THE MOROCCO COAST.

Stratford Evening Post, Volume XXXI, Issue 18, 6 September 1911, Page 2

THE MOROCCO COAST.

IMFB FSSIONS OF THE .SEABOARD TOWNS. V.'o wore steaming through n summer so:i towards the African coast ■■. killing the moss-green shores, past Cape Spartcl—on our way to Casa Blanca, writes “L.L.” in the ‘'Gh»siow Herald.” Behind us lay Tiafalgar Bay, with ;i magnificent hank if great white cloud dipping to the ooiizon, and th.e blue sea motionless ;n the afternoon sun. Towards uignt die moon rose out of tiie land, as though from some hiding-place in tlie Sahara hoyoud, and in the morning we wore lying off Casa Blanca. CASA BLANCA. Tho town lay gleaming beyond the fringe of Mue-whito suit, its square ,louses standing out white in the morning sunshine. The streets alter the rains were in a .state ol mud quite ■ ndcscribahle, and were crowded with die incessantly moving throng oi busy •r.ooplo—Moors, Negroes, Jews, and :he French and Spanish soldiery. At the water gate ot the city lie .wo huge basins of a marble fountain, anight by the Sultan Abdul A/D, and delivered on the beach at Casa Blanca liter his overthrow. .They lie there still, neglected and ignored, an incongruous memorial of his disastrous reign. It was not an easy matter to make our way through the maze of narrow streets, jostled by the shouting, hurrying donkey-boys, as they urged their beasts 1 along, and then out into the open market square, where we picked our way through the mire, dodging the strings of camels as they came and went. There was a vivid, pulsating impression of I’fe and energy everywhere —a constant, flow of people and beasts of burden—giving way to none but the arrogant French official who galloped down upon us as we passed. He is their lord and master, holding the purse-strings of the nation, bringing no trade and taking no merchandise — unlike the German in this, whose business it is- to introduce our British goods to Morocco. “If there wore justice in our country as hi England, we should he a great people.” No said our friend and guide as he tool, us through tho town to a garden on itr outskirts, where we were able to sit and rest under the date palms in the heat of tho day. MAZAGAX.

Another few hours’ steaming the next night, and wc were at Mazagan —Pearl of The Coast, lying white and dazzling between the turquoise of the sea and sky. Its' streets are narrow and sandy, and our feet sang gently lu the warm roadway. Tho blind white walls of the houses shut out the sunlight, and above ns, beyond the shaded walls, great patches o ( blue were showing like a canopy over our heads.

Camels, mules, and dohkeys come and go, the soft thud of-their feet and the voices of their drivers alone tweaking the' silence 1 of the hot noonday. The cowled Moor, in his white burnous, keeps close in the shade of the houses as -he hurries along-—for; all the world like a white friar—until he turns his swarthy face and we sec his flashing eyes. Here and there a patch of rich colour appears: it is a tall, majestic figure, draped in an elusive cherry-red. or a small hoy clothed in splendid due; both showing strong 'against the white walls and the sunny sand underfoot. From the flat roof of our house we have glimpses of another life—the life of the. housetops of this whitecity. Below us some children are playing on the rogf, and further away three slave-women are busy at some household work. The city walls, monuments of a past Portuguese greatness, are near at hand, and far above us, standing sentinel over the town, is the minaret of (bo mosque, it is just midday—the white flag flutters down from its post, and a strange tall figure wrapped in flowing drapery moves out to the tiny balcony, and a •dear tenor voice vibrates far out over the city calling the faithful to prayer. Below ns in the narrow, mysterious streets the summons has been heard, and all life seems suspended for a time. Presently a lamp-seller passes by, carrying with him a thing of beauty in brass, with its delicate limbs and tiny dangling chains. A Berman friend (our guide) is with ns. and we beg him to tel! ns where we can find other lamps like these.

“Hut why buy one of those,” he ’reclaims. “I myself import them from i^irmingham!” TO -MOGADOR. Our good ship is rolling in the roadstead; she is nearly ready to start, ,;o we hurry hack to our unsteady piartors on hoard, knowing that the \s.ooroceo coast is as uncertain as its b'ovcrnment. The surf boats take nr back through. the long, incessant breakers which run up the Hat sand, swirling and eddying like quicksilver, until the water seems to turn and slip with dangerous speed down to the sea again. At Slogador we found the surf more mutinous still, and the thunder of it on the beach can bo hoard for many miles around. This is a town of much beauty, with wide clean streets and an imposing approach from the sea, but she offers poor shelter for shipping. Our ship lay rolling her gunwales under all day and all night; there seemed no shelter from the prevailing Atlantic .■•. veils. 'i’hc Moors build no harbours. and yet theirs is a land flowing with milk end honey and blessed by a superb climate. it is small wonder that the Powers of Muropo arc jealously watching it with covetous eves.