THE FIRST GLIMPSE OF THE SAHARA
Leaving Bou Saada by the same road taken the day before to visit El
Hamel, though without turning off down the track which passes the
holy city, the car climbs up into a rolling country of alfa—that
tall alfa or esparto grass which grows so abundantly all over the
Sersou and the Hauts Plateaux, and which is used extensively by
British firms to make paper.
Large concessions are leased for lengthy periods, the grass is cut
and collected by Arabs between November and March, and brought to
convenient centers on camels. Here it is pressed into bales and
despatched by motor transport or by rail to the sea, where it is
shipped to Europe: a profitable business, but somewhat lonely for the
European superintendent who lives at the pressing depot on the plain.
The country traversed during the first part of the journey is
very wild. Hills limit the broad horizon, bare of all vegetation;
they are the Mountains of the Ouled Naïls, and this time it is
impossible to refrain from speaking the truth about these people.
Now, it is generally believed that the women of the tribe of
the Ouled Naïl (which, incidentally, means _children of him who
has succeeded_) are all ladies of easy virtue, and that in every
dancing-place in North Africa this tribe supplies the performers.
It is, moreover, stated by many that prostitution among them is a
form of religion. Both these ideas are false.
In the first place, this occupation or trade did not exist as such
before the French conquered the country. The real facts are these:
the confederation of Ouled Naïls is the largest in Algeria; it
comprises twenty-one tribes and occupies a very wide area, running
all the way from Djelfa to Sétif in length, and almost as broad in
depth. It stands to reason, therefore, that in a great many of the
towns visited by travelers the Ouled Naïl women are found in their
own homes, or in the towns just bordering thereon. Outside their
own lairs, however, dancers of this tribe will be found exercising
the same profession among their cousins of other confederations. The
first reason for this is, again, the fact that they are so numerous
that they have migrated outside their own haunts, and even outnumber
the other women. The second reason is that prostitution among the
Ouled Naïl tribe is not considered a dishonor. This is greatly
due to the astonishing laziness of the tribesmen, who are quite
prepared to live on the earnings of their women. In any other tribe
a mother will bring up her daughter with the idea of marrying well,
having a home, and settling down to rear children herself. A mother
among the Ouled Naïl people will not discourage her daughter from
going as early as possible to the nearest town to earn her living
in order to provide a large enough dowry to make a good marriage,
or retire into prosperous inertia. Most astonishing of all is
the fact that bridegrooms are forthcoming, and that the method
employed to raise the money is not considered dishonorable. Among
the tribesmen of the Ouled Naïl, moreover, these girls are so
weary of the life they have led that they make excellent wives.
There are naturally many families of great respectability, whose
daughters are as closely kept as those of other tribes, but they
are not in the majority.
All this may sound very crude, but, as I have previously endeavored
to show, whatever may be the rights and wrongs of the question,
there is none of that sordid atmosphere associated with the same
thing in Europe.
About half-way between Bou Saada and Djelfa the mountains are left,
and a broad expanse of plain, sparsely cultivated, takes the place
of the alfa. In the distance a group of poplars appears, behind
which lies a walled village. The car passes through a menacing
gate and turns into a long, uninteresting street planted with
sad trees. Of all the cities in North Africa Djelfa is the most
lamentable. There is nothing to redeem its dull squalor, not even
a possible climate. In winter it freezes; in summer the heat is
unbearable; in the spring an icy blast blows from the mountains;
in autumn it rains and snows.
It would be the test of affection between a man and a woman to
pass six months in this place and remain on speaking terms. If the
traveler is wise he has lunched on the broad plain before reaching
this wretched town, as, if not, he must suffer a meal in the very
tumble-down hotel, which does its best, but which fails from want
of support. Djelfa must be left as soon as possible.
The car turns to the south, passes through another fortified gateway,
and is soon speeding away on the straight white road which leads
to the Sahara.
More alfa, more bare hills, more broad horizons. At the fifteenth
kilometer the _col des caravanes_, the highest point on the road,
is reached, and, away, away, the road can be seen like a long ribbon
unrolling itself toward the blue skies of the great south.
The caravanserai of Aïn el Ibel, the Spring of the Camels, is the
next landmark; once the nightly lodging in the days of the diligence,
it is now only used as a place to drink coffee if one is frequenting
the public car. The country is very lonely and desolate. It is a
land of sheep-breeding, and, though the traveler coming straight
from the green fields of Europe looks doubtfully at the gray scrub
about him, he will have his doubts removed when he sees the great
flocks feeding peacefully on either side of the road.
Calm-faced nomads, tall of stature, watch over them, and in the
distance a few black patches indicate where the camp has been
temporarily pitched. Camels too are everywhere, and have replaced all
forms of more modern transport. Caravans of these ungainly beasts,
bearing bales of wool and alfa, with here and there the _bassours_
in which the women travel, plod slowly along.
There is a sensation of something new in the atmosphere—the people
of the north have been left far behind, and at every revolution
of the wheels one seems to be speeding into the past. The flocks,
the camels, the tents, the tall shepherds are the same as they were
twelve hundred years ago, and even the rumbling motor-lorry which
keeps the south supplied with sugar and coffee does not affect them.
A few palm-trees appear, growing about a white caravanserai,
while mud houses cluster in a dip. It is the miniature oasis of
Sidi Maklouf. The road turns sharply to the right, runs down into a
dried-up river-bed, and then stretches straight away to the south.
The barren hill on the right looks like the edge of a saw; ahead
there is a distant horizon in a haze of blue; the eyes would like
to be there and see what is beyond.
Again the road bends, this time to the left, a dark mass appears,
which, gradually getting more distinct, reveals itself as
trees—palm-trees in thousands. Rosy rocks break the horizon, a
white column leaps to the sky; it is the minaret of Laghouat. The car
passes through the sandy bed of a broad river, usually a trickling
stream, but sometimes in the autumn a roaring torrent, making access
to the oasis impossible. The road slips through plantations of
tamarisk, and in a few moments an avenue of plane-trees is entered.
Gardens and quiet little villas are on either side, until, reaching
the fortified walls, the car draws up before the Transatlantic
Hotel, nestling picturesquely amid the tall palms. There is an
atmosphere of peace and quiet, and a welcome which is pleasant
after the long journey.
The interior of the hotel does not belie the exterior, and, when
one realizes that it was once the _bash agha’s_ Turkish bath,
the charm of the surroundings is complete.
An English tea awaits one, and when it has been consumed let the
traveler climb to the rosy rock near by and get his first glimpse
of the Sahara. If it is a clear evening the sunset effect will be
a vision never to be forgotten.