STRONGHOLD OF ROMANCE

Taranaki Daily News, 17 July 1929, Page 3

STRONGHOLD OF ROMANCE

HOUSETOPS AND HAREMS “WIVES FOR A KING” LEGEND. PICTURE OF TURKISH REPUBLIC. “I love mystery,”’ a famous painter once said. “That’s why I like veils.” To tell the truth, there is very little Eastern mystery or romance left in the Republic of Turkey. The veil is gone, the harem has gone, religion is dead or dying. But elsewhere the unhurrying East remains truer to*type and tradition. In Damascus the women walk abroad discreetly, like veiled nuns, mostly in black, some in white, a few in gay saris, though they are not above peeping or throwing back their veils when their menfolk are absent and curiosity is present. Here a donkey and there a car are bravely decked with blue beads to ward off the evil eye, oranges are so big they must suffer from growing pains, and the roof-tops are flat, airy, and inviting. Harems and housetops! Two of the pillars of Moslem life.

As is the lawn of the English garden, so is the house-top of the Oriental. It is his citadel, his private recreation ground, and his back garden all rolled into one. Here hangs the washing here when the narrow streets grow impossibly hot and dusty he can sit, saunter, sup, or sleep to his heart’s and his harem’s content.

The wide open spaces can uplift and soothe him; and what could be more romantic than spreading out a prayer rug at sunset, when Allah throws his roses in the sky. Moreover, consider how tired-looking are many Eastern dwellings, and then think how preferable it Would be z to fall on top of your house, rather than to have it fall on you. VISIT TO A SHEIK. Cloe and I rapped loud and long at the door of the Sheik Abdullah. The afternoon had been hot, so we suspected him of sleeping and we were told that harems must have warning of the approach of visitors, or they might be surprised in unsuitably scanty attire. A small boy with a big fez led us into a wee, walled garden. Here we found the Arabian Knight sitting on a long, three-side divan, in front of him his beard, his fountain, and his orange trees.

After accepting roasted coffee and exchanging compliments, we moved into his bedroom, a cool, whitewashed affair circled by an ’ assortment of chairs, varied and numerous enough to suit and seat all his relatives.

More drinks and Turkish cigarettes—and he intimated with dignity that his “hareem,” his aunt, Ins two sisters, and bis three mothers-in-law would be honoured by a visit from Cloe.

I never realised till that moment how complicated Moslem family life could' become. Unlimited harems must be as trying as unlimited holidays. Whilo Cloe was supplying the women with their chief excitement in life —an unexpected call —we ascended to tho roof. Thence we climbed a wooden ladder to a still higher one.

From this vantage point one could appreciate the strategic advantage of possessing the highest roof, overlooking and not overlooked. To this day there are dark-eyed houris who throw their screams and their slippers, indis-, criminately, at any strange voice from the roof-tops, cat burglars not excepted, and woe betide the unwary interloper who is caught trespassing. TOLD’A LITTLE STORY. By way of making conversation I informed the sliiek that our houses in England were not blessed with flat roofs owing to an inclement climate. “I will tell you a little story,”, he replied, “illustrating what good friends our roofs can prove. “There was once a certain, town that was famed for the beauty and charm of its women, so much so that it called down upon itself the. unwelcome attention of the cruel chieftain of that country. Every . month his followers would arrive and shout: ‘Wives!.Wives! for the King,’ leading away with, them the fairest and rarest.

“The terrified town dared not resist its destiny. But one day a wandering dervish recommended the men to flatten all their roofs, and send their wives up there, out of sight. When the chieftain’s follower., arrived the next month and cried;' ‘Wives! Wives! for the King,’ he replied that none was left—only some cats upon the housetops. .“After this had happened twice the chieftain, whom Allah had affected with a slight deafness, saddled his best camel and came to investigate the strange story. When they saw him entering their town in person the women started, weeping and wailing and filling the air with their tears. So much so that the chieftain said to his men: ‘This'place is clearly bewitched. The roofs are haunted with cats innumerable, and Wullah! look how it rains from a clear sky.’ Whereupon he went his way, a z iid that city was left in peace.”

Which, of course, explains why roofa are flat and cats are so unpopular with harems. England is becoming a country of cross-roads and cars, but North Africa is still the home of the camel caravan. From the burning sands of the Sahara and the Sudan to Arabia Deserta, from Aleppo to Algiers and Timgad to Tim* buctoo, where there are palm trees, not petrol pumps, bleached domes instead of signposts, the black tents of the Bedouin beckon, and camel bells tinkle an invitation. CONQUEST OF THE DESERT. True, the desert, last stronghold .of mystery and romance, is rapidly being conquered by the car and by the pro jectcd Trans-Saharian railway. The tourist can now travel in upholstered comfort to Biskra, gate of the desert,' Touggourt, with its 170,000 palms, Ouargia lost in immensity, and even on occasions to far distant Timbuetoo. But the camel can go a week without any food, and even a “baby” Austin, cannot run without petrol; and a camel can find the hidden well where a car pants itself to an abandoned standstill.

And ever the far horizon beckons, , and the golden road stretches southward to those ultimate places wherethings common and trivial flee and fail, and where man is face to face with awe, desolation, immensity, destiny—and with himself; Heaven and hell meet in the desert, and the tourist ■ tries to photograph them. In Egypt road repair is easy, for there are still only two highways that matter—the desert and the Nile. At sunset the Nile is as good as sand, rushing and mighty, rising in far Ruwenzori, lord of ten thousand years of history, queen of the hearts of the Egyptian fallaheen. To this day they sacrifice to it in mid-August. Instead of a living bride they 'offer up a gaily’'decked effigy, and there are feasting and revelry by night. But should the nilometer at Cairo . fail to register ten feet of rise, famine follows in the land and all taxation ceases.

Sunset is the magic moment for the great river. Take a dahabieh, or better still, a felucca, with a hawk-wing sail, and slip into the dusk. Two Nubians, black as the night, with bright dental grins, may row you; later, they may pretend to leave the boat or make sinister gestures with knives until you promise increased payment.

But their coal black mammie hag evidently brought them up badly, and at any rate do not they call themselves sons of shieks. Laden kyasses float past, their boatmen chanting barbarically. Civilisation fades away as fast as the daylight. It is Cheops and Cleopatra, not Topsy and Eva, not even you and I, who are still the people who count on old Nile.