LIFE ON AN OASIS
Enthusiasm about a desert life comes quickly, so perfect is the view
from the roof; but disillusion follows as easily, with the desire to
explore in every direction. Difficulties and drawbacks then begin to
appear; for this is not Egypt. Here are no rows of big white donkeys and
picturesque groups of smiling boys waiting your pleasure. No dromedaries
growl and grumble as their riders mount, though now and then some unwary
tourists may be seen on pack-camels, fondly imagining that they are
learning the qualities of a real ship of the desert. Even horses are
rare and hard to get. The concierge smiles and suggests a carriage or a
tram, for it is not given to every one to enjoy long trudges over rough
tracks or on dusty paths. But a tram! Could anything be more unromantic?
Even a carriage hardly sounds better for a voyage of discovery.
Finally, having decided that there is no help for it, and that romance
must be quite independent of such details, some expedition is arranged,
only to end perhaps in bitter disappointment. Instead of being greeted
in the morning by the expected sunshine, there is a downpour of rain,
which makes the roads a sea of mud and quite impassable for days,
leaving the roof the one dry place available for a walk. For though the
sun can broil and scorch, there is no lack of rain; and rain in the
Sahara is almost more out of place than a tram, and certainly far more
depressing. The mud is of a depth and stickiness quite unsurpassed, and
those who dare its dangers find progress slow, as they slide back nearly
as much as they advance.
Another drawback is wind. Icy wind from the snow mountains, or hot wind
with sand-storms from the south. In a good season there is said to be
wind three days a week, but in a bad season, or during the races, it
blows daily.
Biskra races are the great excitement of the place and of Algeria, and
it is a superstition (founded on fact) that whatever date is chosen for
the great event, it is sure to prove the windiest week in the year. This
sounds nothing to the unsophisticated, but to those who know, it means
misery.
A day may open in peace; the sun shines; there is not a breath of air;
it is warm—nay, hot. Ideal weather. Breakfast is hurried through; such a
day is not to be wasted, an early start is made, and for the first hour
or two all goes well. Then comes a little shivery chill; the sun is no
longer as warm; the palms rustle. In a few minutes the wind blows hard.
Dust rises in clouds, and everything disappears under that thick veil.
The Arabs shrink and cower in corners, their hoods over their faces
covering mouth and nose. Such a wind can last all day, the sun just
visible as in a London fog, only white not red. In fact, the dust hangs
in the air like mist, the mountains vanish completely, and nearer
objects are only dimly visible. It is dense, luminous, horrible. In less
than a minute everything is lost under layers of dust. Dust drifts
through closed doors and windows, and makes little heaps as snow does in
a blizzard.
On ordinary windy days the dust is very trying, and the dread of wind
spoils many an exquisite day, as the wicked habit it has of rising
morning after morning before 11 o’clock stops many pleasant plans.
Still, when compared with memories of fog and rain, cold and slush, on
the other side of the Mediterranean, the gain is so great that the
sand-storm is almost agreeable.
The morning freshness has a quality in the desert unfelt elsewhere—a
purity, a crispness, a delicious sense of invigoration that brings
thoughts of the Engadine in a fine August.
The first impulse is to go south, to leave the town behind, and even the
_village nègre_ as the French call it, though few are the blacks who
dwell there, to go forth beyond the monastery which Cardinal Lavigerie
founded for soldier-monks, Frères du Sahara, who were to fight, preach,
and abolish slavery, but who seem to have failed in their mission, as
their home is now a hospital. Cardinal Lavigerie is held in special
honour as is his due, and his statue stands looking towards the desert
he loved, in an open space near the gazelles’ garden.
Even the Chateau Landon, the show garden of the oasis, must be left
behind, though already, on the path beneath the walls, the call of the
desert is felt. Nothing intervenes; the river-bed, wide and dry, is at
your feet. The river itself, an insignificant stream, is lost in the
expanse of sand and stones bounded by low cliffs of ochre-tinted soil,
from which rises an oasis bright and fresh, but small. Beyond, nothing
but infinite space, till sky and desert meet in a blue so soft that the
French soldiers on their first coming cried, “The sea! the sea!”
Further on one can wander in and out on mud paths under the palms,
listening to the soft murmur of running water from the rills, which
carry life and refreshing moisture through the shady glades. From this
welcome shade the river-bed looks white and dazzling, and whiter still
the Koubba of a favourite Marabout planted in its midst.
All is light yet full of colour; the very mountains of the Aures are
radiant with rose, and the long blue shadows are full of light. Arabs
come from under the palms, and find their way to the river to wash and
stamp on their clothes in the bright sunshine. A man and two small boys
settle down beside a little stream under the trees with a burnous, which
they scrub all over with soap, taking infinite pains to see that every
corner has its share. Then they trample on it, and knead it with their
feet till it is clean as clean can be; then they stretch and pull it
into shape ere they spread it out to dry in the sun, whilst they enjoy a
rest after their labour. Women and children come also: the women with
bundles on their heads; the children moving quickly, mere flashes of
colour.
[Illustration: A RIVER OF THE SAHARA]
All the paths through the oasis and its seven villages have charm,
though not so much character as those of El Kantara. Yet any mud
dwellings shaded by palms are sure to be quaint, and here there are
little balconies and curious windows of pierced holes arranged to form
primitive rose windows or triangles, while the decoration on the
minarets is almost elaborate. The palms, casting their flickering
shadows on the warm earth; the pools, and the running water that threads
a shining way through all the gardens, and mirrors every leaf in its
calm shallows; the vivid green of the grass and growing crops (barley is
already in the ear); the blossom lingering on the fruit trees; the
tender colour of the first young leaves of the fig;—all combine, with
the mud walls that bound each property, to make of every moving figure a
living picture.
The light falls with bewildering brilliance on the white garments of the
solemn, stately men as they emerge from the cool, green shade into the
golden sunlight. Patriarchs ride slowly by; boys in ragged burnouses and
slender, bare legs, pipe to herds of energetic black goats. Camels and
donkeys with nothing visible but their legs, so large are their burdens
of palm branches or fodder, brush the walls on either side as they pass
along. Men with similar loads, or carrying bunches of greens and carrots
from market, watch groups of tiny children, who squat in the dust keen
on some mysterious game. Women with unveiled faces and waving draperies
of vivid colour trail them slowly past, accompanied by a pleasant jingle
of silver anklets, chains and charms. They carry their babies wrapped in
their veils, low down on their backs, in a clever fashion, though now
and then the queer mites, in their big hoods, looking like gnomes, are
perched on their mother’s shoulders.
The palm gardens, of which their owners are extremely proud, are often
entered by the simple method of pushing a palm log aside and creeping
through a hole in the wall. Wealth here is counted in palms, and every
tree is taxed. To encourage the French colonists only a tax of five per
cent is levied on their produce, while the Arabs pay double, which the
latter naturally think very hard. Palms exact a great deal of attention.
For them exist all the schemes of irrigation, the artesian wells, the
sakkias, the endless opening and closing of the channels of the
watercourses; for a palm flourishes only when it stands with its feet in
water and its head in the fires of heaven. The want of scorching sun is
one reason that dates do not ripen on the coast, though the trees look
healthy enough.
In the time of blossom, human fingers with infinite care assist the
insects in fertilising the female flowers with pollen shaken from the
ivory chalices of the male. These flowers begin life in a sheath, which
opens to disclose a cascade or spray of slender stalks, thickly
sprinkled with pure carved ivory flowerets, which are soon followed by
the tiny growing dates.
[Illustration: A BISKRA WOMAN]
A few vegetables and a little corn is all that grows under the trees,
which often shade picturesque family groups camping for the day under
shelter-huts built of boughs and thatched with palm leaves. The mother
in all her glory tends the fire, watches the steaming pot of cous-couss
for the mid-day meal, or flits like a gorgeous butterfly through the
green mazes after her straying babies. Her dress is the most graceful of
all the native costumes in this part of the world. It is nothing but a
long piece of very wide, soft muslin, or printed cotton, of deep red,
rose colour edged with green, or fine dark blue; but it is wound round
so cleverly that a girdle of many colours at the hips and a couple of
handsome silver fibulæ at the neck are sufficient not only to keep it
on, but to form hanging sleeves and a multiplicity of charming folds.
The head-dress is wonderful. The hair is plaited and braided with black
wool, and arranged squarely on either side of the small face, black silk
kerchiefs are woven in and out and over this mass, twined with silver
chains, and brightened by touches of scarlet flowers and wool. Just over
the forehead hangs a large silver charm, the sacred hand of Fathma. The
ear-rings, as large as bracelets, are fastened through the top of the
ear, and are so heavy that they have to be supported by chains or
threads attached to the hair. Round their necks they wear one or two
necklaces of coral, amber, or gold beads, and tiny silver hands. They
deck themselves also with many bracelets and anklets. These treasures
are part of the wedding portion, and represent all their worldly wealth.
Their white veils are twisted into the head-dress behind, and fall in
long folds to the ground, but are hardly ever used to cover the face;
for these Biskris, and the dwellers in El Kantara, are descendants of
the original inhabitants of the country, the Berbers. They belong to the
same race as the tribes of Kabylia and of the Aures, and their ways,
characters, and language are not those of the Arabs who invaded their
land and drove most of them back into their mountain strongholds. They
are the cause of many theories and much speculation. Early writers
consider them remnants of Christian Africa, Romans and Vandals, and say
in proof of their theory that the Kabyles still keep Sunday as their day
of prayer, and that the cross which all the women bear tattooed on their
foreheads between their eyebrows, and many of the men on their arms, or
the palms of their hands, are relics of the days when crosses were worn
as tokens, and exempted their wearers from some taxes. The Touaregs also
wear the cross and use it for the form of their saddles. Modern
knowledge or scepticism scorns these ideas as pretty fables, and
considers that the cross in some form enters into all schemes of
primitive decoration, and interests itself far more in the fair
complexion of the race, the tendency to light hair and grey or blue
eyes, and above all in the methods of government which point to some
Germanic origin. At any rate the women in all the Berber tribes have a
better position, with far more consideration and power, than in any
place where Arab blood prevails. These tribes also distinguish
themselves by their love of a settled home and by being both clever and
hardworking.
[Illustration: A NOMAD CAMP]
Widows we were told have the special privilege of feeding their sheep
wherever they like. The animals may browse on shrubs and trees,
vegetables, corn or fruit, without let or hindrance from their
neighbours. Consequently a widow’s lamb is fat and well-liking while
larger flocks starve, and on market day it will sell for some six times
the usual price.
Nomad or rather semi-nomad tribes abound in the district, their low
tents of striped camel’s-hair cloth showing as dark patches on the
desert or under the trees. They often build a few walls, rough fences
and ovens, and settle almost permanently in one place, till the grass is
worn away in front of their tents. The fields they cultivate stand high
with corn and clover, to feed the camels tethered near the camp or the
herds of goats that wander in and out at will. These nomads dress like
the other inhabitants of Biskra, but the women wear more blue and less
red, and have not quite the same air of being always in full dress. The
tents are so low that the men dwarf them utterly, and even the women,
short as they are, must stoop to enter. This matters little, as the life
of the community is passed in the open. All day long the grinding of the
mill may be heard, as the women take it in turns to work together
sitting in the dust. The cooking of the cous-couss is done in a vessel
hung on a tripod in true picnic fashion—furniture there is none. A few
carpets and hangings, the necessary pots and pans, and the mill are all
they need, so it is easy enough to strike tents and march wherever the
fancy moves them. A pretty sight it is to see one of these caravans on
the desert or amongst the dunes, as it comes slowly out of the distance,
giving as it moves along just the touch of life and colour that was
needed by the scene. The sand-dunes themselves are beautiful with a
strange beauty that harmonises with the wild, free life. The shifting
sands rise and fall in a succession of hills and hollows covered with
yellow, green, and grey scrub, and thousands of bright yellow flowers,
for all the world like the Lincolnshire sand-hills or Saunton burrows;
only that here the dunes are immense, and stretch out not to the sea,
for that has gone, but to the mountains of the Aures, or vanish only in
the vast spaces of the Sahara.
On the way to Sidi Okba, where caravans are frequent, we met a sad
little procession—a few men riding, one or two on foot, leading a camel
with the body of a man swathed and bound like a mummy, and lying across
the saddle. They came slowly, solemnly, out of the mysterious distance
and disappeared into it again. As a soul passes so passed they.
The shrine of Sidi Okba is well worth seeing. The drive across the
desert alone repays the weariness caused by jolting and shaking on a
stony road. A real road it is, and not a bad one, considering that it
has to pass over the river-bed and some very rough ground. However, it
is no satisfactory desert, though flat and desolate enough, for
everywhere there is green scrub sufficient to feed camels and the goats
of the nomads. Here is neither a trackless wild nor a waterless waste,
though the water has the good taste to hide itself under the ground or
in the oases. The goal is visible from the start as a dim purple line,
yet there is no lack of interest on the way, for the Djebel
Ahmar-Kreddou and the surrounding hills assume new forms as mile after
mile is left behind, and the colour comes and goes, waxes and wanes.
[Illustration: CARAVAN ON THE SAHARA]
Though it is the religious capital of the Ziban and a sacred place, the
village of Sidi Okba is built, like its neighbours, of sun-dried mud.
But it owns a real bazaar and a large market-place. The bazaar is
winding and irregular, shaded here and there by coarse canvas, or
matting, stretched on ropes and bars of wood. Canvas of every shade of
brown and ochre hangs flapping idly in the breeze over the square,
cavernous shops, where, amongst strange, untempting wares, the owners
sit motionless, only their eyes awake and on the watch. In other shops
men work tirelessly at many trades. Colour exists only in the vividly
blue sky, in the palms, and in a few scarlet handkerchiefs. The bazaar
and the crowds who surge through it harmonise in tone. The nomads, with
wild, dark faces and bare legs, shout as they bargain, unconscious alike
of the din and turmoil and of their own value from a picturesque
standpoint. Here are no Europeans, no odd contrasts; all is true,
unspoilt. Men of the desert swarm in hundreds, but scarcely a woman is
to be seen except in the market-place, where, in anticipation of a
wedding to take place at night, rows of them sit near a wall, veiled,
and listening to passionate, triumphant music, whilst their lords stroll
about, or sit in groups as far from them as possible.
The great warrior Sidi Okba, who, after conquering Africa from Egypt to
Tangiers, was killed in A.D. 682 by the Berbers, near Tehouda, now in
ruins, a little to the north, was buried by his followers in this place.
His tomb-mosque, the most ancient in Algeria, is quaintly impressive. It
is built of short columns, roughly made and crudely painted, and its
chief ornament is a door from Tobna, which is curious both in carving
and in colour. The shrine is plain, and the Tsabout or sarcophagus is
covered by bright silks embroidered with texts in Arabic. On one pillar
is a simple inscription, worthy of so great a man, written in Cufic
characters: _Hada Kobr Okba ibn Nafê rhamah Allah_. (“This is the tomb
of Okba, son of Nafê. May God have mercy upon him.”)
Round the tomb and in the mosque men are always praying, and from all
the little chambers, nooks, and corners comes the drone of voices; for
they are full of scholars old and young, who sit in groups round their
teachers, each with a worn board, on which is written a portion of the
Koran, grasped in his hands. As they learn, they bend and rock and
recite the lesson in sing-song tones. All Arab schools betray their
whereabouts by this constant hum as of a gigantic hive.
Most of the neighbouring oases attract in different ways, and there are
many favourite points of view, such as the Col de Sfa, which reveal new
aspects of the Sahara and the Aures.
[Illustration: THE BEGGING MARABOUT]
The Arabs resort to Hammam Salahin, the Bath of the Saints, a solitary
building, with the usual arcades and whitewash covering the hot springs,
a scene of utter desolation, volcanic and grim. Even the two small clear
lakes add no touch of beauty to the salt, sulphurous waste. But it is
amusing to see the women, who bring great bundles on their heads, and
who, after the ceremonies of the bath, put on clean garments, and then
proceed to wash all sorts of brilliant rugs and draperies in the hot
water as it streams away, making the wilderness gay by turning it into a
drying-ground.
But, after all, the true barbaric fascination of desert life is shown in
the most striking fashion during the races. The tribes come in from far
and near, all in their gala dress, and the fêtes begin, continue, and
end with processions and fantasias.
Strange processions, typically Eastern, a mixture of splendour and
squalor, pass and repass in the streets. The Bach Agha in the place of
honour, and the Caïds, glorious in all their bravery of red and white,
glittering with gold embroidery and sparkling with orders and medals,
ride beautiful horses, which step proudly under heavy trappings of gold.
The details are as good as the effect; the cloth and silk are of the
finest, the high boots of soft red leather.
The Sheikhs are almost as splendid, and the Spahis in their white and
blue both ride and look well. Each Caïd is surrounded by his chiefs and
Spahis bearing the banners of the tribe, and after these magnificent
figures follows a motley crew, men and horses alike gaunt and
poor-looking. They do their best to look imposing, with guns and swords
and fierce looks, and the horses are decorated with long, trailing
saddle-cloths of gorgeous, faded silks, which almost sweep the ground,
as they move along. As they pass the centuries fade away. This seems no
pageant of the present day, but a troop of freebooters starting on a
foray in the Middle Ages.
The first event of the races is the ride or drive in the early morning
through the villages of the oasis, where every roof is crowded with
women and children gay as a bed of Iceland poppies, past the ruins of
old Biskra, straight along the great desert road, to see the finish of
the long-distance camel race.
The _Meharis_ (riding dromedaries) had started from Tougourt 140 miles
to the south, and were expected to appear about nine o’clock. Every
vehicle and every camera in Biskra was there, and crowds were already
waiting and watching, all eyes turned to the distant south, though the
shimmering heat made it difficult to see far. At last in the distance
appeared specks that moved and grew, and in a moment the waiting was
over and the _Meharis_ had come. One after another, with long, easy
strides, they swept past, their riders still urging them forward with
voice and hand. No appearance of fatigue, no hint of the distance
covered in an incredibly short time, were apparent in the bearing of
either the Spahis or their untiring steeds. Fit messengers they are to
carry important tidings in time of need, as the French officers showed
by their keen interest in the race.
[Illustration: THE PALM VILLAGE]
The race-course at Biskra is as unusual in its frame of palms as the
sports that take place there. Nothing could be more picturesque than the
Bach Agha’s procession as it winds along under the palms; nor more
beautiful than the groups into which in half-military fashion it breaks
to watch the races. The crowds, who in their gala array encircle the
course, vie with the horsemen in decorative effect, whilst the dancing
girls outdo them all in sheer splendour of texture and tint as they
flutter round their tents.
Men of distant tribes in strange garb are also here: some wearing
head-dresses of waving plumes, like huge busbys; another, one of the
dreaded Touaregs, in dark robes with dark turban, veiled, like a woman,
in black or intensely dark blue. These are masked men, fierce and
mysterious as the sun they contend with and the desert they rule.
The races are good and the Arab horses fine, but the excitement of
novelty comes in with the fantasias. These fantasias are mock fights or
powder play; but there is a method, a savage fierceness, a fiendish glee
in their performance that gives an uncomfortable thrill, and a feeling
that any trifle might turn play to earnest, and a knowledge that if it
did, the performers would exult more than ever.
The Mozabites fight on foot. They are small, wiry men, wearing full
gandourahs as short as kilts, with curious fringes and tassels of
camel’s-hair hanging from their broad belts. They bind their haïcks
loosely, and arrange them to cover the lower part of their faces, the
usual precaution in their own torrid country far to the south, beyond
Laghouat. A warlike tribe, one of the last to submit to France, they
still cling to their independence in religious matters, and are called
in consequence _Khammes_, or the fifth, because they are outside the
four recognised orders of Mohammedanism. Industrious and hard-working,
they travel far, and are often shopkeepers in the large towns, but, for
all that, to them gunpowder is everything. Government allows a certain
amount yearly per man, and this can only be obtained by order. All the
same, great quantities are made in secret all over the country, and the
hiding-places where work is done are rarely discovered, except when,
owing to unscientific methods, an explosion takes place, killing several
men. This is of constant occurrence, it is said, but no one minds.
[Illustration: A MOZABITE FANTASIA]
The fantasia begins with shouts, then a rush forward of eight or ten
men, who turn and fire their guns into the dusty ground a few feet
ahead. Before the smoke has cleared, another squad charges and fires at
the feet of the first party with shouts and yells, and they toss their
guns into the air, the tom-toms and pipes play martial music, and the
din is deafening. Rush after rush follows, the squads prance forward,
fire, run back, reload and fire again. Excitement grows and grows, the
dust, smoke, and noise are appalling, and the yells become more and more
savage as the smell of the powder maddens them. Then it is that
accidents often happen, for the guns are old, all of them dating at
least fifty years back, and many of them being really antique. Some are
quite elegant and are inlaid with silver, but one man had a queer old
weapon, thick and short, that might have come from the Tower of London.
It took twice as long to load, and needed an extra charge of powder. Its
owner took care to have the field to himself when he fired, and rejoiced
at the stunning report, loud as a cannon. The officers said that each
man fired off more than his year’s allowance of powder before the
entertainment was over. If this was so, the secret factories had
supplied them with a large reserve, for the excitement was so great that
they went round the town after the procession, at the close of the day,
and gave another fantasia outside the hotel, and continued firing at
intervals far on into the night.
The fantasia of the _Goums_ is equally exciting and a far prettier
sight. The horses count for so much, even without considering the dash
and go of the riders, the brilliant white of their robes, the rich
colours of the cloaks and saddle-cloths, the glitter of golden
trappings, and the flash of light on the drawn swords. It is a ride
past. But such a ride! One after another, the horsemen come thundering
down the course as fast as their light steeds can gallop. They fly by,
all their draperies streaming in the wind, fire their guns, and wave
their swords, right and left hands or reins are matter of no moment.
Some take deliberate aim at the man in front, and ride as if to ride him
down or die in the attempt; others fire at the crowd, and some make
believe their enemies are at their feet.
Desert warfare is very real at such a moment, and it requires no
imagination to picture what it would be. There is a concentration, a
fierce determination in the mimic fight, which tells its own tale, and
suggests a foe, hard to conquer or subdue because so absolutely
fearless.
After this the camel races are tame, the movements of the picked
_Mehari_ who raced from Tougourt are too slow and stately in comparison
with the tearing gallop of the horses. Even the fact that one of them is
ridden by a Touareg in full array fails to make its due impression, so
much is every one under the spell of speed and noise. The stealthy,
quiet tread of the great beasts, even their picturesque qualities, had
less effect than usual; they were finer on the desert, infinite space
and light and mystery behind them.
Other sports, amusing to watch, were held under the shade of the mimosa
in the gardens. The incongruity between the dignified appearance and
lithe grace of the competitors and their childlike glee in each other’s
performances, made even walking along a greasy pole a delightful comedy.
Hearty laughter is not one of the lost arts amongst the Arabs.
At night there are more processions, with Chinese lanterns and torches,
crackers, weird music and dances, and the whole place is alive and gay,
whilst noise reigns triumphant.
[Illustration: STREET OF THE DANCING GIRLS, BISKRA]
The dancing is not limited to the Ouled Naïls, or dancing girls; the men
have a fine sword-dance that looks like a serious duel. The music is
stormy, martial, passionate. The musicians shout, the women scream to
incite them to further fury. Their own war cries are deafening. The
correct finish is for one to be conquered and disarmed, whereupon he
shakes hands with the victor; but it sometimes happens that the
excitement goes a little too far, and a bad cut brings the play to an
abrupt and more dramatic termination.