BISKRA
With the aid of a railway an English novelist inadvertently made
of Biskra what it is to-day. I say inadvertently because there is
not the least reference to Biskra in the whole book, and I am sure
that Mr. Hichens was the last person to wish to create of a Sahara
oasis a kind of Dieppe-on-sand. Neither would this town have been so
thronged with trippers had it been miles away in the desert without
a railway, but it is so easy to get into the train at Algiers one
night and detrain the next day in time for lunch in the Sahara that
more people come here than to any other place in the south.
Of course, from the point of view of the country, the change
has brought in a great deal of money and the town has an air of
fat prosperity unknown in the other places we have visited. Arab
guides are paid the wages of colonels and the hiring of camels is
as expensive as a motor-car. The cafés of the Quarter charge what
they please and the numerous Palace hotels have corresponding prices.
It is a curious place and well worth a visit. It is difficult
to decide which arrival is the most attractive—possibly that
from the south, because the oasis is the first thing seen. It is
an impression of palm-trees, three times as many as at Laghouat,
and as one approaches in the evening, the golden light seems to
envelop their feathery heads in a mysterious radiance as the wind
rustles through them.
From the northern approach the coloring on the rocks and hills will
perhaps be as wonderful, but there is not that same feeling of the
Sahara because the town masks the oasis.
The largest hotel is the Royal, and from its tower a wonderful
panorama of the desert is spread before one. Unfortunately it is
difficult to keep up this atmosphere long, as it is impossible to
close one’s eyes to the Anglo-Saxon hibernators who have brought
with them their knitting and their bridge and their crossword
puzzles, while the foreign waiters in their starched dickeys
jar horribly after the silence of the Great South. Moreover, if
one steps into the street superb guides in sky-blue robes assail
one—flight north seems the easiest course only to find a gallery
of curiosity shops stocked with gaudy merchandise from Syria. Again
fleeing from the oily merchants toward the sounds of a deep flute,
one finds oneself in a coffee-house, as dirty as in the other cities,
with the only difference that the mint tea costs five francs. Again
in a wretched state of persecution mania one turns south again and,
seeing a brilliantly lighted building of Moorish architecture, one
hurries in; lights dazzle one, the sounds of bad dance-music strike
the ear mingled with monotonous cries of _“Rien ne va plus!”_
It is the casino, but, just as one is about to depart again into
the night in search of a haven of refuge, the curious scene arrests
one’s steps.
Of all the _habitués_ of casinos in the world I think that those
collected in that of Biskra are the most remarkable. The Biskra
casino has no kind of pattern or atmosphere; it is just an amazing
jumble like the background of one of Mr. Piccasso’s pictures. The
hall is full of cheery French inhabitants of Biskra sitting at little
tables drinking beer, laughing, and occasionally dancing gaily to
the noisy band. A few solemn Britons join in the fun, while Arabs of
serene countenance sit and watch without showing the smallest trace
of emotion. At the gaming-tables a party of travel-stained tourists
belonging to a Transatlantic tour are learning the mysteries of the
play under the supervision of the company’s guide in his khaki
uniform plastered with medal ribbons. Two or three Anglo-Saxons
in dinner-jackets, with their consorts in smart evening gowns,
contrast vividly with the robes of the Arab chief whose turban,
unlike those we have seen up to the present, is bound about with
much thicker strands of camel’s hair and crossed and interwoven
in a fashion peculiar to the district.
In a kind of theater, a music-hall show is taking place, partly
composed of the usual French turns, partly of Arab music and
dancing. If one is lucky one may hear the great tenor Mahi-ed-Din
sing the ballads of the Tell. The audience is as mixed as in the
other room, but it is gay, and in spite of oneself one is drawn
back to this scene each night. It has the great advantage over
the native quarter in having no pretensions. It is as genuine as
possible and is certainly unique.
The only peaceful spot in the whole of Biskra is the famous Jardin
Landon, erroneously supposed to be the Garden of Allah. It is
unknown who first spread this story, and it was certainly not the
fault of the author that the legend arose. The Garden of Allah is,
of course, the desert; the land from which Allah has removed all
vegetation and life in order that man may not come and interfere
with his solitude, and where He can walk in peace. The restful
garden in question is a wonderful plantation of tropical trees and
flowers. It was created by the Count Landon de Longueville, and it
gives the impression of a conservatory in the open air. Paths run
about through passages of trees; green grass grows in abundance,
and the ceaseless noise of water ever running through the _seguias_
is as soothing as soft music.
It is a question as to whether the impression of sunset lights is
best seen from its wall or from the tower of the hotel. Both views
are enchanting, but perhaps that of the garden is more vivid, as it
is closer to the desert and to the herds of camels and goats passing
slowly across the dried-up river bed which is the continuation of
the Mzi we saw at Laghouat.
This long, long river which bursts up here and there to create oases
is said by the natives to rise in the Djebel Amour Mountains above
Laghouat and, flowing right across the desert to Southern Tunisia
and Tripoli, finally to disappear in the Nile.
If one has not come up from Touggourt and one is anxious to get
an impression of the sand desert, there is a tract of land to
the southwest, the other side of the oases, which is really worth
seeing. It is a natural fake, like Bou Saada, and a photograph of
the proud traveler sitting on a hired camel can safely be labeled
as having been taken in any part of the “Grand Erg.”
The Village Nègre is worth a visit, and if a horrible curiosity
appeals to one, the dervishes who eat scorpions and glass and pierce
their faces with nails can be seen without difficulty.
Not far away is the oasis of Sidi Okba, which is a good example of
a southern town for those who have cut across from Bou Saada. It
is famous for its mosque, where lies buried Sidi Okba, who was
killed here in his last battle against Koceila, the Berber chief,
in the year A. D. 682.
As far as sightseeing, this is about all Biskra can produce. If,
however, one is in this cosmopolitan oasis in the early spring
when the races are taking place, an entertainment is provided
which will not be forgotten. The Arab chiefs in this district are
wealthier than most of their colleagues, due to the richness of
the date-palms; and owing to the proximity of Europeans, they are
given a great deal more to entertaining than others. The _bash agha_
of the confederation of the Zibans keeps open house, and even in
the deadest season never dines alone, but calls in his friends from
the street to share his repast. At the races he outdoes himself in
hospitality, and it is entirely owing to him and to his relations
that the meeting is such a success.
The races consist of three quite separate performances. The first are
so-called flat races, which consist of a wild gallop round the course
for Arab horses of all ages and sizes, mounted by turbaned bandits
who just go “all out” for the first place. No pulling here.
The second are the officers’ steeplechases, where one sees some
nice horses and some quite good racing.
But the third event, which in reality embraces the whole affair,
is the _fantasia_. The Arab chiefs from all the surrounding land
muster their tribesmen, who all come mounted, armed to the teeth,
and as wild as children at a birthday party. This kind of irregular
cavalry is known as the _goums_, and in time of war it is levied to
fight for France. During 1915 a contingent was fitted out and sent
to Flanders, where it behaved heroically. At the Biskra races the
_goums_ make a very brave show, too, in their flowing burnouses,
sitting bolt upright in their high-backed saddles, their guns across
the bow and the curved scimitar beneath the left saddle-flap. There
is a mounted band consisting of two men with _raïtas_ and one with
a _tam-tam_, while at the head of the column rides the _caïd_,
clothed from head to foot in scarlet and purple, his feet in
embroidered red leather boots resting on massive silver stirrups,
while beside him rides a retainer bearing the banner of the tribe.
It is a splendid and majestic sight to see these wild men of the
south passing slowly before the improvised grandstands. After the
orthodox racing is over, and after the _bash agha_ has entertained
endless guests at lunch and tea, it is the turn of these nomads
to show what they are worth. There is a stir in their ranks,
then suddenly two men dash down the course at a furious speed. As
they approach the stand they rise in their stirrups and fire their
guns and fly on. The women, in gaudy taffetas, raise high tremulous
cries. Two more men follow, and then another two; then one man alone
who carries two long guns which he fires together, tossing them
in the air as he disappears in a cloud of dust. A larger group of
horsemen flash past, the air resounds to the crack of the guns and
the cries of the women, but they are gone before one has realized
that they have passed.
A pause. Then all of a sudden a tall figure in scarlet and gold
is seen detaching himself from the other _goumiers_; he sets his
horse in motion and comes whirling down the course; behind him
rides his standard-bearer, so close that he seems to touch. Behind
him again four retainers in blue burnouses gallop in hot pursuit.
As the _caïd_ approaches the stand he turns sharply and, aiming at
the center of the crowd, fires. The color-bearer dips the standard,
while the retainers, bending forward, draw the curved scimitars
which flash in the setting sun as they wave them above their heads
and sweep on in a whirlwind of dust, while the cries of the women
rend the air.
Oh, it is a brave spectacle, the _fantasia_, and makes one realize
how far separated are we in Europe from these wanderers of the south.
There is an Arab proverb which says that “Love lasts three seconds,
the _fantasia_ three minutes, and misery lasts for ever!”