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Updated: June 26, 2025
There are always things going on toward evening in an Arab cemetery. Near us, on a fallen headstone, a man with a thoughtful face sits chatting with two friends and hugging to his breast a tiny boy who looks like a grasshopper in his green caftan; a little way off, a solitary philosopher, his eye fixed on the sunset, lies on another grave, smoking his long pipe of kif.
One or two little cafés we passed round the feddan, and banished any connection between them and lunch for ever and a day. A little room in the shade hung with yellow matting, no chairs, but a wide divan at the far end, where a few Moors sat cross-legged or reclined, smoking long pipes of soothing kif, and eating the pernicious haschisch this constitutes a café.
I said that what the doctor had feared, a "lesion," had taken place, and that there was no longer any hope of her life. At which she lighted up with a lovely defiance. "Ho-o! no long-eh any hope! Yes, sare iss long-er any hope! Vhere iss sat doc-toh? Sare shall be hope! Kif me sat patient! I can keep se vatch of mine huss-bandt at se same time. He hass not a relapse! Kif me se patient!
Mohammed knew very well that Eastern peoples drink to get drunk, and smoke and eat opium for the purpose of intoxicating their senses. Kif, a herb something like hemp, produces this effect on the brain. He therefore forbade both. When a Moorish "swell" wants to amuse himself, instead of passing the time at a café he goes out for the day into the country.
And, to his astonishment, I fumbled in my pocket, produced the stuff and lit a pipe. I smoked on placidly, looking at him and wondering what his thoughts might be. "An Inglis" perhaps he was saying to himself "one of those who joke and talk in such friendly fashion, and then, when it cornes to a you's worth of kif a single puff of his pipe...! Sacre cochon! That is how they grow rich."
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