Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - VI. Tangiers
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IIO DAYS IN THE SUN
seem to be drowning in their voluminous garments as
they babble away at the sacred verses, their eyes
closed, their bodies swaying to and fro. The school-
room is without any windows, and reminds you of noth-
ing so much as an empty wagon-shed. There are no
torn maps and charts on the walls, no school benches
and desks for the boys to carve their names on, no ink-
wells to be upset for the general amusement. In fact,
there is no trace of any of the paraphernalia of teach-
ing; there is nothing but an old white-bearded Moor,
who sits in front of the boys holding a lash in his
hand and playing schoolmaster, with an open Koran on
his knees. He smiles and nods and I smile and nod;
he politely invites me to have a seat and I seat myself
on the soiled floor and make an effort to stow my feet
Arab-fashion under my body. I now have an oppor-
tunity to hear the littlest one of the boys rattle off,
without any interruption, a whole chapter out of the
Koran, apparently without making the slightest mis-
take. A conversation ensues between the two of us,
with Hadji serving as an interpreter—although the
schoolmaster can speak “‘all the languages on earth”
—
and I compliment him dutifully on his pupils. Then I
make a few attempts to test his prowess, but he is too
clever for me and I am obliged to content myself with
the knowledge that he is at least able to read. I rise,
brush the dirt from the seat of my trousers, attracting
as little attention as possible in the process, in order
not to give offense, and take my leave. Hadji winks
at me with his big eye from the doorway; I grasp the
significance of the signal at once and give the old
white-bearded ‘‘professor’’ a one-franc coin for coffee.
It cannot be said that the machinery of government
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