THE GATES OF THE DESERT
During the winter on the coast of Algeria no one can complain of a
deadly monotony of cloudless skies or of a too burning sun. There is no
cause to grumble over dazzling light, nor any reason to wish for smoke
to veil an ugly object in the landscape, for often the rain does
that—indeed, not content with merely veiling, it blots it out entirely
for a time, though in the end the sunshine is sure to win. Yet truly the
winter of 1903-1904 did give an excuse to the grumblers, who had enough
to do in comparing notes on the number of inches in the rainfall, in
discussing their own woes, and worrying over gloomy prophecies; for they
could count fifty-five consecutive days on which rain had fallen. Then
the weather brightened, and the sun came out for a while before the
clouds settled down and it all began over again.
This does not mean steady rain, night and day, merely that rain fell at
least once in every twenty-four hours—a most unusual state of things.
Two or three weeks are to be expected, but this had never occurred
before, and for once it seemed reasonable to believe even the oldest
inhabitant; for who would choose to come winter after winter to such a
scene, though for once in a way it had its interest? For the rain is
rain that can be seen and heard. No gentle all-enwrapping mist, when it
is hard to tell whether drops fall or no. On the contrary, it waked us
at night with a noise that seemed prodigious, torrents of water
streaming down roofs and terraces like diminutive waterfalls. Sometimes
in the evening whilst sitting cosily over a wood fire there would be a
sudden rush for the door to see if anything unwonted was occurring, but
with a cry of “Only the weather again!” the little excitement would
subside.
Local genius, in the shape of gardeners both French and Arab, put it all
down to the moon, which each month appeared sitting on its back.
_Djegudé_ as they called it. The moon would not amend her wicked ways,
and month after month she continued _djegudé_, with at times disastrous
results.
The harm done was considerable. Roads, houses, bridges and railways were
washed away; many people lost their lives; and in the mountain districts
there were many landslides. Nothing extraordinary happened in Algiers
itself, nothing so sensational as the story which is still told (with
how much truth it is difficult to say) of a villa which, while its
owners slept, slid down the hillside at least a hundred yards, as they
found to their amazement on going out next morning and measuring the
track left behind. The villa is standing in its new position to this
day, and is not that sufficient proof? Part of the hillside is said to
be formed of a sort of sliding clay, and in those parts of Mustapha land
is sold for a ridiculously small sum; but houses built there have a
habit of sliding a little or collapsing, so that, as a rule,
notwithstanding the most scientific building, it is more comfortable and
indeed cheaper in the end to pay more and build on the rock.
[Illustration: THE GATES OF THE DESERT]
In consequence of all this, and of the tales of woe which filled the
papers, travellers were solemnly warned by their friends before starting
on a railway journey, whether East or West, that though they might not
be fated to be carried away by a landslide, yet they would almost
certainly be forced to walk miles in the night over precipitous paths
(in the scantiest attire, if they added to their folly by going in a
sleeping-car), and that they would have to try and sleep in impossible
places, with no food of any sort to sustain them. Travelling was
actually quite difficult owing to the railway lines being washed away so
often, and in some places the damage done was so great that it was more
than six weeks before trains could run straight through again. One
adventure is worth telling, as it was such a wonderful escape. It
happened by daylight; if it can be called daylight in a tunnel. A rock
fell and blocked the line, the train was just stopped in time to prevent
a serious accident, and the passengers waited two or three hours in the
dark. At last they were all moved into another train on the other side,
where they established themselves only to find, after three minutes more
waiting, that an avalanche had just fallen ahead, so that had they not
encountered the first obstacle, they must inevitably have been swept
away to the gulf below by the second. This put them in better spirits
for a weary scramble to comparative comfort and safety.
However, the final result of the wet has been a phenomenal harvest, with
corn and wine in abundance. The visitors may have suffered, but the
colonists have gained in the long run. Even the visitors did not have
such a bad time, for it was not really winter, but rather a wet, rainy
summer, with bursts of warmth and sunshine, brightened by summer flowers
and the singing of birds.
Still, on the whole, it seemed wiser to many of us to make a dash for
the desert instead of lingering to watch the clouds roll up again and
again in a place where the dampness of the soil prevented any advantage
being taken of intervening hours of sunshine. Notwithstanding all
forebodings, our own journey was as uneventful, dull, and wearisome as
so long a journey can easily be. The choice is given you of going by a
train which crawls all day, from about seven in the morning till seven
at night, and sleeping in a tiny inn at a bleak, bare station, El
Guerrah, with no town or village near it, or of doing the same thing at
night, and going straight on without a change to your destination. We
chose the latter on both our visits, and the first time had an amusing
experience. The whole winter in Algiers had been fine, really typical,
and the beginning of March was hot,—warm enough to wear summer muslins.
Friendly warnings had prepared us to take wraps for the colder
atmosphere of the mountain region; but what was our surprise when
morning dawned to find a snow landscape all round us and snow falling
steadily. When the train stopped at El Guerrah for breakfast, the scene
was comical in the extreme. Every one had to get out and wade through
three inches of snow and slush to the hotel on the other side of the
station. Very few of the passengers had any wraps or umbrellas, and most
of them had only the thinnest of shoes, so that it was a damp and
shivering company who crowded round the fire, and tried to make the most
of bad coffee, poor bread, and impossible butter. Our cloaks and
umbrellas were objects of envy, which we in our turn felt towards those
provided with suitable boots. Now the inn and breakfast are quite good,
but then the whole effect, the open wayside station, the snow-covered
plain, the uninteresting desolate hills, the slush and mud, the wet,
cold Arabs struggling with the luggage, the few passengers growling and
shivering, and exchanging condolences in French, English, German, and
Italian, made an odd picture of the joys of travel, only to be
thoroughly enjoyed by people with a Mark Tapley spirit. As a final
touch, all the small luggage had been deposited in the snow, and
remained there for an hour, until the other train came in, when it was
hoisted into the carriages, and put on the clean linen-covered seats,
with the result that a rapid thaw set in when the foot-warmers arrived,
so that a general pushing of bags and hold-alls outside the window for a
good scraping was the first consideration, after which the drying of
shoes on the burning hot bottles proceeded gaily. For some hours longer
the snow kept with us, but as we came towards the desert it disappeared,
and Biskra itself was warmer than Algiers.
In 1904, notwithstanding the wet season, and that we started a month
earlier, there was no sudden change of temperature. El Guerrah was as
bright as it can ever be, for at the best it is a desolate spot, even
when later on the plain is carpeted with flowers, orange and gold. There
is already a sense of loneliness, of wide spaces unbroken by towns or
villages; just a few houses here and there, strung on the single line of
railway like a thread; a few stone _gourbis_, or native huts; then dark
Bedawin camps, flocks of sheep and goats, and now and then a horseman or
a camel.
For a long time the line skirts a salt lake, which at times lives up to
the worst that Pierre Loti says of such places, “Morne, triste et
désolé”; at others the surrounding hills seem to grow in dignity, to
glow in soft reds and purples, rising straight from the still water, and
mirrored with the absolute fidelity of a Norwegian fjord, a haunting
stillness over all. Batna is the only town of much importance passed,
and already the hills are growing wilder. Gradually they close in and
excitement begins to grow, for soon will come the first sight of the
desert. There is but little cultivation, the mountain-sides are dry and
barren, a few tamarinds grow along the sides of a stream. Suddenly the
jagged ridges of high mountains block the way, like a veritable wall.
Precipitous crags of warm reddish colour, stern and rugged as the
Dolomite Peaks, rise without a touch of green, from low rolling hills
which are equally arid in character, or when the gorge itself is
reached, straight from the river-bed.
[Illustration: SPINNING]
The French Settlement of El Kantara, if such a name can be used for a
handful of houses and a station, lies just at the foot of the great
wall, at a point where the rift which forms the gorge is scarcely seen.
Mountains and rocks tower above the small low houses, crushing into
insignificance the attempts at cultivation, the few palms and fruit
trees and the treasured vegetable gardens. The inn stands, as the last
effort of civilisation, in the face of the great barrier placed between
the desert and the Tell.
At the entrance of the gorge, spanning the noisy rushing river, is a
Roman bridge, which gives the place its name of El Kantara. It is a
single arch, much restored, or rather rebuilt, under the second
Napoleon. The Romans had also a fortress here, known as Calcius
Herculis, and many traces of their occupation are still found in the
district.
The majority of travellers content themselves with admiring as much of
the ravine as the three tunnels permit them to see; though it is quite
impossible to gain an adequate idea of the grandeur of the Gates of the
Desert by peering and craning out of the windows of a train.
The few who know better, or who love less trodden paths, are welcomed by
a rush of eager Arab guides as the carriage doors open. Happy the guide
who manages to secure a prize! He takes complete possession of his
victims and their belongings, puts them into a respectable omnibus
worthy of a big town, drives with them, or runs after them, to the
little hotel, where he superintends their choice of rooms, and from that
moment scarcely allows their steps to stray outside without his
sanction.
Vine trellises and a shady tree make the courtyard gay, and brighten the
Post Office opposite, whilst beds of violets send up a delicious
fragrance to the verandah terrace on the first floor. The house is long
and low, with a wing over the stables, reached by an outside staircase;
the main building has a large covered terrace, giving a wide, cool
shadow. The rooms have windows but no doors, so that every one has to
come up the steep staircase to the roof, and then wander round in
sociable fashion till he reaches his own room. Out here in the shadow,
with dazzling light beyond—light reflected and intensified by the white
road and the yellowish rocks—one can sit and watch all the coming and
going that make the life of the little colony, or, better still, the
caravans that almost ceaselessly pass this way. Strings of camels turn
their supercilious faces up as they pace along, their light, soft tread
making no sound on the dusty road. They bear heavy loads, wrapped in
sacking or camel’s-hair cloth, and carry fodder and corn towards Biskra.
Sometimes it is a real caravan with tents and cooking utensils, women
and babies as well as men and boys, which swings past with the same
rhythmic stride. No longer a study in browns, yellowish greys, and
white, but brightened by flashes of colour, the women’s gowns of blue or
bright deep red, and the children’s orange and yellow. All walk past
with bare feet and stately movement, or perch themselves in an
apparently insecure fashion on the top of their goods, and go swaying
past into the unknown.
But it is not enough to sit and watch, even though ever and anon new
incidents occur. The thirsty come and wind the wheel that brings water
from the well. They step into the courtyard without a question, and draw
sufficient for their needs; then they smoke and talk. This water is
famous for its freshness and purity, qualities usually absent in the
desert. The great rocks give shelter from the sun except during the
middle of the day, and, what is still more important, from the dreaded
sirocco, making it possible for French colonists to live here in
comparative comfort even in summer. There is, however, something strange
in this life, which sets its impress on their faces—something either in
the isolation, the heat, or the absence of amusement, that makes most of
them grave and melancholy, taking from them in many cases their natural
French vivacity, and giving instead a touch of the more serious, not the
laughing side of the Arab character. Not that this is a rule without
exceptions, for there are many—notably the man who waits at this very
hotel, who is as gay and cheerful a person as it is possible to see. The
French talk Arabic, and the Arabs who have dealings with them speak
French. As usual there is a school for Arab boys, to teach them useful
knowledge, for this is one of the features of the French colonisation;
they introduce schools everywhere, supplying French masters, make
wonderful roads as well, and bring in post and telegraph, though it is
said that Arabic is not a language that lends itself easily to
telegraphic form.
The Arab boys are clever and quick, and soon pick up enough to take them
far afield. In the summer, as they proudly tell you, it is “too hot” for
them in the desert, and they love to migrate to the coast and work in
the harbours at Bône or Bougie, and sometimes even cross to France and
manage to make a living at Marseilles. Our boy at El Kantara, Mabrouk by
name, had done more. He was the one person in the whole place who could
speak English—not much, indeed, but just enough to translate for those
tourists who were in the unhappy position of knowing no French. He had
been taken to England by an Englishman, in charge of some Arab horses,
and had spent a whole summer there, working in his master’s house and
running errands for what he was pleased to call a “factor boot,” which
by his subsequent explanations we discovered to mean a button factory.
He was amusingly conceited over his doings and acquirements, showing his
photograph taken with “me chum,” a telegraph boy, the trim uniform and
the flowing burnous looking thoroughly out of place side by side, in a
way that the two grinning faces did not. His ideas on England and its
glories were at any rate original, for he was not struck by either wet
or cold; he was evidently made much of, and thought our food a thing to
talk a great deal about. Some of his statements, such as, that in
England every one has breakfast at 6 o’clock and eats a sort of pudding
with sugar, are rather on a par with those of a Belgian who once told us
that English ladies always breakfasted in bed, though certainly
Mabrouk’s theory promises better for an active nation. El Kantara has
been a favourite haunt of French artists for the last few years, and
many pictures painted here have gained success in the Salon, so,
naturally, Mabrouk looked upon himself as a judge of art, and was
prepared to show all the best points of view.
[Illustration: THE RED VILLAGE, EL KANTARA]
The first impression on walking through the gorge is one of barren
desolation and absolute dryness. Except at noon, when the sun beats down
into the ravine, there are strong, cool shadows contrasting with the
blaze of light. The gorge itself is narrow, so that there is barely room
for the road above and the river beneath. It seems a mere rift in the
massive ridge, the perpendicular walls of red rock are cut into
fantastic shapes, pinnacles and pillars growing more picturesque in form
as the further end is reached. All ideas of desolation are instantly
banished by the splendour of the sight that meets the eye, as the sea of
sand washes up as it were to another sea of waving green. A long turn of
the road leads round to a bridge below, but Mabrouk scrambles down a
steep stony path, and with a warning “Mind your headache,” disappears
into a steep tunnel, built to drain the road, but evidently looked upon
by the Arabs as a short cut made for their convenience, as it saves half
a mile or so of dusty highway.
From the bridge, a modern one, the scene is imposing, looking back into
the shadows of the gorge where the river leaps foaming over huge rocks,
and where groups of cleanly Arabs are busy washing their white garments
in its waters.
But if to look back is fine, to look forward is to have the magic charm
of an oasis revealed to you. The blue river winds amongst the
palms,—thousands upon thousands of palms, which bend, sway, and toss
their feathery heads as the breeze passes over them. They look green and
soft against the wide sweep of sand and stones, the red and yellow rocks
of the huge range behind that stretches east and west, and the other
mountain range that bounds the horizon with its purples and blues. Such
is the first sight of the desert as it appears to the traveller coming
through that majestic gate. But if the gate is looked upon as the
entrance to the fertile lands of the plain, then the most beautiful
point is just below, amongst the stones and boulders of the river-bed,
where the craggy peaks look their best, set in a frame of living green.
Across the bridge the road leads upward over the barren plateau towards
the “red” village, the river screened from sight by the palms, and also
by an intervening hill, on which stands conspicuously the tomb-mosque of
a saint. The red village takes its name from the colour of the soil used
in its building, which instead of being of the usual grey dusty hue is
bright, almost orange in tint, becoming really red at sunset.
[Illustration: ON THE EDGE OF THE DESERT]
In certain lights, the village suggests the ruins of some old castle
stretching out upon the waste on the one side, and on the other
descending, half-hidden amongst the palms, to the edge of the cliff
which overhangs the river, the minaret of the mosque being only just
visible above the trees. Mud walls mark out small unfruitful-looking
fields, in which little grows except masses of prickly pear, forming
thick hedges in every direction. As the men were hard at work, digging
and watering, it was evident that much was expected in the future, and
these were probably new stretches of land in process of being reclaimed
from the desert.
Even within the walls there is the same suggestion of a fortress: the
walls are high, and seldom broken by doors; windows in the accepted
sense of the word are rare—a few holes in the wall suffice to give air
and light. Another peculiar feature is the way some of the houses are
built across the streets, forming square, tunnel-like passages exceeding
dark after the glare. Mabrouk threaded his way in and out, up and down
through the labyrinth of alleys, all rather lonely in the early morning,
left to a few old men crouching in sunny corners, and to an old woman or
two carrying water; for El Kantara women, though they do work
occasionally in the gardens, and do some washing down by the river,
seem, as a rule, to keep as quietly within their walls as if they were
town-bred. The paths down to the river wind through palm gardens, and
are largely at the mercy of the streams used for irrigation. These are
turned on and off by the simple method of putting in a stone or a
spadeful of earth, and thus diverted into new channels they often swamp
the path to such a degree that it is difficult to pick one’s way, the
clay becoming very slippery when wet. Every garden has a right to a
certain quantity of water each day, which is carefully measured by time.
Under the palms grow many fruit trees, notably figs and apricots. Down
in the valley, across the artificial watercourse, out on to the dry part
of the river-bed, a very wilderness of stones and small oleanders,
blindingly white in the sunshine, the village appears in a setting so
different that it loses all resemblance to its fellows in the Sahara or
in Egypt, and suggests old drawings seen long ago of places in the
tropics. Perched on the top of a cliff, the orange tones of the soil
repeat themselves in the walls; the huts seem turret-like additions to
the natural formation, and form a curious foil for the few well-placed
palms and the delicate tints of some apricot trees in blossom; behind
this the deeply-fissured ridge stands sharply defined against the sky.
There are three villages, the Red, the White, and the Black, with
imposing Arabic names, and each with its special interest, making it
quite amusing to poke about and watch the life. If one is too lazy to
walk, and yet does not mind a good shaking over rather uneven tracks,
and turning a few slightly alarming corners,—alarming, that is, to
people unaccustomed to Eastern roads,—it is possible and very pleasant
to drive round the oasis, making little detours on foot to see special
objects of interest, and particularly to stroll along the edge of the
cliff to enjoy the sight of the river and the trees; for there is no
lack of palms, considering there are said to be over 90,000 of them.
[Illustration: CARDING WOOL]
Mabrouk, notwithstanding his travels, gives the oasis a wonderful
character. “Every one has enough and is content. The dates are good;
fruit, corn, and vegetables are plentiful; and the flocks and herds
prosper.” In short, an earthly Paradise! Not a paradise suited to
European tastes, perhaps, for who would care to live in a windowless
adobe hut, to sleep on a mud floor wrapped in a burnous, or to live for
ever on cous-couss and dates, even though it all might be rather fun for
a change? The villagers are friendly folk, and give pleasant greetings.
The elder men utter a sonorous blessing in Arabic, while the younger say
“Bon jour” fervently, and often like a chat to air their French.
No one ever begs, or even looks expectant, though they will walk with
you along the road, telling of much that is strange and interesting, and
asking innumerable questions. To show how kindly they are to each other
and to strangers, any man who was near at the time would stand on guard
over me whilst my boy trotted off to get his dinner, holding an umbrella
over my head with great care if it was sunny, and would slip away with a
_’slama_, or good-bye, when the boy returned, not even thinking of a
reward.
But it is a different matter when it comes to painting inside one of the
huts. To paint a woman! Mabrouk said he would take me to his uncle’s
house in the white village because I was “so nice a lady,” but that it
would not have been possible had I unfortunately been a man. It is rare
to gain an advantage for such a reason, but the privilege was not to be
despised, so we started off, my painting things carefully concealed
under his burnous. With infinite precaution, to avoid meeting any of the
men, and great care in looking out to see that no one observed or
followed us, we at last arrived at a rough door in a high wall. He
knocked and talked, and at last after some fuss, the capturing of
barking dogs and shutting them up, we were admitted, only to be
confronted by one of the dreaded men, who absolutely refused to let his
young wife, whom he evidently considered very beautiful, sit for me.
Happily he relented sufficiently to send for another woman—to my mind
far more attractive: tall, slender, and graceful, and wearing her
flowing cotton garments as if she were a queen. He then disappeared to
the café, and we set to work in the courtyard, a corner of which was
swept clean for me. She stood calmly spinning and looking down,
intensely interested and amused by my proceedings, which were watched
and sometimes interrupted by the various animals who inhabited the
place—a horse, a cow, goats, sheep, and some fowls. Having safely
disposed of the tyrannical husband, the other woman began to fancy she
would like to be painted too, so long negotiations began in Arabic, with
the result that we were to come back in the afternoon and she would card
wool, as she had been doing all the morning. Going back and coming again
were made into a delightful farce by the extreme wariness displayed.
[Illustration: IN THE HEART OF AN OASIS]
Nothing exciting happened after all, but there was great pleasure for my
boy, at any rate in the exercise of his cleverness. Personally, I was
never quite certain whether it was all a game or not. Some artists told
me that in other places they had managed to get into the interior of the
houses by expending a good bit of money, but then they may not have seen
the prettiest wife. Anyhow the younger woman posed in the house, the
horse was turned out to make room, the gate was securely barred, and
quiet reigned. She was quite short and very fat, with a soft, clear
complexion, big eyes, and eyebrows touched up with kohl. She wore a
muslin dress wound about her and kept on by a girdle and brooches, and
she had plenty of silver ornaments and charms. The elder woman was
dressed in printed cotton, obviously from Manchester, but there was
nothing crude in the colour, and the floating garments had a most
Oriental appearance. There is no furniture in these dwellings,—just a
shelf, some hooks, a mill to grind the corn, a few finely-shaped jars
and pans, and a good many coloured cloths and burnouses. Being
hospitably minded, they offered dried dates, corn and nuts in flat
plaited baskets, in the same kindly way that Mabrouk himself would
always bring a branch of some special dates for me, insisting on their
goodness, “for, see, the date comes off and leaves the stone on the
stalk”—to his mind a sure sign of a perfect fruit. The open door let in
light and air, but otherwise there was only a small square hole; the
roof was supported by two square pillars. The sheep and goats trotted in
and out all the time, and so did the chickens, all perfectly happy and
at home. Both the women had charming smiles and manners, curious though
they were about every detail of my dress and painting. They had not an
idea of being frightened by a camera, and posed proudly and willingly.
They became a little anxious as the afternoon wore on; so after many
farewells, blessings, and good wishes, we slipped away in the same
watchful, mysterious fashion as before, but by another route.