In the evening when the setting sun strikes the towers and the
tiled roofs, and the harsh lights are softened, one is again in the land
of Haroun-el-Raschid.
The great covered bazaars are at all times capable of "eating the hours,"
as the natives say. One could sit indefinitely in a coffee-house and watch
the throngs go by--the stalwart Kurdish porter with his impossible loads,
the veiled women, the unveiled Christian or lower-class Arab women, the
native police, the British Tommy, the kilted Scot, the desert Arab, all
these and many more types wandered past. Then there was the gold and
silver market, where the Jewish and Armenian artificers squatted beside
their charcoal fires and haggled endlessly with their customers. These
latter were almost entirely women, and they came both to buy and sell,
bringing old bracelets and anklets, and probably spending the proceeds on
something newer that had taken their fancy. The workmanship was almost
invariably poor and rough. Most of the women had their babies with them,
little mites decked out in cheap finery and with their eyelids thickly
painted. The red dye from their caps streaked their faces, the flies
settled on them at will, and they had never been washed. When one thought
of the way one's own children were cared for, it seemed impossible that a
sufficient number of these little ones could survive to carry on the
race.
Pages:
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33