18

Lady Evelyn Cobbold
Great Britain

1933

Lady Evelyn Cobbold had already been a Muslim for many years when she went to Mecca. As a child spending winters in Algiers, Cobbold learned Arabic early, played with Algerian children, and became, as she put it later, “a little Muslim at heart.” While she was still a girl, these visits ended. Gradually she forgot her Arab friends, the prayers they had taught her, their language. Then (she writes) years later,

I happened to be in Rome staying with some Italian friends, and my host asked me if I would like to visit the Pope. Of course I was thrilled, and clad all in black with a long veil, I was admitted into the august presence with my host and his sister. When His Holiness suddenly addressed me, asking if I was a Catholic, I was taken aback for a moment and then replied that I was a Muslim. What possessed me I don’t pretend to know, as I had not given a thought to Islam for many years. A match was lit, and then and there I determined to read up and study. . . .

Lady Cobbold was the eldest daughter of the seventh Earl of Dunmore. Her husband of thirty-eight years, the High Sheriff of Suffolk, died in 1929. She set out for Mecca in February, at the age of sixty-six, sailing alone from Cairo to Jidda, a widow, well traveled, at ease in the Middle East. Aboard the same ship were the Pasha of Meknes, “a magnificent Moor,” with an entourage of seventy, and Sir Andrew Ryan, returning to his post as Britain’s Minister in Saudi Arabia. In Jidda, Cobbold was hosted by Dora and St. John Philby—an incidental pleasure of her account is the view it provides of the life the Philbys were leading at this time. Through her diarylike entries, we glimpse the social activities of Jidda’s small, isolated European community:222 night drives in Ford sedans for picnics and dips in the Red Sea; luncheons with Dutch bankers; meals at the new British legation with the Ryans and their guests, the Turkish, Italian, Persian, and Bolshevik ministers; and visits at the New Hotel with the Hamiltons, Twitchells, and Longriggs—prominent names in the early history of oil.

With the Hajj weeks away, the roads leading into the Hijaz ran with pilgrims. Passing by them on her outings rankled Cobbold. She had not come to Arabia to dine, yet she could not leave Mecca without permission, since current policy required prospective European pilgrims to remain in Jidda for one year. Interestingly, Cobbold lays the blame for this probation on her literary predecessors, travel writers who had lied their way into Mecca, then returned home to write up the Hajj as a daring adventure. A more general distrust of Europeans shaped the new probation, too, for wherever they appeared in the Near East, the result was a loss of Muslim territory. As Cobbold remarks in another passage:

Even as I write this, the Berbers [of Morocco] are being driven from their last stronghold in the Atlas Mountains by the French armies, and a chapter of a great race will finally close, a race noted for the independence and valiant qualities of its men and the beauty of its women, and which has gone down fighting to the last against an enemy vastly superior in numbers and supplied with every modern equipment and instrument of destruction.

Her stay in Jidda was punctuated by politely probing visits from various members of the royal court. Ibn Saʿud’s Finance Minister, Fuʿad Hamza, followed by the King’s son Amir Faysal, Viceroy in Hijaz, came to Philby’s house to vet the English hajja. Cobbold hired a tutor to help perfect her accent, while Philby worked on her behalf, dashing back and forth to Mecca to put her case before the King. Three weeks later Ibn Saʿud ended her probation. In a rented car with an Arab driver, a Sudanese cook, and one of Philby’s guides, she struck out for Medina.

Throughout her journey, Cobbold was universally mistaken for a fair-skinned Turk, an impression she rarely contradicted. On her way to Medina, she passed through the desolate lands of the Banu Harb, a tribe much feared for their pilgrim raids over the centuries, now reduced to begging by the road. She also sighted the first Hajj buses on record, loaded with pilgrims bumping through the desert. In Medina, she visited the Prophet’s Mosque and spent considerable time with local women. The town was much reduced since Wavell’s visit in 1908, a fate she blames on British policy and the destruction of the Hijaz Railway. In Medina, Cobbold met a French-speaking Turkish widow whose husband had died in 1917, when Sharif Husayn’s troops and T. E. Lawrence destroyed the railway bridge outside Maʿan.

Cobbold’s praise for Ibn Saʿud’s programs may strike readers as overly admiring. Yet records show that the Hajj was infinitely safer under the King than it ever had been under the sharifs. Way stations with free dispensaries now dotted the same routes where disease, starvation, and death by thirst had been common for centuries. Hotels with special accommodations for women and children were also springing up in Jidda, Yanbu, and the Holy Cities, and fair prices had been set on rented quarters. Ibn Saʿud instituted civic improvements, too. He prohibited importing slaves, set up welfare programs for destitute women, and hospitals with surgeons schooled in Paris. In Cobbold’s record, as in Philby’s, the King seems to be everywhere. The morning after her return to Mecca, she enters the mosque to find him serving as royal janitor, washing the interior of the Kaʿba with a pail of water and a broom. Listening to traditional storytellers in the markets, she notes that by 1934 the tale of Ibn Saʿud’s life and times had entered popular legend.

As a Muslim woman on the Hajj, Lady Evelyn enjoyed more social freedom than her male counterparts. Because Arabian culture strictly segregates the sexes, travelers like Burckhardt and Wavell were mostly cut off from conversing with Muslim women at home or in public. By contrast, Cobbold moved freely between the harem and all-male assemblies. Her special status as a non-Arab Muslim widow and as a guest with well-placed acquaintances inside the country gave her broad social access in the Hijaz. Throughout her trip, she traveled as a single woman, crossing long stretches of desert, visiting Bedouin families as she pleased.

This first Hajj account by an English woman also contains the first recorded trip by car from Mina to Arafat. Cobbold traveled widely all her life. At home, she enjoyed a reputation as a first-class shot and a deerstalker. She wrote two travel books, Pilgrimage to Mecca in 1934, and, the following year, Kenya: Land of Illusion. She died, at the age of ninety-five, in 1963.

from Lady Evelyn Cobbold’s Pilgrimage to Mecca

JIDDA. FEBRUARY 26, 1933 We arrive at Jidda after four days’ voyage on summer seas, and the view from the bay is enchanting. A white and brown town giving the idea of a fortress, as it is enclosed on three sides by a high wall, its minarets stand out against the sky, its quaint carved wooden windows bulge over the narrow streets. Beyond the golden desert rise the low foothills of the Arabian mountains, losing themselves in the distance to the heights far away which reach eight thousand feet and more. The sea is a marvellous blue; inside the lagoons it becomes turquoise in the shallow water threaded by streaks of purple caused by seaweed.

I come a stranger to this land, hoping to get permission to visit the sacred places of Arabia, and the Philbys have most kindly offered to receive me as a guest in their house. It is perhaps unnecessary to mention that Mr. Philby is a Muslim and the trusted friend of King Ibn Saʿud, besides being the well-known explorer who twice crossed Arabia from sea to sea and traversed the terrible Rub’al-Khali a year ago.

My hostess fetches me in a launch flying a green flag with white lettering in Arabic la ilaha il-allah, muhammad al-rasul’allah—(“There is but one God. Muhammad is a messenger of God”). It is the flag of Abd al-Aziz Ibn Saʿud, Sovereign Lord of this land, and I feel indeed I am in Arabia.

The launch has nearly a mile to go, as the coral reefs and shallows make it dangerous for vessels to come close to the shore, and I am amused at the dexterity of our youthful steersman, an Arab child of ten years, who stands upright to see better while guiding the wheel entirely with his bare toes within the coral reefs. He brings us safely to the steps, where we land to pass through the customhouse, and shortly after we enter the Philbys’ large stone house facing the quay. . . .

FEBRUARY 28 The King is away at Riyadh, his capital in Nejd, sixteen days’ camel ride from here, so I fear he will not get the letter his Minister in London wrote him for some time. (Before leaving England, I had an interview with His Excellency Shaykh Hafiz Wahba, Minister of Saudi Arabia, and confided to him my desire to visit the Sacred Cities; he most kindly wrote to His Majesty on the subject. If I succeed in accomplishing my pilgrimage, I feel it will be largely owing to his help.) Till that letter reaches the King, I must possess my soul in patience, and my time is pleasantly spent bathing in the warm sea within the coral reefs, for fear of sharks, or in motor drives in the desert.

When the late King Husayn reigned over the Hijaz, the Europeans, who were suffered to reside in Jidda, were never allowed beyond its walls, and life must have been well-nigh intolerable, depending on one’s house roof for a breath of air, where one was always at the mercy of the ubiquitous mosquito and its malaria-envenomed sting. Under the aegis of the present King the embargo has been lifted, and every evening, when the sun loses some of its fierceness, the whole world of Jidda leaves the city walls and goes into the desert for exercise and air. There are no roads, but the numerous Fords make their way through the sand and scrub and seldom let us down. There are a few sand grouse and hares to be shot and a lovely creek in which to bathe.

When the moon is full, we go at night to swim in the silvered sea, so salt that it is difficult to sink, and we picnic under the magic moon, whose white radiance lights the desert. I wander along the beach collecting the beautiful shells and red coral that strew the shore. These Arabian nights will live long in my memory.

We pass many pilgrims on their way to the Holy Cities, some in motors, some swaying on camels, and the very poor on foot. The men are clothed in their ihram (or two towels) and bareheaded. The women going to Medina are in black or colours, while those on the road to Mecca are in their pilgrim white. Some of the poor pilgrims from far countries take years on their way. My host related how he was one day motoring on the Medina Road and, seeing a man, his wife, and boy trudging wearily through the hot sand, with all their worldly goods packed on their heads and backs, stopped his car to give them a lift as he was travelling a short way on their road. What was his surprise when they gratefully lifted their bundles into the car to find three small babies in them, born during the years of tramping towards their goal.

MARCH 1 I find life in Jidda very different from that of any Eastern city I have visited before. It is so purely Arab. There are no drinking booths, no shops, excepting its bazaars, which only supply the needs of its Arab population. Cinemas, Gramophones, the manifold necessities that make up the complicated life of civilisation, are unknown.

The architecture of its houses is most attractive. They are built of stone procured from quarries in the desert close by; but wood is largely used in the quaintly carved shutters, doors, and balconies and is mostly teak, imported from Java, as there are no trees in this land.

The Philbys’ house, Bayt al-Baghdadi, is one of the largest and finest in the town, with a roof garden extending round two sides, on which flowers are carefully cultivated in pots, mostly large pink periwinkles, which are perpetual flowering, seeding themselves, and very effective.

On a raised platform in one corner is a bedstead, where my host sleeps when in Jidda. He also has a house in Mecca, where he stays alternate weeks. There are several bathrooms, mostly round stone cupolas with marble floors and domed roofs pierced with holes, elaborately carved in arabesque designs, which fascinate me. The floors have deep holes to let the water away, and as we are provided with tin baths, we upset them down the holes when finished with.

There are loggias built over part of the roof garden, in which we take refuge from the sun, and the view looking west over the sea is enchanting. Jidda has no green vegetation of any description, but the amazing blues of the sea supply colour to the landscape, and the sunsets are often dreams of beauty. . . .

MARCH 2 Today we drove along the desert track which points the way to Mecca. Practically no rain has fallen this winter, but the camels find pasturage in the thorny scrub that manages to survive in the arid soil.

An American engineer has proved that irrigation could make this land fertile. Two years ago he sank a small artesian well on the edge of the foothills, where they meet the plain, and now this small plot is green with burseed and corn.

Arabia covers more than one million square miles, of which barely one fifth is cultivated; it may contain mineral wealth, but the feeling of its people is against all foreign interference, and up to now they have neither the capital nor the expert knowledge to develop its possible resources themselves.

Shortly after passing the well, we turn back to Jidda, as we are nearing the forbidden territory, on the confines of which two tall stone pillars mark the entrance, and none but the true believer may venture to pass within.

How I envy the pilgrims we meet on their way to Mecca, while we return to the social life of Jidda, which would be very pleasant if one were not aware of the mysterious city of Islam hidden in the hills only a few miles from us. Why do we always long for the unattainable, for the blue bird which hovers just beyond our reach?

We return to Jidda and dine at the New Hotel, which was opened for the pilgrims a few days ago and where the American engineers, who have come to try and obtain the oil concessions from the King, are now staying. Their wives, Mrs. Hamilton and Mrs. Twitchell, welcome us and give us an excellent dinner, and the party includes Mr. Longrigg, the English representative of the Iraq Oil Company, who is also here trying to get the concession. Rivalry does not appear to spoil the friendly relations existing between all parties, even when Mr. Longrigg discovers broken glass in his coffee cup! After dinner we played bridge, and on breaking up the party at midnight, the moon looked so enticing that several of us went for a drive in the desert to the creek and had a bathe. . . .

MARCH 4 My host left for Mecca early this morning to take part in the Friday midday prayer; he wore ordinary Arab clothes, consisting of the aba over a white robe and, on his head the kaffiya bound by the iqal. The pilgrimage this year begins officially on the fourth of April. As the Arabs count by lunar months, it falls eleven days earlier each year, and for the next decade the Muslims can count on a comparatively cool period both for the fast of Ramadan and the pilgrimage.

This evening I hear that the King has received his Minister’s letter from London and is favourably considering my request. I am advised to write a letter to the King’s son, the Amir Faysal, Viceroy of the Hijaz, giving him details of myself and family: Also the Undersecretary for Foreign Affairs is coming to Jidda for a few days and wishes to see me.

MARCH 5 His Excellency Fuʿad Hamza called this afternoon; he is a Syrian, fair, speaking excellent English. After a short talk, when he showed himself exceedingly kind and helpful, he returned to Mecca with my letter to the Viceroy—so now I await my fate, which is in the King’s hands. I am asking a great favour, as the King has decided to allow no European Muslim to enter the forbidden ground until he has spent at least a year of probation in Jidda. Unfortunately more than once a European has entered Mecca professing himself a Muslim, only when writing up his experiences to enhance his reputation by allowing the world to think he was performing the pilgrimage at the risk of his life, and the Arabs naturally resent this abuse of their hospitality. . . .

MARCH 8 My host has returned from Mecca and tells me it now only remains for the King to give his decision, whether or not I shall be permitted to enter the Holy Cities, and in the meantime the Viceroy, who is making a short stay in his palace outside the town, will pay a visit to my hostess on Friday. This is an honour only conferred on a Muslim household, and a small party, including the British Minister and Lady Ryan, are invited to meet him. The King himself refuses to give audience to European women, making an exception in the case of my hostess. . . .

MARCH 9 The Amir Faysal arrived punctually at five o’clock (eleven by Arab time, which counts from the sunrise at 6:00 a.m.). It was impressive to see his tall figure enter the doorway clad in a brown and gold aba over a flowing white robe and the picturesque headdress of the Nejd, the kaffiya of diaphanous white bound round his head by black and gold cords—called the iqal—while beside him stood his small son, dressed exactly like his father. They were followed by some of the ministers. The Amir is slender and exceedingly graceful in his movements and, like most Nejd Arabs, has an air of distinction and good breeding. Through his mother he is a direct descendant of Abd al-Wahhab, the great founder of the Wahhabi sect, who perhaps might be described as the Puritans of Islam. His small son won all our hearts. Little Abdullah had never before entered a European household or met European women, yet his dignity and self-possession never failed him. At a gesture from his father he left his side and seated himself on a divan among us. He wore sandals bound round each big toe with a piece of embroidery, and as he drew his small feet under him, he resigned himself to a conversation carried on with difficulty, as our Arabic was not fluent. He told us he loved riding camels and horses, but seemed slightly offended when I asked him if he ever rode a donkey. Already at the age of ten years, this child has left the women’s quarters and holds his own little court.

MARCH 10 One of the excitements of Jidda is the day the English boat Toledo calls, bringing the mails and also groceries and newspapers. This only occurs once a fortnight, and it is most unfortunately arranged that the Italian boat arrives on the same day. All the morning anxious eyes are fixed on the horizon, and as soon as the English vessel is sighted, that is generally about 10:30 a.m., the little world of Jidda go out in their launches and forgather on board to read their letters. Often an early lunch of cheese sandwiches and beer is partaken of while all the news is discussed. The small steamer is one’s link with the outside world; when we leave her and she passes out of sight on her way to Port Sudan, we know we are once more shut off from all knowledge of what is happening on our globe for two whole weeks.

This afternoon, Mrs. Andresen, a Dutch lady, took us to visit some ex-slaves who were housed free by the charity of a rich merchant. The rooms opening into a courtyard were spotlessly clean—two women sleep in each room, they earn enough to keep themselves by laundry work and odd jobs. Most of them were from the Sudan and appeared happy and contented. There was a well in the centre of the courtyard, and a few trees and flowers grew about; a cat, some goats, and pigeons were also inmates. One old lady was pointed out who had nearly died of starvation. She was too proud to let them know she had been unable to find work and went without food for four days, when she collapsed. The other women came to her rescue on discovering her condition, and she was again a hale and hearty old lady when we saw her.

They entertained us with tea, cigarettes, and biscuits; the cigarettes they rolled with the tips of their henna-stained fingers, and while we were there, two most attractive ladies came to visit them. There are several of these homes in the town, where ex-slaves and destitute women take refuge. . . .

MARCH 12 Today the news has come through that I am permitted to do the pilgrimage to Mecca and visit Medina. I had for so long lived in alternate fits of hope and despair that I can scarcely credit that my great wish is at last to be fulfilled. Preparations for my journey are in the hands of my host, who is returning to Mecca and, notwithstanding his many preoccupations, is giving up much time and trouble arranging for my comfort and the many details that require consideration; while I prepare to get ready my pilgrim dress, which consists of a black crêpe skirt, very full, and a cape and hood in one, to be worn over ordinary dress when I visit Medina, also a black crêpe veil entirely obscuring my features; but for Mecca I shall be entirely in white, no colour allowed in any garment. As the official days of pilgrimage at Mecca do not begin till 4 April, I arrange to go first to Medina. . . .

MEDINA. MARCH 15 We started for Medina after the dawn prayer. I had hired a car for the twenty days of pilgrimage, with an Arab driver who knew the road and was accompanied by Mustafa Nazir, a very urbane personage lent me by Mr. Philby, who combined the duties of equerry and courier and proved invaluable. Also a nice old Sudanese, father of the cook, who had come from Dongola to do the pilgrimage and wanted to kiss my feet when I offered him a lift to Medina.

It was a lovely dawn, the sun rising over the hills soon after we left Jidda in a splendour of conflagration making the shadow of rock and bush stretch blue as indigo to the west. We sped northward through mile after mile of flat desert, where grew a few thorny bushes and a shrub with a yellow flower like a cistus. The road was marked by the whitened bones of dead camels that strewed the path of countless thousands of pilgrims who had trod that way for over a thousand years. No living thing was to be seen, except now and then some sand grouse and, once, a flight of flamingoes. . . .

Our first halt was at Rabigh, where we entered the forbidden territory, and passports were examined. Here we took an hour’s rest; a third of our journey was accomplished, but the worst of the road was ahead. Rabigh is a seaport which, during the Hijaz war, largely took the place of Jidda as the port for Mecca for the landing of the pilgrims, but the town is two miles from the sea, and the mud-brick houses are scattered over a flat plain without any attempt at order. Near the marketplace is a collection of open-fronted booths, roofed in with rushes or palm fronds, where the pilgrims can sit at ease or lie full length to sleep on rude couches. There were already several of them stretched in slumber on their serirs,223 where they will spend the hot hours ahead, leaving again in the cool of the evening. . . .

A few of the Bedouin girls crowded round the car, trying to sell me baskets of plaited grass of brilliant colours and other primitive articles which they make specially for trade with the pilgrims. When I refused to buy, they were not in the least put out, but ran off to try their blandishments on the slumbering hajjis. . . .

While I rested, the car was supplied with water and benzine, two absolute necessities of which it was impossible to carry enough for the journey. Also Mustafa was able to smoke his beloved narghile in some secret recess where the police could not sniff the forbidden fumes, and our driver, Suleyman, who had often been this way before, chatted with his many friends. . . .

Here among these hills were human inhabitants who evidently found life a difficult problem, judging from their emaciated appearance: it was heartrending to see the children who were living skeletons.

They ran beside the slowly moving car, imploring help with a menacing persistence that to my mind boded ill if we should have a breakdown; their shrill voices held a curse when I ignored their appeal for alms.

There was something very forbidding about these Bedouins; the women being veiled, one only saw their sullen eyes, but the men were sinister figures with scowling faces. They belonged to the tribe of Harb, which has always lived by pillage, and it was from them that the sharifal army was largely recruited by Husayn, the Sharif of Mecca who was crowned King of the Hijaz after he defeated the Turks, driving them out of Arabia, only in his turn to be driven out a few years later by Ibn Saʿud the ruler of Nejd.

The present King has succeeded in putting an end to this desert brigandage, and in consequence this tribe has lost its chief means of livelihood; at the same time they dare not do mischief, for fear of the King’s swift retribution. . . .

On leaving the Medina Gate at Jidda and several times on the way, our passports were examined by the Wahhabi police, who patrol the pilgrim route and keep it safe for those who use it (as was never done before, when the poor pilgrim was often robbed of all his possessions and left to die).

The 250 miles from Jidda to Medina took us fifteen hours to accomplish, and I take off my hat to the little Ford that gallantly carried us through those sandy wastes: only once did Mustafa and the old Sudanese have to get out and push, when we stuck in a particularly deep drift. Besides the pilgrims on camels, we met many on foot, toiling slowly through the scorching desert with water jugs in their hands, clad in their ihram and, as they were bareheaded, many carried umbrellas.

Ten days is the usual time it takes a camel to accomplish the journey between Medina and Jidda and three weeks for the pilgrim on foot, who generally travels at night, resting in the heat of the day at one of the numerous caravansaries, where he can obtain food, water, coffee, tea, and a rush couch on which to sleep.

Also we occasionally met an omnibus carrying intending pilgrims and luggage tightly packed, cooking utensils and water jugs tied on anywhere, and the noise and clatter must have been most trying as they bumped over the rough ground. . . .

We halted once again when two policemen stopped us with flashlights and, after the Arab greeting of peace, warned us that it had rained for three days and the road was underwater. We thanked them and proceeded by another sandy track, which also led us to water. Our driver got out and waded in it to his knees, but returned to say that the bottom was hard and he thought the Ford could do it. The little car did not fail us, and after another hour we saw lights in the distance. They were the lights of Medina al-Munawara, the Illumined City. . . .

MARCH 17 This morning I was engaged in writing up my diary when I heard that some ladies were below waiting to see me. On being told they belonged to the family of an old friend in Damascus, I was glad to welcome them; and after unveiling and getting rid of their cloaks and hoods, they distributed themselves on the divans. There were five of them, the wife of my friend in Damascus, a very attractive personality with a sweet expression, her sister with two young daughters, and another lady of a cheerful frame of mind whose gay laugh infected us all. My hostess, the wife of the gentleman in whose house I was a guest, had already greeted me, and she returned to help me entertain them with tea and later with the unsweetened Mocha coffee.

On removing their outer garments of the inevitable black silk or satin, these ladies were dressed in full trousers hanging in folds that fit tight below the calf of the leg and are very becoming to slim figures. They are generally made of striped silk or cotton, and a tight-fitting bodice with long sleeves is worn above, and over the whole hangs a loose transparent dress of white gauze. A piece of coloured silk is wound round like a turban on the head, with one end hanging down to the shoulder. Their hair hangs in two long plaits down their backs, very often twisted with gay ribbons or ropes of seed pearls. Powder and rouge is unknown—but they all have their eyes blackened with kohl—which they tell me softens the glare of the sun; as a rule they have lovely teeth and carry themselves well.

They were very interested in hearing of my country and the lives we women live and asked me innumerable questions about our emancipation and our right to enter Parliament and share in the government of our land. Also they enquire when and why I had become a Muslim, and on my admitting that I could read and write Arabic, I was taken to the texts hanging on the walls and asked to read them. Luckily I was able to do so. . . .

ANOTHER STORY Later in the evening, in the corner of the market, or the open square, you may see a small crowd gathered in the twilight to listen to the storyteller.

This ancient profession has always been popular in the East, though the cinema and theatre have almost driven it out of modernised cities like Algiers or Cairo; but I remember seeing groups of eager Moors listening to the entrancing tales of the storyteller in the Jemaa al-Fna at Marrakesh, and here in Medina I find him again. He may be relating the “Stealing of the Mare” or portions of The Thousand and One Nights or the thrilling tale of “Antar the pre-Islamic Hero-Poet,” but always he stops short at the most exciting moment, leaving his hearers to await with what patience they can for the continuance of the tale on the ensuing evening. . . .

Nowadays the repertoire of the storyteller has been added to by an epic of modern times: the heroic deeds of the present King of Arabia. The life of Abd al-Aziz Ibn Saʿud makes a wonderful theme which the storyteller seizes on with avidity.

By the light of the campfires in the desert or the flare of the torches in the coffeehouse, the audience listen spellbound to the thrilling tale of the young Prince banished from his country when eleven years old, his father having lost the throne of Nejd; of how he spent eight years’ exile in Kuwait, the seaport on the Persian Gulf, homesick for the mountains of his native land, and how when barely nineteen years of age he returned with forty kinsmen to his country and by one of the most daring feats in the annals of war he recaptured Riyadh, the capital of his lost kingdom, and seized the reins of power; of how in time he fought and vanquished the Ottoman troops, the powerful Amir Ibn Rashid, Lord of Ha’il, and the late King Husayn of the Hijaz.

The storyteller proceeds with his narrative of this modern saga, more wonderful than any fairy tale of old: of how this intrepid Prince has shown a genius for government equal to his genius in battle; of how he harnessed the desert tribes in a friendly brotherhood, the Ikhwan, and put an end to brigandage and lawlessness in perhaps what was the most lawless country in the world and now reigns supreme over Arabia from the Persian Gulf to the Red Sea, holding the custody of the Sacred Cities of Mecca and Medina, which constitutes him the real Protector of Islam.

The Amir Ibn Rashid was killed in battle, and the survivors of the family were taken to the King’s Palace at Riyadh, where they now live surrounded by comfort, and all honour and deference paid them, but they are very carefully guarded and virtually prisoners in all but name. Sharif Husayn fled to Cyprus and eventually died at Amman, the capital of Transjordania, where Abdullah his son reigns as Amir. . . .

MARCH 21 On [19 March] I received a message asking me to visit the new hotel, built to house the pilgrims. A pleasing feature in this country is the increased care taken for the safety and well-being of these poor people, who in the past suffered from every danger that can beset the path of a wayfarer in the desert. Robbery and violence were rife: death from hunger and, more especially, thirst lay in wait. Now there are stations with wells, rest houses, and dispensaries, where all medical aid is given free at regular intervals on the pilgrim routes; and hotels are being built for their accommodation not only in the Holy Cities but at the ports of Jidda and Yanbu, where they land at Mesajid and at Mina on the way to the final pilgrimage at Arafat. A general committee has been appointed by the government to see that these are kept clean and in good repair and to fix the number of persons for each room and [see that] special accommodation is available for the women.

For the richer pilgrims there are always houses at their disposal to rent, to accommodate themselves and the large suite that generally accompanies a great man.

The hotel I am invited to inspect is for the gentleman who does not require the luxury and trouble of a house, but wants comfort and privacy for himself and his family. It is to be called the Grand Hotel or its equivalent in Arabic, and the manager wishes to hear from me how it compares with the hotels of London and Paris.

I entered an open courtyard, from which rose three tiers of galleries leading into numerous bedrooms. The courtyard formed a kind of entrance hall with many kursis224 about, on which the guests can squat and drink tea or coffee and play chess, a very favourite game in the Near and Middle East. An inner court provided a dining room. A wide stone staircase ascended to the bedrooms, which each contained an iron four-poster with a mattress, pillow, and sheet, also a mosquito net, and a table with a looking glass, brush, and comb; while on the ground stood large ewers, which being porous, kept the water cool. A splash of vivid colour beside the door were the soft slippers awaiting the pilgrim feet. What more can man desire? The four-posters were the only [western style] bedsteads in Medina.

I congratulated the manager on it all, especially on his forethought in providing a brush and comb, which he replied was most important for all the pilgrims’ beards. No doubt equally important were the slippers for the tired feet. The hotel will open in a few days.

Later on in the afternoon, after the siesta, I started out to return the visit of the Lady Fatima and her family, accompanied by Mustafa, as it would not have been considered correct for me to walk alone in public any more than our grandmothers could have done so in the days of Queen Victoria. . . .

My host, leaving Mustafa drinking coffee in the reception room, led me up a steep narrow staircase with painted banisters to the flat roof of the chambers that encircled the courtyard. Here were the ladies’ quarters, and very charming they were, with the roof garden massed with roses and pink oleanders growing in great pots of glazed green pottery. Here Fatima welcomed me, and her husband returned below to entertain Mustafa and a few male guests who had assembled, while I made acquaintance with the ladies who had been invited to meet me.

They were a gay crowd, and we laughed and chatted over small incidents that amused us at the moment; indeed, the surroundings were so full of charm that I was prepared to laugh at any and everything that came my way, for sheer gaiety of spirit.

To my astonishment I discovered one little Turkish lady who spoke French fluently. She told me that her father had been attached to the Turkish embassy in Paris before the war. She had married an officer in the Ottoman army, who lost his life when the railway bridge near Ma’an on the Hijaz Railway was blown up in 1917, and she was now married to a gentleman of Medina. I asked her if she ever thought with regret of the gay life of her youth in Paris, and other Continental cities where her father had been posted during his career, but she assured me that she was perfectly content, and could not be happier than in her present home with her husband and three children, while she goes occasionally, when funds permit, to visit her family on the Bosporus. After drinking tea and eating quantities of delicious little cakes made of honey and almonds mixed with a small amount of flour, I quite reluctantly took leave of them, as the time for the sunset prayer drew near. . . .

MARCH 22 I paid my respects to the Amir this morning shortly after sunrise, arriving in my car accompanied by Mustafa. We were received by officials and shown into a large hall opening to the sky in the centre and raised on one side by a high step. There are divans below this dais, on which were seated several picturesque figures awaiting audience. The Amir entered a moment later and led me to the raised platform, which also had divans on three sides and where I sat cross-legged on his right hand. He is a tall man, thin, old, and very dignified, wearing a black and gold aba over his white robe and a red and white checked kaffiya of transparent material bound by the iqal. After I had thanked him for all he had done to make my visit to Medina easy, he replied how pleased he was to welcome me to the Holy City and hoped that my pilgrimage would strengthen my faith in Islam. He then asked me if I knew Mr. Philby (Hajji Abdullah Philby) and what position he held in England, and I felt the cold breath of suspicion was on us both, which does not surprise me when one thinks of the names of Burton, Burckhardt, and others who penetrated into the Haram disguised as Muslims; and what remains to Islam but to protect what is most sacred to her faith.

An attendant brought round glasses of hot sweet milk, which I managed to drink under my veil; then followed black unsweetened coffee and cakes, and shortly after, I bade farewell to my host, as the audience hall was filling up with ministers and others desiring interviews; it looked as if his morning would be a busy one. . . .

MARCH 23 Leaving Medina at eight o’clock (Arab time), we travelled through the hot hours until we reached Mesajid shortly before sunset, where we watered the car and refreshed ourselves with tea. Once more we sped on our way along the riverbed, which is the only road through the mountains, and we saw the wretched inhabitants stretch out their skinny arms imploring help. I am told these are the robbers who once preyed on the pilgrims, and now the tables are turned indeed, as they thankfully receive alms from those who in the old days they so shamefully looted and mishandled.

When the mountains assume the blue shade of approaching night, we find ourselves once again on the open plain and halt for the evening prayer. As there is no water available, we rub our hands with the desert sand, turn our faces to Mecca, recite the opening chapter of the Quran and do the four prostrations required. After that we eat our supper of cold chicken with the desert for a table and the stars for lamps.

We proceed southward on our journey past the silent camels, past pilgrims walking wearily who hold out their jugs for us to replenish till Mustafa warns me there will be nothing left for us. I find my eyes closing, my head nodding; at last I can no longer hold out; the car stops; we spread our blankets on the ground; I see the Southern Cross before me, the Milky Way reveals a million worlds, Jupiter, Saturn, and others blaze the night; my head touches the pillow and I am asleep. . . .

MARCH 27 Three hours after the sunrise I am once more in the Haram, accompanied by Mustafa, but already when leaving the cloisters the marble pathway through the quadrangle is hot to my stockinged feet, and I gladly keep myself veiled as a protection against the sun. There is a great crowd round the Kaʿba, and I hear that Ibn Saʿud, clad in his ihram, is inside, washing the floor with water from Zamzam, afterwards sprinkling it with attar of roses, the famous brew distilled by the scent merchants of Mecca from the roses that grow in profusion at Taʾif. . . . I try to mount the silver steps of the pulpit, to get a view of this unique ceremony performed by the warrior King of Arabia, but the soles of my feet are burnt in the attempt, so I reluctantly give it up and visit the famous well, Zamzam, over which is built a Moorish kiosk whose twilight interior is half underground. The well is surrounded by a parapet and iron railings, while two Arabs continually haul water from the deep, to fill the waiting jars from which goblets are replenished, as every pilgrim drinks from Zamzam, and it is in demand in many private houses for its medicinal attributes. . . .

MINA. MARCH 28 This afternoon, accompanied by my host and Mustafa, I motor to Mina and Arafat to see about accommodation for the pilgrimage, as it is incumbent that I remain at Mina for three nights. On leaving Mecca, we go north and pass the King’s palace on the outskirts of the city, a very imposing pile of grey granite which he built himself, the large arch of the middle entrance showing a court full of mimosa and palm trees.

Shortly after we leave the palace behind us, we meet a large number of camels bringing pilgrims from Nejd, those fierce warriors, the redoubtable Ikhwan. Their women are carried in baskets like large cages or beehives slung on each side of the camel’s hump and completely covered in by matting pierced with tiny holes like the veil I wear on pilgrimage. As they had been travelling for three or four weeks, one trusts they are allowed more air when in the desert. We turn east and make our way through a deep ravine which was blasted through the solid rock by the late King Husayn; his one good deed, so the Meccans say, but perhaps that is rather unkind! Before this corridor was made, it must have been an extremely dangerous route, more especially for the camels, and many pilgrims had died while trying to cross the steep slippery rocks. . . .

On emerging from this deep ravine, we soon arrive at Mina, a little desert town where the pilgrims stone the devil on returning from Arafat. There I visit the Pilgrim Hotel and come to the conclusion that a tent in the foothills will be preferable, hot though the weather is, as I cannot get a room to myself owing to the great demand.

In the sandy waste behind the one long street that is Mina there stands the mosque of al-Khayif. It is very old and has some fine stone arcades, also a dome beneath which the Prophet prayed during his last pilgrimage. The mosque is only open for the Festival of Sacrifice, and during these three days it is crowded day and night, and the adhan once again sounds from its two minarets. When the pilgrimage is over, the tents folded, and the multitudes gone, the mosque is left silent in its desert solitude.

We motor along a dry riverbed, and the hills become steeper, great ridges of mountains appear to the north and east; on their lower slopes these are clothed with green and grey thorny shrubs, many of them emitting an aromatic smell as you crush through them. Among the scant vegetation is a bush named basham by the Bedouins. It is the balm of Gilead, and during the summer months incisions are made in the bark and the soft gum collected in bags. It is then used as an ointment for treating wounds, having healing properties. Legend has it that the plant was introduced by King Solomon, to whom the Queen of Sheba presented it.

We have passed the two stone pillars which mark the boundary of the Sacred Territory and see long vistas of limitless desert and hills stretching into the heart of Arabia. The car can go no farther; we turn to the left and pull up beneath Mount Arafat, a steep rock with numerous praying places on its terraces, and topped by a granite column. . . .

The water from the mountains is collected here in huge tanks and flows through a deep aqueduct into a gorge and eventually to Mecca, a distance of some twenty miles, and this mighty work, over a thousand years old, which today supplies the city with its water, still stands, a lasting monument to the skill of the workmen of those days and the initiative of the Queen who built it.

We leave our car and climb to the first terrace, where is a small clearance called the Praying Place of Adam, where it is rumoured man first prostrated himself to God. Here, many pilgrims are resting, and from behind the boulders, more appear; the hill is alive with men and women from the Yemen, who have taken many months to arrive, trudging from their southern desert through the eternal sand, the womenfolk looking like witches, with their quaint straw hats ending in a sharp, conical peak. . . . I thought many of the women showed refinement and beauty, and they moved with the freedom and untrammelled grace that one often finds among the mountain dwellers.

They descend to stare at the car and huddle away terrified; never before have they seen a motor, and it takes a long time to persuade them it is harmless.

GOLD AND OIL Does this land hold nothing but rock and sand, or does it hide in its grim fastnesses a mineral wealth? In old days the gold mines of Ophir were renowned throughout the whole world, and surely their treasures are not exhausted. Perhaps the fear of foreign exploitation and the history of alien aggression in other Islamic countries deter this people from realising their own resources. They have kept their land free and their Holy Cities safe. The Hijaz has lived on its pilgrims for centuries, but now the pilgrims become fewer each year. Once they numbered two hundred thousand or more; but lately, owing to world depression, they are scarcely one hundred thousand, and Arabia suffers. When in Jidda, I heard of possible oil developments. American and English were both endeavouring to obtain concessions. . . .

APRIL 3 All night the camels were being loaded; never do the grunts and gurgles cease. Sleep is out of the question; apart from the universal din and excitement there is a tense feeling of expectation which tends to make one restless.

I rise early and thread my way to the mosque through the kneeling beasts to do a final tawaf before my pilgrimage. It is still dark, the dawn is an hour ahead when my mutawwif and I enter the Haram and join the crowd circumambulating the House of God. Many are in a state of frenzy and calling loudly while supplicating. Having finished the tawaf, I sit on a step to watch the strange scene. The niche that holds the sacred Stone is guarded by two soldiers armed with ropes and sticks. The maddened pilgrims fight to kiss it; a battle ensues, the soldiers hitting right and left, endeavouring to keep order. Shortly a friend joins me; we watch the endless scuffle, and I remark that nothing would induce me to try to kiss the Stone, upon which she promptly tells me she means to do so. I implore her not to attempt it. Just then a tall young man comes up and is introduced to me as her brother; he also endeavours to dissuade her; she seizes my hand, and as I don’t like to refuse, we fight our way towards the niche with her brother and my mutawwif as our protectors. It is impossible to get near. We are pushed aside by excited Bedouins mad to kiss the Stone, and I thankfully retire whole and undamaged, while her brother brings back a rather battered lady to me, saying the Arabic equivalent for “I told you so.” . . .

APRIL 5 I had brought an English book with me on my pilgrimage, knowing our progress must be slow in that great procession. The book was Passages from Arabia Deserta by that mighty traveller Doughty, and during a stop I opened it, and from under my veil I was soon absorbed in reading when a voice from a neighbouring car asked, “Is that an Arabic book?” Suleyman answered quickly that of course it was Arabic and whispered to me to close the book, which I refused to do. Again the voice spoke: “Can you swear by all we hold holy it is Arabic and a book for the Muslims?” Before the alarmed Suleyman could answer, I turned and held the book out to the anxious enquirer, saying, “This is an English book and I am an English Muslim, and I am here on pilgrimage by permission of the King.” After a few seconds of astonished silence he returned the book to me saying “Alhamdulillah!” . . .

A few miles brought us to Muzdalifa, where stands a mosque in ruins, then on through arid hills till we arrive at the tall pillars marking the end of the Sacred Territory. Beyond lies the great Plain of Arafat, which is now thronged with tents, camels, and pilgrims. As we approach, the dull murmur caused by the many pilgrims shouting the formula “Labayk Allahumma, labayk!” which had long been audible, now became so loud it dominated every other sound. There were over a hundred thousand men and women, all now accomplishing the aims of a lifetime, the great pilgrimage, which probably has meant to most of them travelling many thousand miles, enduring great hardships, and spending all their savings. Surely no other city in the world could boast of a huge population abstaining from all sexual intercourse for a given time on account of its religion. . . .

My host invites me to remain in his tent, and I gratefully accept and have my mattress and cushion spread where I can get a good view of everything going on. I unveil; the heat is terrific, and every few minutes I drink tea or eat pomegranates brought me from Taʾif. My host, who is one of the King’s ministers,225 has many friends to visit him, who with the perfect manners of the Arab show no surprise at finding me sitting there.

After introductions all round, we enter into conversation, and I try to tell them of the life and sport in Britain and wish my Arabic were more fluent to converse on the many subjects of mutual interest. Shortly before midday, we eat; I have my special dish brought, while they sit round a large tray. No knives and forks are used; we wash our hands with the water that is brought and poured over them into a basin with a perforated lid; then we wipe them dry with the towels provided.

After this I wander to the bell tent behind, to see how my hostess and her party are faring without their narghiles, as smoking would be out of the question today. They are bearing up, and Mustafa’s mother is sound asleep. One of the younger ladies is reading them a sura from the Quran, which they all listen to with great intentness, occasionally breaking in with pious ejaculations. I sit among them for a while, but the heat is much worse here than in the large open tent, so I return shortly to its comparative coolness.

Shortly afterwards we do the ceremonial washing for the midday prayer, consisting of washing the face, feet, and hands to the elbow and carefully rinsing the mouth and nose, but where water is not available, it is permitted to wash the hands in sand.

A carpet is spread for me pointing to the Kaʿba of Mecca, and I pray the four rakats prescribed. When I have finished, my host leads the prayers for the men, who also do four prostrations, after which we all join in the “Labayk Allahumma,” which we repeat again and again. Then a chapter from the Quran is read and very beautifully intoned.

There is excitement in the camp; the camel corps of Ibn Saʿud, the puritan troops mounted on tall diluls, are clearing a road for the King, who is on his way to Jabal al-Rahma. As he passes in the car, I get only a brief glimpse of the ruler who, by his force and magnetic personality, has won a position hitherto unknown in Arabia, where power to command cannot be held by royal descent alone. . . .

The King is followed by many picturesque figures, among them not the least being Van der Pol, the Dutch banker who embraced Islam some years ago and whom I had already met at the British legation at Jidda. He rides past in his ihram with bare head in the blazing sun, mounted on a magnificent camel, its saddle of crimson and gold glittering in the sunlight, while three other riders equally splendidly equipped follow him. Van der Pol now lives in Algeria, and every year he comes to perform the pilgrimage.

We see the imam silhouetted against the sky on the top of Jabal al Rahma. In olden days he sat a camel, but now he stands beside the tall pillar while he preaches this “sermon on the mount.” His voice cannot carry to where we are, so we pray the asr prayer and again [chant the] Labayk; then as the sun sets and the King departs, the tents are taken down, everything packed and put on camel or car in an incredibly short time. The great pilgrimage is over, and all who have assembled in the Plain of Arafat are now entitled to bear the name of hajji till their dying day. . . .

In time we reach Muzdalifa, where we wait for a few hours; our cars draw up on a slight rise, and after praying we spread our blankets under the stars and sleep. Midnight sees us on the road again, each of us armed with seven small stones which we have picked up in the desert to throw at the “great devil” at Mina. On arriving at the little town, we leave our cars, as all must walk to the stoning place. Mustafa’s mother is again asleep at the back of the car, and no amount of shaking seems to rouse her, so we leave her stretched across the seat. Evidently she sleeps her pilgrimage through, as I have never met her doing tawaf in the mosque. She is an old lady, and no doubt deputises one of her sons to do it for her. Abu Bakr brought her from Jidda, so with two sons doing pilgrimage, between them they should manage the ceremonial while she slumbers.

It is barely a mile to the stoning place, but in the night it is slow work making our way through the crowds, especially for the poor ladies of the harem, who never walk. . . .

Mustafa’s mother was still asleep on returning to the car, so we deposited her in the little house at Mina while we drove back to Mecca, arriving as the day broke, when we went direct to the Mosque to perform our tawaf at the Kaʿba and say the dawn prayer of two rakats, after which we returned to the house we had left two short days ago. It felt like a century. Daylight was streaming in as I wearily ascended the stairs, followed by Suleyman carrying my suitcase. I had lost Mustafa in the mosque. On entering my rooms, I hastily discarded my pilgrim clothes and went to bed, but the sun was already blazing when I fell asleep.

APRIL 6. TAWAF OF DEPARTURE I wake to find a smiling slave congratulating me on the end of the pilgrimage. Immediately after the ceremonial washing, we all don our best clothes and, smothered in black silk cloaks and veils, we again repair to the mosque to perform the tawaf and also saʿy (the seven runs) at al-Masaʿa. The Haram is crowded—no sleeping pilgrims. They have discarded their ihrams; all are circuiting the Kaʿba or prostrating themselves in prayer in their beautiful new clothes. The sonorous voice of the mutawwifs, the ecstatic cry of the pilgrims, the murmuring of the prayers, fill the Great Mosque like the muttering of thunder.

The Kaʿba is now covered with a new carpet wrought of silk and wool, and the band of gold writing that circles it about fifteen feet from the top is legible from a considerable distance, as the characters are in the largest style of Eastern calligraphy and are over two feet deep. It is said that in olden days all the Quran was interwoven into it. . . .

Some years ago it was thought that the old handweaving of the “carpet” could be superseded by machinery, and a loom was brought from Manchester at great expense, but it was not a success, and they reverted to the ancient process of handweaving. . . .

I again sleep in my eyrie under the stars, but my pilgrimage is finished, and I long to see green fields, grey skies, to hear the splash of rain, to escape from the pitiless sun.

Tomorrow starts the Feast of Sacrifice, and no one is allowed to leave till it is over, without the King’s permission.

There are now a hundred thousand pilgrims encamped round Mina in tents, in their shugdufs and shubreyas on the ground, while their couched camels are tethered in the hills. Would the King miss one small pilgrim? I can but send in my request.

APRIL 7 Mustafa sends me word that the King has given me permission to depart; I am still on the roof when I get the gracious message, and I hastily put my things together, descend the rickety ladder, and bid farewell to my hostess and all the little ladies, servants, and slaves. My car is at the door, and my host and his sons beside it. I thank them for all the kindness and hospitality shown me and enter the motor with Mustafa and a small slave armed with the key of the house in Mecca, as I must go there to collect my possessions.

The car slowly picks its way among the tents and hajjis, all now feasting, dressed in their coloured robes, their ihrams discarded. Savoury smells of cooking float on the air, together with the groans of camels, shrill voices of children, and shouts of friends seeking each other in the crowd. The scene holds an abstracting charm of colour and movement in the sunlit valley, and it is good to look on the happy faces, to watch their quiet content.

As we proceed to leave the crowd behind, the road gets lonelier, and presently we only meet a few Bedouin with camels on the trek to Mecca.

We enter a silent city, its little shops are shuttered, its houses locked and empty; only the pigeons and dogs are left. On arriving at the house that has sheltered me during these marvellous days, I run upstairs to prepare for my journey, while Mustafa goes to the mosque and Suleyman collects eggs and bread for us to eat.

Mustafa tells me he will return in an hour; he goes down the stairs; I hear the door slam and am left in the great void which a short time ago was crowded with humanity. I busy myself with a cold-water bath, which eventually makes me feel hotter than ever! Then I finish my packing and wait for Mustafa with what patience I can; I am now longing to get away.

I have brought two books with me on pilgrimage, an Arabic Quran and Arabia Deserta, to which I have already referred. I open the latter and try to fix my attention on the quaint Elizabethan style, which to my mind is the charm of the book, but Doughty was too sturdy a Christian, or perhaps too bigoted, to perceive any truth in Islam, and the whole of his writing breathes such animosity that I shut the volume, feeling it sacrilege to read it in my present surroundings. I settle myself at the shuttered window, where through the pierced carving I can look down into the empty street for a sign of Mustafa, and opening my Quran at random, I am soon immersed in the beautiful sura [entitled] “Light.” . . .

I am quite oblivious to my surroundings when I hear footsteps outside my door. For nearly three hours I have been shut within the great silent house a prisoner, and it is indeed with relief that I welcome the sight of Mustafa and Suleyman. The former tells me the reason of his delay is that he had trouble with the police, who asked him his business in Mecca when every self-respecting pilgrim is at Mina. The latter, with the help of the little slave, has collected the food required for our belated lunch, which we hastily eat, as I would like to reach Jidda before dark.

Before leaving Mecca, I once more go to the Haram to do my tawaf and to al-Masaʿa for saʿy.

Even now, with Mecca empty and the whole Islamic world celebrating the Feast of Sacrifice at Mina, I find some devoted pilgrims performing the tawaf of the Kaʿba, and it is a boast of the Meccans that there is not an hour of the day or night, year in, year out, when Bayt Allah has not got its meed of worshippers.

At Safa in my haste I slip on one of the steep steps and fall backwards, saving myself with my left hand and spraining my wrist.

Mustafa binds it up tightly, but it is too painful for me to continue, so I ask him to complete my seven runs, of which I had only done four.

After bidding good-bye to the little slave, who is returning to Mina on a donkey with the key, I enter my car, and accompanied by Mustafa, we drive through the silent streets, the deserted bazaars, till we reach the green gates of the city. We show our passports, but the Wahhabi police refuse to let us go through. My heart sinks; I ask Mustafa if it is possible that the King forgot to give the order to pass us, but he answers that he heard the King’s message sent by telephone. It never occurred to me, nor I believe did it ever cross Mustafa’s mind, that the permission to depart had been accorded to me alone and of course to Suleyman, my chauffeur. Mustafa regarded himself as responsible for my safety and had been so constantly with me during my pilgrimage that he and I never questioned the possibility that he would not accompany me back to Jidda.

Meanwhile there is nothing for it but to wait while the police telephone to the King at Mina for orders. I leave the car, as the sun is still hot, and take refuge in an adjoining café, where the proprietor sits alone telling his beads. He is intoning the ninety-nine attributes of Allah; in the dim silence the droning voice is like the faint humming of bees. The dusky quiet of this interior is very soothing after the fierce glare outside, but I wonder vaguely why my host is not at Mina, for his café is deserted. He hastens to supply us with caravan tea (red or green to your liking), which is so welcome in this sun-parched climate, while he mentions that we are the only human beings that have come his way for three days. He has a look of peace and great dignity, and Mustafa tells me that he is a sayyid, a descendant of the Prophet.

In Islam, where snobbery is unknown, a man may trace his descent from the noblest tribes for a thousand years or more yet earn his living in any humble but honest manner; and the descendants of Muhammad, himself one of the princely house of Quraysh, are often to be found among the very poor.

While my host is helping us to tea, a little maid comes shyly in and slips to her father’s side. Her orange robe lights up the dim interior, and her small brown face is wreathed in smiles as she peeps at me from behind her parent, who gently lifts her on his knee. We soon make friends, and she chatters gaily away free from self-consciousness, her great dark eyes dancing, her slim little hands gracefully gesticulating in true Arab fashion as she relates the history of her day’s doings.

After nearly an hour the telephone rings, and the message comes through that I am allowed to leave, but alone; Mustafa remains behind, and he is under arrest for attempting to go with me. We bundle his luggage out of the car, and I bid farewell to a very unhappy Mustafa, who, however, has his narghile to console him, if the police will ever allow him to smoke.

222 “There are very few European women here and possibly thirty men, living a great part of the year in intense heat and damp.” (Cobbold, Pilgrimage to Mecca, p. 19)

223 serir: a string bed, the Eastern chaise-longue [Ed.]

224 A wood and string platform for lounging.

225 Philby did not hold an official post in Ibn Saʿud’s court. [Ed.]