Nullius in Verba

Lowdermilk’s niece’s diary entry: The Problem with Ben Saada, Part I

“Elizabeth Moody, age nineteen and very beautiful, accompanied her Uncle, Dr. Walter C. Lowdermilk and family on an official trip for the United States government, using their personal car and paying their own expenses, to study old Roman lands for the benefit of the US soil conservation service, and American farmers to find out what could be [learned] of the agricultural successes and failures of the past.” – Forward to Lowdermilk’s niece’s diary

Apologies for neglecting the travelogue. I have just completed writing the biography of two fascinating people. it is the story of Walter and Inez Lowdermilk, an American couple who came to see soil erosion as a threat to civilization. Their pursuit of land conservation carried them from China and the Dust Bowl to Palestine, where their ideas about reclaiming the land helped build the case for the creation of Israel.

It now will go to some beta readers to tell me if it is as good as I think it is.

The writing and research relied heavily on this young woman, Elizabeth Moody, who married her high school sweetheart, Forrest Daggett in 1941.

This diary entry is the beginning of perhaps my favorite entry in all of Elizabeth’s tales about her travels with her aunt, uncle, and cousins on the trip of a lifetime.

January 29, Sunday—I had to put oil on my hair before going to wash it for the water is very hard. It took 3 shampoos to cut the oil and I rinsed my hair several times, but even so something was decidedly wrong. My hair felt like a horses’ and was a hopeless mess of snarls and tangles. Aunt Inez came in and brushed and combed it, and it was soap that was still in it. After a half hour it was presentable.

Hurriedly I dressed and raced down the street with Billy to catch up with Uncle, Auntie, Wester and Mr. Abry who were headed for a visit to the souks. We caught up with them and were soon in narrow streets covered above with brilliant-colored scarves and materials hanging on the walls and natives begging us to come in and buy. We drifted into several small shops and looked and bargained. Aunt Inez got several purses and some perfume.

We ate a couple of bananas seated on some steps in the souks—a lot of fun. Then we got in a rug shop and Uncle and Auntie really let themselves go. It was wonderful. We were served delicious mint tea seated cross-legged on a pile of rugs and Auntie and Uncle bought one, and an oriental girls costume, old, with baggy satin trousers embroidered in silver and a brassiere top to match. Then a white net veil with silver design cover face and head.

Oh, boy!

I got a fez too. We all did. We were still looking at more rugs and they serve more tea with cakes, and then we bought some more rugs because the owner said since we had eaten his cakes we were his friends and he gave us a better price. We had a wonderful time. We were in there about three hours and when we came out it was almost dark. Mr. Abry stayed for dinner after which he, Mac and I, went wandering around town looking for the post office and then to dance at the Gaitie.

We visited the palace of the Bey, native ruler of Tunisia. There were only a few rooms of interest, the waiting room in beautiful tiles with a carved plaster ceiling, very interesting and dainty. The throne room with carved wooden ceiling in gold and reds, the old ding room (now the council chamber) in the same work as the throne room and the prime minister’s office with intricate carved plaster ceiling and then a wonderful view from the terrace of the harbor and surrounding city. Lovely rugs on the floor.

January 30, Monday—Got up late and wrote until time for lunch which we had at the Baghdad. A couscous meal with chicken, delicious. Uncle got money at the bank and then we all went to our rug shop at the souks to pay a good-sized bill. They served us tea again and we all talked and Auntie and I bought a lot of handwoven and hand embroidery baby burnouses for gifts. Then while Uncle paid and settled a bill,

Aunt Inez and I went into a shop up the street. It wasn’t pretentious from the outside but some Persian rugs in the windows caught our eyes. It was fascinating on the inside—everything imaginable from jewelry, rugs, native dress, trays, pillows, antiques—you wander from one room into another and into another. A good-looking Arab in a white draped burnouse waited on us and showed us around. The rugs were upstairs, room after room of them. He served us coffee and we found out that he was cousin to the Bey and had three wives, who he loved equally.

That was quite a shock.

We saw then the golden bed of the Bey who slept in the middle with two wives on either side. He showed us his terraced roof, beautifully tiled in yellows and blues with potted flowers around, and far lovelier than the Bey’s palace. I

went back after Billy, Wester and Mac (Uncle had an appointment) and then we started looking at rugs. Two of the most wonderful Persians I ever hope to see. They were gifts to the Bey 70 years ago from the Shah of Persia (intends and blues and one way light and the other dark.) The back of the silk carpet was a wonderful tapestry, but each one while small was $450 apiece. They are not made anymore.

Then we looked at Kairohan rugs and I got one. It is thick and soft and will last years and years. It is in all natural colors and will not fade. It was finally after 6:30 when we left and the souks deserted and closed and quite spooky. We were glad to accept the offer of the Arab gentlemen of an escort and soon found ourselves back in town. M. Abry was supposed to come for dinner but had been away all day in the South of Tunisia and so didn’t arrive until midnight, consequently we won’t see him again until spring. Went to bed but the little cur [Mecktube] cried all night long for me to play with him.

Lowdermilk’s niece’s diary entry: The Slow Train to Souk Ahras

January 27, [1939] Friday—Wrote in the morning and then after lunch Miss Nora Beth from the mission station in the native quarter to go shopping. I got another ring to replace the one I lost at Bou Saada, a really old ring too. Everything they had was being sent to the New York Exposition.

Visited the mission building but no classes were in session. It was Arabic style and quite attractive.

Constantine is a very beautiful city and interesting. It was built on either side of a rocky gorge by the Phoenicians. Part is very old and part is modern. Throughout North Africa we have noticed that the natives are very friendly and love to shake hands with you. They do it at the least opportunity.

We took the bus out to the orphanage run by Miss Loveless, (old maid-ish, I like her the least.) It was a fine building, modern with lots of equipment and plenty of room. After tea the children came in and sang several songs, and introduced themselves. Soon after we made our adieus and went to the Douglass’ to say goodbye and then to the hotel for dinner with Miss Austin and Miss Ostrom as guests. Packed then and went to bed.

January 28, Saturday—the hotel called us at 5:30 a.m. and we were up, dressed, and breakfast eaten and at the station at 6:15. It was rather filled with white robed natives and it fell to me to get the tickets.

I managed to jam as much as the natives and soon we found ourselves packed in the train with one half hour to wait.

Off at last following a riverbed with rocky mountains on either side. The hotel gave us a picnic lunch and we amused ourselves with the dog, writing and reading. Into a green fertile plain, which was lovely. Probably owned by French colonists.

Our train was so slow. I swear it stopped at every cow pen along the way.

About 12, we came into a large city (we were expecting to get off at 12:30) and out of idle curiosity we glanced out to see what place it was. Much to our surprise and confusion it was Souk Ahras, our destination.

It was a mad scramble of closing zipper bags, putting typewriter away and grabbing coats and the dog. We expected walk into Uncle Walter’s waiting arms but he was not there. A lot of Arab boys rushed forward for our bags.

We were all so loaded down we were glad to surrender our burdens until a fight among eight or ten boys as to which was to carry a zipper bag started. That was a mad scramble to get our bags back and have the errand boys grabbed them from us, and we all shouted “no, no, no.”

Then we couldn’t find the waiting room. Finally, there was so much confusion a station official came to see what the trouble was. I explained in French (what a task) that Uncle Walter was coming for us to 12:30 and that we wanted a place to wait in. He shooed the pesky Arabs away and took us inside the station where we waited.

Finally Auntie couldn’t stand it any longer, and had me ask if this was the only station in Souk Aras.

It was.

Then she wanted me to tell the man that monsieur. was coming for us at 12:30 and we went back and continue to wait until Uncle Walter and Mac finally arrived at 1 p.m. Were we glad to see them! They had been taking pictures along the way.

Well we were off for Tunis at last through pine forests in desert like country.

At Le Kef, we were stopped by an officer who tried his hardest to find something the matter with us. He must’ve been looking for someone for he was sure we had a radio and then he wanted to see Uncle Walter’s movie camera and see what was going on inside of it.

Uncle’s special passport didn’t seem to make much difference.

He even showed his letters from Sec. Wallace with the United States seal on them. He finally couldn’t find anything wrong with us and had to let us go on, thank goodness. Glorious sunset of brilliant reds. I slept for an hour and soon we were in Tunis. Rooms in the Majestic Hotel, delicious dinner, and bed.

Le Kef (El Kef).Photo credit: Getty images

Lowdermilk’s niece’s diary entry. Exploring the Ancient Ruins of Djemila

Djémila, originally known as Cuicul, is a UNESCO World Heritage Site located in northern Algeria, about 900 meters above sea level in the mountains of the Sétif Province.

Photo credit: Viator.com

January 25, Wednesday—off fairly early to Djemila, an old Roman city in ruins where Uncle had an appointment with the directoress.

The highway divided a barren plain with a few Roman ruins of aqueduct and low rolling hills, the soil washed off and heavy black rock exposed. A few flocks of sheep grazed on stone and in the distance rose the snow-capped peaks of the Little Atlas.

As we drove on, the scenery became more desolate and dreary with the rocky mountains gouged with erosion gullies. In this utter desolation of today rose the low ruins of Djemila, one of the most important of the old Roman cities.

In the grounds, luxuriant trees flourished, but other than these few, the landscape was utterly devoid of vegetation. The Christian quarter was in quite good condition for ruins. The houses were not well made for their whole emphasis had been on the church and baptistry. A donkey was grazing in the church. The baptistery font was quite beautiful. There were niches with seats for 36 and two periods a year in which baptism took place. The fish which was the emblem of Christianity was used greatly.

Opposite the church the pagan quarter had, it is supposed, built elaborate baths and a Temple to Bacchus, to annoy. One figure estimates the inhabitants at 7000 or 8000 and another at 10,000 or 11,000, which seems more accurate to me from the size of the town. It was destroyed by the Vandals in 450 A.D., and then buried by erosion from the surrounding hills.

The theater and stage were in excellent condition as we looked down on them. Part of the city was still unexcavated and part was in the process. In one place a pillar below the level of the city indicates a lower, older city underneath. There were two forums, for the city was too large for just one.

A large triumphant arch and temple dominates the scene with many steps leading to the entrance. There were huge storage bins for grain and olive oil awaiting shipment to Rome. All taxes were paid in oil and grain. To keep the bins dry the floors were supported by bricks so that they did not come in contact with the earth.

In the excavation 30 wagon loads of olive pits were removed, not an olive tree is left. The Arabs destroyed them all. They still ask what good a tree is.

When the directoress came some 20 years ago, the Capital building was entirely covered and an Arab family had a little mud hovel lived there.

Now it is excavated and one can see again the beautiful granite stones with which it was made. There are remains of central heating systems for the capital and Temple of Jupiter. In the huge market square a measurement table for wheat and oil stands. Heated walls in the baths.

Visited the prison and then to the one hotel for a huge long lunch. We waited around for Uncle to get pictures and at last at 3:30 we were off for Constantine.

Sunset was beautiful and tinged the hills a lovely color. Stayed at the Certa Hotel. Dinner and bed.

The Trouble with Being a Dignitary

Walter Lowdermilk was recruited by Rexford Tugwell in 1933 to serve as the second-in-command of the new Soil Erosion Service, later called the Soil Conservation Service. In 1938, he was tasked with studying how soil affects human life and well-being. He spent two years exploring lands once ruled by the Romans to find answers.

This is from a letter sent by diplomatic pouch to Hugh H. Bennett the Chief of the Soil Conservation Service. Walter was nominally second in command. The letter was sent somewhere around December, 1938, while he was in Fascist Italy. He champs at the bit to do fieldwork, but alas, “our time is not our own.”

We arrived in Rome about noon amidst many surging ideas and impressions. We proceeded directly to the American Embassy where we were expected. We found a big batch of mail and also to our keen regret that Cohee had left only a few days before. We had hoped to see him in Rome, and would have done so had we not been delayed by the slight accident with the car in France, mentioned in my last letter.

We called on Mr. Clyde Marquis at the International Institute of Agriculture and found a warm welcome. Mr. Marquis furnished us an office so that we could have a place to open out our papers and do some work. The Embassy began negotiations for our visit to typical areas of reclamation and torrent control indicated in our itinerary.

A new rule has gone into effect in Italy which requires that outside contacts shall be made through the Ministry of Popular Culture. We found the Minister Alfieri very cordial and willing to make arrangements for a visit to typical works with officials of the Ministry of Agriculture. It took three days for this to be worked out. In fact a man was sent to North Italy to work out a schedule for my visit. With the writing of this letter we are setting off by train to meet the Presidente del Magistrato delle Acque at Venice tonight.

We have had to fit our plans to the customs of the country. The eating habits of Europeans does not fit field work. For breakfast one has a cup of coffee and a roll, a little butter, and a dab of jam if you insist on it. When one tries to get more it causes a commotion in the management. One morning we attempted to get some eggs in addition to our breakfast. The waiter had to go to see the manager about them; the manager came to us and after considerable discussion we finally got boiled eggs, so we have dropped into the way of the country in taking a very meager breakfast. When we go out to the field we are not well fortified for mountain climbing. But then the continental makes up for it by making sure you arrive at a restaurant to his special liking at noon or one o’clock. Then he insists on a lunch which in reality is the heaviest meal of the day. To this important repast he devotes not less than two hours, and usually three; thus in these short days the very heart of the day, and the best time of the day for photographing, is used up within the walls of some restaurant. I would prefer to have a heavier breakfast and take sandwiches out into the field, or even do without lunch and make up for it at the evening meal. It would not be worth the effort, however, to bring about such a change of custom of the officers with whom we have been making our field trips. For once we have placed ourselves in the hands of the officials responsible for conducting us to places of special interest – our time is not our own. From early to late we are in the hands of officials who feel it their duty to entertain us to the limit. So by the time we get to bed at eleven or twelve at night we are pretty well worn out. We do get a large amount of information this way, but we would much prefer to have our evenings so as to write up more of the information, and prepare for the following day. But this is a part of the game which we have to play and we do not complain about it.

Traveling with French and Roman officials has its thrills. Never have we traveled so fast by automobile. Several times we have been driven by the officials in their cars or by their drivers, at more than 80 miles an hour on roads that I would not think of driving faster than 50 miles. The driver blasts out the way for his car with his horn. With an almost continuous hooting of his horn he warns numerous pedestrians and cyclists of the oncoming car. I am yet unable to explain why more people are not killed on these highways. One driver had two horns on his car, each with a different pitch; his one ambition in life was to travel as fast as the road would let him; he warned pedestrians and cyclists by hooting first one horn and then the other, and if necessary both at the same time, to blast the way for his speeding automobile. Some of these drives have been really breath taking as we have whirled around curves over precipitous slopes overlooking valleys or lakes far below. We must say that these professional drivers, or chauffeurs, do manage to make time over the highways.

Lowdermilk’s niece’s diary entry. Algeria:: January 24, 1939

January 24—had breakfast in the bar with row upon row of bottles staring us in the face, packed the car which had been garaged in the stable with cows and sheep, and were off with the wind still with us. Our road wound among the mountains covered with cork and all at once we were excited to see a whole family of monkeys run across the highway and swing into the branches of the trees above. We kept our eyes peeled for more monkeys and while we came to Pio des Singes and Valles des Singes, still we saw no more of those funny animals.

Out of the mountains and a fertile valley, we were amazed at the size of the old olive trees. Uncle Walter estimated that the diameter of many was 3 feet. Past ruins of an old Roman aqueduct. At Il Matin, Miss Weisner met us and let the way up to the mission station over bumpy dirt roads. When we reached the garage, an Arab man and the mission donkey met us and with Wester on the little beast’s back and rest of us with canes, we started the steep climb up the Rocky, muddy path to the mission. We passed through little villages of mud homes and thatched roofs or tile. Dirty little hovels in which people lived in a small room, windowless, with a fire to cook with in the middle of the room and to furnish light and heat. The natives are very colorful. The women don’t wear veils and all greeted us with a smiling “Bonjour” as we passed. It was about a 20 or 30 min. walk to the mission, but we enjoyed every step.

The Kabyles are a tribe of the Berbers of whom history knows little. They are not Arabs. It is thought they go clear back to the caveman days. “Barbary Coast” comes from the Berbers. They believe that once a spring is tapped and the water starts to flow the blood of a freshly killed ox must run into the water when it first reaches the surface or the well will not be good. In the instance of one well, the blood did not run in and the water was not good. It is very strong with minerals, even dogs will not touch it. It has an odor. We had tea and cookies and visited the dispensary. A native had just brought in her little child with a dirty scarf around its ankle. The poor child whimpered and revealed an ugly hole filled with pus on her ankle. It was a grisly sight and the dirty mother wiped off the pus with the dirty scarf. That was the final straw. We copied poems until our couscous lunch which was delicious and was prepared by an excellent native cook can. In the afternoon we visited the little girls school. They were such a colorful picture, more like gypsy children (tattooed foreheads). They have a bath once a week at school. Sang us two songs one in Maybile and one in French. Miss Weisner told us about Moulu, her Arab man, who was so proud of a day’s work he did in the garden. The mission garden was terraced to keep the soil from washing away and Moulu spent the entire day taking out a terrorist and smoothing it out and planting the onions and rose up and down! Olives are the main industry. One man may own the ground around a tree, another the tree. Sometimes one branch belongs to one native and another to another when it is time to pick the olives the chief gives the signal and everybody starts work at once. After several days they have a big couscous feast and do not work. Then the signal is given again and work recommences. In this way everyone is busy and no olives are snitched. The olives are pressed in a crude stone press pushed either by a donkey or a woman. The women refine it by letting the oil run through their fingers. We smelled some and it looked and smelled awful. The women looked 70 when they’re really not more than 40. It must be an awful life. It just tears my heart to see them. More tea and then down the mountainside to the car. It was almost dark when we got there. Our destination was Setif and the road let us by the foaming, frothing Mediterranean dashing against rocky cliffs. I do wish it might have been light. Then we turned inland down a rocky gorge. I dozed half of the time and it was almost 10 PM when we reached Setif. To bed immediately.

Lowdermilk’s niece’s diary entry. Algeria: January 20-23, 1939

I believe the Lowdermilk party is in Algeria in these entries. – NB

January 20, Saturday—Packing in earnest and after lunch gathering observations together and getting off to the beach house for the weekend. It was cloudy overhead, but that didn’t bother us. When we arrived the native Spanish woman nearby have the house warm in the beds made and everything was most cheerful. Had a good hot supper and then bed.

January 22—Sunday—A real breakfast, bacon, eggs, toast, fruit and coffee, (no “petit de jeuner.”) The native woman came in and cleaned up and Wester and I took a long walk down the sandy beach. It had been very windy and stormy the night before—several birds and a dead goat had been washed ashore. The calm Mediterranean of several days before was foaming, frothing and pounding against the shore. We went wading in the water was surprisingly warm. Then we went wandering in a pine woods where interlaced branches above formed a green canopy, dense and brown with many pinecones. It was lovely with the wind in the trees and the surging beat of the waves on the shore. Back at the Villa Mr. Abry had arrived after wandering for more than an hour and a half trying to find us and soon dinner was ready. The woman came again after lunch and cleaned up. Her husband was very sick and they didn’t have any money and she was most anxious to earn and we were a good source. All of us went for a run down and back the beach and wading again. I had rolled up my slacks and was wandering around having a good time. When I started to come in I suddenly went down and then up on some hidden rocks and then down again in a most ungraceful and uncomfortable position. However, I didn’t fall in! But I got an awful bruise on one of my toes. We also took out the boat, Mr. Abry rowed, Billy sat behind him and I sat in the prow. We couldn’t get beyond the waves they were so strong, but we had a wonderful time. Once we didn’t strike a wave right and the water just poured into the boat and soaked my sweater and slacks and pajamas I was wearing underneath. We drifted several houses below the boathouse, and so had a dreadful time getting the boat beached, and back to the boathouse. Had to drag and pull it along the short just in the water. Billy fell in. Mac and Wester were the only dry ones and since it was sunset we all went in and changed. The dog, playing, pushed my slacks leg in the fire and burned a hole inside the cuff before they could be rescued. How to pick up dinner and took Mr. Apri partway into his boss where he returned to Algeria and took a train back to Tunis. While at the Villa I read “The Garden of Allah” in spare moments, a most peculiar book.

January 23, Monday—the native woman got breakfast as we packed. Uncle gave her Fr.100 and the poor woman burst out crying and kissed his hand. They had really been in desperate straits. Back to Algiers to say goodbye to Miss Van dine and thank her for the use of the Villa, get some things and start on our way into La Grande Kaebylie. We had a fruit lunch in the car as we went along. Drove through the rocky gorges of the Ysser which is a very muddy river, and into the mountains of La Grande Kaebylie. Fruit trees were in blossom, field screen, dainty green leaves beginning to burst forth on old dead appearing trees. In the little villages the Berbers wrapped in their hooded white burnooses were seated upon mats in the sun were playing a form of dominoes or dice. Once in a while we would come on an old gnarled olive tree, roots exposed and barren rocky soil beneath. Perhaps they date back to the time of the Romans. Flocks of sheep, dirty and with peers like cocker spaniels graze on seemingly nothing. What cultivation there was was on the steep hills, no terraces and mainly up-and-down. Consequently erosion cultures were ruining the hills and washing away the soil. Many fig orchards. Both the ruined land and hills, and tiny mud and thatch hovels in which these poor people live, presented a dreary and depressing sight. About dusk we entered large cork forests. A terrifically strong gale accompanied us now. At 3000 feet elevation in the midst of forest and wind, we were grateful to find hotel Lambert and rooms for the night. (And we thought we would have to go on to Bougie and that was still about 50 km) had a good meal and sleep.

January 19, 1938, Enter Mecktube

January 19, Thursday—Wrote. Mdm. and monsieur Aubere had lunch with us and we afterward down town and shopped. Aunt Inez bought a zircon ring that looks like a huge diamond. Mac bought a beauty of a real diamond for some girl in the future and Wester, Billy and I acquired a puppy. A ragged Arab was holding a tiny little puppy which was shivering and trembling and we were so taken with a little thing that we bought him for Fr.30 ($.90). I don’t think he is more than a week old but he knows how to lap up milk. We have called him Mecktube which is “it is written” in Arabian, and it certainly fits this little baby. He is adorable. Even Uncle Walter succumbed to his charms. We got a bottle and a nipple and so far Billy M Wester have helped write well in looking after him. Dinner was quite hilarious for Aunt Inez flaunted her new brilliant ring under Uncle’s eye and quite caused a scene of surprise. Uncle knew Aunt Inez had been looking at diamonds and pricing them, so he was quite floored with what he saw. However, a zircon, while a real stone, had no words at all compared with the diamond. After dinner I read for quite some time and gave Mecktube some “doodies” when I came up. Wester and I had him in our room and we were up several times in the night—I hope it doesn’t keep up too long.

Lowdermilk’s niece’s diary entry: Algeria January 18, 1939

January 18, 1939

January 18, Wednesday—at last up in my diary.Mr. Albury arrived this afternoon. Lunch and still no sign of Uncle. Those of us left put on our “glad rags”, took a taxi to the orphanage and met the Algerian missionaries and Bishop Wade, (just off the Empressof Britain for the day.) They Bishop is large around the middle and quite genial. Of course for little babies sang a couple of songs and they are always adorable.

We had a tea engagement at the home of the vice consul at 5:30 and he was to stop at the hotel and pick us up at 5:15. We figured that leaving the orphanage at 4:30 would give us plenty of time to get back to the hotel, and it would have if we hadn’t hopped into the first bus saying “Algiers” on it. However, Mack said “Hotel Bellevue?” And the man replied, “we, we, we, we.” I was keeping out of the conversation for it had been against my better judgment to get on the bus in the first place. However, from all reports we were going to Hotel Bellevue. By this time it was almost 5 and we were way out in the country passing fields of daisies. All of us were quite aware of the fact that this was the wrong bus, but by now the end of the line had been reached, and all of us hopped out to find we were in the little one-force village off Bou Saaria. Nothing was open except for the small Hotel Bellevue and its saloon (imagine coming to this hotel way out in the sticks.) Aunt Inez immediately rushed in and began talking English to all that bewildered curious natives, and Mac finally got a message to the vice-Consul, Mr. Crane, that we were stranded and would be late. There were no taxis to be had. The nearest place was El Biar, about five miles back, but the 5 miles might just have well been 25 as far as we were concerned. One Arab in the saloon saw we were having a pretty awful time of it and asked in broken English, “What is it you want?” Aunt Inez immediately poured forth our predicament and wondered if there wasn’t someone with a car that we could pay and so get back to El Biar. The man didn’t know of anyone. Then Aunt Inez pointed to an old ramshackle delivery truck across the street and wanted to know who’s car that was. The man replied that it was his and Aunt Inez practically embraced him. So we all rode back to El Biar in a delivery truck. Anti-Narrows Road up in front with a driver who spoke only French (and the owner couldn’t go with us) and both carried on a steady stream of conversation, from what Mac, Wester and I could hear from the rear. (Aunt Inez speaks no French). Here I was in my good black dress, shoes, hat with veil, best sheer stockings and fur coat curled up on the floor of a bumpy, rattling, noisy, uncomfortable truck with the wind whipping around (and it had rained during the afternoon.) Well, we reached El Biar, paid the man, hopped in a taxi and were soon back at the Hotel Bellevue and then at Mr. Crane’s lovely apartment on the seventh floor of one of the new modernistic buildings, furnished with Persian rugs and antiques (both he and she lived in Persia many years) and sipping tea. Mr. Crane has certainly good-looking, but I am afraid that is all I can say for him. Uncle still hadn’t arrived when we reached the hotel at 7:25, but, having been delayed by a sandstorm and much rain, he appeared at about 7:45 and all of us had a hilarious dinner together. Mr. and Mrs. Aubere arrived as we were finishing the meat course and we had a nice visit together. We had met them and had them at our hotel for lunch in Paris. They’re coming to lunch with us tomorrow. After they left at about 10:30, Mac, Mr. Abry, Aunt Inez, Uncle and I went for a walk.

Lowdermilk’s niece’s diary entry: Algeria January 7, 1939

And on—days or in a muddle now. Sunday morning, Wester, Billy, Mr. Abry and I went for a long walk down the quay and into the Arab quarter—horribly dirty and smelly, and climbed endless dirty stone steps to the kasbah, which is the highest land in the native city, and was it high! It turned out to be an old fort. The climb up was one reeking with local color, dirty ragged children, and gave a chance for me to peek into the black dismal hovels in which only a tiny fire furnished light or heat to the miserably poor inhabitants. A very great contrast to the beautiful clean modern civic and apartment buildings which rise throughout Algiers and command a picturesque view of the bay below. Of course there was school for Billy and Wester and writing which I did off and on. Wrote a poem for mother’s birthday and on a couple of evenings took walks with Mr. Abry down by the harbor, further up the hill to see the gleaming lights of the city below, and down to the city itself. Uncle had the authority on Mediterranean soils at the hotel for dinner one night—a M. del Villars. Didn’t get much done except some letters. Uncle, Billy and Mr. Abry off for several days inland. (Morocco) off at noon and Aunt Inez, Wester, and I often visit Miss Van Dyne, after we had taken the fox furs to be mounted. Her assistant Miss Whiteley was there and after visiting some moments we went downtown to meet Miss Van Dyne coming out of the post office. All of us shopped around for a while and I got a perfect white-hooded cap of hand woven wool with turquoise and blue silk embroidery on it—also some of the plain light wool yardage. The next noon we had lunch at the student foyer of which Miss Van Dyne is in charge. The girls are all French from different parts of Algeria and are attending the University. After lunch we went down to the docks and watch the ship carrying about 1000 Mohammedans leave for the yearly pilgrimage. It was quite interesting—all the natives out and quite expressionless. They believe that to reach heaven you must say your prayers everyday at 5 different times facing the West; obey the fast (you fast all day and that sun-down start eating and eat all night and then stop); say that there is but one God Allah, his prophet Mohammed; go to Mecca, and there is one more point which I don’t know.

Sunday morning we went to church but were so late we only got in on the sermon and the last hymn. In the afternoon we all went up to Miss Wolfe’s orphanage for tea and dinner. The little children were adorable. The youngest was 2 1/2, smart as a whip and as cute as a trick. She looked like a Dionne Quint. The children just love to run to mama (Miss Wolfe) for kisses and hugs and Auntie and I came in on that score later, too. At bedtime we went into their dormitory, heard them say their prayers (the Lord’s prayer in French) and kissed them good night. These children originally came from poverty-stricken homes, and under the excellent care in the orphanage, have developed a spontaneous happiness. Another afternoon we were driven out to the Mission Beach Villa, right on the sand, with a forest down one way and rocks up the other. It was a lovely afternoon on the porch with fruit for the tea. These missionaries have done everything to make our stay a happy one. We have been loaned tennis rackets and books, they have gone shopping with us, and taken us out, and given us a lovely time.

Wrote all day yesterday in my diary, except for some shopping in the late afternoon. Got some lipstick and embroidered Arabian slippers—white leather with silver.

Lowdermilk’s niece’s diary entry: Tunisia January 6, 1939

Elizabeth Moody, age nineteen and very beautiful, accompanied her Uncle, Dr. Walter C. Lowdermilk and family on an official trip for the United States government, using their personal car and paying their own expenses, to study old Roman lands for the benefit of the US soil conservation service, and American farmers to find out what could [learned] be of the agricultural successes and failures of the past.

Tunisia January 6, 1939

Located a good hotel up in the hills with a gorgeous view of the harbor and coast, (a tropical garden, a tennis court,) to which we moved at lunchtime. In the morning I had written the hotel at Posada, about my ring which I had lost at Posada, and I am hoping for the best. The Hotel Bellevue to which we transferred, was an old Moorish palace and is beautifully furnished with old rugs and hangings. The floors over here are always tile and cold. The owners, through a series of luck, accumulated a good fortune, but they are very common people. She yells at the least thing like a charwoman. The servants get no pay except for the 10% tips, and if she finds out they’ve been tipped extra she doesn’t give them their full share of their meager 10% tips. They are as stingy and miserly as two people can be. It makes me quite indignant for the lovely people here who have to suffer such injustices, especially the one-armed man at the desk. He was a son of the vice consul in New York and speaks excellent English. However he is smart and is getting out. In the afternoon Mr. Abry and I hiked up on a hill and part just behind the hotel and watched the battleship carrying Daladier leave the harbor amid the shrill siren whistles. Wrote the rest of the day.