Soundings must be made at all three mounds. We make a start with Tell Mozan. There is a village there, and with Hamoudi as ambassador we try and obtain workmen. The men are doubtful and suspicious.
‘We do not need money,’ they say. ‘It has been a good harvest.’
For this is a simple and, I think, consequently a happy part of the world. Food is the only consideration. If the harvest is good, you are rich. For the rest of the year there is leisure and plenty, until the time comes to plough and sow once more.
‘A little extra money,’ says Hamoudi, like the serpent of Eden, ‘is always welcome.’
They answer simply: ‘But what can we buy with it? We have enough food until the harvest comes again.’
And here, alas!, the eternal Eve plays her part. Astute Hamoudi baits his hook. They can buy ornaments for their wives.
The wives nod their heads. This digging, they say, is a good thing!
Reluctantly the men consider the idea. There is another thing to be taken into account – Dignity. His dignity is very dear to an Arab. Is this a dignified, an honourable thing to do?
It will only be for a few days now, explains Hamoudi. They can reconsider before the spring.
So at last, with the doubtful expressions of those who embark upon a new and unprecedented venture, a dozen of the more progressive spirits step out. The more conservative elders are shaking their white beards.
At a sign from Hamoudi, picks and spades are unloaded from Mary and served out to the men. Hamoudi himself takes a pick and demonstrates.
Three trial trenches are selected at different levels of the Tell. There is a murmur of ‘Inshallah!’ and the picks go in.
Tell Mozan has been reluctantly erased from our list of possibles. There are several levels of Roman occupation, and though the periods we want to dig are there underneath, it would take several seasons – that is to say, more time and money than we can afford.
Today we drive to our old friend Chagar Bazar. Here the arrangements for labour are quickly made. The Sheikh is a poor man, heavily in debt, like all Arab landowners. He sees in all this some very pretty profits to be made.
‘All that I have is yours, brother,’ he says generously to Max, the light of calculation glistening in his eye. ‘There need be no payment for the land. Take all I have!’
Then, as Max strides up the mound, the Sheikh bends his head to Hamoudi.
‘Doubtless,’ he suggests, ‘this Khwaja is immensely rich! Is he as rich as El Baron of famous memory who paid in bags of gold?’
‘Nowadays,’ says Hamoudi, ‘payment is not made in gold. Nevertheless the Khwaja is extremely generous. Moreover, in all probability the Khwaja will build a house here – a house of such beauty and grandeur that it will be mentioned far and wide. What prestige will that house of the excavation not confer upon the Sheikh? All the district will say: “The foreign Khwajas chose this spot to build and dig because of its proximity to the holiness of the Sheikh, a man who has been to Mecca and whom all revere.”’
The idea of the house pleases the Sheikh. He looks thoughtfully up at the mound.
‘I shall lose all the crops that I am about to sow on the mound there. A heavy loss – a very heavy loss!’
‘But surely,’ says Hamoudi, ‘the ground would be ploughed and the seed sowed before now?’
‘There have been delays,’ says the Sheikh. ‘I am about to do it.’
‘Have you ever had any crops there? Surely not. Who would plough a hill when there are plains all round?’
The Sheikh says firmly: ‘The crops I shall lose will be a heavy loss. But what of it? It is a sacrifice I shall gladly make so as to please the Government. If I am ruined, what does it matter?’
And looking decidedly cheerful he goes back into his house.
An old woman comes up to Hamoudi, leading a boy of about twelve by the hand.
‘Has the Khwaja medicine?’
‘He has some medicines – yes?’
‘Will he give me medicine for my son here?’
‘What is the matter with your son?’
It is hardly necessary to ask. The imbecile face is only too clear.
‘He has not his proper senses.’
Hamoudi shakes his head sadly, but says he will ask the Khwaja.
The men have started digging trenches. Hamoudi, the woman and the boy come up to Max.
Max looks at the boy and turns gently to the woman.
‘The boy is as he is by the will of Allah,’ he says. ‘There is no medicine I can give you for the boy.’
The woman sighs – I think a tear runs down her cheek. Then she says in a matter-of-fact voice:
‘Then, Khwaja, will you give me some poison, for it is better he should not live.’
Max says gently that he cannot do that either.
She stares at him uncomprehendingly, then shakes her head angrily and goes away with the boy.
I wander up to the top of the mound where Macartney is busy with his survey. An Arab boy, full of importance, is staggering about with the pole. Mac, still unwilling to risk a word of Arabic, expresses his wishes by semaphoric gestures which do not always produce the desired result. Aristide, always obliging, comes to help.
I look all round me. To the north there is the line of the Turkish hills, with a glittering spot which is Mardin. West, south and east there is only the fertile steppe, which in spring will be green and starred with flowers. Tells are dotted all over the landscape. Here and there are Beduin tents in brown clusters. Though there are villages on many of the Tells, you cannot see them – in any case they are only a few mud huts. Everything seems peaceful and remote from man and the ways of civilization. I like Chagar Bazar, and hope that we shall choose it. I would like to live in a house built here. If we dig at Hamdun, we shall presumably live in Amuda…. Oh, no, I want this Tell!
Evening comes. Max is pleased with the results. We will come again tomorrow and continue the soundings. This Tell, he believes, has been unoccupied since the fifteenth century B.C., except for some intrusive Roman and Islamic burials. There is excellent painted pottery of the early Arpachiyah Tell Halaf type.
The Sheikh escorts us genially to the car.
‘All that I have is yours, brother,’ he urges again. ‘However poor it makes me!’
‘How happy I shall be,’ says Max politely, ‘if it falls to my lot to enrich you by digging here. Compensation will be paid as agreed with the French authorities for any loss of crops, your men will be paid good wages, land will be leased from you to build a house, and, moreover, at the end of the season a handsome present will be made to you personally.’
‘Ah,’ cries the Sheikh in high good humour, ‘I need nothing! What is this talk of payment between brothers?’
We depart on this altruistic note.
Two cold and wintry days spent at Tell Hamdun. The results are reasonably good, but the fact that part of the Tell is in Turkey is against it. The decision seems clear for Chagar Bazar, with an additional concession for Tell Brak, which could be combined with the Chagar dig in a second season.
Now it only remains to get on with the arrangements for the spring. There is a suitable site to be chosen at Chagar for the house; there is the leasing of the house in Amuda for the time while the Chagar house is being built; there is the agreement to be drawn up with the Sheikh, and, most urgent, there is another money-order waiting at Hasetshe, which we must fetch without delay in case the wadis fill and the road is cut.
Hamoudi has been throwing money about rather grandly in Amuda lately, mindful of our ‘reputations’. The spending of money seems a point of honour with Arabs – that is to say, the practice of entertaining notables in the coffee-house! To appear mean is a terrible dishonour. On the other hand, Hamoudi beats down remorselessly the charges of old women who bring milk and other old women who do our washing for what seems an incredibly small sum.
Max and I set off for Hasetshe in Mary, hoping for the best, though the sky is overcast and ther
e is a faint drizzle of rain. We reach there without adventure, although the rain is now falling, and we wonder if we shall ever get back.
To our despair, when we get to the Post Office the Postmaster is out. No one knows where he is, but boys are dispatched in all directions to hunt for him.
The rain begins to fall in earnest. Max looks anxious, and says we shall never do it unless we can start back soon. We wait anxiously while the rain continues.
Suddenly the Postmaster appears, walking along in a leisurely fashion with a basket of eggs.
He greets us with pleasure and surprise. Max cuts short the usual politenesses with an urgent plea for haste. We shall be cut off, he says.
‘But why not?’ says the Postmaster. ‘You will then have to remain here many days, which will be a pleasure to me personally. Hasetshe is a most agreeable town. Stay with us a long time,’ he urges hospitably.
Max renews his impassioned demand for haste. The Postmaster slowly unlocks drawers and searches in a desultory fashion, whilst still urging on us the desirability of making a long stay.
Curious, he says, that he cannot find this important envelope. He remembers it arriving, and he has said to himself: ‘One day the Khwaja will arrive for this.’ Therefore he has placed it in a place of safety, but where now can that place be? A clerk arrives to help, and the search is continued. Finally the letter is unearthed, and we go through the usual difficulty of obtaining cash. As before, this has to be collected from the Bazaar.
And still the rain falls! At last we have what we want. Max takes the precaution of buying bread and chocolate in case we spend a night or two en route, and we re-enter Mary and dash off at full speed. We negotiate the first wadi successfully, but at the second an ominous sight meets our eyes. The postal bus has stuck in it, and behind the postal bus is a line of cars waiting.
Everyone is down in the wadi – digging, fixing boards, yelling encouragement.
Max says despairingly: ‘We’re here for the night.’
It is a grim thought. I have spent many nights in the desert in cars, but never with enjoyment. One wakes cold and cramped, with pains all over.
However, this time we are lucky. The bus comes lumbering out with a roar, the other cars follow, and we come over last. It is just in time – the water is rising rapidly.
Our journey back on the Amuda track is nightmarish in quality – one long continuous skid. Twice at least Mary turns completely round and faces determinedly in the direction of Hasetshe in spite of the chains on the wheels. This continuous skidding is a very peculiar feeling. Solid earth is not solid earth any longer. It has a fantastic nightmare quality.
We arrive after dark, and the household rushes out with cries of welcome, holding up lanterns.
I tumble out of Mary and slither my way to the door of our room. It is difficult to walk, because the mud has the peculiar quality of attaching itself to your feet in vast flat pancakes so heavy that you can hardly lift them.
Nobody, it appears, has expected to see us return, and the congratulations and El hamdu lillahs are vociferous.
The pancakes on my feet make me laugh. It is so exactly the sort of feeling you have in a dream.
Hamoudi laughs too, and says to Max: ‘It is good to have the Khatún with us. All things make her laugh!’
Everything is now arranged. There has been a solemn meeting between Max, the Sheikh and the French military officer of the Services Spéciaux in charge of the district. The rental of the land, the compensation, the obligations of each party – all is set down in black and white. The Sheikh alternates between saying that everything that he has is Max’s and suggesting that about a thousand pounds in gold would be a fitting sum for him to receive!
He finally leaves, a much-disappointed man, having evidently entertained the wildest dreams of affluence. He is consoled, however, by one clause of the contract, which provides that the house built for the Expedition shall, when the Expedition has finished with it, revert to him. His eyes brighten, and his vast red henna-dyed beard wags appreciatively.
‘C’est tout de même un brave homme,’ says the French Capitaine when the Sheikh has finally departed. He shrugs his shoulders. ‘Il n’a pas le sou comme tous ces gens là!’
The negotiations for the renting of the Amuda house are complicated by the fact – which has only recently come to light – that instead of its being one house, as we imagined, it seems to be six! And as the six houses are inhabited by eleven families, the complications increase! The Armenian priest is merely the spokesman for all the varied householders!
An agreement is finally arrived at. On a definite date the ‘houses’ are to be vacant, and the interior treated with two coats of whitewash!
So now all is settled. There is now the return journey to the coast to arrange. The cars will attempt to reach Aleppo by way of Ras-el-Ain and Jerablus. It is about two hundred miles and there are many wadis to cross in the early stages of the journey, but with luck it may be done in two days. But with December here the weather is bound to break soon. What will the Khatún do?
The Khatún, ignobly, decides for a Wagon Lit. So the taxi takes me to a strange little station, and presently a large and important blue sleeping-car comes along behind a vast puffing engine. A conductor in chocolate uniform leans out. Madame’s baggage is handed up, Madame herself is hoisted with difficulty on to the high step from the permanent way.
‘I think you’re wise,’ says Max; ‘it’s starting to rain.’
We both cry: ‘See you in Alep!’ The train starts! I follow the conductor along the corridor. He flings open the door of my compartment. The bed is made.
Here, once more, is civilization. Le camping is ended. The conductor takes my passport, brings me a bottle of mineral water, says: ‘We arrive at Alep at six tomorrow morning. Bonne nuit, Madame.’
I might be going from Paris to the Riviera!
It seems strange, somehow, to find a Wagon Lit here in the middle of nowhere….
Alep!
Shops! A bath! My hair shampooed! Friends to see.
When Max and Mac roll in three days later, plastered with mud and carrying quantities of bustards shot en route, I greet them with the superiority of one inured once more to the fleshpots.
They have had plenty of adventures on the way – the weather was bad, and I am satisfied that I chose the better part.
The cook, it appears, demanded his chit as a driver when paid off, and Max, before perjuring himself, ordered the cook to drive Mary once round the courtyard.
Jumping into the driving-seat, ’Isa started up, put the gear in reverse, and crashed heavily into the courtyard wall, knocking a large portion of it down. He was deeply injured when Max refused to guarantee him as a chauffeur! The testimonial as finally written announced that ’Isa had been our cook for three months, and had given us useful help with the car!
And so once more to Beyrout and a parting with Mac. Egypt for us for the winter. Mac is to go to Palestine.
CHAPTER FOUR
First Season at Chagar Bazar
IT IS SPRING when we return to Beyrout. The first sight that greets us on the quay is Mac, but a Mac transformed.
He is smiling from ear to ear! No doubt about it – he is pleased to see us! Until now we have never known whether Mac has liked us or not. His feelings have been concealed behind his mask of polite impassiveness. But now it is clear that to him this is a reunion with friends. I cannot tell you how warming this is! From henceforth my nervousness with Mac vanishes. I even ask him whether every day since we last saw him he has sat on his plaid rug writing in his diary.
‘Of course,’ says Mac, looking slightly surprised.
From Beyrout we proceed to Alep, and the usual business of getting in stores, etc., is accomplished. A chauffeur has been engaged for Mary – not this time an ‘economical’ one picked up on the water-front, but a tall, worried-looking Armenian, who has at any rate a certain number of testimonials as to honesty and capacity. He has worked at one ti
me for German engineers, and his principal disadvantage at first appearance is his voice, which is inclined to be a high and irritating whine. There is no doubt, however, that he will be an improvement on the sub-human Abdullah. Inquiries as to Aristide, whom we would have liked to have with us again, elicit the information that Aristide is now proudly in ‘Government service’. He is driving a street watering-cart in Der-ez-Zor!
The fateful date arrives, and we advance upon Amuda in two instalments. Hamoudi and Mac, with Mary (now deprived of royal honours and known as Blue Mary, since she has received a somewhat lurid coat of blue paint), are to arrive first, and make sure that all is prepared for our reception. Max and I travel grandly by train to Kamichlie, there to spend the day transacting the necessary business with the French military authorities. It is about four o’clock when we leave Kamichlie for Amuda.
It is evident when we arrive that all has not gone according to plan. There is an air of confusion, loud recriminations and plaints fill the air. Hamoudi has a distracted appearance and Mac a stoical one.
We soon learn the facts.
The house rented by us, which was to have been vacated, cleaned, whitewashed on a certain date now a week old, was found on the arrival of Hamoudi and Mac the day before to be innocent of whitewash, highly unclean, and still containing seven Armenian families!
What could be done in twenty-four hours has been done, but the result is not encouraging!
Hamoudi, by now well trained in the essential doctrine that the comfort of Khatúns comes first, has devoted all his energies to getting one room free of Armenians and livestock, and hastily whitewashing the walls. Two camp-beds have been set up in it for Max and myself. The rest of the house is still in chaos, and I gather that Hamoudi and Mac have spent an uncomfortable night.
But all will now be well, Hamoudi assures us, beaming with his usual irresistible smile.
The litigation and the recriminations that are now proceeding between the Armenian families and the Priest who was their spokesman are fortunately no concern of ours, and they are urged by Max to go and fight it out somewhere else!
Come, Tell Me How You Live Page 7
