THE MITIDJA AND THE SAHEL
The whole region just west of Algiers is very properly accounted the
garden of North Africa. Wheat, the vine, the orange, and all the range
of _primeurs_ which go to grace the _tables d'hôte_ at Paris are grown
here to the profit of all and sundry, native and colonist alike, who
possess a garden plot of virgin soil.
Boufarik, in the midst of the great plain of the Mitidja, is a garden
city if there ever was one. It is beautifully and geometrically laid
out, like Philadelphia, though it doesn't resemble the Quaker City in
the least; it is more lively.
The great day at Boufarik is the market day, when a great cattle and
sheep market is held (every Monday week). To-day this great market is a
survival of one which has been held for ages.
The coming of the French made for the increased prosperity of Boufarik,
and its former reputation of being a pest-hole has been entirely
overridden by a series of civic improvements which not only resulted in
cleaning up the town but made it really beautiful as well.
[Illustration: _Market, Boufarik_]
The Monday market at Boufarik is one of the things to come out from
Algiers to see. For once put carriage or automobile behind and travel
out by train or diligence, and mingle with the people and see what the
real native life of Algeria is like, so far as it can be seen,
uncontaminated by foreign influence. Better yet, go out the night before
and sleep at the Hotel Benoit. It is unlovely enough as an inn, but the
dishes served at dinner and breakfast are very good; reminiscent of
North Africa, but bountiful and excellent. There is nothing offensive or
unclean about the hotel, if it is crude; but the colour one gathers on
the palette of his memory is very local.
From the afternoon of Sunday, on all the roads leading into Boufarik,
from Cherchell and the Sahel, from Miliana, from Blida and Algiers,
throng the thousands that will make up the personnel of to-morrow's
market. They come on camel-back, on horses, mules, and donkeys, on foot,
by diligence, and by rail, herded in flat unroofed cars like cattle.
Some are the pure Arab type of the sandy dunes and plains of the waste
Sahara, others Berber-Kabyles, and others Jews, Maltese, Spaniards,
French, Italians and--tell it not in Gath--Germans. The contrast of the
types is as great as the contrast between their modes of conveyance, the
contrast between the plodding little donkeys and the great, tall, lumpy
camels. The comings and goings of the great native market of Boufarik
are a perpetual migration, and there is nothing the Arab likes more than
to participate in such an affair. It is his great passion and diversion,
and the fact that he stands to gain a little money is not so much an
object with him as to kill a little time.
From daybreak, the vast quadrangle on the Route de Blida, outside
Boufarik's rectangular fortifications, is given over to tents, shops,
and booths. Here and there is a corral of donkeys or mules, or a pen
full of sheep. Braying donkeys and bleating sheep are everywhere. The
great avenues of plane-trees form a grove, and wherever they cross some
more powerful or wily trader has squatted on the ground, to the
discomfort of his less fortunate competitor, who, perforce, has to
content himself with the shady side of a camel. Leading up to this
unique market-place is a splendid avenue of orange-trees.
A superb disorder of trumpery brummagem cutlery, stuffs, firearms and
pots and pans clutter the ground in every direction. Water-sellers and
milk-sellers are threading everywhere, each loaded down with his _peau
de bouc_, and fruit and bread sellers with their wicker baskets.
Saddlery, horseshoes, ropes of hemp, jute, and camel hair all mingle in
a picturesque chaos. There are even hand sewing-machines, of the little
doll-house variety that the native populations of India, Japan,
Patagonia affect as their sole intercourse with modernity.
A few women mingle among the groups, but mostly the crowd is made up of
men. Rarely are these market women beautiful except in a savage way.
They possess most of the male characteristics of manner, and but few of
the wiles and little of the coquettishness of woman. Their visages are
tanned to copper colour and sowed with ridges and folds. Many indeed are
out and out negresses.
Here beside a stall sits a Soudan negress of fat, flabby visage and
large round eyes, as amiable as some greasy animal in captivity--and
about as intelligent. She is only a watcher or caretaker; the real owner
of the stall, with its melons, its skins, and its baskets, is over
yonder in a Moorish café playing dominoes.
From her head and shoulders hang great chains of silver, and in the
lobes of her ears are pendants which may be gold or not. She is a
barbaric savage, splendid in her savagery and indifferent, apparently,
to everything and everybody. But she is part of the setting
nevertheless, and she is good to see.
The coast plain west of Algiers, the Sahel properly called, is in strong
contrast with the cultivated plain of the Mitidja. The whole journey
from Algiers out to Cherchell and back, via Miliana, Blida, and
Boufarik, gives one as good an idea of the ancient and modern
civilization of North Africa as one could possibly have.
Blida sits calmly in its fertile plain at the foot of the imposing hills
which, grouped together, form the mountains of the Beni-Salah. All round
about are orange groves and olive-trees of the very first splendour and
production. The _Bois Sacré_, Blida's chief sight, is as picturesque and
romantic a woodland as the sentiment of a poet or an artist ever
conjured up.
Blida dates from the sixteenth century, when a number of Andalusian
families settled here because of the suitability of the region for the
cultivation of the orange,--and the commerce has been growing ever
since. In the olden times Blida was known as Ouarda, _the little rose_;
but afterwards when the Turks and Corsairs held their orgy there, it
came to be called Khaaba, _the prostitute_. Since that day it has got
back its good name and is one of the liveliest, daintiest, and
altogether attractive small cities of Algeria. The native and the French
alike know it is _la voluptueuse_ or _la parfumée_.
Within Blida's _Bois Sacré_ is the venerated marabout of
Sidi-Yacoub-ech-Chérif, one of the
[Illustration: _Tomb of Sidi-Yacoub_]
celebrated _kouba_ shrines of Islam. No reproduction of it can do its
cool, leafy surroundings justice. It is the very ideal of a holy man's
retreat and one of the most appealing of shrines to those possessed of
the artist's eye. Fragonard or Corot might have spent a lifetime
painting the forest interiors of the unspoiled wild-wood of Blida's
_Bois Sacré_. The writer is not sure that the author of "Mignon" ever
saw or heard of Blida, but his verses were most apropos:
"Connais-tu le pays où fleurit l'oranger,
Le pays des fruits d'or et des roses vermeilles?
* * * * *
Où rayonne et sourit comme un bienfait de Dieu,
Un éternel printemps sous un ciel toujours bleu.
* * * * *
C'est là que je voudrais vivre,
Aimer et mourir.... C'est là!..."
In connection with Blida it is worthy of record that the celebrated and
venerable _bach-agha_ Sid Ben Gannah, of Biskra, Grand-Chef of the
Sud-Constantinois, recently underwent a "cure" at the military hospital
at Blida. His malady had become a chronic one, and his complete
restoration to health through the aid of the capable doctors of the
hospital and the mild soft air of Blida has done more than anything
else to allay the fanatical superstition of the native against the
efficacy of the proper professional treatment of the sick.
The "cure" experienced by their favourite _bach-agha_, the friend of the
King of England and bearer of a hundred personal decorations, the "grand
old man" of the country, has been heralded wide amongst the natives,
from Constantine to Beni-Souf, and Ouardja to El Oued, and has struck
the death-knell of the voodooism of the _indigène_ "_toubibs_" and
quacks.
For many years yet, it is to be hoped, the native may continue to demand
the benedictions of Mohammed for their respected chief:
"_Ou sela Allah ala on moulano on ala hebel daro ou ala sahabou ou
Salem!_"
A peculiarity of the Mauresques of Blida is that they veil themselves in
a most strange manner. Instead of covering their faces, leaving only two
glittering black eyes peeping out, they cover all but one eye. A woman
who veils after that manner looks suspicious. Beware!
At the Mediterranean extremity of the great plain in which lies Blida--a
veritable Garden of Eden, with oranges, figs, grapes, pomegranates and
even the apples of Eve--is the little hill-town of Kolea.
Kolea is extraordinary from every point of
[Illustration: _A Mauresque of Blida_]
view. Kolea is a military town; the Zouaves are everywhere, and in their
train have come a following of Greeks, Turks, and Maltese. But the
little garden-town with its _Jardin des Zouaves_, its two mosques, its
turreted fountain and its modern Renaissance Mairie is attractive
throughout, albeit it is not the least Oriental.
The Hôtel de France, partly Moorish (the good part), and partly French
(the ugly part), is one of those French inns that are indescribably
excellent. There is a sure-to-be Gabrielle who presides at the cook
stove and another who serves at table and orders up the _vin rosé_ from
the cellar when the red or the white wine is too strong (16 degrees) for
one's taste. They are wonderfully good, those wines of the Sahel.
It is a remarkably brilliant strip of coast-line extending west from
Algiers, and it should be covered in its entirety as far as Cherchell if
one would realize the varied beauties and attractions of the Algerian
littoral. From Saint-Eugène and Point Pescade, suburbs of Algiers, a
fine road extends all the way to Cherchell, a matter of nearly a hundred
kilometres, the turquoise Mediterranean always to the right.
At Sidi-Ferruch the French troops first landed when on their conquest of
Algeria. At Staouëli-la-Trappe is an abbey where there are a hundred
and fifty lay brothers who grow oranges and fine fruits, and while their
dull lives away comfortably under the brilliant skies of Africa.
Going still further along the coast, we come to Castiglione, sheltering
itself behind a sand-dune, from whence it is but a few kilometres to the
"Tombeau de la Chrétienne," as imposing and extraordinary a monument as
any of the pyramids of Ghizeh. Architecturally, if not beautiful, it is
imposing, and mysterious, in that it is constructed on a most original
plan. It is a great mound of superimposed cut stone, entered by a
pillared portico, now somewhat ruined. This funeral monument has an
appeal for the archæologist and the merely curious alike far beyond many
a more conventional monument of its class. The gigantic monument is
still supposed to contain many and wonderful treasures, unless they were
removed and lost in the forgotten past, for as yet none have been
brought to light. Tradition has the following tale to tell of this
monumental sepulchre.
One day a Christian woman, fleeing from a rabble of unholy men and
women, took refuge in this commemorative shrine, built by some holy
person whose name is forgotten. Her pursuers, coming upon her in her
retreat, would have fallen upon her and done her injury, even as she was
at her prayers, when suddenly a myriad of flies, mosquitoes, and wasps
put the invaders to flight. The frightened woman lived a hermit's life
here in her stronghold, and at the end of her span came to die within
the impenetrable walls. Ever afterward the cone-like mound was known as
the Tombeau de la Chrétienne.
The Arabs call this bizarre tomb Kaber-Roumia. In 1866 it was explored
by a band of archæologists, who decided that it was the tomb of the
Kings of Mauretania, built by Jubal II in the reign of the great
Augustus.
The reader may take his choice of the reasons for the existence of this
remarkable monument. One is about as well authenticated as the other. It
existed already in 1555, for the records tell that a _Pacha_ of Algiers,
Salah Raïs, tried, but without success, to destroy the edifice by firing
stone cannon-balls at the mass. Nothing happened; the monument was not
despoiled of its outlines even. This fact speaks badly either for the
old Turkish ammunition or for the skill of the gunners who fired it.
Tipaza, the _chef lieu_ of a _commune_ with a population of between two
or three thousand, is a little coast town and comes next on the
itinerary from Algiers to Cherchell.
At Tipaza are still more Roman ruins, covering an area over two thousand
metres square. Tipaza was one of the cities of Mauretania where the
Christian religion was practised with the utmost fervour. The patron
saint of the place was one Salsa, a young girl, who, according to
tradition, was put to death at the beginning of the fourth century for
having destroyed a pagan idol. Such was religious partisanship of the
time. A century later the Vandal king Hunéric, in order to subdue
Christianity, caused all those professing it to have their right hands
cut off and their tongues cut out. This was the extreme of cruelty and
its effect on Christendom is historic.
The Roman monuments still existing at Tipaza include a theatre, which is
in a poor state of preservation. This has been restored in recent years
to the extent that commemorative dramatic performances have been held
here in the open air, as at Carthage, and at Orange in Provence. The
outlines of a great basilica of nine naves, where Sainte Salsa was
buried, are still well preserved, and there are also something more than
fragments of the baths and water-works, which supplied the drinking
water for the surrounding country.
From Tipaza to Cherchell is thirty kilometres by road, which is the only
means of reaching the latter place unless one goes from Algiers by
steamer along the coast, a voyage not to be recommended for various
reasons.
Cherchell possesses the best-preserved outlines of an historic
occupation of the past of any of the old Roman settlements of the
"Département d'Alger." First as the Phoenician colony of Iol, and
later, under Jubal II, as Cesarea, the capital of Mauretania. Cherchell
came under the sway of the Roman Empire in the year 40 of the Christian
era. The province of Mauretania extended from the Moulouia to the Setif
of the present day. In the middle ages Cesarea lay dormant for three
centuries; but before this, and again afterwards, its activities were
such that the part it played in the history and development of the
country was most momentous.
As late as the early years of the past century, the city and port was
the refuge of a band of pirates which pillaged throughout all the
western waters of the Mediterranean.
The ancient port of Cherchell was the scene of the comings and goings of
a vast commerce in Phoenician and Roman times; and the present state
of the preservation of the moles and jetties of this old harbour of
refuge stamps Cherchell as worthy of comparison with Carthage.
The Roman ruins at Cherchell are stupendous, though fragmentary, and not
overnumerous. In the inefficiently installed "Musée" are many of the
finest gems of antique sculptures and statuary yet found in Africa.
There is a catalogue of these numerous discoveries, compiled by M.
Wierzejski, which can be had at the book-shops of Algiers, and which
will prove invaluable to those interested in the subject in detail.
The chief Roman monuments remaining in place above ground are
the Western Baths and the Central Baths: the Cisterns, the
Amphitheatre,--where was martyred Sainte Marciane,--the Circus, and the
extensive ramparts sweeping around to the south of the town from one
part of the coast-line to another.
Cherchell has a population of nine thousand souls to-day, of which
perhaps a third are Europeans. In Roman times it must have had a vast
population judging from the area within the ramparts.
The ancient Grande Mosquée of the Arab occupation is now a military
hospital. This has had added to it numerous beautifully proportioned
columns, with elaborately carved capitals, taken from the ruins of the
Central Baths.
South from Cherchell, back from the coast towards the mountains of the
"Petit Atlas," fifty kilometres or more by a not very direct road, and
connected by a service of public diligences, is Miliana. One will not
repent a "stop-over" at this unspoiled little African city. The country
reminds one of what the French would call a "_petite Suisse Africaine_."
The valleys and plains have a remarkable freshness of atmosphere that
one does not associate with a semi-tropical sun.
Miliana itself sits high on the flank of the Zaccar-Gharbi, and is the
lineal descendant of the Zucchabar of the Romans. Actually, it was
founded in the tenth century. At the time of the French occupation of
Algeria Abd-el-Kader here installed Ali-ben-Embarek (who afterwards
became the Agha of the Mitidja under the French). But with the
occupation of Médea, in 1840, the stronghold fell and the Arab power was
broken for ever in these parts.
Miliana is a walled town to-day, as it was in the days of the Romans and
Berbers. On the north is the Porte du Zaccar, and on the south the
Porte du Chélif. This snug little hill-town, with only a quarter part of
its population European, not counting half as many more Israelites, has
a character which places it at once in a class by itself. It has an
attractive little commercial hotel, where one eats and drinks the best
of the countryside and pays comparatively little for it.
A wide terrace, or esplanade, runs around one side of the town
overlooking the walls, and a wide-spread panorama stretches away on the
east and west and north and south into infinity, with the imposing mass
of the Ouarsenis, called "_l'oeil du monde_," as the dominant
landscape feature. The terrace is called locally the "_coin des
blagueurs_." Why, no one pretends to answer, except that all the world
foregathers here to stroll and gossip as they do on the "_cours_" of a
Provençal town.
Miliana's mosque is a simple but elegant structure, graceful but
not ornate, imposing but not majestic. It is dedicated to
Sidi-Ahmed-ben-Youssef, a venerated marabout who lived all his life
hereabouts. He had as bitter and satirical a tongue as Dean Swift when
speaking of the men and manners of those about him.
Turning eastward again from Miliana towards Algiers, one passes the
entrance to the Gorges de Chiffa, the road to Médea, and finally Blida,
the centre of the little yellow, thin-skinned orange traffic.
From Blida a classic excursion is to be made to the Gorges de Chiffa,
where, at the Ruisseau des Singes, formerly lived a colony of hundreds,
perhaps thousands of monkeys in their wild native state. Nowadays the
only monkeys one sees are on the frieze in the _salle-à-manger_ of a
most excellently appointed little wayside hotel.
[Illustration: At the Ruisseau des Singes B. Mcm '01]
Hamman-R'hira, on the road between Miliana and Blida, is an incipient
watering-place, where one can get tea and American drinks, and play
croquet.
Its mineral springs--much like those of Contrexeville in France--have
been famous for centuries, and the old Moorish baths are still used by
the Moors and Arabs round about. For the Europeans who, throughout the
spring and winter season, throng to the great hotel, now managed by a
limited company, there are other baths more luxuriously installed.
Hamman-R'hira is an attractive enough place of itself, and would be more
so were it not filled with rheumatics and anæmics. The frequenters of
the Moorish baths are more interesting than the European clientèle for
the investigator of men and manners.
[Illustration: Algiers & its Environs]