CONSTANTINE TO THE COAST
The scenery along the road to Constantine by either route differs
little from that just passed. It is a land of cereals, once upon a
time properly irrigated by the people of a great empire, now sadly
dependent on the rainfall.
The approach to the city is impressive. It seems to stand out on a
rocky pinnacle, and as one crosses the bridge and looks down into
the depths of the Gorges of the Rhummel, one suddenly wonders if it
is not all a stage setting: chasms, perpendicular cliffs, natural
rock bridges and tunnels, the houses clinging dizzily to the rock
wall, and, far beneath, the silver streak of the river. Constantine
was originally the capital of the Numidian kings, and was known as
Cirta. Syphax, Massinissa, and Micipsa ruled here, but it was not
until the fourth century and after it had been destroyed during
one of the many conflicts which raged round its walls, that it was
rebuilt by the Emperor Constantine.
Its history during the rest of time is a series of revolts and
conspiracies, and, though a few of the beys during the Turkish rule
built some lovely houses, its record is not elevating. There are only
three interesting things to visit, and they can all be done in the
day. First is the Gorges of the Rhummel, a most amazing spectacle
of natural arches and passages hundreds of feet below the level of
the town. When finally the river bursts out of this chasm into the
open plain at the foot of a perpendicular rock towering up to dizzy
heights it is like the entrance of a giant church. To the top of
this rock, which watches over the whole plain of historic interest,
tiresome or unfaithful wives of the bey were taken, placed in a sack
with a cat, and hurled to their doom below. No one has yet been able
to explain the cat, but I suppose it added to the fun of the thing.
Standing once on the summit of this pinnacle with a Scotch friend who
was traveling without his better half, I recounted this story. He
was a man of few words, and for a moment he made no reply; then,
peering cautiously over the precipitous edge, he exclaimed, “Oh,
for the good old days!”
The next place to visit is the palace of the bey of Constantine.
It is now used as the divisional headquarters, and, though it is
not properly kept up, one can get an impression of something very
lovely: a series of courts open to the sky with marble floors and
delicate pillars, enclosing miniature gardens, in the middle of which
fountains splash gaily. The walls are covered with multi-colored
tiles, while the ceilings and doors of rare wood are adorned with
intricate carvings. On a sunny day it is a vision of blue and white
and green and orange, and, though the drab clothes of the modern
inmates and the click of the typewriting machine jar on the senses,
one can imagine the enchanting atmosphere of these quiet courts
when men in splendid robes passed in and out, followed by their
dark-skinned slaves.
Communicating with the palace is the present-day cathedral, in
the old time the mosque of the bey, who could pass unseen from his
residence to his devotions. The French have enlarged it, but it is
quite easy to see what was the original building. Here again there
are some very lovely blue tiles.
There are other mosques, also Jewish and Arab quarters, which are
worth a visit if the traveler has not been anywhere else, but after
the long journey with all its scenes of Arab life, it will suffice
to visit the above-mentioned places and return to rest, prior to
the journey to the coast.
By starting early one will be able to lunch at Djidjelli, and the
afternoon run along the _corniche_ to Bougie can then be taken
leisurely. The first impression on starting is that of hills. Up
to the present all traveling has been done across rolling plains,
but serious gradients have been unknown. The descent from the
crag on which Constantine is perched again makes one wonder how
it was captured by force. The cereal lands continue to give to
the country a very desertic appearance, and, though it is not the
desert of stones and rock, the rolling fields, with lonely farms,
do not attract one to stay. One gets good examples of the desertion
of villages by the French colonists, always yearning to get to the
big towns near the coast.
Mila, at the fifty-fourth kilometer, was once a Roman city of
importance; it is the last village of any size we shall pass.
Thence onward the country is very wild. At Zeraïa (junction of
the road from Djemila mentioned in the last chapter) we traverse
forbidding gorges, after which the road runs for a few kilometers
across a small plain of olive-yards, crosses a river, and then
starts the long climb to the Col de Fdoules.
The road is a masterpiece of engineering as it climbs dizzily
along the steep cliff of the mountain. At the hundred and fourth
kilometer the Col, three thousand feet above the sea, is reached;
from the watershed there is one of the finest mountain views in North
Africa. To the north and to the south the hills rise up sheer and
the valleys are lost in deep shade. The road then runs down into
the Gorges of Taberkroutz and for the first time after the long
travel, trees appear quite close. The road climbs up again and the
woods approach, until soon we are in a thick forest. At the Col
de Texenna a splendid panorama of forests and mountains is spread
out before one. It is a wonderful sensation to return to luxuriant
vegetation after the perpetual desert, and the sound of water with
the smell of the damp earth revives the mind, weary with staring
over limitless expanses. Another sensation of delight seizes one
as the sea comes in view and, rapidly approaching the shore, the
road follows it to Djidjelli.
One can either lunch at the hotel or picnic in pleasant surroundings,
but whatever plan is adopted the new atmosphere and the fresh air
will give one the appetite of the proverbial hunter. Djidjelli was
originally a Phœnician settlement, and later, under the Romans, was
an important harbor. It is most famous as being the first capital
of Barbarossa the elder, who came here after his first failure to
dislodge the Spaniards from Algiers, and when his original Tunisian
lair at the island of Djerba had become too inhospitable for him
to return. His greatness began with his election as Sultan of this
little seaside city. His conquests and raids are world famous,
and though it was his younger brother who eventually ruled Algiers
and became the scourge of the Mediterranean, it was the temporary
Sultan of Djidjelli who in reality was responsible for the pirate
fleet which was to terrorize the sea from its headquarters in
Algiers for three hundred years.
At the present day Djidjelli is the center of the cork trade.
The forests cover an area of one hundred and fifty thousand acres,
and cork is exported from the harbor to ports all over the world.
The road along the seacoast from Djidjelli to Bougie is one of
the loveliest in North Africa. Deep red cliffs look down on to the
sapphire blue of the Mediterranean, while the green of the forests
above contrasts again with the azure of the sky. Natural tunnels
are traversed, and here and there the road clings dizzily to the
perpendicular rocks. This road, like many others in North Africa,
is a wonderful piece of engineering.
At the thirty-sixth kilometer stone there are some marvelous caves
well worth a visit. An Arab looks after them, who will illuminate the
multitude of stalactites and stalagmites which adorn its fairylike
halls, creating a vision of enchantment.
Pretty little villages succeed pretty little villages, where one
would like to spend the day lazily watching the tranquil sea. In the
hills there are masses of game and wild boar abounds; occasionally
one sees monkeys—the famous Barbary ape.
Bougie has a Spanish aspect, but is in itself not particularly
interesting. In Roman times it was a colony for veteran soldiers,
and later it became like most Algerian ports, a harbor for pirates.
Charles Quint spent a few days here after his disastrous attempt to
capture Algiers. If time permits there are some delightful excursions
round about, but the traveler by this time is probably so weary of
motoring and contemplating scenery that he will want to return to
his trunks and his comforts in Algiers.
As stated in the plan of the journey there are now four alternatives
before us—the direct run to Algiers via Bouira and Palestro,
or via Azazga and Tizi Ouzou—or else, if time permits it, by
Michelet and the Massif Kabyle or by Tigzirt, the coast, and Dellys.
By Bouira and Palestro the road runs through a smiling valley and the
return to Algiers can either be made via the gorges and Menerville
or by the Bouzigza Pass. By Azazga and Tizi Ouzou or by Tigzirt
the same routes will be followed as far as Azazga; the road rises
rapidly up through woodlands to the Col de Tigdint, whence a superb
panoramic view of the Kabyle Mountains can be seen on one side,
while all about appear those quaint stone villages perched on the
summits of every peak. Running down again, the forest of Yakouren
is entered, and the road wanders through delightful glades, restful
to the eyes, until the little village of Azazga is reached. It is
recommended to picnic in the forest.
If Algiers is the goal it is straight ahead.
Tizi Ouzou, apart from its name, has nothing curious; silversmiths
make massive jewelry here, but there is no need to stop. The road
runs through orchards and tobacco plantations rather monotonously
after all the gorgeous scenery of the rest of the journey, and the
arrival in Algiers will be welcomed.
If the road via Tigzirt has been selected one must turn off to
the right some six kilometers after Azazga. The road continues
bearing to the right and climbs steeply up to a Col whence one gets
a magnificent view to the south of the Djujura range, deep in snow
in winter. The road now runs down to the coast and then follows it
for twenty-six kilometers to the little seaside resort of Tigzirt.
Here, if time does not press, and if one does not mind primitive,
though clean, comforts, one can pass the night in the hotel and
thus have an opportunity of visiting the delightful ruins of an
old Phœnician settlement, later Romanized.
Thence the run to Algiers is via the seacoast to Dellys, and after
that the dull Tizi Ouzou road—one hundred and fifty kilometers
in all.
It is, however, hoped that the season of the year will have permitted
the traveler to visit the Great Kabyle country, and in the next
chapter I will endeavor to describe the scenery and the people of
this district, which is almost as unique as the Mzab.