THE OASIS OF LAGHOUAT
The first view of the Sahara is perhaps one of the most amazing
things in the world. The northern part of the oasis is divided from
the southern by a barrier of rocks, and, as one tops the cliff,
a sense of awe fills one as one contemplates the immensity of the
vision spread out. The mind, unaccustomed to such spectacles, rushes
back and tries to compare the scene with anything it has ever seen
before, but it fails hopelessly, and remains in wonderment before
this wide panorama. And yet, as one gazes at the plain—which
seems to roll out from the sand in the foreground to an endless
expanse of stones, until it merges into the sky and is lost in
an infinite horizon—one can not help being reminded of the sea
on a calm evening: the oasis is some tropical island, with its
palm-trees growing almost down to the water’s edge; the golden
sand lapped by this tideless ocean, and then the sea—away, away,
far away—until the next island.
“Island” is really the only descriptive word for an oasis
in its ocean of desolation. It suddenly springs up and suddenly
disappears. Unless the water changes its course, nothing human can
cause a tree to grow outside its perimeter, any more than anything
could be raised out of the sea.
Laghouat is a very typical oasis of the south. From the rocky
eminence can be seen the town, clustering on either side of the rocky
barrier; the mosque on an eminence in the center, modern and rather
gaudy, but not unpleasant to look at; the very unprepossessing
Catholic church, rather like a wedding cake; and the two oases,
north and south. The town itself is comparatively modern, having been
rebuilt on the site of the old city which was utterly destroyed by
the French in 1852 to punish its heroic defenders for having held
out so long against them.
There are two versions as to the origin of the name Laghouat.
The first suggestion is from the Arab word _“gaouth,”_ or more
exactly _“rouat,”_ meaning a house in a dip with a garden,
and which has been contracted into “El aghouat.” The second
is “El-aghouat,” of which the derivation is _a mountain the
ridge of which resembles the teeth of a saw_. Both are plausible
suggestions, as all the houses have gardens, and the mountains in
the neighborhood give one very much the impression of saws.
Prior to the eighteenth century there is very little information to
be had concerning Laghouat. It was evidently an oasis frequented
by nomads, but there does not appear to have been any definite
settlement. In 1700, however, Sidi-El-Hadj-Aïssa, a very saintly
_marabout_, collected the tribes of the district about him and made
it clear that it would be in their interest to group themselves
in one body, and it must have been at this time that the present
Confederation of the Larbas came into existence.
Sidi-El-Hadj-Aïssa, who is the patron of the oasis, is a figure
of great importance in the Moslem history of Algeria, and he is
venerated throughout the country, more especially as a prophet.
Concerning the truth of his foresight it is not for us to criticize,
but the facts are worth noting. It appears that after creating this
center and making of the divided nomads one people, they did not
show the desired gratitude, and as punishment the _marabout_ laid
a terrible curse on his followers. In the curse he prophesied the
downfall of the city, internal war, and the French invasion. And,
though it is too long to go into, it is curious to note that all
the details of the prophecy occurred.
He made a further prophecy which is kept a great secret, to the
effect that Algeria would be delivered by a great chief who would
rise in Morocco and finally become Khalifat of North Africa.
I leave it to the reader to draw his own conclusions, but the fact
remains that the French did invade Algeria, and that events in
Morocco seemed at one time to indicate a fulfilment of his words.
The town reconstructed on the site of the old city may be more solid,
but it could not be less beautiful. Straight streets running at
right-angles, plain and drab—it is the typical architecture of
the modern southern town. There is a certain picturesque atmosphere
in the quarter bordering on the southern oasis, but it is very poor
and dirty.
The people live in small houses, and ply their business quite
humbly. Modernisms have not crept in, and the shopkeepers do not
worry the visitor to buy. When the day’s work is over they repair
to their gardens—the gardens which have made Laghouat famous. Every
man who can afford it has his own piece of land in the oasis. It may
be an acre, it may be three, but, all the same, it is his garden
and he is proud of it. Surrounded by high walls, it is planted
with palm-trees, peach-trees, vines, apricots, figs, oranges,
pomegranates, pears, medlars, and, in fact, all kinds of fruit.
The oasis being at a comparatively high level, the date-palms do
not produce a very marketable fruit, such as is found at Biskra in
the south, and in Laghouat a palm-tree only brings in fifty francs.
All the other fruit-trees, however, bear abundantly, too abundantly,
for, there being no railway, there is no outlet, and in early summer
peaches can be had for one franc the dozen, and apricots are given
away. Some people even find it too much trouble to carry the fruit
to market, and they merely eat what they can and use the rest
for manure.
Vegetables are in almost the same position, and are sold for
negligible sums. It is astonishing to realize that such fertility
exists so close to the wastes of the desert. There is a wonderful
opportunity for an enterprising man with capital who comes to
Laghouat with a fleet of lorries and bears away the fruit and
vegetables to Algiers. The purchase of the raw material will cost
him next to nothing; it is merely a question of transport. A jam
factory in Laghouat would pay a hundred per cent., but let it be
hoped, for the sake of the peace and beauty of the surroundings,
that no enterprising capitalist will come and spoil a land of pure
delight, where living is so easy and so cheap.
To produce all this vegetation, however, there must be water, and,
its absence being conspicuous in the south, it may interest the
reader to hear how an oasis is watered.
The whole of southern Algeria is crossed by rivers, which in the
winter have a certain amount of water, but which in the summer are
dry, and are in reality only drains to carry off the rain which
comes down from the hills after storms.
The real rivers of the south follow the water-courses, but they
flow underground, and it is only when they rise to the surface that
they form an oasis, and, as the Arabs say, the palm-trees spring
up with their feet in the water and their heads in the flames.
Anywhere along these courses wells can be sunk and the water tapped
at a depth varying from one hundred and twenty to twelve hundred
feet, and in some cases there are broad underground lakes, known
to the natives as Behar Tahtani—_the sea of the underworld_.
[Illustration: Sand Storm Getting up on the Sahara]
[Illustration: Waterfall of Boiling Water, Hammon, Meskoutine]
[Illustration: Arab Falconer Setting Out to Hunt]
Wherever, therefore, the river rises to the surface and forms an
oasis the land becomes very rich, and all vegetation is of the most
luxuriant. Sand mixed with irrigated earth is excessively fertile,
and produces everything from roses and strawberries to jasmine and
lemons. Cereals would thrive and cover endless acres if there was
enough water. Water—that is the question of daily life in the
great south. You may cross endless wastes of desertic plain with
only a few tufts of alfa grass here and there, and suddenly come
upon a great oasis, green and fresh in the watered land. But it
ends as abruptly as it began, and, although you may find yourself
standing in a garden of flowers and fruits and green grass, two
hundred yards away is the blasted desolation of the Sahara.
The distribution of water, therefore, is done very methodically.
There is, of course, the underground layer, in which rest the roots
of the palms, but the surface water for the lesser vegetables is
another matter. There is always a point where the water actually
comes to the surface in the form of springs, and, of course, the
river-bed which, during the winter rains, is running with water,
sometimes after big storms is a raging torrent overflowing the land.
The water is, therefore, captured at these points and carried into
the oasis by means of channels called _seguias_, so inclined that the
water is always flowing round the gardens. The oasis is, moreover,
divided into areas, and the areas receive the water at regular
intervals. A garden has so many minutes, according to its size,
and it is calculated that the whole surface under cultivation is
flooded for its appointed period once every seven days. The system
is ingeniously worked by sluices, padlocked by the water controller
of the area, who, when the appointed day occurs, lets in the water,
while the owner of the domain diverts it into the necessary quarters
on his own land, according to its need. At the end of the appointed
time the controller closes the sluice-gates and floods the next
garden. Rain is considered as an extra, and whatever the weather
the water-day is continued.
Apart from gardening, which is the hobby of all good Laghouatis,
there are other industries. Carpet-making and weaving, the occupation
of the women of the south, is very important here, and some of the
best burnouses and other woolen goods originate in Laghouat; and,
of course, there is sheep-breeding; this is the great occupation
in the northern Sahara, and a source of substantial revenue.
Some of the Jews are goldsmiths; they are also cobblers, and they
embroider leather to make into bags and saddles.
A walk in the evening in the dancing-girls’ quarter will remove
all the theatrical atmosphere which the same thing in Bou Saada
has created. The streets and coffee-houses are thronged nightly
summer and winter alike; the squeal of the _raïta_ and the beat
of the _tam-tam_ never cease, and if one strolls in and sits down
on a bench the performance will not change because of the entrance
of the tourist. The women continue dancing slowly up and down the
middle of the room, while the men sit in serried ranks and stare,
sipping their coffee or mint tea. There is no charge except for
the cup of harmless beverage which costs five sous. Sometimes a
dancing-girl will hold out her hand, and will be delighted with a
packet of cigarettes or a franc, and occasionally the band makes
a collection, but there is none of that grasping rush to exploit
tourists associated with those more popular centers.
There is little else to describe in the oasis, as the atmosphere
of the past is impossible to realize for those who live in great
cities. The lack of traffic, the blueness of the sky, the tall,
feathery palms, the dignity of the Arabs, the silence—especially
the silence—are things which must be seen and felt to be
appreciated.
It is a setting of peace, an atmosphere of calm—a solution to
the worries of modern life.