ON THE WAY TO TUNIS
The next stage on the long journey to Tunis is Hammam Meskoutine, or the
Accursed Baths. Now the name alone ought to be sufficient to scare
strangers away, but it seems to have precisely the opposite effect.
Many, indeed, come for one night only, and linger on from day to day,
loth to leave a place so unusual and attractive. The wayside station,
half-hidden by graceful eucalyptus trees, leads to no village, for the
simple reason that there is none—nothing but the baths, a farm or two,
and a few scattered _gourbis_.
There is not much to see. There are no fatiguing sights, no amusements
whatever—only a tranquil country, a freshness of untrodden paths, a
touch of the unknown and exceptional in the hot springs and falls to
give piquancy to the surroundings. It is a country of soft outlines,
Greek in its simplicity, breathing rest and peace. A land of hill and
dale, rich pastures and many trees, where glare, dust, and bustle are
alike forgotten.
The uplands are covered by a cloud of grey-green olives, some of them
age-old trees, whose gnarled and twisted trunks look silvery against the
deeper tones of the leaves, the bright green of the long grass, and the
purple and blue of the mountains beyond. Under the trees the flowers of
the asphodel shine starlike, calm fills the air, the flocks come and go,
and the slender figure of the white-clad shepherd who leads and watches
them, piping on his queer rustic flute, is in harmony with the spirit of
a half-unconscious dream of the days of long ago.
Cutting across the smiling landscape like a scar is a plateau of whitish
grey rock, pools of boiling water and clouds of steam, the region of the
springs. The water comes bubbling up through the grey crust, then flows
out over the surface with no fuss, no fountain, no spray. Dense clouds
of steam rise from these bubbling springs in all directions, and also
from the water as it falls over the rocks down to the valley below. This
water as it cools leaves a thick white coating on whatever it touches,
thus raising in the course of ages a succession of terraces now some two
hundred feet high, resembling on a smaller scale the once famous pink
terraces in New Zealand. These terraces are of every tone of yellow,
orange, russet and green, and are full of small cauldrons. Pouring over
these natural basins and mingling with these many tints flows a steady
stream, sometimes the rich colour of thick cream, sometimes the snowy
whiteness of foam, but though airy in appearance, perfectly solid,
absolutely still. Only the water moves softly and the steam rises
ceaselessly—a wonder straight from the under-world, a silent waterfall.
[Illustration: THE SILENT WATERFALL, HAMMAM MESKOUTINE]
And not silent alone, but carved in stone—a finished work in one sense,
yet ever changing; for the springs are capricious, appearing now in one
place, now in another, and just now a new stream has started some little
preparations for terraces on its own account at the side of the railway,
and has even arranged to cross it. The earth’s crust seems unpleasantly
thin and crumbly, and the heat is so great that it is well to be heedful
and walk warily, for water at a heat of 203° Fahrenheit is too warm for
comfort, even when it has cooled itself somewhat on the rocks. The only
other springs known to be hotter than these are the springs of Las
Trincheras in South America and the Geysers of Iceland, but they are
only 3° and 5° warmer respectively.
It is amusing to watch the amount of cooking done in the open—eggs and
vegetables are put into a bubbling pool, and anything else the _chef_
thinks a good scalding will improve. Hot water for baths is fetched in a
garden tank on wheels, and if any is wanted at odd times a jug can
always be dipped in a stream, for the hotel is quite close to the falls.
The old baths—some of them Roman of course, for what did not the Romans
know?—are still in use, for these are the most celebrated springs in
Algeria; though Hammam R’hira, beautifully situated in the mountains not
far from Algiers, runs them very close. The hotel is built on no
conventional plan; it is a series of low buildings set in the olive
grove with a wild garden in their midst. An Eastern garden with a
central fountain, surrounded by lemon and orange trees, laden with
golden fruit, shading fragments of Roman reliefs, capitals, and
columns—an unwonted form of museum and a pretty one. Pretty also are the
rooms in the long bungalow, with windows looking out on one side on the
flowery meadow under the olive trees, where the steam from the falls can
be seen in the distance. Seen and smelt also, be it said, for there is
much sulphur in the water. The other window, which is also the door,
opens on to a rough colonnade and the garden. Two more bungalows, and a
house that shelters the kitchen and its excellent _chef_, as well as the
dining-room and dull salon, complete the establishment. On warm days the
pleasant custom prevails of taking meals at small tables under the deep
shade of an immense sycamore—a real open-air life, fresh and
delightful—in fine weather. We were not there in rain.
[Illustration: THE ARAB WEDDING, HAMMAM MESKOUTINE]
In a little hollow near the springs is a group of curious cones,
petrified like the falls, and now half-covered by grass and shrubs.
Exhausted and now quite dry, the water having long since found new ways
to escape, these cones are scattered over the ground for some distance.
One special group, distinguished both by its size and by the peculiar
shapes of the pillars of stone, has such terrors for the Arabs that they
dare not pass it at night, from their firm belief in the legend which
gave the place its name of the Accursed Baths. For once there was a
sheikh, a rich and powerful man, who had one only sister, beautiful as a
flower. He loved her with an exceeding great love, and thought her so
supremely fair that no man could be found worthy of her. He therefore
determined to wed her himself. The elders of the tribe arose and made
loud protestations, for as an Arab told me in his odd French, “_Il est
très défendu dans le Koran de marier avec sa sœur._” But the sheikh paid
no heed to their exhortations or their prayers, and caused those elders
to be beheaded before his tent door. Then he made a great feast, but as
the end of the marriage festivities drew near, a great darkness overtook
them, a tremendous earthquake shook the earth, out of which came flames
of fire, and demons were seen abroad. Deafening thunderclaps followed,
and a storm raged mightily. In that moment the accursed couple met their
fate. Ever since that dreadful night the whole wedding party has stood
there turned into stone: the Sheikh Ali and his bride, Ourida; the Cadi
who married them, and who is known by his turban; the father and mother
who gave reluctant consent; all their friends and servants; the
musicians, the camel laden with bridal gifts, the distant tents, even
the cous-couss left over from the feast. The wrath of God had fallen
upon them because they did not obey the laws of His prophet, and for
evermore the smoke of the fire ascends—a witness to all men of the
punishment that awaits the evil-doer.
The subterranean lake is an excuse for a lovely walk over the hills.
This lake only came into existence about twenty years ago after a great
storm. The earth fell in with a tremendous crash, disclosing the
entrance to a cavern. From some hidden source water came rushing in for
about six weeks, and then suddenly ceased. The cavern is dark as night,
even in the afternoon when the sun shines on the opening; the entrance
is steep, and very slippery; the lake lies far below, the dark vault
looking like the gate of the under-world. Arab women bring piles of
brushwood, and with bare feet descend easily to make a flare at the
water’s edge. The light is weird and unearthly, the moving figures
suggest witches, the water glimmers dimly, reflecting the flames as they
leap up, and accentuating the gloom and vastness as they die down again.
One of the women was beautiful, her colouring was of the North, and the
moon of her fair face was surmounted by a crescent moon of white linen.
At least this veil, stretched over a frame or cap, should have been
white, but was, in fact, sadly dirty; the _gourbi_ they lived in was
even worse. It was built of stone, roughly thatched, and surrounded by a
wall to form a sheep-pen. The ground within and without was trodden into
mud. Many of the animals shared the hut with the family, who seemed to
have scarcely any possessions, and who, had it not been for their
beauty, would have seemed lower in the scale of life than their own
flocks.
The joyous rush of a motor car on a good road is no bad antidote to
overmuch strolling in flowery meads or lounging under trees. Ancient
ruins and motors sound incongruous, but, after all, surely the Romans
would have revelled in the sport, and the fear of demons would scarcely
have terrified them as it would the men of the Middle Ages, or the Arabs
of the present day, whose ways made the drive to Tibilis amusing. The
road twists and curves round the hills far above the clear stream, and
as the motor with much hooting rounded the endless corners, Arabs rushed
up steep banks out of reach of the monster, pulled their animals into
shelter by main force, or covered their horses’ heads with their own
burnouses. These were those who knew and understood. Those who did not,
paid no heed to the coming of the “Turnobil,” and the chauffeur had to
creep slowly and carefully past them. Others again climbed to points of
vantage and shouted, and those shouts were not blessings on our
progress, whilst a few naughty boys indulged in throwing stones which
did no damage.
The ruins of Tibilis, now Announa (found by General Creuly in 1856), are
finely situated on a hill, so the last part of the journey must be done
on foot. The path, when it exists, is only to be avoided, so stony is it
and rough, and also swampy in places. The distance is nothing, but the
way seems long from its steepness and the scorching sun. It runs first
downhill to a brook which it crosses by a bridge of slippery planks,
then up a steep brae, and along a valley, when the toil is ended by a
final scramble to the top. Here on a bare brown hill are a few
weather-beaten trees, leafless and desolate, and all that remains of the
ancient city—a stretch of paved road, a simple triumphal arch, one of
the town gates, two or three arches, a Christian basilica, a few fallen
columns, and traces of many buildings, including an amphitheatre.
A last gleam of sunshine touched the arch to beauty, then storm-clouds
gathered on the neighbouring heights, a bitter wind blew fiercely, the
weather by its gloom emphasised the long-forgotten loneliness of the
place, once sufficiently important to give its name of Aquæ Tibilitanæ
to the waters of Hammam Meskoutine, and now neglected, visited only by a
few out of the many drawn to the baths by the quaintness of the scenery
and the legends of the place.
Forsaken ruins such as these are to be found all over Algeria, but more
often the sites are now occupied by modern colonists, and the ruins
sacrificed to or incorporated with new buildings. A few, however, are
still preserved to attract travellers, as at Tebessa, Tipaza, and
Cherchell. In Tunisia ruins abound, and are even more remarkable for
their extent and beauty. But it is a thousand pities that in both
countries nothing is done to remove difficulties, so that expeditions
are given up in despair from absolute lack of information and fear of
discomfort. It seems a point of honour to know nothing off the beaten
track, and as even on it the standard of comfort is not high, and
requires some experience and a little tolerance, much of the country
cannot be visited by ladies at all without a camp—a rare luxury. Even
men, accustomed to really roughing it, suffer more than they care for
from bad food in the French villages, and from noise and dirt in the
native _Fonduks_.
One of these out of the way places is Dougga, where the Roman ruins are
so beautiful that no one should count the cost in fatigue and trouble
too great for a visit.
About two hours short of Tunis is the station of Medjez el Bab, the gate
of the ford. In olden days a triumphal arch and a fine bridge across the
Bagrada (Medjerda) justified the name. Both have now vanished, and the
new bridge, built of the debris, is absolutely picturesque with age. One
of the chief roads of Roman Africa passed over the original bridge,
uniting Carthage with Theveste and continuing to the borders of Numidia.
Military boundary stones all along the route still bear this
testimony—_Karthagine ad Thevestem ... usque ad fines Numidæ_.
The walled town nestles on the river banks almost under the shade of a
wide avenue, much appreciated in the burning sunshine of May.
In obedience to orders a carriage and pair awaited our arrival in the
station-yard. This sounds imposing, but its appearance was utterly
wanting in dignity save that conferred by the dust of ages. The vehicle
was a rattling old shandrydan of a waggonette, roofed after the fashion
of the country, and with leather curtains, which could be buttoned
together closely to keep off the sun or rain; and, strange as it may
seem, the darkness and shadow of this box were after a time a relief
from the glare. Heat shimmered over the plain—blue, with a flickering
haze. The white ribbon of the road looped carelessly round the olive
groves, or stretched boldly across undulating fields, already golden and
ready for harvest. The men amongst the corn, the very horses on the
road, were steeped in lazy drowsiness. They worked, but it was as in a
dream—just a pretence suited to the placid prosperity which brooded over
all. Now and then, as the hours passed by, towns and villages came into
view crowning the heights, all fortress-like, many with towers,
picturesque in outline and dirty within.
One of these, surrounded by ruins, bears the name of Chehoud el Batal,
or the false-witness; for once, so runs a legend, men, women, and
children united in bringing lying evidence against a man great and holy,
much beloved of Allah, so in the very act they were all turned to stone,
and the stones remain where they fell for a witness to this day.
At mid-day we halted at Testour, once Colonia Bisica Lucana, though
little is left to tell the tale. Really it is a bit out of Spain, an
Andalusian hill city, with minarets that recall the old belfries of that
country. The inhabitants are still called _Andaleuss_, and are said to
be direct descendants of those Moors who escaped from Spain in the time
of Ferdinand and Isabella.
Donkeys, laden with huge water-pots, led us up the steep hill, into the
town, towards an open space, or _plaza_, with arcaded cafés blinking in
the sunshine. Low one-storied houses with tiled roofs are built on
either side of a street which is both wide and straight—a most unusual
plan in a Moorish town, and very unsuitable for great heat.
Every scrap of shade was occupied by listless Arabs, who just roused
themselves sufficiently to take part in the slight bustle of our
arrival, followed by the diligence, and then crept back to doze once
more. There is no inn, but the postmaster’s wife provides food in her
cool, clean rooms for dusty, wayworn travellers. Her patient face, sad
with the loneliness of exile, lighted up with pleasure at the chance of
a chat with some of her own sex who knew _la belle France_. Only three
or four European families live at Testour, and she and her husband are
the only French inhabitants. Many men pass through on business, but
ladies are comparatively rare. In the summer, traffic almost ceases, for
the heat is so trying, and, notwithstanding the breezy situation, the
thermometer occasionally rises to 112° Fahrenheit. There was a note of
plaintive endurance in all the talk of the hostess, an attempt to make
the best of things, a certain pride in the knowledge of Arabic and of
triumph over housekeeping difficulties, mixed with a thorough dislike
for the country, and contempt for the _indigène_ and all his ways. Yet
the country is beautiful, almost homelike, and could be made very rich.
A little further on is Ain-Tunga, or _Thignica_, a small village now,
whose importance in the past is shown by the ruins scattered round a few
poor houses. The Byzantine fort still preserves an air of solid
strength, but only fragments enough remain to excite a languid interest
in the two temples, the theatre, and a triumphal arch.
As the shadows lengthened, the country became more and more charming,
for we were nearing the borders of Khroumirie, the most beautiful part
of Tunisia. Clear streams and glades of olive trees became more
frequent, and peeps of distant mountains gave variety to the hills and
dales of a pastoral land.
Wonderful legends of lions are told of all this district. As many as
sixteen are said to have been seen together at one time in one valley,
through which we now drove so carelessly. The scenery is too peaceful to
suggest the thought of wild beasts, and it is easier to believe in lions
amongst the rocks of El Kantara, or the mountains of the Atlas and the
Aures, than in this sylvan spot.
Teboursouk, the goal of the day’s journey, appeared at last on the brow
of the hill, its walls and minarets rising from a silvery sea of olives,
the witchery of the sinking sun increasing the effect of height and
distance, and throwing a veil of light over the few modern houses on the
outskirts.
Notwithstanding the noise and clatter caused by our arrival, the inn,
with its imposing name of Hôtel International, seemed fast asleep; but
at last the shouts of the travellers by diligence produced an Arab
servant. Happy-go-lucky is the only way to describe the place. The
Italians who kept it were fettered by no ordinary ideas of the
proprieties. Dogs and babies, food, empty plates, pans and brushes,
decorated the staircase and upper hall; pretty girls trotted about in an
artless _négligé_ of chemise and petticoat, with their hair down and
their feet bare, until the second _déjeuner_, when they appeared in
flowery cotton wrappers, with their hair elaborately dressed. It was not
till dinner-time that they donned a full toilette, and enjoyed little
flirtations with the officers. They made a cheerful din, with loud
shouting and much laughter, but the Arab servant did all the work,
smiling and willing as usual. The rooms were fair, and the food,
considering all things, quite tolerable, though when hot water was asked
for, it made its appearance in a small, rather dirty, saucepan.
Another of the peculiarities of Teboursouk was that it contained no
carriages, so that we were bound either to retain our rattling,
boneshaking conveyance at a fee of twenty francs a day, or else pay the
penalty by making the return journey in the diligence, a still sorrier
vehicle, always crowded to suffocation with colonists and Arabs with
their bundles, who, not content with over-filling the seats, perched
themselves on the top of the baggage on the roof.
Though Teboursouk looks its best from a distance, it is still an
attractive country town, with few pretensions and almost unspoilt. Two
mosques, one with many domes, and both with good square minarets, stand
in its narrow, winding streets. There are only a few tiny shops—hardly
enough to call a bazaar, but the whole effect is picturesque. The
children are particularly pretty and charming, playing games gaily in
every nook and corner. Small girls dance about with still smaller
children, riding in a sort of pick-a-back fashion, with legs round the
bearer’s waist instead of their shoulders. The colour adds to the
effect; in no other village have we seen such perfect shades, or such
variety of red, yellow, and orange. Many of the boys were in pale blue,
and the women were as gay as the children. A dancing negro, a terrible
monster in a mask, dressed in a shirt and kilt of skins, with animals’
tails and foxes’ brushes, and charms dangling from his girdle, drew all
the small folk after him like the Pied Piper, as he danced, sang, and
played his odd home-made guitar on his way through the town. His
head-dress was a marvel in itself—a sort of fool’s cap of red and gold
embroidery, set with coins and shells, and with another fine brush
hanging down like a feather.
Columns and fragments of the Roman city Thibursicum Bure are built into
the walls, and near the old fountain is an inscription recording its
name. In the walls are also to be seen the remains of a triumphal arch.
There is a Byzantine fort formed for the most part of ruins. Several
bishops of this See are mentioned by Saint Augustine, and it is also
known as the place of martyrdom of a Christian called Felix, in the
reign of Diocletian.
Early morning saw us once more on the road, or rather the rough
cart-track, to Dougga. The air was deliciously fresh and pure, and laden
with the fragrance of the wild flowers that covered the sward. The
horses did not like their work, and jibbed at the constant hills.
Progress, therefore, was slow, as they only behaved properly on the down
grades. A few Arab boys, who had invited themselves to places on the box
and roof, jumped down and pushed and shouted lustily, but the last hill
was too steep, so we climbed it on foot. However, the driver insisted on
the poor horses going to their orthodox stopping-place half-way up, and
rewarded them by fetching us in the evening with a team of three,
harnessed abreast.
[Illustration: TEMPLE OF CELESTIS, DOUGGA]
A primitive Arab village covers part of the site of the ancient Thugga.
This is the simplest form of the name, but an inscription near the
temple gives the following elaborate title, much too ponderous for daily
use: “Respublica Coloniæ Liciniæ Septimiæ Aureliæ, Alexandrinæ
Thuggensium.” The name was probably derived from the Berber, and means
green grass. The city stands on a green hill, olive groves surround the
ruins, and the valley of the Oued Khaled, a tributary of the Medjerda,
is rich with green also.
Undoubtedly the most beautiful of all the ruins here is the great temple
of Celestis, sometimes called the Capitol, which stands on the top of
the hill, commanding a wide outlook, a really exquisite view of wood,
valley, and mountains. The fine lines and proportions of this building,
the situation, and even the warm, mellow tones of the stone, bring
memories of Athens.
Time and weather have worn away the stone and added tender greys to the
colouring, but have not greatly injured the grace of the fluted columns,
the delicate work on the Corinthian capitals, or the richness of the
mouldings. The sculpture on the pediment, however, has suffered much,
giving the opportunity for many discussions as to whether it represents
a lion, the rape of Ganymede, or the eagle of Jupiter. Wings are
certainly visible, but the rest is a blur. The fine door of the _cella_
is still perfect, and consists of three huge stones bearing an
inscription; there is another on the portico, which states that the
temple was built by two brothers at their own expense:—
L. MARCVS · SIMPLEX · ET · L · MAR
CIVS · SIMPLEX · REGILLIANVS · S. P. F.
It was dedicated to Jupiter, Juno, and Minerva.
At the present time workmen are busy rebuilding the walls of the
_cella_—a work which seems a sad waste of time and energy. The existing
masonry, of a later date than the rest of the temple, possibly
Byzantine, is of a style much used in North Africa, consisting of
courses of stone laid horizontally, with upright bars of stone at
intervals of about four feet, the square interstices filled with odds
and ends of stone, like “the long and short bond” found in Roman and
Saxon work in Britain. Bruce thought this “one of the most beautiful
ruins of a temple in white marble in the world.” Playfair considers it
as built of nothing less than Lumachella Antica, one of the lost
Numidian marbles, now worth its weight in gold.
The theatre is also a gem, and though there is now no performance, it is
still a joy to sit in the deep, cool shade on the almost perfect marble
seats, and look across the stage and the broken columns to the sunny
landscape beyond. It is finer in every way than the theatre at Timgad,
and almost as large as the well-known theatre of Taormina.
At the entrance to the olive groves stands a triumphal arch of the
decadent period, called _Bab el_ _Roumi_, or Gate of the Christian.
There are also the remains of the temple of Saturn, baths, an aqueduct,
seven cisterns like those at Carthage, a circus, a fortress, monuments,
and many other ruins too numerous to mention. Last, and perhaps most
important of all, because it dates from the Phœnician times, is the
great Mausoleum, wrecked by the Arabs employed by Sir Thomas Reade to
remove the celebrated bilingual stone now in the British Museum.
Though the men and boys spent the day in a circle round us to watch and
to criticise, thoroughly absorbed in the sketch, yet they had charming
manners, dignified and smiling faces, and not even the smallest boy
dared to be troublesome—a great contrast to many in Algeria, who have
picked up the bad ways of the modern town-urchins. The same may be said
of Teboursouk.
At Medjez el Bab another display of fine courtesy was found in a most
unlikely quarter. The hotel was said to be quite impossibly dirty, so we
were advised to dine and wait for the late train to Tunis at a cabaret
near the station. The place was a shanty, full of men drinking and
smoking, _colons_ and railway employés. Every one took our appearance as
a matter of course, bowed politely, and did their utmost to make us feel
at home, the smokers retiring outside. Dinner was served for us at a
table apart, quite nicely laid and cooked. There was good soup, chicken,
wine and dessert, all for a ridiculously small sum. After dinner some of
the men wished to talk, asked many questions about home and foreign
affairs, and discussed the latest news of the war in the East. The
wistful little woman who did the cooking could hardly make enough of us,
and when the train arrived at last, no one would say good-bye, but only
“Come again.”