THE QUEEN OF THE DESERT
On leaving the gorge of El Kantara, the train passes straight out on to
the desert, where it runs on a level with the tops of the trees which
rise from the oasis below. The line itself, an unpretentious track,
without fence or protection of any kind, scarcely shows on the sandy
waste. The flocks and herds and the passing Arabs are expected to look
out for themselves.
Yet, however unassuming it may be, there is something incongruous in the
sight of a railway winding through and round these mountain chains,
crossing wide stretches of undulating plain, and taking its commonplace,
everyday way into the land of mystery—the Great Sahara.
At first it is hard to realise that this mystery still exists, or that
it can be felt by an ordinary mortal. The crowded station differs from
others of its kind in this only, that there are, amongst those
dignified, white-robed figures, many more than usual whose dark faces
show plainly that a train is still an object of wonder if not of dread.
The mystery is not to be found in a hasty glance at the modern town of
Biskra, which, new as it is, has a distinct character of its own, quite
independent of its setting, or of the numerous villages hidden among the
palms.
This does not seem to be caused by its military importance, although
this is considerable, as it is the key of the desert, and the soldiers
are many who throng its streets. Nor is it the style of the buildings,
for neither is this in any wise remarkable. The streets, though fairly
wide, are straight, and the houses low—sometimes of only one story.
However, the majority have an upper floor, either above an arcade, the
lines of which are rough and simple, or with little balconies gay with
many-coloured hangings. Naturally all the houses are subject to the
reign of whitewash, though not perhaps to the usual extent.
The shady alleys of a well-kept garden form a pleasant walk on the north
side of the town, and there is also a pretty gazelles’ garden, bright
with mimosa and hibiscus, where a grove overshadows the calm pool of an
Oriental fountain.
Probably the distinction of Biskra lies not so much in its outward form,
as in its being actually the one place in Algeria where the antagonism
between East and West is most clearly seen.
[Illustration: IN THE MARKET-PLACE, BISKRA]
The limited size of the town, the absence of any artificial divisions,
the lack of contrast between old town and new, for all is new alike,
clean and well-kept, the breadth of the few streets, all unite to make
an appropriate stage for nondescript characters to play their part. The
casino and the hotels are within a stone’s throw of the market-place,
which is the centre of native life. Here the wild freedom of the desert
with its few needs and absolute simplicity is in touch with the careful
and elaborate luxury which the Western world demands even in its moments
of rest and play.
The races mingle and confront each other at every turn, and not the
races only, but the different types of each race, seen in strangely new
guise by sheer force of contrast under the brilliant African sun; for
Biskra is the gathering ground of a curious cosmopolitan crowd, an
assemblage so varied that it would be hard to name a nation, however
insignificant, without its representative. It is the nameless spell cast
by the desert on her sons, and on those who move within her borders,
that draws hither this motley multitude. But the spell which fascinates
has also power to repel. A few come and go finding no beauty, seeing
nothing but the monotony of sand, dust, and palms, and are full of
complaints, utterly impervious to the glamour that holds so many in
thrall.
The impression of variety and contrast felt in the town is repeated and
accentuated in the halls of the hotel, when the French officers
entertain the Bach Agha, the Caïds, some important sheik, or an officer
of the Spahis. Their imposing figures, stately movements, and courteous
manners show to great advantage in that gay scene. The soft folds of
their white woollen or silken draperies, and the pure colour of the
brilliant red or tender blue of their fine cloth burnouses, tell
triumphantly against the subdued tints, the frills and fluffiness of the
modern gowns, or the stiff black and white garments worn by their
fellow-guests. Uniforms are not so becoming to them. The dome-like
turban, bound with camel’s-hair or an embroidered scarf, gives a
peculiar pose, almost a stoop, to the head, as it is worn with a white
silk haïck tucked into a pale blue zouave coat, while in their ordinary
flowing robes they look as upright as darts. Stars and orders, or rows
of medals on the outer burnous (they often wear three or four), bear
witness to what these men have done already, or could do again. In the
days when the fortunes of France were low, her dangers and difficulties
great, the Bach Agha of the period stood firm with all the tribes under
his banner, no small help at that time. It is for past loyalty as well
as for present power that the Chief of to-day holds his proud position.
[Illustration: EVENING ON THE SAHARA]
All this gaiety, noise, and confused talking, interesting though they
are, become wearisome in the end, and then how good it is to escape to
the quiet terrace above. The house stands foursquare, built round a
quadrangle, or rather a garden of palms. The east terrace over the
arcades is delightful all day long, from the moment when the first gleam
of dawn shows behind the dark mountains to that other moment, even more
beautiful, when the afterglow has faded and the still brilliance of the
moon comes in its stead. Flooded with sunshine in the early morning the
shadows soon begin to creep across, and it is left a cool refuge in the
heat of the day. The outlook has not quite the effect of indefinite
space given by the view from the roof or the top of the minaret, but
there is a restful breadth as well as much simplicity of line. Across
the road, beyond a strip of vegetable garden bordered by palms, lies a
broad stretch of sand, very light in colour, which an occasional gleam
or touch of blue reveals as the river-bed. Mud banks on the further side
form low cliffs, and from them the plain extends to a curious formation
of broken mounds and moraine, to end finally in a mountain range.
Monotonous, serene, ever changing yet always the same, the sea itself
has not more varying moods. Each passing hour leaves its own impress on
that receptive stillness, which is enhanced but not disturbed by every
wind that blows and by each light cloud in the sky.
Towards evening, however, all who wish to feel the enchantment of a
sunset in the desert, mount to the roof and pace its broad terrace, or
climb the minaret to learn somewhat of the immensity of the Sahara. The
town lies in a nest of green, in the midst of a vast, barren, and arid
plain, which is surrounded by a horseshoe of mountains, lofty in the
north, but diminishing by degrees as the spurs run southward. To the
south also lies the oasis with its myriad palms. Beyond, nothing but the
waste, across which fall the long blue shadows of evening; stretching
still further southward, a dead level, broken here and there by dark
bands of green or purple, that mark the distant oasis. The horizon
disappears in pale amethyst melting into tender blue, and above a
delicate blush vanishing in unclouded light. Magnificent sunsets are not
to be seen every night even at Biskra; there are evenings of cloud, grey
and misty, days when the sun goes down in wrath. More often the fall of
day brings cloudless radiance, pure mellowness of light, which dies
gradually away, to be followed after an interval by a golden glow behind
the western ridge of mountain peaks, blue with the exquisite blue so
characteristic of Algeria. The glow deepens to true orange, sometimes to
a burning red, and rays of light radiate from the vanished sun, leaving
pathways of delicate green between. Our Northern atmosphere has its own
beauties of mist and cloud, but we miss this absolute transparent
purity. With us the gold loses itself in greys and purples on the
horizon; here the colour is crystal clear, and the jewel-like tints
vibrate as they pass imperceptibly from the red of the ruby through all
tones of topaz, amber, and palest emerald to deepest amethyst.
Spellbound in this calm, self dies; there is no place for earthly
trouble under this luminous sky. Something of mystery and sadness there
is—a feeling of intense loneliness; but over all there
broods—unchanging, immutable—a spirit of destiny, telling that what is
written is written. To some it seems a spirit of rest and faith; to the
Arabs it may have been the source of fatalism, the silence checking the
tendency to anxiety and care.
[Illustration: SUNSET]
More uncommon than these calm afterglows are those sunsets, when fleecy
cloud-masses are piled one above another, purple touched with fire, so
that the very gates of heaven seem to open and give a glimpse of the
glory beyond.
The glamour of the setting sun and of the afterglow transforms the east
as well as the west, staining the mountain-sides a wondrous red, whilst
the azure shadow of the earth mounts slowly to veil the roseate sky
above. Once a feathery cloud-wreath soared in long sweeping curves from
the horizon to the zenith, the strands of gossamer glowing with hues of
rose, delicate and opalescent, a cloud of phantasy in a world hardly
more real.
The common light of every day works other spells by simpler means. The
vibration of subtle colour is gone, and in its stead there is the play
of light and shade, or rather of light upon light, for the men of these
desert tribes are clad almost entirely in white. The poor wear a white
gandourah, a long garment of wool or cotton covered by one or more
burnouses. The wealthy bury their garments of richly coloured and
embroidered cloth, or even plush, under a multiplicity of silk and
woollen robes of the prevailing white. The result is that white has here
a value, a range of tone not often seen. Every different texture has its
own peculiar tint of ivory, cream, or snow to distinguish each from
each, and from that other white of the rough cast walls. And, as if that
were not enough, age and dirt lend their aid to the variety already
produced by texture and quality.
Touches of colour are rare, and these are given by the scarlet cloak of
a Caïd, the blue of the Spahis, or the more barbaric reds and blues worn
by a Bedawin woman. But of women there are few about. The throng that
fills the market-place consists mainly of men and boys, busy buying and
selling, seated on the ground with their wares strewn round them. Piles
of oranges and lemons, vegetables of all familiar kinds, great heaps of
corn spread on cloths, layers of flat cakes of bread arranged on trays,
and most untempting masses of pressed dates. The buyers also squat down
to examine their purchases, to talk and gesticulate; for it takes much
time and consideration to choose and bargain for even a handful of
oranges. There are also stalls such as are seen in any continental town;
some full of cheap machine-made goods, others decked with curious
articles to meet the village needs. Discs of red leather, carefully
worked with colours and glittering with gold, conceal under a flap small
mirrors, of which every woman wears one. Fans, like small flags, as gay
as the mirrors; baskets, generally saucer-shaped, and of many colours;
woven camel’s-hair belts, barbaric harness and saddle-bags, dagger-like
knives in sheaths, beads and bracelets, and even stuffed lizards, are
temptingly displayed to view. Under the arches are other shops and
cafés, and everywhere are men, either sitting idly in the sun, their
hoods pulled over their heads, or sleeping huddled up in their
burnouses, shapeless as sacks, hardly human at all. The more dignified
sit on carpets or matting under the arcades, drinking their coffee
quietly, or playing games of draughts or dominoes with keen interest.
One or more are always watching if the game is good. Cafés are
everywhere, some provided with chairs and small tables, but they are
only popular with soldiers, Spahis and the like. The carpeted dais or
more humble matting laid down in the road itself, attracts the true
Bedawin.
[Illustration: THE FRUIT MARKET, BISKRA]
The only part of the town where white does not rule and colour runs riot
is the street of the dancing girls. Hangings and draperies cover the
green balconies with rainbow hues, whilst the handsome, dark-eyed women,
with their heavily painted brows, rival each other in their vividly
brilliant silks. Their dress is an odd mixture of the Oriental and
European, after the fashion of a comic opera, not at all beautiful but
quite effective. Especially so is the head-dress of skilfully knotted
silken kerchiefs, heavily interwoven with gold and bound with silver
chains, which also encircle the face, the forehead being covered with
many coins. The women wear quantities of showy jewellery, but only the
chains and ear-rings have any style or character.
Occasionally the streets are gay with flags and banners, as groups of
men and children in bright array start on a pilgrimage to some Marabout.
All the feasts begin in this way, with much beating of tom-toms and
weird music, for as there is rhythm it would be rude to call it noise,
as most people do at first. After a time, the sadness and monotony make
their own appeal, expressing in another language, hard to understand and
perhaps a little vague, the power and feeling of the land.
Now and then a Marabout returns the compliment, and visits the town with
two or three followers, bearing banners of red and green, and a bowl to
collect alms, accompanied by the inevitable tom-tom. He makes a slow
progress through the street, the people hastening to greet him, and
often to kiss his hands or the hem of his cloak. Some of these Marabouts
are quite sane and dignified, whilst others are half-witted, ragged
creatures.
Reading aloud is another practice most popular here. In the daytime a
grave old man, book in hand, will take his station at a street corner,
and read to a number of men sitting on the ground, and listening with
rapt attention to his words. The passers-by stand attentively for a
while, and generally end by joining the little circle. In the evening at
one of the cafés there will always be a reader, a man with much dramatic
power, who draws large audiences, who gather round to hear tales from
the _Arabian Nights_.
This is quite a different affair to the ordinary storyteller, who chants
long passages from the life of Mohammed accompanied by the sounds of his
own tom-tom. He will sit and play with a cloth spread in front of him,
looking like a living idol, and the women working in their tents send
little children with offerings of bread or flour tied up in their veils,
for veils are still used in the near East for carrying treasures as they
were in the days of Ruth. The old man sits impassively droning quietly
on, neither heeding nor caring for the groups of children who come and
go, staring and listening with wondering eyes. Odd little figures they
are in their trailing burnouses or bright-coloured shirts, the boys
seeming to have a partiality for yellow and orange, while the boys and
girls alike are toddling imitations of their fathers and mothers. Only
the smaller boys wear a fez or cap and no turban. Nearly all go
barefoot; it is only the very well-to-do who wear yellow slippers, and
socks are still more uncommon.
[Illustration: THE STORY-TELLER]
If, as often happens, a boy wishes to go to France or England, he will
promise anxiously, as if it added greatly to his future usefulness, “If
you will take me with you I will wear boots.” It is quite evident that
the wearing of boots is in itself considered a proof of progress, and if
it is possible to procure a pair however old, or a ragged coat, men and
boys alike will add them to their own proper clothes and wear them
proudly, quite unaware of the painful effect.
That is one of the trials of Biskra, the degrading of the native
character and appearance by the example of the lower class of the
Moghrabi, or Westerners, as they call strangers. Of course this happens
everywhere, and more’s the pity; but it has gone so far in some of the
larger towns like Algiers, that there are few of the old families left,
and it is now an almost European city with a mixed population in the
lower class. Here the Arabs are only learning, but already they drink
and beg, bother and tout as guides, and even gamble. Night after night,
wealthy Arabs may be seen in the casino playing “Petits chevaux” with
stolid, immovable faces, taking their gains and losses with equal
indifference. El Kantara may not be an earthly Paradise, but Biskra is
far enough from the age of innocence.
[Illustration: A VILLAGE STREET, BISKRA]