SOUSSE AND EL DJEM
A refreshing uncertainty, almost amounting to a touch of adventure,
gives zest to plans for a trip southwards. Beyond the one undisputed
fact that the inn at Sousse leaves nothing to be desired, information is
vague and scanty.
The journey opens in a fashion that promises much. There are only two
trains in the day, and both are inconvenient. One starts too early and
the other too late. The railway carriages with their narrow seats and
hard cushions proclaim by sheer discomfort the unfrequented route and
the dearth of travellers. The windows, that are either wide open or
shut, but know no happy mean, guarantee a pleasing alternative of cold
or stuffiness, for it soon becomes impossible to hold a heavy frame
perpetually at a proper height.
It is delightful to feel that all sorts of possibilities lie hidden in
the immediate future, and that the rate of progress already lifts the
journey out of the commonplace. It is slow enough to be phenomenal, and
gives time not only for observation but for quiet meditation on every
detail of the landscape before it disappears.
There is no objection to this for some distance out of Tunis, as the
route is pretty. The line skirts the edge of the bay, passing through
the gay watering-places full of sunshine and flowers that lie at the
foot of Bou Korneïne. During the sunset hour, when the plains are
flooded with glory, the train might stop entirely, and welcome. But when
the last tint of colour has vanished and no consolation is left, then
the long, purposeless halts at wayside stations become exasperating. It
does seem wasteful to spend so much time over so short a distance.
When morning comes, this mood flies away at the unexpected sight of a
mediæval town on the opposite side of the harbour; for Sousse follows
the Tunisian fashion, and the French colony dwells apart. The old town
stands on a gentle rise beside the waters of the Mediterranean, a
complete survival from the Middle Ages. Not grey and timeworn like our
northern strongholds, but radiant in the sunshine, a mass of glittering
white, crowned and girdled by gold—towers and bastions and crenellated
walls. The reflection of these old-world defences in the calm waters
below is almost as brilliant as the reality.
In the evening a change comes over the spirit of the place, the
brightness fades away and is succeeded by a gentle melancholy, a slight
film, the dimness of age, as if the warriors of bygone times returned at
sundown to hover over their old castle, full of unavailing regret that
their day is over, and that from the topmost battlements an alien flag
now floats.
[Illustration: SOUSSE]
Sousse, under its old title of Hadrumetum, has a quite respectable
antiquity. Sallust mentions it as a Phœnician colony of older date than
Carthage. Under the Emperor Trajan it became a Roman colony, the capital
of the Byzacene or mid-Tunisia. No one knows when or how it received the
name of Sousse, and even the fact of its being Hadrumetum at all was
once a matter of dispute. Hercha and Hammamet are both supposed by some
to have a better claim to the distinction, and Ruspina has been given as
the original name of Sousse. It fell into the hands of the Normans from
Sicily during the twelfth century, but has otherwise remained a Moslem
fortress from their first invasion to the time of the French occupation
in 1881.
Now the French colony seems bright and prosperous, and the inhabitants
talk more cheerfully of their fate than usual; for there is much to do,
and the recently opened harbour is a great improvement, as formerly the
roadstead was defenceless in certain prevalent winds, and now ships can
ride safely at anchor and take in immense cargoes of corn and oil, the
staple produce of the district.
Once within the old gates the Arab town, though most picturesque, shows
little that is distinctive. It possesses narrow Eastern streets, whiter
even than usual, and small bazaars, after the manner of Tunis, but with
no individuality of their own. Tunis, Algiers, and Constantine have so
much character that their identity could hardly be mistaken by anyone
who knew the tokens, even if he were dropped unawares into one of their
streets. The architecture, the colour, and the appearance of the
inhabitants are all so different in type.
From every side Sousse presents a striking picture, and from the towers
of the Casbah the view over the sunny terraces to the wondrous blue of
the bay and the soft green of the olives is beautiful. But the only
building that is really curious in the town itself is the Kahwat el
Koubba, or café of the dome, a small Byzantine basilica. Unfortunately,
it is so built into the bazaar that it is difficult to see its
peculiarities. It is quite square for rather more than the height of a
man from the ground, then round for the same distance, and has a fluted
dome.
The rue Halfaouine, the street where pottery is sold and mats are made,
is quainter than in Tunis, for there the two trades work separately.
These men were very busy, and with one exception had not the slightest
objection to being watched or painted. The one man who did object wore
the green turban of the descendants of the Prophet, and built up an
elaborate screen of plaits to hide himself. He soon forgot his dread,
gradually used up the plaits, and forgot to replace them.
Granted a little patience with the shortcomings of the train service and
it is no trouble to see Sousse, but the excursion to El Djem is quite
another matter. Until quite lately difficulties strewed the path, and
the drive alone took one long day or even two. Now, thanks to the
introduction of a postal motor-car service, the journey between Sousse
and Sfax is smooth enough.
[Illustration: THE BASKET-MAKERS, SOUSSE]
The shaky old diligence still runs for the benefit of second- and
third-class passengers, and takes a wearisome time about the journey,
which the motor accomplishes in rather more than three hours. This motor
is a heavy, but very roomy vehicle, somewhat like a coach with six
places inside, two beside the driver and more on the roof, and moves
with the steady, resistless force of great weight. As a rule, all the
seats are taken some days beforehand, for there is much coming and going
of business men between Sousse and Sfax; but we were lucky enough to
secure ours after only two days, and to have only one other passenger in
the interior, which meant heaps of space and a clear view with no
intervening heads. The straightness of the road is at first mitigated by
the beauty of the old olive trees, but when these give place to new
plantations, the young trees and bushes are so few and far between that
they only accentuate the dreariness of the landscape. Still, a look of
wellbeing is coming over the land, and if all goes well, the arid plains
will once again become fruitful, and the mischief wrought by El Kahina,
the celebrated chieftainness of the Aures, who destroyed all the farms
and villages, will be remembered no more. Formerly the whole country
from Tripoli to Tangiers was wooded and fertile, but the destruction of
the forests has given the land its present inhospitable character, so
that where twenty inhabitants flourished in Roman times, it was hard
work for one man to get a living, till the French came and began to
restore the ancient order.
One village of importance, and one only, breaks the monotony of the
route, and the motor passes through its narrow streets, which it almost
fits, hooting and scattering the people right and left, shaking them out
of their dreamy ways with its message of speed and progress. Yet though
some grumble more admire.
Even on this frequented road, where the motor passes twice daily, the
same amusing precautions are taken by the Arabs as at Hammam Meskoutine.
The camels are ridden off into the plains, carts are dragged to the side
of the road, and the horses’ heads covered up—even the donkeys are held
very tight. And if any man is too sleepy to attend to them, his animals
give him enough to do to pacify them after the horror has passed.
After this village the olives disappear. Nothing is visible but a wide
plain, literally carpeted with wild flowers, mostly common ones, but
exquisite from pure abundance of colour. Amongst them are masses of
small purple gladiolus, the most beautiful flower of them all.
For miles ahead the road stretches out straight as a gigantic ruler,
diminishing in perfect perspective to a vanishing point on the horizon,
the effect enhanced by the slight undulations of the plain. The road is
without shade or trees, there are not even villages to be seen, only a
few Bedawin camps, and an occasional house surrounded by fragrant mimosa
and olive trees, the dwellings of the French road-surveyor. Innumerable
traces of the Roman occupation are to be found on every side, ruined
farms, old walls, and fragments of buildings, showing that this must
have been almost as densely populated as the district between Hadrumetum
(Sousse) and Carthage, which, as a Roman historian tells us, was shaded
for the whole length of the road by villas and beautiful gardens.
At last, dimly discernible in the distance, a vast form rises, desolate
and alone upon the earth, a forlorn relic of Roman splendour, the
African rival of the Colosseum at Rome—the amphitheatre of El Djem. It
is only a few feet smaller than its great original, is built on the same
lines, is of the same massive breadth, and what it loses in actual
measurement is regained by its isolated position. A building of such
proportions is sufficiently impressive in the heart of a famous city,
but out here in the wilderness the effect is overwhelming. The very
existence of such a huge place of amusement so far from the present
haunts of men, on a spot so bereft of all visible means of supporting a
city large enough to send 60,000 spectators to witness the games, is
strange, almost unthinkable. The land, of course, is good, but water is
not here in any abundance, and there is no stone in the
neighbourhood—the fine white limestone used in the building having all
been brought from Sallecta on the coast.
Nothing now remains but this, the wonder of North Africa, of the whole
city of Thyrsus mentioned by Pliny and Ptolemy, except a half-buried
Corinthian capital of colossal size, a road, fragments of a villa, some
baths and a few mosaics, all more or less hidden and much scattered
among the olives.
The Proconsul Gordian rebelled against Maximin, and was proclaimed
Emperor at the age of eighty, at Thyrsus in A.D. 238, about the time of
the building of the amphitheatre, which is sometimes supposed to have
been his work as Emperor. But this could hardly be, as he was defeated
in battle, and died by his own hand within two months.
The amphitheatre was looked upon by the Arabs as a place of refuge in
troublous times, and was often used as a fortress. It is called Kasr el
Kahina, or Palace of the Sorceress, after the celebrated El Kahina, of
whom many legends are told. When she was besieged in this singular
castle of hers, she caused subterranean passages to be made to the sea
coast at Sallecta, and had this done on so large a scale that several
horsemen could ride through them abreast. The Arabs believe firmly in
these marvellous passages, but the entrance to them has not yet been
found. However, later on, another siege had to be raised, because the
defenders were so well supplied that they mockingly threw down fresh
fish to the besiegers, who were already suffering from want of food.
[Illustration: THE ROMAN AMPHITHEATRE, EL DJEM]
In modern times the great breach made in one of the sieges has been
enlarged by the Arabs, who used it as a quarry, and built their large
village beneath its shelter entirely out of the spoils. Now this
quarrying has been stopped by law, happily in time, and the breach,
overgrown as it is with moss and plants, only serves to make the ruin
more beautiful as it lies among the prickly pears and olives. On the
side nearest the village, however, it is in such good preservation, and
the four galleries are so perfect, that with the regularity comes a
certain loss of picturesqueness. The village is quite unusual: the
stolen stone has been used as if it were mud, the houses are built like
huts with large walled courts, and big doors, which are defended by
barking dogs.
The men are indifferent to strangers, but the children, pretty as they
are, become a positive torment. They have learnt the value of a _petit
sou_, and keep up a never-ending litany in the vain hope of obtaining
one. This comes of the bad habit of throwing coins from the automobile
for the pleasure of seeing a scramble.
In the evening some sort of a fête was on hand, absolutely different to
any we had seen. Bowers had been built, flags and greenery were
festooned across the street, and in one large booth, covered with green,
a crowd was gathered to watch a performance of howling dervishes,
probably Aïssaouas. A long row of men and boys with streaming hair were
working themselves into a state of frenzy, with violent rhythmic
movements of their heads, as they threw them backwards and forwards, and
panted like steam-engines. There were also groups of masqueraders with
unearthly masks, pretending to be animals and going on all fours, and a
mock bridal party with a soldier arrayed as the bride, his feet and
gaiters alone betraying him.
There is no inn of any sort, so travellers stay at the school, which is
also the post-office. The French schoolmaster, his wife, and a little
girl, are the only Europeans in the place, though it contains one Jew
and one Maltese—so Oriental as not to count.
The school is an old building, once the house of a Bey; it was then a
big open cloister. Now walls, doors, windows, and partitions have been
added to form large double cells, vaulted as in a monastery, but with
horse-shoe arches. These cells are scantily furnished, so that they look
both bare and spacious. Once they were used for storing gunpowder, which
has left the walls sadly discoloured. In fact, the appearance of the
house was well in keeping with predictions which we had received about
roughing it; but we found that instead of starving, the meals were quite
elegant, consisting of many courses, and including such luxuries as
chicken, lamb, and quails. The bread was very dry, and there was no
butter; but much experience had foreseen that difficulty, and jam,
biscuits, and tea travelled with us. The schoolmaster was silent, but
contented. His wife, however, suffered much from the loneliness; for the
small doings of the household, teaching a native servant and
superintending the cooking, could not fill her life. She was pining for
friends and sympathy, and her nearest neighbours, a detachment of
soldiers, lived fourteen or fifteen miles away. The diligence and the
motor cars alone brought variety, and they passed quickly with some
pleasant bustle, and then silence came once more. The school itself is a
success: the boys seem to learn well, and are eager to air their French
and pick up new ideas.
At night, even when the little garrison has been raised to five, there
is a strange eerie feeling of loneliness, which camping somehow does not
give. The great doors are bolted and barred, the watch-dog is on duty in
the court, which the moonlight makes almost as light as day, brightening
the treasured but miserable garden with its tender touch. All is made
perfectly safe. Yet the thought recurs insistently, what could one man
do, should anything rouse the hundreds of half-wild Arabs in the village
out of their ordinary quiet hatred? A life of this sort is only possible
where the fascination of the East is strongly felt; but for a poor woman
like this, out of sympathy with the country, its people and their ways,
it is little short of martyrdom.
Quiet is not a feature of the nights at El Djem. Every house in the
village owns several dogs, and the only dog that does not seem to bark
all night is the dog at the school. As for the cocks, they begin to crow
at bed-time and keep it up till morning. Jackals and an occasional hyena
swell the chorus. Then in the small hours the diligence arrives, with
rattle and rumble along the road and a thunderous knocking at the great
door, till the whole household is awake to give it welcome.
The motor appears at the respectable hour of nine in the morning, and
manages with infinite cleverness to catch the mid-day train to Kairouan,
although it should have started before the time at which the motor
arrives. There is so much leisure and so little punctuality that, with
friendly assistance, seats are taken, luggage registered, and lunch
purchased before the train finally starts.
[Illustration: EVENING, KAIROUAN]