FROM ORAN TO THE MOROCCO FRONTIER
The western gateway to French Africa is through Oran, which, with its
88,000 inhabitants, is the second city of Algeria. Its chief attraction
for the tourist who has seen, or is about to see, the rest of the
country is its magnificent site and the recollection of the momentous
history of its past.
The most striking characteristic of its life and manners is the manifest
Spanish influence which is over all, a relic of days gone by. Even the
chief city gate, the Porte d'Espagne, still bears the ornamental
escutcheons of the old Madrillenian governors; and, three kilometres
distant from the centre of the town, are the celebrated "_Bains de la
Reine_," a remembrance of the epoch when Jeanne, "La Folle," daughter of
Ferdinand the Catholic and Isabella, the mother of Charles V, took the
baths there in state, "in company with a brilliant cortège of knights
and ladies." Bathing was more of a public ceremony then than now,
evidently.
One aspect of the life at Oran which one does not remark elsewhere is
the numbers of Moroccans who slowly amble up and down, doing nothing,
and living apparently in some mysterious fashion. The Moroccan of to-day
is the typical Berber of our imagination, swarthy, lithe, and
scraggy-bearded. He is not lovely to look upon, but he is picturesque.
One of the chief sights to be noted in the markets of Oran is the fruit
market; and the principal article of commerce is the grenadine, a
historic and classic fruit, and the one the most in favour with the Arab
or Berber of simple tastes. It is not without reason that he chooses
this delicious fruit; for it is food and drink in one. D'Annunzio called
the grenadine an "_écrin en cuir vermeil, surmonté de la couronne d'un
roi donateur_," and the description is faithful and poetic enough for
any man. The Arab _toubibs_, or doctors, believe it to be an efficacious
remedy for all ills, and that its seed originally descended from the
skies, a gift from Heaven to struggling humanity. It is certainly very
beneficent as a remedy for tropical fevers.
One will strain his eyes trying to hunt out more than a few of the
vestiges of the old Oran of the Spaniards. The French have very nearly
wiped them out. It was a great port in the days of the Romans, and
between that time and the Spanish occupation it had a long history. The
Mohammedans founded a town here a thousand years ago; and, about the
time Columbus was sailing around the West Indian island trying to find a
new way to the Orient, a Spanish author wrote that Oran had six thousand
houses, a hundred and forty mosques, and schools and colleges equal to
those of Cordova, Granada and Seville. It was sometime after this that
Oran became Spanish, and in turn it reverted to the banished Moors, to
become French in 1831.
Oran's evolution from Spanish to French is interesting. It was once a
penal colony of Spain, where from seven to ten thousand wicked
unfortunates sweltered under an African sun, laying the foundations of
the present fortifications. The memory of this Spanish occupation is
everywhere, but it is a memory only and is continually growing more
vague. The soldiers of Islam captured Costechica from the Spaniards, and
the French came in turn and took it and called it Oran.
Oran, like the rest of the North African coast cities and towns, is
polyglot in its people and its architecture. The Orient rubs shoulders
with the Far West, and the mingling is more astonishing and picturesque
than delightful. A red fez, an alpaca coat, and white duck trousers is a
bizarre effect, so is a bowler hat and a burnous. Joseph's coat of many
colours was not more gaudy than that of many a Berber or Arab one sees
to-day in Oran. The Sultans of other days have given way to an army
Commandant, who, if he is a more practical person, is usually a less
artistic one, and his influence is reflected in all his surroundings.
The two religious monuments of Oran are celebrated throughout all
Algeria. The cathedral of St. Louis is a stronghold of the Christian
church and an imposing, if not a very elegant, structure; whilst the
Grande Mosquée, with the most remarkable and quaint octagonal minaret in
all Algeria, was built by a former _pacha_ of Algiers with the money
coming from the sale of Christian slaves. These two edifices well
illustrate two opposing points of view, but they are both religious
monuments.
If you can stand a mountain climb from Oran, go up the slope of Mount
Mourdjadja, and have what a German authority has discovered to be the
most impressive view in the world. The distance is but a few kilometres
and the means of communication is shanks' mare. Majorca and Almeria on
the coast of Spain may, it is said, be seen on a fine day. We have our
doubts! The climb is the classic, conventional thing to do, however, if
time permits.
Oran, like Algiers, Bona, and Philippeville, has become Europeanized,
Frenchified. Four-fifths of its population is native, but ask a
Frenchman and he will tell you: "_Il n'y a rien d'exotique, c'est
Paris._" This shows that the Frenchman frequents the French part of the
town, and knows little of the hidden charm which exists on the fringe.
He knows the Arab as an inferior menial, or a possible customer for his
goods, but he knows nothing of his life, and cares less.
The chief reason for coming to Oran at all is that it is the most
convenient starting-point for Tlemcen. Tlemcen, lying well over to the
Moroccan frontier, but linked with Oran by railway, is, in its plan and
manner of life, the most original city in North Africa, the most
captivating, and the least spoiled by modern innovations. It was the
Pomaria of the Romans and enjoys to-day the same admirable belt of
wooded shade that it did in those far-off days.
Tlemcen under Arab rule was sovereign of all the Moghreb, one of the
great capitals of the Khalifs, the rival of Granada, Kairouan, Damascus,
Cairo, and Bagdad.
Above its rocky-red substructure the walls and minarets of Tlemcen still
pierce the azure sky, but no longer do the Sultans rule its people. A
wild, untamed, savage soldiery has given place to French civil and
military rule, and everybody is the more happy therefore. The Méchouar,
the ancient palace of the Sultans, is an abandoned ruin, and the
_caserne_ of the Spahis and the _Chasseurs d'Afrique_ now stand for a
superior variety of law and order. The architecture of the Moors is at
its very best at Tlemcen, even the fragmentary dilapidated remains in
hidden-away corners are often the rival of the gems of the Alhambra
itself.
Tlemcen is the most splendid and gracious artists' paradise in Algeria.
A roving Frenchman whom we met at Algiers, and who painted better than
he versified, wrote the following for us on the back of his card which
he gave us as an introduction to the patron of the Hotel de France at
Tlemcen.
"Il n'est pas une cité
Qui dispute, sans folie,
A Tlemcen la jolie
La pomme de la beauté
Et qui gracieuse étale
Plus de pompe orientale
Sous un ciel plus enchanté."
To-day at Tlemcen, more than in any other place in Algeria, one sees
vestiges of the Moorish art and civilization of the days before the
conquest, sculpturings in wall and gate, and tiny cupolas and minarets
of a period greatly anterior to most others of their class. The
fragmentary remains of Tlemcen's sixty mosques existing in the sixteenth
century spring into view here and there, at each turning, in bewildering
fashion. Tlemcen is in its decadence however, for from a city of 125,000
souls it has dried up to one of 30,000, of which perhaps a tenth part
are European.
Tlemcen has many mosques, of which three must be noted as having been
"viewed and remarked," as the antiquarians put it. The Grande Mosquée is
the least grand, but it has a fine tower; the smallest mosque, that of
Djama l'Hassen, is the most beautiful, and the best example of genuine
Moorish architecture and decoration; the Mosque of El Haloui is the most
daintily ornamented and most charming. The others dwindle down to ruined
nothingness. Out of fifty-seven other minor mosques, most have been
converted into cafés, shops, dwellings and sheep-folds, some are in
ruins and some have disappeared entirely, but it is these unexpected
fragments of a one-time splendour that makes the charm and value of
Tlemcen for the artist.
The native life of Tlemcen is another great feature for the stranger,
and a caravan of savage-looking creatures from Morocco is no unusual
sight on a market day. How the late "disturbances" in Morocco are going
to affect the interstate traffic remains to be seen. Probably the
interstate part of it will be wiped out, and France will absorb it all,
as she ought to do, whatever England and Germany may think. France has
made a success in governing Mohammedans; the others have not. Jews,
Ethiopians, and Arabs all people Tlemcen. That is what makes it so
interesting to-day, and the types seem to be purer than elsewhere.
In the third century Tlemcen underwent a formidable siege at the hand of
a Soudanese and his followers. The assailants were as tenacious as the
defenders, and many times were obliged to retreat. It was one of the
remarkable sieges of history. The would-be invaders built houses to
replace their tents which were no protection against the rude climate
they were forced to undergo for a protracted period, as did the
Spaniards of Santa Fé under the walls of Granada. Less fortunate than
Ferdinand and Isabella, the enemies of the Khalifas of Tlemcen were
obliged to retreat, abandoning their fortifications on the height, which
the besieged, however, disdained to occupy. It is thus that the
fortifications of Mansourah have remained unoccupied for six hundred
years, an ignoble monument to a campaign that failed.
The countryside roundabout is fresh and thickly grown with a subtropical
African flora, but the snows of a rigorous winter--which occasionally
rest on the hillsides for weeks at a time--give a weird, contrasting
effect hard to reconcile with the topographical and architectural
features of the landscape. The sight of Mansourah under a snowy blanket
is one of the surprises which one, who twenty-four hours before left the
vine-clad hillsides of Médea and the plains of orange groves
neighbouring upon Blida, will never forget.
The legend of the Mosque of Mansourah is a classic among the Arabs who
inhabit the mountain city of Tlemcen. A negro king of the Soudan, who
himself as well as his followers were Mussulmans, invaded the region
beyond the Atlas and laid siege to Tlemcen. So long and well-sustained
was the siege that the invading army sought to build a mosque in their
midst. A sort of competition was held, and the winners were a Jew and an
Arab. The Soudanese king was at first embarrassed, and then enlightened
by a happy idea which church-building committees might well adopt. He
commissioned the Arab to proceed with the construction of the interior
of the mosque, the Jew to be responsible for the exterior. A wonderful
struggle took place, in which all the arts and ingenuities of the two
races were brought to play, and which resulted in one of the most
splendid of all Arab mosques.
The warrior king was highly pleased, and, calling the builders before
him, said, frankly, that he had no words to express his satisfaction,
nor ideas as to how they might be recompensed. The thing dragged for a
time, as payment of architects' bills has ever done; and partisanship so
got the influence of the better instincts of the king that, while he
gave the faithful Mussulman builder many purses filled with gold, he
condemned the "dog of an infidel Jew" to be imprisoned in the upper
gallery of the minaret, for having dared to even penetrate the holy
edifice. It never occurred to the dusky monarch that the procedure was
defiling the shrine still more.
"Escape if you can," the Jew was told, as he was conducted to his
prison. He did escape, after a fashion, so says the legend; for he made
himself a pair of wings out of reeds and silks and cords; and, just as
the blood-red sun plumped down behind the mountains of the Atlas, he
launched himself in air. Like most flying-machine experimenters before
and since, however, the daring innovator came forthwith to grief,
falling precipitately at the base of the structure and smashing his
skull.
He died almost instantly, but before he expired he uttered a final
imprecation; the earth trembled, the thunder rolled, and the lightning
blasted the minaret, which fell, as it may be seen to-day, lying almost
_en bloc_, at full length, on the ground.
The same legend has its counterpart, with variations, in other lands,
but it is as likely to be true of the Mosque of Mansourah as of the
Cathedral of Orgis in Roumania, or at Cologne, in Crete or in
Scandinavia. Legend was spread broadcast, even in the dark ages, by a
system of "wireless" which has not yet been improved upon.
Beyond Tlemcen the nearest Algerian settlement of size to the Moroccan
frontier is Lalla-Marnia, twenty-four kilometres only from the centre of
the late insurrection at Oudjda, now occupied by the French. The name of
this advanced post comes from that of a sainted woman buried in a tiny
_kouba_ near the military camp. The place was always a strategic point,
and formed the military frontier post of a band of Syrian invaders, who
gave it originally the name of _Numerus Syrorum_.
Lalla-Marnia and Oudjda, one on Algerian soil and the other in Moroccan
territory, separated by twenty-five kilometres of sandy roadway, bear
each other a sisterly resemblance. The fêtes of Lalla-Marnia, with
_fantasias_ and horse-races and a savage feasting of the natives, are
followed by their counterpart at Oudjda a week later. Needless to say
the fêtes are as yet unspoiled by non-contemporary interpolations.
North from Lalla-Marnia is the little townlet of Nédroma, whose clannish
inhabitants are one and all descended from the Moors of Andalusia. The
type here is the purest in North
[Illustration: _Arab Mosque of Beni-Ounif_]
Africa, and the custom which binds them together, presumably as a
_totem_ or prevention against marrying with outsiders, is most curious.
Each head of a family guards preciously the key of the paternal house in
Spain, the same with which his ancestors locked their doors when they
fled at the time of the expulsion of their race from the peninsula.
Every one of the Moors of Nédroma expects some day, when the great bell
sounds the tocsin of revenge, to return and take up life anew in
Andalusia.
Away to the south of Tlemcen, or from Perrégaux, if one follows the
railway, runs the road to far Sahara of the Sud-Oranais. Ain-Séfra,
Beni-Ounif and Figuig are not even names known to the average outsider,
albeit they have already achieved a certain prominence among
geographers. Here the _habitants_, their manner of living, and their
architecture take on a complexion quite different from anything known
among the tribes of the north. All is blended with a savage crudeness
which is alike exotic and picturesque. The Moorish mosques of the north
give way to a severe Arab manner of building which is formidable and
massive in outline and grim throughout. Mud, baked mud of a dingy red,
packed together with straw and propped and bolstered here and there
with the trunks of the palm-tree, are the chief characteristics of the
Saharan Arab's place of worship and of his dwelling as well. The
contrasting descent from the beauties of the Mauresque variety is
astonishing.
Throughout the Sud-Oranais civilization of the European brand is fast
spreading; the railway and the telegraph have reached Figuig and beyond,
and absinthe--of a particularly forceful brew--can be had in the cafés,
also Swedish matches (made in Belgium) and clay pipes (from Holland).
Not long since all was a desert waste, but the "_Légionnaires_," that
mixed crew of nation-builders propagated by the French military
authorities, went down into the interior and traced roads and built
fortifications until this anonymous work came to be succeeded by that of
merchants and traders of all creeds.
One finds the "_kif_" shops at every little village _en route_, often
where he will not even find a "_café maure_." Frequently in the towns
these dens are relegated to a site without the walls, but they huddle as
closely to the centre of affairs as the authorities will allow.
Architecturally and artistically they are but vile, unlovely holes,
lighted usually by a single
[Illustration: _A Kif Shop_]
_oeil_ hanging from the middle rafters. Most likely this _oeil_ is a
fifty-cent barn lantern, made after the real Connecticut pattern,
probably in Belgium or Germany. The oil that it burns is not even
American; the "_Standard_" here in the Mediterranean is often
Russian--put up in American tins. However, now that King Leopold of
Belgium has gone into partnership with "_Standard_" representatives in
the rubber business of the Congo, it's only fair to suppose there may be
a Rockefeller interest in the Russian oil trade.
These _fumeries de kif_ are to all intents and purposes low-class cafés,
peopled with all the nomad riffraff of the Mediterranean from Mogador to
Crete. Seemingly no one is proprietor, but each shuffles around for
himself regardless of any apparent reckoning to come. It is a
picturesque setting indeed for a theatre of crime.
For furnishings, a straw mat covers a part of the floor, and a few
cushions of grimy embroidered, or embossed, leather are backed up
against the wall here and there. A great carven coffer, presumably a
strong box containing the stock, ends the catalogue, if one excepts the
now smoke-dimmed arabesques and horseshoe arched decorations of the
walls themselves.
In one we saw tied a bald-headed vulture, a dirty fowl, and an itinerant
blind musician with a tanned skin, twanging out minor chords on a
_gambri_, or Arab guitar with two strings, and those not even catgut,
but a poor Arab substitute therefor.
Figuig is the end of the railway line into the Sud-Oranais, and, though
it and its Grand Hotel du Sahara are of little interest to the tourist,
the surrounding environment is as far removed from civilization as one
could hope to get and yet find himself fairly comfortable between the
four walls of a hotel of imposing proportions.
Figuig is the virtual end of encroaching civilization; eight hundred odd
kilometres from the coast straight south into the desert. The railway is
not intended to stop at Figuig; and, by this time, it may have reached
Colomb-Béchar, a hundred kilometres further on, to which point it was
projected when these lines were written. Fifteen miles an hour is the
ordinary speed of this toy railway, and the journey takes from
twenty-four to thirty hours of uncomfortable and dusty travelling, which
costs, however, only a matter of a hundred francs or so, coming and
going.
Going east from Figuig, four hundred
[Illustration: _Laghouat_]
kilometres, the only communication being by the caravan trail, is
Laghouat, another outpost of civilization on the desert's edge.
Laghouat, like most desert towns, like Touggourt, like Tozeur, like
Biskra even, is an oasis. In its markets one may see the traffickings of
all the desert types of the Sahara, from the M'zab--the Auvergnats of
Algeria--to the wandering nomads of the south,--the tramps of the
desert, not omitting the picturesque _Ouled-Naïls_ and the terrible
Touaregs, with their still more terrible-looking guns and their heads
swathed in black veils.
[Illustration: _Hotel at Figuig_]
At Laghouat and Figuig one gets the truest perspective of the life of
the desert that one can have short of Oued-Souf in the Sud-Constantinois.
Biskra is in the class of "exploited tourist points," whilst these
desert towns are practically inaccessible to all but the hardiest of
travellers,--the real genuine travel-lover, not those who are averse to
riding in creaky diligences with dusky Arabs for companions, or on mule,
donkey, or camel back, for all these means of locomotion come into the
desert itinerary.