Book: A Dweller in Mesopotamia

D >> Donald Maxwell >> A Dweller in Mesopotamia




There was no doubt about it; we were done.

"At the present rate of progress we shall reach Baghdad in about ten
days," said the driver, "and it's getting worse."

[Illustration: A STREET IN KHADAMAIN]

A few more hours' rain and no power on earth would move the car an inch.
We knew from experience that nothing could be done for four or five
days, so we faced the situation philosophically, shouldered a bag each
and staggered in the sliding mud in the direction of the Khan. We
started off with no illusions as to our fate if we encountered rain, and
were therefore quite prepared for this. There was nothing for it but to
camp out somehow until the sun had been given a chance. The fact that we
had been able to reach this point with the Khan and railway close at
hand was a piece of luck for which we were thankful.

Brown was by far the best exponent of this art of walking in mud while
carrying weight. The driver was quite good at it, having had
considerable practice on similar occasions. I was uncompromisingly bad.
I sat down three or four times to the driver's once. Brown did not sit
down at all, but he did some amazing movements in skidding, reminding
one in a somewhat vague way of the tramp cyclist of the music-hall
stage.

I have often thought since these days of mud in Mesopotamia that a vast
fortune might be made by some one who could find a commercial use for a
substance, as slippery as oil, as indelible in staining properties as
walnut juice, and as adhesive as fish glue. Large quantities of
Mesopotamian mud could be shipped to London and made up into tubes. Then
all that would be necessary would be three distinctive labels. One could
describe it as a wonderful lubricant and cheap substitute for machine
oil. Another could proclaim to the world a new washable distemper. A
third could laud it as a marvellous paste or cement that would adhere to
anything whatsoever.

"There is one comfort," Brown gasped in an interval between two very
energetic spells of sliding, "if we can't move the Ford, nobody else
can!"

In the circumstances of the moment I cannot say that I felt much
"comfort" in contemplating the car's condition. In fact I didn't care in
the least whether I saw the thing again or not. All I cared about was
reaching the Khan and putting down my bag. We found tracks where some
scrubby plants were growing, where the surface was passable, but as we
neared the entrance to the Khan, where carts and horsemen had made a
veritable quagmire, we stuck, all three, without apparently any prospect
of getting on at all unless we abandoned our baggage. However, some
Arabs came to our assistance and relieved us of our burdens, so that we
gained our objective.

Beginning our toilet by scraping each other down with a ruler, so that
we could see which was which, we soon evolved into something like our
normal selves. We had a few clothes to change into, but neither Brown
nor I had a complete set of everything. The result was that Brown looked
like a naval officer that had taken up cement making and I appeared to
be a cement worker, finished off, as the eye followed me downwards, with
very smart trousers and regulation naval boots.

[Illustration: MOONLIGHT, BAGHDAD]

The Khan was a poor enough shelter as far as accommodation went, but we
managed to make up a good fire and get tolerably dry. Some tea, made by
the ever resourceful driver, raised our spirits considerably, and we
talked over plans for the immediate future. Enquiries revealed the fact
that we were in great luck about trains, which appeared at intervals of
several days, as one was due in a few hours that would reach Baghdad the
same night. The driver had found others held up with their cars, so we
left him to stand by till better weather made movement possible and
decided to put in a few days at Baghdad instead of waiting here.

At about 7 o'clock, a train of miscellaneous construction steamed in
from the direction of Dhibban, bound for Baghdad. This bit of line runs
from Baghdad to the Euphrates and is important because it links up the
two great waterways and is always available when motor transport is
impossible on account of the state of the roads.

We clambered into a covered van, specially reserved--a sort of
Mesopotamian Pullman car. It contained a great litter of odd baggage and
two Hindu officers who were very luxuriously fitted up with beds and a
table. Divesting ourselves of our wet trench-coats, for it was still
raining, we made some sort of a seat of our bags and were tolerably
comfortable. Brown, who, now that he was dry and warm and well fed, was
in the highest spirits, prophesied that our arrival in the enchanted
city of the Arabian Nights was well timed, for it was Friday night, when
all the mosques would be lighted up.

"A million tapers flaring bright
From twisted silvers look'd to shame
The hollow-vaulted dark, and stream'd
Upon the mooned domes aloof
In inmost Bagdat, till there seem'd
Hundreds of crescents on the roof
Of night new-risen."[2]

So sang Brown, with a map spread out, proving to me that we must alight
at Baghdad South to get the best effect as we gazed entranced at the
night glory of Bagdat's shrines of fretted gold and walked on to find
romance and mystery by many a shadow-chequer'd lawn.

"So much better," he argued, "to approach it gradually like this instead
of arriving in a matter-of-fact way by train." It was still raining
hard, and I had grave doubts about the splendour we were enjoying so
much in anticipation, but I did not throw all cold water on his scheme,
especially as much of it was planned for my benefit. Art would be the
richer, although we, its humble devotees, might be the wetter.

I forget now, very clearly what did happen when we arrived at Baghdad
South, because we had stopped some time, shunting about, and did not
know that we were there. When at last we discovered that we were at the
station the train was just moving off. Brown shouted to me to jump out
and take our bags. I did so as best I could, but found myself up to my
ankles in liquid mud, not a good position at any time for catching heavy
baggage at a height, but singularly awkward in view of the fact that
Brown in the dark could not see where I was and hurled the bags just out
of reach, but sufficiently near to me to cover me with a kind of soup.

[Illustration: A NOCTURNE OF BAGHDAD]

My next recollection is that of Brown, dark against the sky, describing
a parabolic curve and alighting further up the line. The train had gone,
and a sloppy gurgling noise mingled with muffled exclamations growing
more distinct indicated that Brown was endeavouring to walk in my
direction. These were the only sounds that interrupted the steady noise
of pouring rain. There was nothing in sight. Not only was it that we
could not see the splendour of Baghdad; we could not see each other.

After an interval of groping about and finding bearings, we began to get
accustomed to the gloom and discerned some sheds or buildings up the
line. Thinking this was the station we plodded on as steadily as
possible through the mud. Dimly, through the rain, we could make out
some palms and what appeared to be a domed building and a minaret. Then
we reached a large wooden shed out of the shadow of which loomed an
engine. It evidently had steam up, so we stopped and gave it a hail.

I think I shall never forget the surprise of the next few minutes. As if
in answer to our hail, a door opened in the dark mass of the shed and
revealed a workshop brilliantly lighted. Out of this stepped an Arab
with a lamp in his hand, and gave us an answering shout We stepped into
the light. I don't know which was most surprised, the native at seeing
such curious figures staggering under large bags through the mud, or we,
at beholding in the beam of light from the shed a magic vignette of
palms, Eastern buildings and a large South Western Railway engine.

Brown was delighted.

"The slave of the lamp," he cried, "calling up spirits from the vasty
mud. I don't believe this engine is real, but it will do to get us into
Baghdad."

And it _did_. We found a soldier driver and a stoker, got leave from
headquarters to use the engine to run into Baghdad West, hurled our bags
on to the coal in the tender and were transported unscathed by further
mud to the quay by the waters of the Tigris. It was too dark to see
much. A multitude of steamboats and mahailas lined the shore. The river
was in flood and looked black and forbidding, and it was impossible to
see across to the other side. The only light was supplied by a few
electric lamps at intervals along the road. It still rained dismally and
we made for a canteen close at hand. Here we felt quite at home, for
there were several other arrivals as muddy as we were and even worse.
Considering this was only a restaurant attached to a rest camp, we fared
very well. Our baggage we left there and set out on foot to try and
reach Navy House, which was the other side of the river. There were two
boat-bridges we were told, and the upper one would lead us into the
right quarter. The old Navy House, near to G.H.Q., was now used by some
one else, and the British Navy, shrunk to very small proportions as
far as Baghdad was concerned, "carried on" in a back street.

[Illustration: "A magic vignette of palms, Eastern buildings and a large
South Western Railway engine."]

Our first check was at the bridge. Owing to the river being in flood, it
was open, that is, the middle section had been floated out, for fear
that the hawsers would not stand the strain and the only road across was
the Maude Bridge lower down.

Brown was delighted. The rain had stopped and he anticipated adventure.
The idea of getting across the river in a _goufa_ flashed across his
mind, but a glance at the foaming, tearing water was sufficient
deterrent even to an optimist like Brown. It might be done in daylight,
but at night it would be suicide.

We decided to make our way through the narrow streets that led by the
side of the river until we struck the main road that approached the
bridge of boats half a mile or so down. In theory this sounded very
feasible, but in practice, owing to the tortuous nature of the ways and
to the fact that it was very dark, we soon got lost. Twice, when we
thought we were progressing well, we came upon the same place again.
Then we struck the river, more or less by accident, and took fresh
bearings of the general direction we were to pursue.

We plunged into a covered way, arched overhead like a cloister. This had
the advantage of being dry and our speed increased considerably. From
time to time a dim light gave a glimmer to show us the way.

[Illustration: "Suddenly we came upon a scene of strange beauty and
dramatic effect."]

It was late and there were few people about. The figures that flitted
by were silent and mysterious. A window here and there was lighted up,
but for the most part the houses were dark and without sign of life. We
found no "splendours of the golden prime of good Haroun Alraschid," but
for all that the narrow streets looked romantic and weird. The sky had
cleared and the moonlight had given a glamour of phantasy to the vistas
of the street.

Suddenly we came upon a scene of strange beauty and dramatic effect. A
turn in this narrow and cloister-like way brought us to an arched
opening, with some steps leading to the water. It was a sheltered inlet
from the surging and swirling stream of the Tigris, a kind of pocket
built round by crazy old balconied buildings. This was filled with
goufas, the weird round boat of the upper river, and the animated scene
of people either embarking or disembarking made a strange people. We saw
this scene for a few moments only, as we made our way through the crowd
at this point. I have since wondered where all these goufas were going.
They could not have intended to cross the river under present
conditions. I think the rapidly rising river must have upset all
calculations as to mooring boats at this point and their owners were
making sure that they were secure. The noise and apparent excitement was
probably nothing but the usual Eastern custom of making a great fuss
about nothing.

[Illustration: MAHAILAS AND MARSH ARAB'S BELLAM]

At last, after much marching and counter-marching, we struck the main
thoroughfare leading to the Maude bridge, which we crossed. The thick,
seething waters foamed and struggled against the pontoons and swept down
between them like roaring devils. We were very glad to get over, for it
looked as though a little more force would have carried the whole thing
away. Once clear of the bridge we found ourselves in New Street, the
thoroughfare made since the British occupation, and incidentally we ran
into a cheery naval officer who picked us up and deposited us again at
Navy House, whither he was bound. Had we not received this timely aid I
think we should have gone on looking for Navy House all night. A more
amazing situation for it could not have been found, if you searched the
world over.

Wedged in, cheek by jowl, with buildings that might have figured in the
tall streets of old London, it lay nowhere near the water, down a very
narrow and crooked lane, where mules and men, camels and beggars jostled
each other on their lawful occasions.

When we had settled down there and had fine weather for several days,
Brown, loath to waste the romance of old Baghdad during glorious
moonlight nights, insisted on some mysterious expeditions which were for
the purpose of adventure, but ostensibly arranged to give me an
opportunity of sketching. He produced an Arab, arrayed in strange
garments, to carry a light and generally act as a guide. We called him
the slave of the lamp. I am quite certain that he thought Brown was
mad, but this belief on the whole was rather an advantage, as he treated
him with all the more respect because of his affliction, which he
regarded as a special visitation of Allah.

[Illustration: "By garden porches on the brim,
The costly doors flung open wide."]

[Illustration: "All round about the fragrant marge,
From fluted vase and brazen urn,
In order, Eastern flowers large."]


I was surprised that he seemed to take great delight in my sketching,
and several times, when I was making notes of some quaint latticed
windows overhanging the narrow road, so that they nearly met, he became
quite excited, chuckling and laughing to himself, as if in the enjoyment
of some tremendous joke.

I discovered afterwards that Brown's native servant had been pulling the
leg of our worthy slave, by telling him that these nightly expeditions
were for the purpose of carrying off some ravishingly beautiful lady
from one of the harems. No doubt he thought my sketching merely a blind.
Measurements with a pencil were obviously part of some incantation.

While on the subject of sketching, especially quick note-taking under
difficult conditions, I want a word with my fellow-craftsmen should they
chance to take up this book. The difficulties of drawing by twilight,
lamplight, and the still greater difficulty of drawing in colour under
blazing sunlight, cannot easily be exaggerated. How many times has a
sketch done in a failing light looked strong in tone, only to go to
pieces when seen under normal conditions? How often the sunlight on your
paper flatters your colours, so that you think you are improvising in a
most joyous way, and when you get home you find nothing but dinginess
and mud!

[Illustration: "By Baghdad's shrines of fretted gold,
High-walled gardens, green and old."]

Probably you have thought it out and found some solution as I did, but
in case these difficulties are still formidable I will tell you of _one_
way to reduce them to impotence. I take with me, on all occasions where
there is to be great uncertainty of light, some coloured chalks. About
six colours, picked to suit the kind of work attacked; either chalk
pencils or hard pastilles will give you certain colour values in
whatever light you find yourself, and even if you can hardly see what
you are drawing these _must_, to some extent, standardize your values,
so that your rough work can be washed over and brought up to any pitch
of detail subsequently, without danger of the main tones of your sketch
being wrong. The speed with which a sketch can be carried forward in
this way, and the "quality" obtained by the rapid fusion of the chalk
with the colour wash, are both pleasant surprises when experimenting in
this medium.

Night after night we sallied forth and roamed about the narrow ways and
tortuous turnings of old Baghdad. The bazaars are mostly covered in with
arched masonry, and the effect is that of a long side aisle in a very
untidy and greatly secularized cathedral. From time to time glimpses of
the dark-blue, star-filled sky showed through openings overhead, and
sometimes a quaintly framed view of a dome or minaret.

On one occasion we embarked in a goufa, and floated down the rapidly
flowing river, keeping close to the left bank and taking advantage of
every eddy and corner of slack water made by projecting buildings, lest
we should be swept down too far and lose control of our curious and
difficult craft. The level of the water was far above the usual height
and came up to the very thresholds of these riverside houses. We floated
on, sometimes under the walls of dark gardens, sometimes getting
glimpses of interiors--interiors which in this glamour of night romance
suggested something of the splendour of Baghdad's old glory:--

"By garden porches on the brim,
The costly doors flung open wide,
Gold glittering through lamplight dim."

We landed by the Maude bridge and explored further afield, finding
"high-walled gardens" where we beheld

"All round about the fragrant marge,
From fluted vase and brazen urn,
In order, Eastern flowers large."

By day, Baghdad is not so impressive. Too much squalor is apparent. Yet
there are quaint street scenes.

Ancient windows, overhanging the street in one quarter, reminded me
strongly of pictures of old London. The feature that I could not help
noticing, not only in Baghdad but in all Mesopotamia, was the absence of
local colour. It is true that the sun gives a blazing and confused
suggestion of colour to objects by contrast with bluish shadows,
especially in the evening, but there is often very little colour in
things themselves. The East is supposed to be full of blazing colour and
the North gray and drab. Yet compare a barge in Rotterdam or Rochester
with one in Baghdad. The former is picked out in green and gold and
glows with rich, red sails, while the latter, for all its sunshine, is
the colour of ashes--not a vestige often of paint or gilding. Some
mahailas I found with traces of rich colouring, blue and yellow (see
sketch facing page 34), but this was exceptional. Perhaps the scarcity
of paint during years of war may have had something to do with this
noticeable absence of colouring in regard to both houses and boats. In
spite of this slovenliness in detail there is colour and light in all
recollections of Baghdad's dusty streets.

Somehow the discomfort and squalor is soon forgotten and the romance and
picturesqueness of these far-off streets remains as a very pleasant
memory amidst the winter fogs and coldness of our northern lands.

[Illustration: Showing the simplicity of Mesopotamian domestic
architecture. Tigris.]




VII

IN OLD BAGHDAD

[Illustration: BAGHDAD]

[Illustration: "Puffing Billy in Bagdad."]




IN OLD BAGHDAD


I suppose there is no city to be found anywhere in the world that would
quite reach the standard of dazzling splendour of the Baghdad that we
conjure up in our imagination when we think of the City of the Arabian
Nights in the romantic days, so dear to our childhood, of
Haroun-al-Raschid. We expect so much when we come to the real Baghdad,
and we find so little--so little, that is, of the glamour of the East.
Few "costly doors flung open wide," but a great deal of dirt. Few dark
eyes of ravishingly beautiful women peering coyly through lattice
windows, but a great deal of sordid squalor. Few marvellous
entertainments where we can behold the wonderful witchery of Persian
dancing girls, but a theatre, the principal house of amusement in
Baghdad--and lo, a man selling onions to the habitues of the stalls!

Of all the deadly dull shows I have ever seen I think the one I saw at
Baghdad furnished about the dullest. There were two principal dancing
girls--stars of the theatrical world of Mesopotamia--and a few others
forming a kind of chorus. The orchestra, on the stage, consisted of a
guitar, a sort of dulcimer, and a drum. The musicians made a most
appalling noise and rocked to and fro, as if in the greatest enjoyment
of the thrilling harmonies they were creating. The stars came on one at
a time, the odd one out meanwhile augmenting the chorus, and sang a few
verses of a song to a tune that can only be described as a Gregorian
chant with squiggly bits thrown in. Of course I was unable to understand
the words, but can bear witness to the fact that the tune did not vary
the whole evening, and every gesture and attitude of the singer was
exactly the same again and again as she went through the performance,
and the dance which concluded each six or eight verses was also exactly
the same every time. After this had been going on for about an hour the
other girl came to the footlights. It was natural to expect a change;
but no, she went through it all as if she had most carefully
understudied the part. Neither of these girls was pretty or in the least
attractive to look at. All I could assume, as the audience seemed quite
satisfied, was that the words must have been extraordinarily brilliant
or that the Baghdad public was very easily entertained.

[Illustration: A bit of Old Baghdad.]

The journey from Basra to Baghdad takes nearly a week in a "fast"
steamer. It can be done, however, express, by taking the train from
Basra to Amara, leaving Basra about five in the evening and arriving at
Amara in the morning. Then the journey is continued by boat to Kut, and
thence from Kut in the evening by train, arriving in Baghdad in the
early morning--the whole distance within two days. The railway does not
run the whole way. The journey from Amara to Kut sounds a mere link
across the river, as the full name of Kut is Kut-el-Amara, and most
people naturally suppose Amara is part of Kut. This is another Amara,
however. The Amara from which we embark for Kut, a day's journey in a
fast boat, is a large camp, and quite a town for Mesopotamia, captured
from the Turks, early in the war, by sheer bluff. The Turkish commandant
surrendered to a naval launch under the impression that about half the
sea-power of the British Empire lay in the offing. As a matter of fact
no other help of any kind arrived until the next day, and all the
surrendered forces were kept on good behaviour by a Lieutenant and a
marine--I think with one revolver between them.

Kut looks quite an imposing place from across the river. The sketch at
the top of this article shows it when the water of the Tigris was
particularly high. It is drawn from the site of the famous liquorice
factory, which is now represented by a few mud heaps and one rusted
piece of machinery. The long arcade with brick pillars runs along the
margin of the river, suggestive of some ancient Babylonian city from
this distance, and is but a sorry enough place in reality.

[Illustration: A MOONLIGHT FANTASY: KUT FROM THE RUINS OF THE LICQUORICE
FACTORY]

Very little of the Baghdad as we know it to-day is old. By tradition it
was founded in 762 A.D., and became the renowned capital of
the Arab empire. It is said that the city grew till it covered some 25
square miles, reaching its high-water mark of splendour and magnificence
under the Sultan Haroun-al-Raschid. The fame of its schools and learning
was world-wide, and Baghdad became to the East what Rome became in the
West.

For some five centuries this pre-eminence continued, until the Turkish
nomadic tribes from Central Asia came on to the stage. They conquered
Persia, Mesopotamia, and Syria.

The Turks extended their conquests to Egypt, and Baghdad, now on the
decline, kept her head above water for another century. But Chingiz
Khan, the Mongol, appeared on the scene, and his son and successor,
Ogotay, overran the Caucasus, Hungary, and Poland. Baghdad was sacked by
Hulagu in 1258, and the irrigation works of Mesopotamia were destroyed.

In spite of her decline and fall Baghdad is still a holy place to all
faithful Mohammedans. It is the Mecca of the Shiah Mussulmans. Kerbela
and Nejef are the great places of burial for the faithful, and among the
common sights of the plains of Mesopotamia are endless caravans of
corpses from the Persian hills or from the distant north.

The British occupation of Baghdad has been responsible for one broad
street through the city, possible for ordinary traffic, but most of the
bazaars are long covered-in ways, arched like cloisters and very
picturesque at night. There are some wonderful blues on domes and
minarets, but it is not until you see the golden towers of Khadamain
that you get any glimpse of the splendour of the golden prime of good
Haroun-al-Raschid. Khadamain is a great place of pilgrimage, and so
zealously guarded is the place that it is said no Christian would ever
be allowed to come out of the great mosque alive. A golden chain hangs
across the entrance. This can be seen in frontispiece sketch of this
book. All good Mussulmans kiss this chain as they enter the sacred
precincts.

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