidah, any attempt at expostulation was out of the question. Another advantage, too, was to be gained by pushing on—namely, the moonlight night.

We had left behind us now the high elevations and watered valleys, and nothing but plain and desert lay between us and Hodaidah, some eighty miles distant, over which, although the month was February, travelling by day is torment. So an hour or two was all the time we spent in the _café_ at Hojaila, and as soon as the sunset glow was dying away we loaded our little mules again and set off.

From sunset until near dawn we plodded on over the plain, the broken rocky hills showing up on either side in the clear moonlight, which was sufficiently bright to allow us to see that a considerable portion of the country we were passing through was under cultivation.

How balmy and warm the night was! and had it not been that one was tired and weary with the long ride from Menakha, it would have proved most enjoyable. As it was, one could not help admiring the loveliness of the still moonlight, and the silence, broken only by the thud of our mules’ feet upon the sand and the humming of the insects in the air. Every now and then we would pass a caravan of camels, slow-gaited and patient, which seemed to grow out of the moonlight like spectres, only to vanish again into the darkness.

As dawn grew near we reached Bohay, situated to the north of Jibel Damir. It is a poor little place; but the rest in a mat _café_ was inexpressibly refreshing, for out of the last twenty-four hours we had been nearly twenty on the road.

Stretching ourselves upon the string couches, which do not seem to be in use anywhere out of the Teháma and the southern plains, we were soon wrapped in sleep. But at sunrise my guards woke me, and we made a start again. But our march was happily to prove only a short one, and three hours later we drew in sight of Bajil, where at length I was promised a well-earned rest.

Bajil is quite a little town, its population numbering probably some 3000 souls. Except for a large Turkish fort, built for the most part of squared stones, and a few houses of the same material, it consists of mud-and-thatch and mat houses, enclosed by high hedges of dry mimosa and acacia thorns in the form of zarebas. The place is prettily situated, lying at the foot of Jibel Obaki, the surrounding plain being cultivated with millet of two varieties, the _dokhn_ and the _durra_; while a good water-supply allows of the growth of a considerable number of trees, principally acacias, which render the place a veritable oasis.

The _café_ here, except for those of the towns and that at Waalan, was the best we had come across; for although it only consisted of a series of mat-huts built round a large yard, everything was so clean and so tidy that it was a real pleasure to rest in the shade, all the more so as by this time the rays of the sun had become fierce in their heat.

We engaged one of these mat-houses for our private use, and unloading our mules, settled in for the day. What rendered our stay at Bajil more refreshing than it otherwise would have proved was the presence of an excellent _masseur_, under whose skilful hands one’s limbs lost all their weariness.

As soon as the cool of the afternoon allowed, I sauntered out for a stroll through the little town. There was but little to see, it is true; but a Yemen village always presents sights which, if not exactly pretty, are generally of interest. A wedding-party was in full swing, guns were being fired off, tomtoms rendered the air hideous with their sound, and shrill pipes added to the confusion. The crowd of women who filled the open spaces between the zarebas, that answered for streets, were attired in holiday garments, and a gay throng they were; for, in spite of their dull-blue clothing, they had succeeded in tying themselves up with handkerchiefs and scarves of all colours, until they resembled rainbows. Here, as elsewhere, it seems to be the lot of womankind to do the hard work, and I stood for a time to watch them filling their pitchers from the wells. The manner in which the water is drawn is the following. A framework of wood is built over the mouth of the well, a solid beam passing from side to side; over this cross-beam runs the rope, to the end of which is fastened a bucket. Owing to the great depth to which the wells have to be sunk, these ropes are necessarily of enormous length, and the only means by which the weight can be supported is by a couple of the women harnessing themselves to the end and running at a gentle trot until the bucket has reached the surface, where it is emptied by a third. One well, the length of the track passed over to draw the bucket to the surface I measured, was only a few feet under two hundred in depth. The labour is a severe one, but the women seem to take it as a matter of course. In southern Morocco, where much the same system is in use, camels or donkeys are harnessed in their place.

The only building of any size or importance in Bajil is the Turkish fort. It is a great square place, with circular towers jutting out here and there, and is built almost entirely of cut stone and bricks. Though useless against artillery, it would prove impregnable to Arab hordes, armed only with spears and matchlock-guns. A few ill-dressed Turks were lying about under the shade of some acacia-trees, and half-a-dozen field-guns, none too well kept, stood near the door; but the place offered no other signs of things military, and wore the weary appearance of orientalism.

This was all that there was to be seen in Bajil, so I retraced my steps to the _café_, where I found our mules being loaded preparatory to a start. A number of Turkish officers from Sanaa had arrived during my absence, and we instantly struck up an acquaintance, as we were proceeding over the same road to Hodaidah. They had been invalided from the steamy Teháma, and had been in hospital at Sanaa. Their recovery told a tale of the magnificent climate of that place, for they assured me that they had left Hodaidah a couple of months before almost dead of fever.

At four o’clock we made a start, our two little caravans uniting. The road continues over the desert, which is here dotted with mimosa-bushes and tufts of long grass. It was the delight of the Turkish officers to throw matches into the latter, and as night came on we left a track behind us of fiery stars and heaps of black ashes. There was no danger of the fire taking too large dimensions, as the tufts of grass were sufficiently far removed from one another to prevent the flames spreading.

It was the last of our desert marches. A glorious night, the sky a blaze of myriads of stars, the desert like a silver sea. Quietly and quickly our little mules glided on. Every now and again a caravan of slouching camels would pass by us with a dozen or so wild Bedouins in charge, on the heads of whose spears the moonlight played and flashed, but they soon vanished into the night. One could scarcely believe that this cool plain, fragrant with the sweet scent of mimosa, its fragrance increased by the heavy dew, was in the daytime a howling desert, where the sun scorched everything to death save the thorny bushes and the coarse grass tufts, and the camels and their Bedouin drivers; but even they scarcely ever travel by day. Wonderful as were the sights and the grandeur of the mountains of the Yemen, I think these night-rides over the desert have fixed themselves more upon my memory. Tired as we often were, one could not but wonder at the glories of the starlit heavens, and revel in the fragrance of falling dew and mimosa.

[Illustration: GATE OF A WALLED VILLAGE IN THE YEMEN.]

Before midnight we reached a _café_, merely a few little huts in the desert, but welcome nevertheless, and with shouts and cries we woke the owner, who lit a lamp and showed us into his best accommodation, a roof of grass supported on long canes. However, one could need no more; for it kept off the chill of the dew, and allowed the breeze, which every now and again stirred, to cool the hot night air.

I shall never forget that last night in the desert,—Turks, Arabs, Moors, and Englishman squatting on carpets, sharing a common pipe in a dimly lit _café_ in the desert. Coffee and supper were cooking, and one could hear the bubbling of the coffee-husks in the earthen pot that was preparing for our men. And then they brought our supper, a couple of desert fowls that tasted as though they had tramped a century over the sand, so tough they were. A rest of an hour or two was all we were allowed, and long before daylight we were off again. The desert here takes the form of sand-dunes, in parts covered with scanty scrub, in parts bare yellow sand, broken only by the hideous lines of crooked telegraph-posts. There were no signs of a road, not even a track in the sand, for the slightest breeze destroys the marks left by those who have gone before. But our men knew the way well, and just a little after seven o’clock, when we were beginning to suffer severely from the intense rays of the sun, a cry proceeded from our foremost man, who stood spear in hand, a silhouette against the burning sky.

Hodaidah! There it was at last, dancing in the shimmering heated air of the desert,—turned, and twisted, and indistinct, but Hodaidah nevertheless! As we neared the town the scene became quite picturesque. Here an old Turkish fort, half in ruins, stood out yellow from the white sand; there the remains of some aqueduct in which no water flowed. Then we entered palm-groves, whose greenness after the desert was refreshing, under the shade of which nestled the clean grass-and-mat huts and zarebas of the Arab and Indian inhabitants.

Still on; past many a pretty country-house of the Arab merchants, surrounded by gardens, until at length we emerged into the great market-place that lies without the walls of the town proper, above which rise the houses snowy white, tier upon tier in strange disorder.

Passing under a great gateway, the upper part of which served as barracks, we proceeded by narrow streets to our destination, a large _café_ kept by a Greek. Here I engaged a room, and sending my Arabs and Turkish guards to forage for themselves until I had rested, we carried our scanty baggage to an upper chamber, the windows of which looked out on one side to the sea, and on the other to the principal street I settled myself in.

But the fatigue of my march from Sanaa had been too much for me, and in an hour my fever had returned, and I was lying, almost unconscious, tossing from side to side. Saïd and Abdurrahman likewise were attacked, and suffered as much perhaps as I did. But our journey was over, we had finished with the mountains and plains of the Yemen, and our goal was reached.