ROUND ABOUT GABÈS
There is a beautiful stretch of sand along the small Bay of Gabès strewn
with shells and pieces of coarse sponge, brought in by the tide. Sponge
fisheries are found further south, but the variety at Gabès itself is of
no good. There are tunny fisheries here, and also a trade in shell fish
carried on with Marseilles. The little river is frequented by native
fishermen who use hand nets which they throw with great skill. The net
is circular and draws up close together when in the hand. When thrown
it opens wide on reaching the water and sinks owing to its leaded edge.
After leaving it for a few minutes the fisherman pulls it in, the strain
on the cord closing the mouth again. As a fisher is stationed at every
few yards, I do not think the fish population can be a large one.
[Illustration: Women Washing
I. M. D.]
Further up the river the women collect to do their washing, and make
picturesque groups in their blue and red garments. They use both hands
and feet to pommel and wring the clothes, and beat them with the stem
of a palm leaf. Some have soap, but many use only a kind of earth, and
all the washing is done in the cold running water of the stream. They
chatter like a flock of paroquets, some knee deep in the water, others
squatting on the bank, amongst them many negresses with their short hair
twisted into innumerable small plaits across their foreheads. I thought
them to be Nubians, from their features and dark colour and the style of
their hair dressing.
One came up to where I was painting, a tall, good-looking girl, very
black, carrying herself with the graceful nonchalance of her race. A
flat basket laden with newly washed clothes was on her head, and she
stood comely as a statue, backed by the tawny sand and the dark green of
the oasis, the firm outline of her shoulders and breast showing through
the blue stuff drawn round her. Heavy silver anklets clashed as she
moved. When near me she smiled and said something in Arabic. Mansour,
translating into French, said she asked where I came from, and if I would
take her as a servant with me to England. I had a swift vision of the
scandalised horror with which my Devon household would view her arrival
in the character of maid. “Tell her,” I said, “that she would not like
England. There is not enough sun there. She would be cold and unhappy.”
But still she smiled. I gave her a coin, and she went away regretfully,
walking like a queen, evidently still yearning for the post of lady’s
maid in a land paved with gold and silver. Whilst I went on with my
painting, Mansour told me these negresses are great travellers. They will
cheerfully leave their country and fare into the unknown, and they make
excellent servants. I think the Arabs have no feeling against the black
races.
Meanwhile the Arab women were busy over their washing. “That girl over
there,” remarked the guide, “is my cousin. I recognise her by the tattoo
marks on her leg.” I had been told that these designs were often peculiar
to a family, and Mansour’s remark seemed to bear this out. Most of the
women were tattooed on the shin as well as on the lip and forehead, and
sometimes on the tip of the nose. They only made a pretence of veiling
themselves when he looked their way, and I gather that in the south of
Tunisia the harem system is not very rigidly enforced. They seemed very
happy, laughing and gossiping amongst themselves, spreading out broad
strips of coloured stuff, red or orange or indigo, on the stones to dry,
whilst the bright hues were reflected in the clear green water, and small
brown children in abbreviated shifts played solemnly close at hand.
“Never do women cease talking together whilst they wash linen at the
water’s edge,” said Mansour, “and it is strange how barely one day can
pass without something requiring to be cleansed,” he added meditatively.
Behind us were the low mud walls of the village, with the towers of the
minaret and the domed mosque rising above them, and a flock of black
lop-eared goats came round the corner driven by a ragged youth. On the
far side of the stream countless palms were inter-threaded with the
branches of fruit trees, and in and out amongst the oasis ran little
dusty roads between mud walls topped with thorns or spiked palm leaves,
to keep off trespassers. By every path flowed runnels of clear water,
pied wagtails stepped daintily about the edges, a film of green showed
where the early crops were beginning to come up, and I could picture to
myself the joy it must be in another month or two to step from the bare
desert into this paradise of blossom and leafy shade.
Riding through the oasis one day we came suddenly upon a small white
marabou or holy tomb set at the angle of two pathways. A solitary figure
knelt in prayer at the entrance, whilst the mule he had been riding
cropped the herbage by the stream, with a trailing rein. It was very
silent, except for the far sighing of the palm trees above our heads.
Slowly we went on our way and came to a small village as the afternoon
was growing late. The notched stems of date palms were like purple grey
pillars on one side of the path, and an old man was coming back from work
in the fields, his sand-coloured burnous slung round him in such fashion
as to make a sack in which he was carrying a bunch of green vegetables.
His sinewy neck and arms looked almost copper colour in the evening
light; the faded blue of his coat repeated the note given by a wisp of
smoke that floated across a low wall. The dust lay thick on the road,
muting the footfall of passers-by. Already the shadows were growing long,
draped figures were collecting round the well to draw the evening supply
of water. In the distance was the cloud of dust that meant the return
of the village herd with his flock from their day’s pasturage, whilst
outside the low building where coffee was sold and drunk, men swathed in
the long folds of their burnous sat and discussed the happenings of the
day. And again I felt the simplicity and dignity of the East.
As we came back across the wide stretches beyond the oasis, it turned
cold and clear. There was hardly a tinge of colour in the sky till the
golden line of the sun had almost disappeared. Then it was as if the
dark hawk of night had flown upon the bright day. The whole of the West
was littered with tiny golden feathers torn from his breast, whilst the
sky was dyed a sudden red with blood. The distant palms stood out black
as velvet against the brilliant background, and as it faded, fingers
of light stretched far into the pale green-blue of the heavens. Then
as quickly as the effect had come, it was gone. The landscape turned a
steely grey and the trees a blur of dull green. Only the strip of sea in
the distance kept its intensity of colour in a world that seemed all at
once sucked empty of life.
From Gabès one can go by car to see Matmata, a village about two hours’
run from the former place, where all the inhabitants live under ground.
The road led across stretches and stretches of bare sandy country, tufted
here and there with low bushes, across rocky nullahs which become raging
torrents after rain, till at last it climbed up and up a zigzag road and
reached the top of a summit from whence we looked down on nothing but
further and further bare hills. Below us lay the village, a crumpled
succession of irregularities in the uneven ground. It looked as if some
giant child had been playing in the sand with a spade.
On getting nearer we saw entrances here and there in the banks to which
were fitted rough wooden doors. We went into one and found ourselves
first in a hollowed passage which led through a stable to an open space
on to which opened two or three caves in which the inhabitants lived.
They are scooped out by tools and are large and roomy, with smooth walls
and roof worked with a kind of plaster. Each room contained a large rough
wooden bed, a shelf or two along the wall, perhaps a child’s cradle swung
on ropes from the ceiling. They were all scrupulously swept and clean. In
one a woman sat on the floor nursing a baby, in another one was weaving
rough cloth on a loom. We also saw an underground café which was full of
men, though from outside there was no sign of life.
Tunnelled passages led from one set of dwellings to another in some
cases, and we went along one to reach a shop stocked with provisions.
The recent storms had wrought havoc with the architecture and the
villagers were busy building up walls that had been undermined by the
rain. They were of the usual peasant type and seemed hardworking,
cultivating olives and the small fields from which they reap a laborious
crop. The French head of the gendarmerie told us there were 15,000 of
these people, all living underground. The caves are said to be warm
in winter and cool in summer, and they certainly compared favourably
with many native huts. The cave-dwellers have lived in this fashion
from ancient times, and I am told that Pliny refers to them in his
account of the Roman settlements in Tunisia. Were one to walk through
the neighbourhood one could never guess at the labyrinth of dwelling
places below one’s very feet. But knock at one of the doors and a
furious barking of dogs warns the hidden inhabitants of the approach
of a stranger. We were fortunate in seeing the womenfolk about their
work, owing to Mansour having troglodyte relations. As a rule they are
hastily concealed on the arrival of visitors, and I fear that fate
befell the more beautiful amongst them when we appeared, judging by
the singularly unattractive assortment presented for our inspection: a
great disappointment, since I had heard much of the good looks of the
feminine cave dwellers. Those left for us to see comprised an aged
beldame covered with wrinkles, a sickly-looking half-witted girl, and a
by no means merry widow. One can imagine the mixed feeling with which
the beauties of the family receive orders to retire into hiding, baffled
curiosity warring with a natural complacency at being credited with the
possession of dangerous attractions.
On the way back we passed one of the road patrol, wrapped in a thick
cloak from which a rifle stuck out, riding a weary horse, and carrying
the mails. He rides once a day from the fort at Matmata to Gabès, sign
of the law and order established in the remote country districts, and
midway on his round he passes the other patrol on the outward way. Were
he to be attacked by a gang of robbers he would be hard put to it to
defend himself. But the people have an awed respect for the power of the
law. When telegraph posts were first set up in the desert to the south,
the inhabitants were ignorant of their use, and the arrest of an escaped
prisoner from the capital as soon as he reached his native village seemed
to them to savour of the miraculous. “It is thus,” explained the sergeant
of police, “the wire on those posts stretcheth even unto Tunis, and as
a dog, however long his tail, will bite him that pulleth it, so when we
touch the wire, no matter at what point, the jaws at the other end will
bite.”