those interested in the statues of Rome of that period the visit
is worth while. Otherwise the return journey from Tipaza can either
be made by the same way in the golden glory of the African sunset,
or else inland through the vine-clad hills via Marengo and Kolea.

These are the two excursions, but this chapter can not be closed
without reference to the Trappist monastery at Staoueli. This is
only twenty minutes in a car from Algiers and is worthy of a visit.
The Trappist monks have been expelled, but their monastery, with
the great vats in which they made the still famous wine, remains.
The monastery is in the hands of Monsieur Lucien Borgeaud, a
gentleman of Swiss origin who has continued pressing the grapes as
did his holy predecessors, only on a much larger scale.

A visit is welcomed, and in addition to seeing the old building
founded by the Trappists at the time of the French conquest, it will
be interesting to see how wine is made and the modern improvements
put in by this enterprising Algerian.

There are, of course, many pretty drives involving part of the
day, such as the Gorges of Palestro and the entrance to the Kabyle
country, the Ruisseau des Singes, beyond Blida, Dellys, and the
Phœnician city of Tigzirt, on the coast, but as they form part
of the greater journey to be dealt with in the next chapters
their description is purposely omitted. Suffice it to say that
all the neighborhood of Algiers is enchanting, and that life in
Algiers itself, lived in one of its old Moorish villas surrounded
by a lovely garden, would be as delightful if it were not for the
relaxing climate.

But if we are to appreciate the real charm of the country do not
let us tarry too long near the white city.

                              CHAPTER XXV

                               A VOYAGE

Though perhaps the journey described in these pages is longer than
many tourists would wish to undertake, it is rather set out with
the idea of giving a notion of the amount that can be seen in a
comparatively short space of time and under the easiest conditions.

The trip can, moreover, be divided into separate excursions as
indicated in the table of distances at the end of the chapter. It
is better to do this journey in a private motor-car, which enables
one to rest at will, eat by the roadside, and take photographs. But
if the traveler has not the means to progress in this luxury he will
find public conveyances at moderate prices on practically every route
mentioned. Sometimes it will be the train, sometimes the motor-bus,
and though in some cases he will be obliged to travel by rather
a roundabout way or occasionally wait a few days for the bus,
his journey will always be assured in comfort.

Generally speaking, there is a daily or even bi-daily motor
service on all the main roads of North Africa; and it is only in
the far south that the bus does not have a regular time-table.
Otherwise the times of departure and arrival are as fixed as for a
train. The motor-busses are covered and very comfortable, and to the
individual who is entertained by strange faces and gay chatter about
all that is going on in the country through which he is traveling,
the motor _diligence_ is a delightful entertainment. In fact,
if the traveler is bent on studying the country and its people,
he will do so much more advantageously in the public conveyance
than in the isolation of the private car. However, if he is only on
holiday or a pleasure trip the motor is recommended, and it is with
the idea of traveling thus that this imaginary journey will be taken.

It is presumed that the period chosen for the tour will be between
December and April—January, February or March—and let it be
borne well in mind that North Africa in winter, even on the edge
of the Sahara, is not a warm country. The thermometer does not
actually drop very low, but the biting air of the mountains and the
sharp dry winds of the rolling plain or the Hauts Plateaux and the
Sahara make heavy coats and rugs essential.

Once south of Laghouat and at Touggourt the temperature is definitely
warmer than in the north, but hot days can not be depended on before
this latitude is reached. It is true that on the edge of the Sahara
the sun heat in the middle of the day makes it impossible to go out
bareheaded, but the nights are very sharp. Once into the Sahara the
nights are also cold, but in the day it is pleasantly warm, and the
overcoats and rugs can be put away; but the return journey across
the Kabyle Mountains may be done in a snowstorm. The great thing
to remember about Algeria is that it is a country of extremes. The
morning may dawn in a downpour of rain and at noon one may lunch
in the garden dressed in white. Crossing the mountains during the
winter one is practically certain to find rain, but once on the
Sersou it is almost always fine.

The Hauts Plateaux are bitterly cold, but as soon as one has come
down on to the Sahara the temperature is very pleasant, and it rarely
rains; when it does, it pours for a few hours and then clears up.

Therefore, the warmest wraps for the journey in the north, English
summer clothes (not Indian or tropical) for the south. All evening
dresses, etc., can be left in Algiers, as there is never any occasion
to dress up, even when invited by an Arab chief. It is advised to
travel light, and linen can usually be washed by the Transatlantic
hotels in forty-eight hours. The question of hotels brings me to
another point.

The hotels of Algeria can be divided into two categories—those
which belong to the Transatlantic Company and those which do not.
The Compagnie Générale Transatlantique has opened up the whole of
North Africa by their circular and inclusive tours which run into
the wildest parts of the Sahara. In order to accommodate their
customers they have built hotels in all these remote spots, and
these are certainly very well organized. In all the more frequented
places there are other hotels for the accommodation of commercial
travelers and Arabs, and though they are usually quite clean and
the food eatable, that is about all that can be said for them.
There are usually no bathrooms and there is nowhere to sit except in
the public café. Here again let it be said that for the traveler in
search of copy the hotel with its Arabs and people of the country
is a source of perpetual entertainment, but with few exceptions it
is rough—very rough, and sometimes dirty.

The prices, of course, correspond to what one gets, but to the
holiday-maker the Transatlantic hotels can not be too highly
recommended. Good food, clean beds, running water, hot baths,
perfect service, reliable information on all that can be done and
not done, seem to warrant the fairly high charge, and yet not high
when one realizes the difficulties which confront the hotel manager
in getting all this modern comfort in the wildest districts.

It is, however, recommended that one see the Transatlantic Company
in Algiers to make certain that there will be accommodation as,
if they are booked up with heavy tours, their own travelers will
naturally have preference over independent tourists.

The cost of the trip, quite roughly, will work out as follows:

1. For the private car owner staying at the Transatlantic hotels, one
hundred to one hundred and fifty francs per person per day. Petrol,
etc., in addition. If a car is hired it works out at about two to
three francs a kilometer plus the board and lodging of the driver,
which is about thirty-five francs a day.

2. For the traveler by public conveyance staying at the local hotel
fifty francs a day will amply cover his living and expenses.

Train fares are not dear, and the bus fares, though they vary,
do not exceed ten centimes a kilometer.

Equipped now with knowledge for the journey, it only remains to trace
the itinerary, which will be quite easy to follow on the accompanying
map. This information can be supplemented by the guide-book, and
in referring to the guide-book I always speak of the _Guide Bleu_
which, with the exception of a few slips, is really very reliable.

                     ITINERARY OF PROPOSED JOURNEY

                   1. _By private car_
                                                       Kilometers
  1st day    Algiers/Bou Saada                            250
  2nd day    Stay Bou Saada                               —
  3rd day    Bou Saada/Laghouat                           222
  4th day    Stay Laghouat                                —
  5th day    Laghouat/Ghardaïa                            200
  6th day    Stay Ghardaïa                                —
  7th day    Ghardaïa/Touggourt[1]                        200
  8th day    Stay Touggourt                               —
  9th day    Touggourt/Biskra                             216
  10th day   Stay Biskra                                  —
  11th day   Biskra/Timgad                                190
    (It is advisable to sleep at Batna.[2])
  12th day   Timgad/Constantine                           190
    (If Djemila, described in Chapter XXXIV, is to be visited it
    can be done from Timgad via Sétif or from Constantine.)
  13th day   Constantine/Bougie                           259
  14th day   Bougie to Algiers by 4 alternative routes:
         _a._ Bougie to Michelet                          147
         and thence to Algiers via Tizi Ouzou             154
         _b._ Bougie direct to Algiers via.
                Bouira and Palestro                       300
         _c._ Bougie direct to Algiers via.
                Azazga and Tizi Ouzou                     300
         _d._ Bougie/Tigzirt                              250
         and thence to Algiers via Dellys                 155

                  2. _By public conveyance_
  Algiers/Bou Saada                                       250
    (Motor-bus takes some 10 hours.)[3]
  Stay Bou Saada                                          —
  Bou Saada/Djelfa (bus)                                  112
    (Stay the night at Djelfa, leave at six o’clock next morning
    in bus.)
  Reach Laghouat at nine-thirty a. m.                    110
  Stay Laghouat                                           —
  Laghouat/Ghardaïa (bus)                                 200
  Stay Ghardaïa                                           —
  Ghardaïa/Touggourt                                      200
  (The bus runs once a week [Nov. 1926]. Verify this.)
  Stay Touggourt                                          —
  Touggourt/Biskra (train)                                216
  Stay Biskra                                             —
  Biskra/Batna (train)                                    120
    (If Timgad is to be visited a car must be hired at Batna for
    the 70 kilometers run to the ruins and back. One can sleep
    at Timgad or at Batna.)
  Timgad/Constantine (car and train)                      190
  Constantine/Bougie (bus service not regular)            259
  Bougie/Michelet
    (No bus service direct. If Michelet is to be visited the
    train must be taken to El Kseur and thence to Tizi-Ouzou by
    bus; from Tizi-Ouzou bus to Michelet and from Michelet bus
    to Tizi-Ouzou and train to Algiers. If Michelet is to be
    omitted there is the train direct from Bougie to Algiers.)[4]

Various alternative trips will be set out in the succeeding
chapters where they seem opportune. The distances have been marked
in kilometers as the guide-books and maps are all scaled in this
way. For the information of those who are interested in miles,
however, one hundred kilometers equals sixty-two miles.

For all details regarding routes and motors the traveler is
recommended to apply to Captain de Malglaive, at the Anglo-American
Automobile Company at Mustapha Supérieur, who is always informed
as to the state of the roads, accommodation, etc.

FOOTNOTES:

 [Footnote 1: It is advisable to ascertain the
state of the road between Guerrera and Touggourt, as there is much
sand in this part. On principle it is wiser to start just ahead of
the motor-bus as the route is very desolate and there is no possible
means of repairing serious breakdowns.]

 [Footnote 2: If time is short, Constantine,
Bougie and the Kabyle can be omitted. From Timgad one can get
to Sétif via Corneille. By leaving Biskra early one can do
Biskra/Batna, see Timgad, and be at Sétif in one day—210
kilometers. From Sétif to Algiers the road is good and
straight—300 kilometers.]

 [Footnote 3: If this bus journey is thought too
excessive, there is no necessity to go to Bou Saada. The train can
be taken direct to Djelfa in one day, and then next morning the
bus lands one at Laghouat at nine thirty.]

 [Footnote 4: I have not marked the number of
days for the journey by public conveyance as, being much slower,
it is correspondingly more tiring, and the traveler will probably
wish to linger longer in the different centers he visits.]

                             CHAPTER XXVI

                               BOU SAADA

Leaving the ugly suburbs of Algiers, the car turns on to a broad,
straight road bordered with plane-trees. On either side stretch
interminable vineyards, while ahead the blue slopes of the Atlas rise
up from this great plain of the Mitidja. Little French villages
are passed and long, white buildings, now closed and silent, which
will be in a whirl of activity in August and September when the
grapes are being pressed.

In an hour or so l’Arba has been reached and the steep slopes
covered with rough scrub and cork-trees. Up, up the road climbs
toward the bare crests of the range. Algiers and the Mitidja are
lost to view, and the eye wanders over a great expanse of mountain,
cultivated here and there with patches of cereals, and now and then
a vineyard.

The air is fresh, and the clouds seem ominously close. At Sakamody
the watershed is reached, three thousand feet above sea-level,
and a wonderful panorama of hills and rivers and forests spreads
itself before us.

The road is now running steeply down toward the silvery stream at
the bottom, and, reaching Tablat, an iron bridge is crossed and away
speeds the car through a fertile valley. If lunch has been carried
in the car there are some delightful fields near Bir Rabalou—at the
one hundred and third kilometer—where one can picnic in peace. For
some reason there is an abundance of tortoises in these fields.

If one is depending on the hotel one must push on to Aumale, where
a rather second-rate inn will provide a correspondingly second-rate
lunch. Aumale is well over two thousand feet above the sea; it is
a modern garrison town and quite uninteresting.

Shortly after Aumale the road starts sloping down toward the
flat country parallel to and east of the Sersou, and after thirty
kilometers the village of Sidi Aïssa is reached.

At this point two vast errors are made by guides, tourists, and
even by many Algerians; and, as stated in a previous chapter, it
is the duty of the author to destroy legends invented for the ears
of the credulous.

The first of these stories is that Sidi Aïssa means “Our Lord.”
Translated literally this word signifies “the Lord Jesus,” but,
though the Mohammedans venerate all the prophets from Moses down to
Christ, this Sidi Aïssa is not the founder of the Christian faith.
The person after whom this village and many others are named is
Sidi-el-Hadj-Aïssa, the great _marabout_ who founded Laghouat in
the eighteenth century. Of this later.

The second story, which is perhaps served up more frequently, is
that at Sidi Aïssa the desert begins. It is an excusable legend,
and let it be said at once that the author himself has fallen
into the trap. It is an absolute fallacy, but Bou Saada and its
neighborhood is one of the most amazingly natural fakes in the world.

Sidi Aïssa is at one thousand eight hundred feet above the sea
and is on the same latitude as Boghar, which is perched on the
southerly slopes of the Atlas of the Tell. Bou Saada is actually
north of Djelfa, which the traveler will visit in two days and
which is at over three thousand feet.

“But what of this?” exclaims the reader.

Well, this—that the approach to Bou Saada is as desertic as any
scenery he will see, and that many oases of the south have that same
first aspect of the Sahara created by Bou Saada; and yet to reach
the beginning of the great wastes which run away to the Soudan and
the Niger, ranges of mountains and forests south of Bou Saada must
be crossed, which in winter are often covered with snow.

Bou Saada is an oasis, of that there is no doubt, but why it
springs up in a country which is only a few miles from forests and
vegetation is not to be explained. Perhaps it is one of the great
jokes created by Allah for the benefit of the Compagnie Générale
Transatlantique—and a very profitable joke too! However, the
important point is that the traveler, on leaving Sidi Aïssa, can,
if he wishes, feel that he is entering the desert, but he must
not believe it. It is an impression which can not be forgotten,
just as if a boat had been exchanged for the car and one had put
out to sea. The hills and trees to the north seem to be the land,
and the great expanse of stone and scrub spread out before one is
the sea. To the west barren mountains rise up with almost flat tops,
reminding one of billiard tables built by some dead race of giants.
The world has suddenly changed as the car rushes on along the
straight, even road.

No one is in sight, no habitation—just the wide plain. If the
Sahara proper is to attract one the attraction will come now. There
is no question about this: the expanse of desert either takes hold
of one’s mind or else it merely bores.

However, bored or enthralled, the first aspect of Bou Saada must
seize one and make a thrill pass through the brain. The road suddenly
bends to the right, the sand-dunes appear all golden in the evening
light, a city of rosy mud houses nestles against a russet hill,
fifteen thousand palm-trees bow ever to the lilt of the wind.

Such is the first glimpse of Bou Saada, “the father or place of
happiness,” and indeed so it must have been before the days when
motors made a week-end visit possible. The Transatlantic hotel is
comfortable, and constructed in harmony with the place, and though
the rest of the life is as great a fake as nature has made it,
it has great charm.

On arrival let the visitor hurry to the bastion below the military
hospital to see the glory of the sunset— those amazing lights
which he will see again in the south, but of which his first
impressions here will never be forgotten. A mantle of gold-dust,
the palm-trees in the breeze, herds of sheep and goats returning
from their pasture, stately camels plodding along into the city
accompanied by solemn Arabs: a vision of enchantment.

The return to the hotel, through the quiet streets in the rapidly
increasing dusk, while the _muezzin_ calls the Faithful to prayer
from the mosque, is such a complete contrast to the scenes of
twenty-four hours before that one wonders if one has only traveled
a hundred and fifty miles.

Yet it is not the Sahara, and at night, after dinner, when one is
obliged to fall into the hands of the clamoring guides to be taken to
see the dancing girls of the Ouled Naïls perform their weird steps,
it is not the real thing. Not the real thing inasmuch as the dances
are organized for the tourist and do not go on continuously for the
native population, but as real as possible as far as it concerns the
actual dances and the fact that the girls all belong to the tribe
of the Ouled Naïls, in the center of whose area Bou Saada lies.

Another disillusion to the veteran guide is impending, but in a
merciful spirit the truth about the Ouled Naïls will be kept till
the next chapter. As, however, the traveler has not yet been to
the far south, he will appreciate this evening in a quaint little
room hung about with gaudy carpets, or, if it is fine, perhaps on
the roof, watching the girls dance slowly up and down before him to
the squeal of the _raïta_, or to the deep notes of the reed flute,
while the time is kept by a rhythmical beat on the _tam-tam_.

The stars are flashing overhead in a black sky and peace seems to
have settled on the world, a peace which will gradually increase
as the journey progresses into the Sahara.

Next morning it is advisable to take one of the small boys outside
the hotel (not a regular guide) and, descending into the river-bed,
walk along between the tall palm-trees until the end of the oasis
is reached, and then, crossing a belt of rough scrub, climb up
on to the golden sand-dunes. A great expanse spreads out before
one till, away in the distance, can be seen the beginning of the
Aurès Mountains. It is a land of strange mirage effects, and, if
the sun is hot, visions of palm-trees and green lakes will appear
and shimmer away again before the eye has grasped the picture. If
the country has taken hold of one, an hour’s contemplation in
these golden dunes will pass quickly.

After lunch there is an interesting little excursion to be made
some eight kilometers up the Djelfa road to El Hamel. The car
should not be overloaded, as there are three or four kilometers
to do off the main road up to the gates of the town. Built on the
side of a barren hill, it has a wild look, and its tall walls
give it an imposing aspect as the car climbs up the steep road
to its gates. El Hamel is interesting because of its _zaouïa_
and Mohammedan college for those studying the Koran with a view to
becoming _muftis_ or _imams_. Up to 1904 it had the peculiarity of
being under the patronage of a female _marabout_, Lalla Zineb, and
her tomb, much venerated, can be seen in a very lovely mosque. At
present there is a charming _marabout_ who is always glad to see
visitors. He will show one round and offer coffee in his rather
gaudy reception-room. Though it is not usually known, _marabouts_
accept, and often expect, gifts of money, ostensibly given for the
_zaouïa_; it must be presented with a speech explaining that it
is a charitable donation.

There are many other pleasant excursions round Bou Saada if time
warrants a long stay but, if not, there are more interesting things
to see in the south which will entirely eclipse this false little
oasis.

I say false and at the same time it is an almost unjust epithet,
as, though the place is infested by conducted tours, they have not
yet succeeded in removing its original charm, or making of it a
middle-class fashionable resort like Biskra.

N. B.—Should it be impossible for the traveler to carry the
journey on to Laghouat and the far south, there is a track across
country to Biskra, some two hundred and fifty kilometers. Thence
the journey can be carried on as laid down in the itinerary.

The track starts on the way to El Hamel, and it is well to have
some one who knows it in the car, as there are no signposts and
it is very desolate. Moreover, it must not be attempted in wet
weather or after a storm, as there are many dried-up river-beds
which rapidly become torrents, and there are no bridges.

Otherwise it is an interesting journey, and the first sight of the
Sahara near Tolga is arresting.

                             CHAPTER XXVII

                    THE FIRST GLIMPSE OF THE SAHARA

Leaving Bou Saada by the same road taken the day before to visit El
Hamel, though without turning off down the track which passes the
holy city, the car climbs up into a rolling country of alfa—that
tall alfa or esparto grass which grows so abundantly all over the
Sersou and the Hauts Plateaux, and which is used extensively by
British firms to make paper.

Large concessions are leased for lengthy periods, the grass is cut
and collected by Arabs between November and March, and brought to
convenient centers on camels. Here it is pressed into bales and
despatched by motor transport or by rail to the sea, where it is
shipped to Europe: a profitable business, but somewhat lonely for the
European superintendent who lives at the pressing depot on the plain.

The country traversed during the first part of the journey is
very wild. Hills limit the broad horizon, bare of all vegetation;
they are the Mountains of the Ouled Naïls, and this time it is
impossible to refrain from speaking the truth about these people.
Now, it is generally believed that the women of the tribe of
the Ouled Naïl (which, incidentally, means _children of him who
has succeeded_) are all ladies of easy virtue, and that in every
dancing-place in North Africa this tribe supplies the performers.
It is, moreover, stated by many that prostitution among them is a
form of religion. Both these ideas are false.

In the first place, this occupation or trade did not exist as such
before the French conquered the country. The real facts are these:
the confederation of Ouled Naïls is the largest in Algeria; it
comprises twenty-one tribes and occupies a very wide area, running
all the way from Djelfa to Sétif in length, and almost as broad in
depth. It stands to reason, therefore, that in a great many of the
towns visited by travelers the Ouled Naïl women are found in their
own homes, or in the towns just bordering thereon. Outside their
own lairs, however, dancers of this tribe will be found exercising
the same profession among their cousins of other confederations. The
first reason for this is, again, the fact that they are so numerous
that they have migrated outside their own haunts, and even outnumber
the other women. The second reason is that prostitution among the
Ouled Naïl tribe is not considered a dishonor. This is greatly
due to the astonishing laziness of the tribesmen, who are quite
prepared to live on the earnings of their women. In any other tribe
a mother will bring up her daughter with the idea of marrying well,
having a home, and settling down to rear children herself. A mother
among the Ouled Naïl people will not discourage her daughter from
going as early as possible to the nearest town to earn her living
in order to provide a large enough dowry to make a good marriage,
or retire into prosperous inertia. Most astonishing of all is
the fact that bridegrooms are forthcoming, and that the method
employed to raise the money is not considered dishonorable. Among
the tribesmen of the Ouled Naïl, moreover, these girls are so
weary of the life they have led that they make excellent wives.

There are naturally many families of great respectability, whose
daughters are as closely kept as those of other tribes, but they
are not in the majority.

All this may sound very crude, but, as I have previously endeavored
to show, whatever may be the rights and wrongs of the question,
there is none of that sordid atmosphere associated with the same
thing in Europe.

About half-way between Bou Saada and Djelfa the mountains are left,
and a broad expanse of plain, sparsely cultivated, takes the place
of the alfa. In the distance a group of poplars appears, behind
which lies a walled village. The car passes through a menacing
gate and turns into a long, uninteresting street planted with
sad trees. Of all the cities in North Africa Djelfa is the most
lamentable. There is nothing to redeem its dull squalor, not even
a possible climate. In winter it freezes; in summer the heat is
unbearable; in the spring an icy blast blows from the mountains;
in autumn it rains and snows.

It would be the test of affection between a man and a woman to
pass six months in this place and remain on speaking terms. If the
traveler is wise he has lunched on the broad plain before reaching
this wretched town, as, if not, he must suffer a meal in the very
tumble-down hotel, which does its best, but which fails from want
of support. Djelfa must be left as soon as possible.

The car turns to the south, passes through another fortified gateway,
and is soon speeding away on the straight white road which leads
to the Sahara.

More alfa, more bare hills, more broad horizons. At the fifteenth
kilometer the _col des caravanes_, the highest point on the road,
is reached, and, away, away, the road can be seen like a long ribbon
unrolling itself toward the blue skies of the great south.

The caravanserai of Aïn el Ibel, the Spring of the Camels, is the
next landmark; once the nightly lodging in the days of the diligence,
it is now only used as a place to drink coffee if one is frequenting
the public car. The country is very lonely and desolate. It is a
land of sheep-breeding, and, though the traveler coming straight
from the green fields of Europe looks doubtfully at the gray scrub
about him, he will have his doubts removed when he sees the great
flocks feeding peacefully on either side of the road.

Calm-faced nomads, tall of stature, watch over them, and in the
distance a few black patches indicate where the camp has been
temporarily pitched. Camels too are everywhere, and have replaced all
forms of more modern transport. Caravans of these ungainly beasts,
bearing bales of wool and alfa, with here and there the _bassours_
in which the women travel, plod slowly along.

There is a sensation of something new in the atmosphere—the people
of the north have been left far behind, and at every revolution
of the wheels one seems to be speeding into the past. The flocks,
the camels, the tents, the tall shepherds are the same as they were
twelve hundred years ago, and even the rumbling motor-lorry which
keeps the south supplied with sugar and coffee does not affect them.

A few palm-trees appear, growing about a white caravanserai,
while mud houses cluster in a dip. It is the miniature oasis of
Sidi Maklouf. The road turns sharply to the right, runs down into a
dried-up river-bed, and then stretches straight away to the south.
The barren hill on the right looks like the edge of a saw; ahead
there is a distant horizon in a haze of blue; the eyes would like
to be there and see what is beyond.

Again the road bends, this time to the left, a dark mass appears,
which, gradually getting more distinct, reveals itself as
trees—palm-trees in thousands. Rosy rocks break the horizon, a
white column leaps to the sky; it is the minaret of Laghouat. The car
passes through the sandy bed of a broad river, usually a trickling
stream, but sometimes in the autumn a roaring torrent, making access
to the oasis impossible. The road slips through plantations of
tamarisk, and in a few moments an avenue of plane-trees is entered.

Gardens and quiet little villas are on either side, until, reaching
the fortified walls, the car draws up before the Transatlantic
Hotel, nestling picturesquely amid the tall palms. There is an
atmosphere of peace and quiet, and a welcome which is pleasant
after the long journey.

The interior of the hotel does not belie the exterior, and, when
one realizes that it was once the _bash agha’s_ Turkish bath,
the charm of the surroundings is complete.

An English tea awaits one, and when it has been consumed let the
traveler climb to the rosy rock near by and get his first glimpse
of the Sahara. If it is a clear evening the sunset effect will be
a vision never to be forgotten.

                            CHAPTER XXVIII

                         THE OASIS OF LAGHOUAT

The first view of the Sahara is perhaps one of the most amazing
things in the world. The northern part of the oasis is divided from
the southern by a barrier of rocks, and, as one tops the cliff,
a sense of awe fills one as one contemplates the immensity of the
vision spread out. The mind, unaccustomed to such spectacles, rushes
back and tries to compare the scene with anything it has ever seen
before, but it fails hopelessly, and remains in wonderment before
this wide panorama. And yet, as one gazes at the plain—which
seems to roll out from the sand in the foreground to an endless
expanse of stones, until it merges into the sky and is lost in
an infinite horizon—one can not help being reminded of the sea
on a calm evening: the oasis is some tropical island, with its
palm-trees growing almost down to the water’s edge; the golden
sand lapped by this tideless ocean, and then the sea—away, away,
far away—until the next island.

“Island” is really the only descriptive word for an oasis
in its ocean of desolation. It suddenly springs up and suddenly
disappears. Unless the water changes its course, nothing human can
cause a tree to grow outside its perimeter, any more than anything
could be raised out of the sea.

Laghouat is a very typical oasis of the south. From the rocky
eminence can be seen the town, clustering on either side of the rocky
barrier; the mosque on an eminence in the center, modern and rather
gaudy, but not unpleasant to look at; the very unprepossessing
Catholic church, rather like a wedding cake; and the two oases,
north and south. The town itself is comparatively modern, having been
rebuilt on the site of the old city which was utterly destroyed by
the French in 1852 to punish its heroic defenders for having held
out so long against them.

There are two versions as to the origin of the name Laghouat.
The first suggestion is from the Arab word _“gaouth,”_ or more
exactly _“rouat,”_ meaning a house in a dip with a garden,
and which has been contracted into “El aghouat.” The second
is “El-aghouat,” of which the derivation is _a mountain the
ridge of which resembles the teeth of a saw_. Both are plausible
suggestions, as all the houses have gardens, and the mountains in
the neighborhood give one very much the impression of saws.

Prior to the eighteenth century there is very little information to
be had concerning Laghouat. It was evidently an oasis frequented
by nomads, but there does not appear to have been any definite
settlement. In 1700, however, Sidi-El-Hadj-Aïssa, a very saintly
_marabout_, collected the tribes of the district about him and made
it clear that it would be in their interest to group themselves
in one body, and it must have been at this time that the present
Confederation of the Larbas came into existence.

Sidi-El-Hadj-Aïssa, who is the patron of the oasis, is a figure
of great importance in the Moslem history of Algeria, and he is
venerated throughout the country, more especially as a prophet.
Concerning the truth of his foresight it is not for us to criticize,
but the facts are worth noting. It appears that after creating this
center and making of the divided nomads one people, they did not
show the desired gratitude, and as punishment the _marabout_ laid
a terrible curse on his followers. In the curse he prophesied the
downfall of the city, internal war, and the French invasion. And,
though it is too long to go into, it is curious to note that all
the details of the prophecy occurred.

He made a further prophecy which is kept a great secret, to the
effect that Algeria would be delivered by a great chief who would
rise in Morocco and finally become Khalifat of North Africa.

I leave it to the reader to draw his own conclusions, but the fact
remains that the French did invade Algeria, and that events in
Morocco seemed at one time to indicate a fulfilment of his words.

The town reconstructed on the site of the old city may be more solid,
but it could not be less beautiful. Straight streets running at
right-angles, plain and drab—it is the typical architecture of
the modern southern town. There is a certain picturesque atmosphere
in the quarter bordering on the southern oasis, but it is very poor
and dirty.

The people live in small houses, and ply their business quite
humbly. Modernisms have not crept in, and the shopkeepers do not
worry the visitor to buy. When the day’s work is over they repair
to their gardens—the gardens which have made Laghouat famous. Every
man who can afford it has his own piece of land in the oasis. It may
be an acre, it may be three, but, all the same, it is his garden
and he is proud of it. Surrounded by high walls, it is planted
with palm-trees, peach-trees, vines, apricots, figs, oranges,
pomegranates, pears, medlars, and, in fact, all kinds of fruit.

The oasis being at a comparatively high level, the date-palms do
not produce a very marketable fruit, such as is found at Biskra in
the south, and in Laghouat a palm-tree only brings in fifty francs.
All the other fruit-trees, however, bear abundantly, too abundantly,
for, there being no railway, there is no outlet, and in early summer
peaches can be had for one franc the dozen, and apricots are given
away. Some people even find it too much trouble to carry the fruit
to market, and they merely eat what they can and use the rest
for manure.

Vegetables are in almost the same position, and are sold for
negligible sums. It is astonishing to realize that such fertility
exists so close to the wastes of the desert. There is a wonderful
opportunity for an enterprising man with capital who comes to
Laghouat with a fleet of lorries and bears away the fruit and
vegetables to Algiers. The purchase of the raw material will cost
him next to nothing; it is merely a question of transport. A jam
factory in Laghouat would pay a hundred per cent., but let it be
hoped, for the sake of the peace and beauty of the surroundings,
that no enterprising capitalist will come and spoil a land of pure
delight, where living is so easy and so cheap.

To produce all this vegetation, however, there must be water, and,
its absence being conspicuous in the south, it may interest the
reader to hear how an oasis is watered.

The whole of southern Algeria is crossed by rivers, which in the
winter have a certain amount of water, but which in the summer are
dry, and are in reality only drains to carry off the rain which
comes down from the hills after storms.

The real rivers of the south follow the water-courses, but they
flow underground, and it is only when they rise to the surface that
they form an oasis, and, as the Arabs say, the palm-trees spring
up with their feet in the water and their heads in the flames.
Anywhere along these courses wells can be sunk and the water tapped
at a depth varying from one hundred and twenty to twelve hundred
feet, and in some cases there are broad underground lakes, known
to the natives as Behar Tahtani—_the sea of the underworld_.

[Illustration: Sand Storm Getting up on the Sahara]

[Illustration: Waterfall of Boiling Water, Hammon, Meskoutine]

[Illustration: Arab Falconer Setting Out to Hunt]

Wherever, therefore, the river rises to the surface and forms an
oasis the land becomes very rich, and all vegetation is of the most
luxuriant. Sand mixed with irrigated earth is excessively fertile,
and produces everything from roses and strawberries to jasmine and
lemons. Cereals would thrive and cover endless acres if there was
enough water. Water—that is the question of daily life in the
great south. You may cross endless wastes of desertic plain with
only a few tufts of alfa grass here and there, and suddenly come
upon a great oasis, green and fresh in the watered land. But it
ends as abruptly as it began, and, although you may find yourself
standing in a garden of flowers and fruits and green grass, two
hundred yards away is the blasted desolation of the Sahara.

The distribution of water, therefore, is done very methodically.
There is, of course, the underground layer, in which rest the roots
of the palms, but the surface water for the lesser vegetables is
another matter. There is always a point where the water actually
comes to the surface in the form of springs, and, of course, the
river-bed which, during the winter rains, is running with water,
sometimes after big storms is a raging torrent overflowing the land.

The water is, therefore, captured at these points and carried into
the oasis by means of channels called _seguias_, so inclined that the
water is always flowing round the gardens. The oasis is, moreover,
divided into areas, and the areas receive the water at regular
intervals. A garden has so many minutes, according to its size,
and it is calculated that the whole surface under cultivation is
flooded for its appointed period once every seven days. The system
is ingeniously worked by sluices, padlocked by the water controller
of the area, who, when the appointed day occurs, lets in the water,
while the owner of the domain diverts it into the necessary quarters
on his own land, according to its need. At the end of the appointed
time the controller closes the sluice-gates and floods the next
garden. Rain is considered as an extra, and whatever the weather
the water-day is continued.

Apart from gardening, which is the hobby of all good Laghouatis,
there are other industries. Carpet-making and weaving, the occupation
of the women of the south, is very important here, and some of the
best burnouses and other woolen goods originate in Laghouat; and,
of course, there is sheep-breeding; this is the great occupation
in the northern Sahara, and a source of substantial revenue.

Some of the Jews are goldsmiths; they are also cobblers, and they
embroider leather to make into bags and saddles.

A walk in the evening in the dancing-girls’ quarter will remove
all the theatrical atmosphere which the same thing in Bou Saada
has created. The streets and coffee-houses are thronged nightly
summer and winter alike; the squeal of the _raïta_ and the beat
of the _tam-tam_ never cease, and if one strolls in and sits down
on a bench the performance will not change because of the entrance
of the tourist. The women continue dancing slowly up and down the
middle of the room, while the men sit in serried ranks and stare,
sipping their coffee or mint tea. There is no charge except for
the cup of harmless beverage which costs five sous. Sometimes a
dancing-girl will hold out her hand, and will be delighted with a
packet of cigarettes or a franc, and occasionally the band makes
a collection, but there is none of that grasping rush to exploit
tourists associated with those more popular centers.

There is little else to describe in the oasis, as the atmosphere
of the past is impossible to realize for those who live in great
cities. The lack of traffic, the blueness of the sky, the tall,
feathery palms, the dignity of the Arabs, the silence—especially
the silence—are things which must be seen and felt to be
appreciated.

It is a setting of peace, an atmosphere of calm—a solution to
the worries of modern life.

                             CHAPTER XXIX

                               THE MZAB

The journey south to Ghardaïa is very desolate; even the tufts of
alfa have practically disappeared. The road runs straight across
the flat plain, with nothing to relieve the eye except occasional
groups of dreary trees known as _pistachiers_. Flocks of sheep
graze by the roadside. The nomads’ tents stand out like black
patches on the stony ground. Sometimes a herd of gazelles will
be seen in the distance, bustards rise and flap languidly away,
hares abound. It is a great country for hawking.

If the day is hot, mirages will spring up and disappear as
quickly. It is not a picturesque journey to the land of the Mzab.
Half-way, the caravanserai of Tilrempt is reached; it is a long
white building standing in a dip surrounded by _pistachiers_. A very
worthy “mine host” will greet the traveler and regale him in
this desert home with one of the best meals he will taste in Algeria.

A visitors’ book will be presented to him, with which he can
regale himself joyously for half an hour before committing himself
to the pages as a further joy to those who follow. After Tilrempt
the country becomes more and more desertic, even the alfa has
completely vanished—only rough scrub, and little of that. Then
suddenly, at the one hundred and fiftieth kilometer, the oasis
of Berriane appears, a splash of vivid green in the middle of the
wilderness. The sensation of the verdure, after miles of desert,
is most refreshing. Berriane is the first city of the Mzab, and
one is at once struck by the originality of the architecture, quite
unlike anything that has been seen up till now. The minaret of the
mosque reminds one of an obelisk.

But this haven of green is soon left behind, and more desolation
begins. Not even the scrub, only stones and rocks and strips of
sand. It is a merciless, arid desert, the kind of scene which must
have inspired Doré to illustrate the Inferno of Dante: nothing to
relieve the eye for miles around.

Ghardaïa is reached unexpectedly. One appears to be in the middle of
the desert, when all of a sudden the road turns sharply to the right
and dips down a steep hill. It is as if one were descending into
the crater of a volcano. As the car reaches the flat there suddenly
appears the cone-like minaret of Ghardaïa, as it piles itself into
a kind of heap of houses on a little hill. To the left is the equally
heap-like city of Melika. It is an impression never to be forgotten,
a new world quite unlike anything seen before. But then the people
of the Mzab are a race of their own, and the confederation of cities
is quite unique. The Mzab is the Mzab, and it can be compared to
nothing— it is the most original place in North Africa.

The first question to decide, however, before penetrating into
its desolation and studying the inhabitants, is, _Who are these
people?_ And, curiously enough, the question is not easy to answer.
It is obvious to the simplest minded, on seeing these small,
squat men—with their smooth, round, white faces, fringed with
dark beards—that they are unlike any one else seen in Algeria.

They are as different as the Spaniards from the Germans, as the
British from the Italians. There are various theories put forward,
of which the most picturesque can not really be said to be founded
on any sound basis: it is that these strange people are the lost
tribe of Israel. In support of this theory we have the mystery
of their origin, and their very Semitic appearance; but, though
it would be pleasant to write a romance on the subject, it would
certainly have little merit outside fiction.

The second suggestion is that they are the direct descendants of the
old Phœnicians. People who oppose this idea bring forward the fact
that when Scipio destroyed Carthage he killed or deported all the
inhabitants. Against this, however, it must be evident that there
were Carthaginians in other parts of North Africa who escaped this
fate, and that Phœnician influence is found at a much later date.

In the Mzab itself there are certainly things very closely
connected with Carthage. The triangular decoration of the houses,
the pictures of fish, of the crescent moon, of the sun and the
stars are not Arab. The door-knockers represent the sun, and there
are many of phallic shape. But, in spite of these rather conclusive
evidences, the general idea is that the people of the Mzab are pure
Berbers. In support of this theory we have the fact that they are
Abhadites—that is to say, the last group of people created by the
great Kharedjite schism. What is certain is that the known groups
of Abhadites at Oman, Zanzibar, Djebel Nefarsa and the island of
Djerba have the same customs and language as the people of Ghardaïa.

The question then arises, why are these people in this desolation
of the Sahara, on no natural highway, and in no trade center, where
all the water comes from wells dug by the inhabitants, where it
rains about once every ten years? Why have these men voluntarily
condemned themselves to this life of trial and struggle? Those
learned on the subject maintain that this exile was conceived in a
moment of despair and as an act of faith, that in settling themselves
in this merciless desert they wished once and for all to flee from
the persecution which was always meted out to them by the orthodox
Mohammedans, and keep their form of religion and race intact.

It seems difficult to contradict this theory, all the more so when
we have evidence that they were driven from the Atlantic coast and
Tiaret in Oranie to Ouargla, an oasis some two hundred kilometers
south of Ghardaïa, and that, after barely two hundred years in this
oasis, they were again driven out by the Arabs. Weary, therefore,
of suffering, they determined to settle where no one would come and
molest them, and, as the only solution was to find a place naturally
hostile to invaders, they chose the Mzab. This took place about
A. D. 1070, but already in the year 1000 a reconnaissance had been
made in the direction of the Mzab and had founded a kind of refuge at
El Ateuf. When, therefore, the general emigration north took place,
the remaining six cities which form the confederation of the Mzab
soon sprang up—Bou, Noura, Melika, and Beni Sgen about A. D. 1048;
Ghardaïa 1053; and some hundred years later Guerrera and Berriane,
thirty miles outside the group adjacent to Ghardaïa.

Unlike most oases of the south, where water comes gushing out of
the ground and is directed by artificial channels to irrigate the
gardens, there was no surface water at all on the site chosen by
these people to found their cities. Every palm-tree planted, every
seed sown had to be watered artificially from wells, and if one looks
at the broad oasis, with its thousands of palm-trees, and when one
realizes that when the Mzabites first came the land was as barren
as that seen from the road, the feat performed leaves one amazed.

The system of drawing water has, moreover, not changed since those
days. The well is sunk and a kind of tank is built beside it, with
channels leading out to the parts of the land to be irrigated.
A sloping path is constructed, down which walks a camel with
a rope tied to its neck, while at the other end of the rope is
a skin resting at the water-level. When the camel gets to the
end of his walk the skin reaches the surface and by an ingenious
contrivance pours its contents into the tank; the camel returns
to the well, thus lowering the skin to the water again, and the
process recommences. The creaking sound of the pulley drawing up
the skin has a certain curious charm reminding one of Egypt.

Occasionally, but very occasionally, the rain comes, and to meet
this possibility barrages have been made across every little valley
in order to form small lakes. Beside every path or rock, gutters
have been constructed leading to one center where the water can
be stored. A rain-storm in the Mzab is worth untold millions to
its inhabitants.

And yet the Mzabite is not a farmer in any sense of the word, and
unless he is himself forced through poverty to work in the garden
he will avoid all contact with the soil and employ Arabs to look
after the land. He is essentially a merchant, living in his shop and
opposed to all outdoor life, all sport or anything military. This
antipathy to war again raises the question as to whether he is really
pure Berber. His cousins the Touaregs, the men of the Aurès and the
Kabyle Mountains, the people of the Riff, are all born warriors. Why,
then, has the Mzabite never been able to defend himself?

To my mind it confirms the theory that originally he was a
Carthaginian who became Berberized. Moreover, his round, squat
appearance is much more that which one would associate with the
prosperous trader of Carthage than with the wild men of the Riff.
All their instincts are for business. One sees these fat little
men plying their trade in Algiers, in the towns of the Tell, living
humbly and simply until the day is ripe to return to the Mzab. For
return they must, and this because no woman is ever allowed to
leave the confederation of the seven towns, and, as no Mzabite
may marry an Arab or vice versa, he is obliged to go back to his
home to continue the family. The family to him is of the highest
importance, and though they are, generally speaking, a democratic
race, they are very proud of their lineage, and their aristocracy
holds an important position.

Their habits are decidedly conservative, and are very noticeable in
the strictness with which their women are kept. They do not go to
market, and it is very rare to see one in the street. The children
are terribly shy, and at the approach of a stranger they flee and
at once hide in the houses.

They observe their religion most conscientiously; as it is the
Abhadite dissension it is very strict, and it is carried out to
the last letter, and, whereas one finds a good many Arabs breaking
the laws of the Prophet as it concerns wines and spirits, it is
excessively rare to see a Mzabite drink.

Their mosques are much more respected than those of the orthodox
Mohammedan; no one can be buried in them, and they are sanctuary to
all criminals. Their cemeteries are venerated, and one sees on the
tombs pots and plates, offerings to the dead, which again carries
one back to a more subtle origin than that of the ordinary Berber.
They sacrifice camels and oxen and sheep at appointed times,
chiefly for the purpose of bringing down rain, but also for more
daily occurrences, such as the laying of a foundation-stone.

As stated above, their commercial instincts are extraordinary, and
it is said that Ghardaïa and the adjacent towns conceal millions
of gold pieces. It is certain that in 1921, the year of the great
famine, these people had enough money to buy all they needed, and
they did not suffer half as much as the other tribes of the south.

They keep themselves very much apart from all other people, and
they consider the Mzab as a holy corner of the earth. The Arabs who
live in this wilderness are kept quite separate, with a quarter and
a mosque of their own, and, while mutually despising one another,
are usually the servants of the Mzabites. The Jews likewise who are
found in Ghardaïa itself, not only have a reserved quarter of the
town but they also wear a peculiar dress, and are treated with the
utmost contempt. In fact, in all ways the people of the Mzab are
quite different from any other race in North Africa, and the study
of their history and customs would give material for a lengthy
book. It is hoped, however, that these few pages will enable the
traveler to realize that he is no longer among the simple Arabs of
the great plain, but in the midst of a strange people whose origin
will always remain a mystery.

                              CHAPTER XXX

                     GHARDAIA AND ADJOINING TOWNS

During the journey south we have passed Berriane, the outpost of
the Mzab, and of later foundation than the other towns. Guerrera
is on the journey to Touggourt; the remaining five towns of
the confederation are before us in this kind of desolate rock
crater. The most important and the largest of them is Ghardaïa,
lying at the foot of the military _bordj_, where it is necessary to
pass the night. On a rocky eminence to the east is Melika, further
on, the holy city of Beni Sgen, and out of sight, but only a few
miles distant, are Bou Noura and El Ateuf.

To the south again there is another oasis called Metlili, which
some people erroneously comprise in the confederation of the Mzab,
but though in many ways it has Mzabite characteristics it is in
reality a town of the tribe of the Chambas, nomads who inhabit a
vast area of the Sahara beyond Ghardaïa.

The first thing that strikes one as one looks at Ghardaïa is the
way the houses pile themselves up into a heap, rather like a giant
ant-hill which is, in its turn, surmounted by the minaret made of
mud, resembling an obelisk with little holes in the top. Moreover,
if we turn and look at Melika and Beni Sgen we are struck by the
same similarity of construction which we saw at Berriane and which
we shall see in all the towns of the Mzab.

The origin of these cones is easy to find. As each town was founded,
the group of elders whose duty it was to carry out this rite first of
all built the mosque on a hilltop; this mosque was at the same time
a store for food and arms as well as a fortress. Consequently the
people grouped themselves on the slopes beneath. This again is
evidence of the great antiquity of the race, for is it not known
that all early religious orders frequented heights and that nowadays
theosophists refer a great deal to the influence of high places on
their mysticism? The effect is very curious, and even if the aspect
of the people does not create an impression, their architecture
surely will. Descending from the eminence on which is situated the
_bordj_, a narrow street will be followed, which suddenly leads out
into a broad square, surrounded by unsymmetrical arcades. If the
_caïd_ is at home he will probably permit the visitor to mount to
his roof and look down on this animated center and up toward the tall
minaret. In the middle of the square is a kind of stone stage where,
on certain days, justice is administered, while close by will be seen
a curious group of stones set out in a horseshoe formation. This
strange circle marks the site where the elders of the city first
sat down in the open plain a thousand years ago to found Ghardaïa.

Leaving the square, the route to take is up a narrow street leading
direct to the mosque. The houses almost meet, and in certain places
the alley is tunneled through the habitations. A narrow passage
leads up to the mosque, and if one has a competent guide a dark
chamber can be visited which is a place of ablution, but which,
in days gone by, was the scene of political conspiracies. The
mosque itself is quite unlike anything one has seen before. The
pillars are neither Turkish nor Roman, the architecture has no
sort of connection with any known style. In the wall are holes to
place shoes before going into the sanctuary to pray; hanging from
the roof is a skin full of water, the greatest sign of charity in
this country where water is more valuable than gold.

Above, a kind of cage covered in with wire netting, reminding one
of a chicken-run or rabbit-hutch, leaves one wondering. A hundred
guesses will not elucidate the mystery—it is the lost-property
office!

Climbing on to the roof, a panoramic view of the town spreads itself
below. To the east the Jewish quarter, with a curious pyramid-like
synagogue; to the west the Arab quarter, with an insignificant
mosque; to the south the more modern buildings, with the house of the
White Fathers, while away in the distance can be seen the beginning
of the great oasis, brilliant green against the barren hills.

If one is lucky one may see from here the strange sight of a man
selling his house. There he stands on the roof while the would-be
purchasers squat round making bids.

The walk can be continued through the narrow streets past wells
three hundred feet deep with the eternal skin dangling at the end
of a long rope. A visit is recommended to the Convent of the White
Sisters, who teach the little girls to weave carpets in the patterns
peculiar to the country, and if souvenirs are wanted it is advised
to buy them here. Likewise at the house of the White Fathers leather
goods of the country can also be had at moderate prices.

Returning toward the fort a series of cemeteries will be passed,
as well as a broad open space, where on special occasions the
public prayer takes place. A morning will suffice for Ghardaïa,
and the afternoon can be devoted to the other cities.

The most interesting place to see is the holy city of Beni Sgen and
its oasis, but as this will not take the whole afternoon part of the
time can be devoted to Melika, Bou Noura or El Ateuf. I would suggest
Bou Noura. Melika involves a very steep climb up a cliff and El Ateuf
a motor drive over a very bad road. Moreover, all these cities are
much alike. What strikes one most is their poverty in comparison
with Ghardaïa; all the rich merchants are there, and even the
inhabitants of the other towns come to the capital to do business.

After visiting Bou Noura, therefore, a walk can be taken in the
oasis behind Beni Sgen. A wide area of verdure relieves the eye,
and though the palm-trees are squat like the inhabitants, it is
a very refreshing place. There is a barrage of brick drawn right
across the oasis to catch any stray water which some unforeseen
storm may bring. Here the wells and the method of working them may
be seen at close quarters.

Beni Sgen should be reached about the middle of the afternoon, and
this for a reason to be explained later. Of all the curious towns
in this strange country the holy city is the most curious. It is
entirely walled in, with three gates piercing the walls at the north,
the east, and the west. No Arab, Christian or Jew is permitted to
linger within its keep after sunset; no smoking is allowed in the
houses nor in the streets; even the French school is built outside
the wall. At the entrance of the northern gate the skin of water
hangs in sign of charity.

Climbing up a steep alley one comes to a tower; the key is usually
available, and, entering, one can ascend the winding steps which
lead one successively to three stories which at one time were
guardrooms. From the summit one obtains a magnificent view of the
town itself as well as of the oases of Ghardaïa, Melika and Bou
Noura. Immediately below the tower is a little cemetery where one
will note the offerings to the dead in the shape of plates and
jars. To the east are two broad platforms for the public prayer.

[Illustration: _Photograph by Mr. Julian Sampson_
The Market-Place of Beni-Sgen]

[Illustration: Channel for Watering the Garden of an Oasis]

[Illustration: Street in Bou Saada]

As the afternoon draws on, flocks of goats can be seen wandering
slowly in from the barren hills. They have a public shepherd,
paid for by the town, who is responsible for the animals up to
the gate of the city; at this point he leaves them and the goats,
separating themselves, go independently up the narrow streets to
their respective homes. When they reach the door they butt it with
their heads or tap with their hoofs until they are let in.

The doors of the houses in the Mzab, and especially the locks,
are very curious. The door itself is usually made of heavy planks
studded with nails and closed with a lock usually associated with a
prison gate. This, however, is a modern institution, for the native
key is unique in the world. It consists of a piece of wood about a
foot long, at the end of which is arranged a pattern of nails. This
piece of wood is pushed into a kind of deep slot running from the
doorpost diagonally toward the door. From the wall and running into
the door is a wooden bar or bolt on which is a pattern of nails
corresponding to those on the wooden key. The proprietor slips in
his piece of wood until its nails coincide with those inside and
then he pulls, the bar gives and it is possible to open the door.
It is, I suppose, the origin of the latch-key, as no two combinations
of nails are the same, and it means absolute safety to the designer
of the piece of wood.

At each turn the traveler is experiencing something new, and though
he has seen a series of strange customs common to all the cities of
the Mzab, the most curious, which is peculiar only to Beni Sgen,
has been left to the last. For some reason, which at present it
has been impossible to fathom, there are practically no shops
in the holy city, and everything is sold by auction. This sounds
quite incredible until, climbing down the steep streets, one comes
suddenly into a triangular “square” about fifty yards long.
At one end on a raised platform sits the _caïd_, surrounded by
his counselors, while all around squat men of venerable countenance
dressed in white robes.

In the middle of the square are a few goats, some camels, a mule,
a heap of charcoal, while the auctioneers solemnly carry round the
goods to be disposed of, stopping before each person to hear his bid,
which is said in a whisper. So he proceeds round and round until
the required price is attained. He may be selling a costly carpet
or a bottle of pickles, a piece of firewood or some embroidered
shoes—it is all the same. The goods can pass only to the highest
bidder. Moreover, as the price can only be raised half a franc at a
time it often takes days to acquire the object required. Sometimes
one sees a man riding round the square on a mule or a donkey which
he wishes to dispose of, but it is all the same, and the richest
Mzabite can not alter the procedure for untold cash. The spectacle
of this auction market is one of the most impressive sights in all
North Africa. An atmosphere of an old world, long past and forgotten,
is before us, and as one looks at the faces of the men one can not
help being reminded of scenes from the Bible, and the legend of
the lost tribe springs up unconsciously.

The colored burnous of the Arab has vanished, the bustling merchant
of Ghardaïa is no longer before us, there is calmness of demeanor,
a whiteness of clothing which speaks of ages and ages in the dim
realm of history when Europe was a land of wild beasts and the
Britons painted themselves blue.

At times one is almost inclined to cry out:

“But this can’t be real, this is got up for me, it is part of
Wembley; in an hour all these men will be settling down to chops
and beer in the nearest pub!”

But it is not so. Every day, except on great feasts, year in and year
out, for two hours before sunset these silent old gentlemen assemble
before the _caïd_ and purchase what they can by auction, and when
it is over they repair to the mosque before retiring to their homes
to eat a silent meal prior to returning to bed. The Mzabite is not
a gay personality, and he takes life very seriously. Unfortunately
some of their more ancient characteristics have disappeared by
the appointment of civil _caïds_. In the early days of the French
conquest of Algeria these people surrendered to the invader before
they had even thought of pushing as far as the Mzab, and they still
have a separate treaty with France, making of the country a sort of
independent little republic exempt from all obligations to the main
Government. They kept all their religious dignitaries who ruled
the whole confederation as they had done for centuries before,
and the _caïd_-ship was not imposed on the tribe till after the
whole of Algeria had been pacified. Lately the French seem to have
rather forgotten their old friends and have voted conscription. This
caused great consternation until it was discovered that there was a
subparagraph permitting a Mzabite to send an Arab in his place to
serve. The authority to spend a thousand francs to find some poor
loon to shoulder the rifle brought back the smiles to the smooth,
round, white faces, and the placid atmosphere returned to the busy
shops of Ghardaïa and to the silent streets of the holy city.

Generally speaking nothing has changed since the foundation of the
cities, and even if in some far-off day the railway reaches the
Mzab it will probably only have the effect of stimulating trade.
The haunt of the children of Carthage will remain as it was when
their forefathers imposed their commerce on the whole of the
Mediterranean basin as they are now beginning to impose it on the
easy-going Arabs of North Africa.

                             CHAPTER XXXI

                     GUERRERA AND THE SAND DESERT

To cross over from the rock desert of the Mzab to the sand of
Touggourt it is advisable to be very certain of the reliability of
the car, and, if possible, to go accompanied by another vehicle. The
country to be traversed is terribly desolate, and, except when the
mail bus runs, once a week, it is very seldom that one meets any
traffic; if one has a serious breakdown one must wait in the desert
for the passage of the _diligence_, which may be some days.

Water—plenty of water—and some food should be carried, a rope and
a spade to help one out of the sand, and all necessary spare parts.

The road on leaving Ghardaïa is the same by which one arrives,
but, after following it for ten kilometers, one turns sharply to
the right along the desert track. There is at once an impression
of desolation and loneliness—no more telegraph poles, no more
milestones, little to mark the sides of the road. At first the
flat-topped hills are on either side, then gradually they give way
to great rolling expanses stretching away, away on all sides; even
the scrub has disappeared; it is the first real impression of the
Sahara, and, though the noisy rush of the car makes one forget the
solitude, the silence and loneliness appal one at any stop one makes.

Some twenty kilometers along the track another track branches off
to the right. It must not be taken, as it leads to Ouargla, to
the Hoggar, to the far south until it reaches Timbuctou. A little
farther on, as if nature wished to fool the traveler, one suddenly
sees a splash of green winding about among the stony plain. It
looks like some lovely river shaded by trees, and, though there is
no water running between its banks, it is a river making its way
below the surface of the ground, to spring up later at some oasis.
But it is soon left behind, and the country becomes more and more
desertic, though, curiously enough, it has not such a cruel aspect
as the land about Ghardaïa. The hills are of a delicate rose color
and the lines less hard; it is the prelude to the sand.

The road starts climbing, then all of a sudden, as it tops the
rise, the oasis of Guerrera appears, solitary in the middle of
these pink hills. It is the most impressive sight of the whole
journey. Battlemented walls surround the town, as it piles itself
into a pinnacle surmounted by the cone-like minaret. At its feet
lies the oasis, with its thirty thousand palm-trees bowing in the
breeze. It is one of the most amazing spectacles any traveler can
wish to see—an impression of desolation, of solitude, of green
vegetation, of a town of a past age.

There is quite comfortable accommodation in the _bordj_, and, though
the food is almost entirely Arab, it is cleanly cooked. In the
itinerary set out at the end of Chapter XXV it has been suggested
that Guerrera should be passed through on the way to Touggourt,
without stopping, but, though it differs little from the other six
towns of the Mzab, its oasis, its remoteness from civilization,
make it well worth a longer break in the journey.

On entering the town by one of the turreted gates, one is first
of all struck by the business and bustle of the people. Arriving
here out of the desolation of the Sahara, one almost expects to
see savages or, at any rate, dark people living in a primitive
state, but not at all; the houses are solidly built and are clean
and well-kept; the people are gracefully robed in white, shops
abound, and practically every one speaks a little French. It is the
civilization, the business instinct of the Mzabite, the inherited
perseverance of the Carthaginian which permits these squat little
people to thrive in this lost city of the Sahara.

But the most beautiful place is the oasis. Unlike those we have seen
before, there are none of those high walls which screen the gardens
and which prevent our seeing anything behind them. Here there are
no walls, the palm-trees grow all about, with vegetables and grass
at their feet; vines are trained from stem to stem, and give an
impression of virgin forest. Little paths and sun-baked alleys
lead one past wells and fruit-trees until, coming suddenly out of
the shade, one finds oneself on the desert again. A small group
of palm-trees cuts the horizon, and then, away, away, the Sahara
as far as the eye can reach. The sun sets in an orange radiance,
wrapping the palm-trees in a mantle of gold-dust; the breeze springs
up and rustles through the oasis; peace and silence are everywhere,
and one is tempted to remain in this quiet for a few days. It is
free to the traveler to do as he pleases, but our journey must be
accomplished, and sooner or later we must push on toward the east.

After Guerrera the road continues across this rose-colored
landscape. It is impossible to describe it adequately, photographs
do not give the impression of delicate color or of the limitless
horizon, neither can the mind of him who has not been in the real
Sahara visualize the vast expanse of sky which seems to cover
the world.

Some fifty kilometers before reaching Touggourt one comes into the
sand. It is an impression as different as possible from anything
which has been passed up to the present. Soft white dunes rise up
before one, curling back and looking like great waves of the Atlantic
about to break into foam. In all directions this sea extends without
any sort of break, and one realizes a little what it must be to
lose one’s way in a desert where there is nothing to guide one,
nothing to differentiate one dune from another.

If the wind is not blowing, it is a pleasant drive through this
area of sand, but if it is, the drifting grit blinds, gets into the
engine, and covers the track, and it is practically certain that
sooner or later the car will stick and that it will take infinite
trouble to free it.

Touggourt itself is a typical southern town, of little interest
beyond its situation in the sand; moreover, it has lost a good deal
of its charm by the presence of the railway and the consequent
invasion of tourists. Hotels have sprung up, and the streets are
infested by guides. It is one of the great date centers of Algeria,
and the sweet luscious fruit eaten in England at Christmas-time
comes from the one hundred and seventy thousand palm-trees which
form its lovely oasis. If one is here in November one can see the
Arabs swarming up the trees in a miraculous fashion and cutting off
the bunches of golden dates, which are let down to earth by means
of a rope slung over one of the branches.

In March and April one will see a still more curious sight, the
fertilization of the palm. The flower of the male tree is carried
to the top of the female by an Arab who places it in a cleft in
the head of the tree while he chants religious airs. A date-palm
does not bear fruit for twelve years, but when it does it goes on
for over a hundred, and those who own palmeries in the areas which
produce the right kind of fruit are excessively rich.

One night will suffice to see Touggourt, and the sunset over
the sand-dunes is a spectacle never to be forgotten, while if a
caravan from the south arrives it affords a wonderful impression
of a period of the past. It is hard to realize that in this sandy
country the only really adequate mode of transport is the camel.
Some men ride horses, but even then they have a hard time, whereas
the ship of the desert, with its spongy padded feet, its nostrils
and eyelids hermetically closed to the dust, and its endurance
without food or water, prove that it was created for this purpose,
and that traveling by any other means is hazardous. It is not a
very rapid conveyance, but one can average a good twenty-five miles
a day and be certain of reaching one’s destination.

Further south one finds the _mehari_, or trotting white camel, which
moves along at a great pace, but it is reserved almost entirely
for the Meharistes, or French African camel corps, who guard the
lonely caravan tracks of the Sahara.

On leaving Touggourt the road follows the railway through a country
of sandy patches which gradually get stonier as it progresses
north. Pleasant little oases are passed, as well as salt lakes which
are usually practically dry but which give excellent mirage effects.

We are now in the confederation of the Zibans, one of the most famous
tribes of the south, and to-night we shall be at their headquarters,
the world-famed city of Biskra.

                             CHAPTER XXXII

                                BISKRA

With the aid of a railway an English novelist inadvertently made
of Biskra what it is to-day. I say inadvertently because there is
not the least reference to Biskra in the whole book, and I am sure
that Mr. Hichens was the last person to wish to create of a Sahara
oasis a kind of Dieppe-on-sand. Neither would this town have been so
thronged with trippers had it been miles away in the desert without
a railway, but it is so easy to get into the train at Algiers one
night and detrain the next day in time for lunch in the Sahara that
more people come here than to any other place in the south.

Of course, from the point of view of the country, the change
has brought in a great deal of money and the town has an air of
fat prosperity unknown in the other places we have visited. Arab
guides are paid the wages of colonels and the hiring of camels is
as expensive as a motor-car. The cafés of the Quarter charge what
they please and the numerous Palace hotels have corresponding prices.

It is a curious place and well worth a visit. It is difficult
to decide which arrival is the most attractive—possibly that
from the south, because the oasis is the first thing seen. It is
an impression of palm-trees, three times as many as at Laghouat,
and as one approaches in the evening, the golden light seems to
envelop their feathery heads in a mysterious radiance as the wind
rustles through them.

From the northern approach the coloring on the rocks and hills will
perhaps be as wonderful, but there is not that same feeling of the
Sahara because the town masks the oasis.

The largest hotel is the Royal, and from its tower a wonderful
panorama of the desert is spread before one. Unfortunately it is
difficult to keep up this atmosphere long, as it is impossible to
close one’s eyes to the Anglo-Saxon hibernators who have brought
with them their knitting and their bridge and their crossword
puzzles, while the foreign waiters in their starched dickeys
jar horribly after the silence of the Great South. Moreover, if
one steps into the street superb guides in sky-blue robes assail
one—flight north seems the easiest course only to find a gallery
of curiosity shops stocked with gaudy merchandise from Syria. Again
fleeing from the oily merchants toward the sounds of a deep flute,
one finds oneself in a coffee-house, as dirty as in the other cities,
with the only difference that the mint tea costs five francs. Again
in a wretched state of persecution mania one turns south again and,
seeing a brilliantly lighted building of Moorish architecture, one
hurries in; lights dazzle one, the sounds of bad dance-music strike
the ear mingled with monotonous cries of _“Rien ne va plus!”_
It is the casino, but, just as one is about to depart again into
the night in search of a haven of refuge, the curious scene arrests
one’s steps.

Of all the _habitués_ of casinos in the world I think that those
collected in that of Biskra are the most remarkable. The Biskra
casino has no kind of pattern or atmosphere; it is just an amazing
jumble like the background of one of Mr. Piccasso’s pictures. The
hall is full of cheery French inhabitants of Biskra sitting at little
tables drinking beer, laughing, and occasionally dancing gaily to
the noisy band. A few solemn Britons join in the fun, while Arabs of
serene countenance sit and watch without showing the smallest trace
of emotion. At the gaming-tables a party of travel-stained tourists
belonging to a Transatlantic tour are learning the mysteries of the
play under the supervision of the company’s guide in his khaki
uniform plastered with medal ribbons. Two or three Anglo-Saxons
in dinner-jackets, with their consorts in smart evening gowns,
contrast vividly with the robes of the Arab chief whose turban,
unlike those we have seen up to the present, is bound about with
much thicker strands of camel’s hair and crossed and interwoven
in a fashion peculiar to the district.

In a kind of theater, a music-hall show is taking place, partly
composed of the usual French turns, partly of Arab music and
dancing. If one is lucky one may hear the great tenor Mahi-ed-Din
sing the ballads of the Tell. The audience is as mixed as in the
other room, but it is gay, and in spite of oneself one is drawn
back to this scene each night. It has the great advantage over
the native quarter in having no pretensions. It is as genuine as
possible and is certainly unique.

The only peaceful spot in the whole of Biskra is the famous Jardin
Landon, erroneously supposed to be the Garden of Allah. It is
unknown who first spread this story, and it was certainly not the
fault of the author that the legend arose. The Garden of Allah is,
of course, the desert; the land from which Allah has removed all
vegetation and life in order that man may not come and interfere
with his solitude, and where He can walk in peace. The restful
garden in question is a wonderful plantation of tropical trees and
flowers. It was created by the Count Landon de Longueville, and it
gives the impression of a conservatory in the open air. Paths run
about through passages of trees; green grass grows in abundance,
and the ceaseless noise of water ever running through the _seguias_
is as soothing as soft music.

It is a question as to whether the impression of sunset lights is
best seen from its wall or from the tower of the hotel. Both views
are enchanting, but perhaps that of the garden is more vivid, as it
is closer to the desert and to the herds of camels and goats passing
slowly across the dried-up river bed which is the continuation of
the Mzi we saw at Laghouat.

This long, long river which bursts up here and there to create oases
is said by the natives to rise in the Djebel Amour Mountains above
Laghouat and, flowing right across the desert to Southern Tunisia
and Tripoli, finally to disappear in the Nile.

If one has not come up from Touggourt and one is anxious to get
an impression of the sand desert, there is a tract of land to
the southwest, the other side of the oases, which is really worth
seeing. It is a natural fake, like Bou Saada, and a photograph of
the proud traveler sitting on a hired camel can safely be labeled
as having been taken in any part of the “Grand Erg.”

The Village Nègre is worth a visit, and if a horrible curiosity
appeals to one, the dervishes who eat scorpions and glass and pierce
their faces with nails can be seen without difficulty.

Not far away is the oasis of Sidi Okba, which is a good example of
a southern town for those who have cut across from Bou Saada. It
is famous for its mosque, where lies buried Sidi Okba, who was
killed here in his last battle against Koceila, the Berber chief,
in the year A. D. 682.

As far as sightseeing, this is about all Biskra can produce. If,
however, one is in this cosmopolitan oasis in the early spring
when the races are taking place, an entertainment is provided
which will not be forgotten. The Arab chiefs in this district are
wealthier than most of their colleagues, due to the richness of
the date-palms; and owing to the proximity of Europeans, they are
given a great deal more to entertaining than others. The _bash agha_
of the confederation of the Zibans keeps open house, and even in
the deadest season never dines alone, but calls in his friends from
the street to share his repast. At the races he outdoes himself in
hospitality, and it is entirely owing to him and to his relations
that the meeting is such a success.

The races consist of three quite separate performances. The first are
so-called flat races, which consist of a wild gallop round the course
for Arab horses of all ages and sizes, mounted by turbaned bandits
who just go “all out” for the first place. No pulling here.

The second are the officers’ steeplechases, where one sees some
nice horses and some quite good racing.

But the third event, which in reality embraces the whole affair,
is the _fantasia_. The Arab chiefs from all the surrounding land
muster their tribesmen, who all come mounted, armed to the teeth,
and as wild as children at a birthday party. This kind of irregular
cavalry is known as the _goums_, and in time of war it is levied to
fight for France. During 1915 a contingent was fitted out and sent
to Flanders, where it behaved heroically. At the Biskra races the
_goums_ make a very brave show, too, in their flowing burnouses,
sitting bolt upright in their high-backed saddles, their guns across
the bow and the curved scimitar beneath the left saddle-flap. There
is a mounted band consisting of two men with _raïtas_ and one with
a _tam-tam_, while at the head of the column rides the _caïd_,
clothed from head to foot in scarlet and purple, his feet in
embroidered red leather boots resting on massive silver stirrups,
while beside him rides a retainer bearing the banner of the tribe.

It is a splendid and majestic sight to see these wild men of the
south passing slowly before the improvised grandstands. After the
orthodox racing is over, and after the _bash agha_ has entertained
endless guests at lunch and tea, it is the turn of these nomads
to show what they are worth. There is a stir in their ranks,
then suddenly two men dash down the course at a furious speed. As
they approach the stand they rise in their stirrups and fire their
guns and fly on. The women, in gaudy taffetas, raise high tremulous
cries. Two more men follow, and then another two; then one man alone
who carries two long guns which he fires together, tossing them
in the air as he disappears in a cloud of dust. A larger group of
horsemen flash past, the air resounds to the crack of the guns and
the cries of the women, but they are gone before one has realized
that they have passed.

A pause. Then all of a sudden a tall figure in scarlet and gold
is seen detaching himself from the other _goumiers_; he sets his
horse in motion and comes whirling down the course; behind him
rides his standard-bearer, so close that he seems to touch. Behind
him again four retainers in blue burnouses gallop in hot pursuit.
As the _caïd_ approaches the stand he turns sharply and, aiming at
the center of the crowd, fires. The color-bearer dips the standard,
while the retainers, bending forward, draw the curved scimitars
which flash in the setting sun as they wave them above their heads
and sweep on in a whirlwind of dust, while the cries of the women
rend the air.

Oh, it is a brave spectacle, the _fantasia_, and makes one realize
how far separated are we in Europe from these wanderers of the south.

There is an Arab proverb which says that “Love lasts three seconds,
the _fantasia_ three minutes, and misery lasts for ever!”

                            CHAPTER XXXIII

                                TIMGAD

The road, on leaving Biskra, runs due north over a land which
usually looks barren, but which in periods of rain produces a
plentiful crop of cereals. Very soon a ridge is topped, and Biskra
and the Sahara are lost to sight. Some people will heave a sigh
of relief at leaving for the last time these desolate expanses;
others will look back longingly, and these will return sooner or
later. Once the Sahara has gripped the heart there is nothing in
the world which will free it from its hold.

Just over fifty kilometers from Biskra the oasis of El Kantara is
reached, and of all the beauty-spots in North Africa it is one of
the most attractive. It is really better to approach it from the
north, descending from a high level toward an apparently unbroken
barrier of rock. Some trees proclaim the few houses which cluster
about the little Hotel Bertrand, nestling under the towering cliffs
while the river gurgles at its feet.

Then suddenly a cleft appears in the rocks, and the road and the
railway creep out side by side into the plain beyond. It is the
complete contrast of the north and south—of winter and summer. On
one side of the mountain the soil is dark and fertile, and on the
other it is rosy and desertic. The Arabs say that all rain stops
north of the Gorge of El Kantara.

Arriving from the south the first thing we shall see will be the
oasis: a long array of palm-trees shading a river which is more
than often full of water. If time permits, it is well worth the
trouble to cross over an iron bridge and visit the curious little
villages. There are some interesting Roman remains and a series of
views of the palmery, which, even if one is not an artist, furnish
material for beautiful photographs.

Proceeding through the Gorge of El Kantara, which incidentally
means the bridge, we come to _the_ bridge, built by the famous Third
Legion which garrisoned this part of North Africa. Unfortunately
it has been badly restored, but the stones used by the Romans are
still there.

The Hotel Bertrand is a restful place, a paradise for painters, and,
if one is interested in climbing or shooting the elusive moufflon,
there is plenty of this sport in the district.

The road climbs on, winding up the steep gradient on to the cereal
plains of Batna. The tall peaks of the Aurès Mountains rise up,
covered with pines and cedars, and in winter often deep in snow. It
is a great contrast after the Sahara. The rest of the road is
uninteresting, as is also the modern town of Batna, where one will
find all comforts as usual at the Transatlantic Hotel.

The traveler will, of course, make his plans before starting,
but it seems opportune to put in some suggestion for the visit to
Timgad. If time presses it is advised to leave Biskra early, lunch
at Batna, or, better still, picnic at Lambèse, go to Timgad, and
return to sleep at Batna. If time is not of importance it would be
far pleasanter to leave Biskra later, spend some time at El Kantara,
lunch there, sleep at Batna, and spend the whole day at Timgad,
and sleep again at Batna.

Or, if Roman ruins do not attract one, go to Timgad in the morning,
lunch there, leaving about three in the afternoon, and arrive at
Constantine for dinner.

As stated in the note at the end of Chapter XXV, it is possible to
do Biskra, Batna, and sleep at Sétif in one burst, which permits
one to be in Algiers the following day.

The road from Batna to Timgad runs over a rolling, inhospitable
country dominated on the right by the frowning Aurès Mountains. The
first place of interest is Lambèse, the Roman Lambæsis. It was
founded at the end of the first century as the headquarters of that
amazing Third Legion which garrisoned North Africa at that period.
It is one of the best existing examples of a military camp, with
its magazines, parade ground, officers’ quarters and military
church. It has also an amphitheater and a few temples, but their
remains are not so interesting as in many other Roman cities. The
prætorium, or rather its entrance, built of massive blocks of stone,
is in a very good state of preservation; through the middle passed
the main roads which ran straight across North Africa—north,
south, east and west. Traces of this masterpiece of engineering
are continually being unearthed.

Leaving Lambèse, the same scenery continues, a triumphal arch is
passed, a few relics of Roman houses, then at the thirtieth kilometer
there appear in the distance two tall pillars, which seem to leap up
out of the plain to a great height and stand pointing to the sky in
solitary grandeur. Straining the eyes, one soon discerns buildings
and more pillars. A great arch defines itself—we are arriving at
the dead city of Timgad. Two thousand years ago the Emperor Trajan
decided to found a settlement for the Roman soldiers who had fought
in the Parthian campaigns, and he commanded that Thamugadi should
be built by the men of the Third Legion.

Thus Timgad did not grow up according to the needs of the settlers,
but was conceived and born in its entirety. For this reason it is one
of the most perfect examples of a Roman town of the period. Some
writers have called it the African Pompeii, but, though the
drifting sand preserved it as did the ashes Pompeii, this is the
only thing analogous about the two places. Pompeii was a seaside
resort, a town of pleasure and luxury; Timgad was an outpost of a
mighty empire. Everything was done to make it resemble as much as
possible the settlers’ homes in the mother country, and it must
have been a strange sensation for the Berbers of the Aurès who
ventured down from their mountain homes to see all the civilized
organization going on in the middle of this desolate land. Timgad
was, however, never an important nor even a large city. Its area
did not exceed one hundred and fifty acres and, though it is
interesting to us because it escaped the total destruction meted
out by the Vandals and Arabs to most of the other Roman cities,
it never created anything in particular.

Entering by the northern gate, we find on our right the big
baths. Built with the utmost care and paved with marble brought
from Italy, they contained every improvement of the day, and were
practically identical with the baths of Caracalla at Rome. They
are in a high state of preservation, and it is most interesting to
examine the various devices for bringing in water and for heating
the many chambers.

Walking up the street from the baths, one passes what must have been
shops; only the lower parts of the walls remain. The first building
of interest discloses itself on the left. There is a pillared portico
and a kind of altar with shelves around; the inscription suggests
that it was the public library, but this is not certain. It may
have been the shrine of the Lares—household gods.

[Illustration: The Bridge of the Third Legion at El Kantara]

[Illustration: _Photograph by Mr. Julian Sampson_
An Arab of Tadjmout]

The street now leads into the Decumanus Maximus, the main
thoroughfare. Graceful columns line either side, leading into what
must have been large houses. The paving-stones, placed diagonally
to prevent their being worn away by the chariots, are nevertheless
deeply rutted. Between the chinks can be seen the drain which ran
beneath the middle of the way. Immediately opposite this intersection
are the steps leading up to the forum: a white-paved court with many
pillars, some fifty yards long, with at one end a tribunal where sat
the judge. There must have been many statues, but they are no more.

Just below the forum, on the north side, are the public latrines
which, with their carved hand-rests, are interesting and worth
examining.

On the south side of the forum there is a charming inscription:
_“Veneri, lavari, ludere, ridere—occe est vita!”_ “Hunting,
bathing, gambling, laughing—this is life!”

Climbing out on an eminence above the forum, we come to the
theater. The auditorium is hollowed out of the hill and is in a fine
state of preservation. The seating accommodation makes the modern
play-goer think, as from every stall the stage is fully visible
and the acoustic properties are faultless. Looking across from the
theater can be seen the tall pillars we first espied from the road;
they are the ruins of the Temple of Jupiter on the capitol. The
pillars are immense, fifty feet high, with each capitol three feet,
making a total of fifty-six feet. In the middle was a gigantic
statue of Jupiter, now in the Louvre in Paris. There is nothing so
drearily desolate, so terribly silent, as the two pillars of this
temple. It seems as if they stood there to warn the people who pass
of the vanity of human things.

Near by are some interesting villas of a more luxurious conception
than those we saw before. The rooms are more numerous and spacious,
and there is a reservoir for keeping fish.

On the hill behind the capitol, stand the remains of a Christian
church, with a baptistery of which the mosaics are in a perfect
state of preservation. Leaving this Christian church, we now
retrace our steps, leaving the capitol on the right, and make for
the triumphal arch of which we have already caught a glimpse from
the Decumanus Maximus. Before reaching it there is an interesting
market-place. The large court is surrounded by a colonnade, and
the stone counters of the shops are just as they were at the time.
Opposite the market-place is a small temple, but what strikes the
attention at once is the triumphal arch of Trajan. It has three
openings, and niches for statues, and is certainly the most imposing
monument of Algeria.

Hence we can wander back through narrow streets to the gate by which
we entered, and near which stands the museum which is well worth a
visit. In addition to all sorts of curiosities such as hair-pins,
needles and implements for dentistry of the time, it contains some
of the fine mosaics which have been unearthed from the houses and
pieced together. If we look at them for a moment and imagine what
they looked like up there near the capitol, we can get a small
idea of how charming the residences must have been. There are also
drawings of what it is supposed Timgad was like in the days of its
glory, and certainly, if the artist was not carried away by his
imagination— and there is no reason to suppose this—it must have
been indeed a noble city. And yet its aspect now leaves the traveler
with a feeling of sorrow. The silence is, first of all, appalling;
the atmosphere of desolation is impossible to convey in words,
and, as one sits in the forum or on the stone steps of the theater
and tries to conjure up the gay figures who once frequented these
now silent spaces, one is filled with an unspeakable awe. All this
luxury, all this amusement, all these habitations—for what? For
the future planned by Imperial Rome, since it is evident that no
nation would have built the great town, with all in it, as a mere
pastime. They intended to stay; they believed in their unshakable
greatness; they believed in the power of the sword.

But Rome fell, as had fallen other empires, and as others will
also fall. And Timgad is left to the jackals and to the hyenas,
to a few intelligent excavators, and to the host of chattering
tourists who rush through these ruins of a glorious past without
a thought for the cultured race who once lived there.

“Vanity, vanity—all is vanity!”

For this reason I have said as little as possible on this city of
the dead, and I leave it to the traveler to go himself and feel
the atmosphere which no painter or writer can reproduce.

                             CHAPTER XXXIV

                         DJEMILA THE DESOLATE

If Roman ruins are of interest to the traveler there is a second
edition of Timgad, to my mind finer and more complete than the
subject of the last chapter, but unfortunately not on any main road.

I refer to the town of Cuicul, now called Djemila, situated on the
barren hills to the northeast of Sétif. There are two means of
access: from Algiers via Sétif, or from Constantine via the road
to Djidjelli, described in the next chapter.

From Sétif the main road to Constantine is followed for thirty
kilometers to Saint Arnaud, where one turns sharp left and begins
climbing into a rolling country of cereals sparsely cultivated until,
after some thirty more kilometers of winding roads, one reaches
Djemila. The other route branches out of the Constantine-Djidjelli
road at Zeraîa, sixty-five kilometers from Constantine, and
soon begins climbing up into the rolling country described above,
rejoining the Sétif approach some fifty kilometers farther on,
and ten from Djemila.

The first aspect of the ruins is certainly more impressive than that
of Timgad. The road has been winding along the side of a steep hill,
high up through a country so harsh and desolate that one looks about
apprehensively as if the dead themselves guarded the bare slopes,
watching over the scenes of their great triumphs.

Then suddenly at a bend in this sad road the eye suddenly
distinguishes, on a kind of promontory far below, something which
at first looks like a great graveyard. Then gradually, as one
watches, the stones detach themselves from the gray surroundings,
graceful pillars rise up, triumphal arches, the massive walls of
a temple. . . .

We are looking down on what was once one of the most prosperous
cities of that dead empire which ruled Algeria as no one since has
ruled it. The road winds down toward the miniature village outside
the site of the ancient city. The Compagnie Transatlantique has,
as usual, a comfortable hotel, in fact it is the only hotel, and if
the traveler ventures to this lonely spot out of the tourist season
he will have to carry his own food and sleep out-of-doors. This is,
as a matter of fact, quite feasible, as during the summer months
the heat of Djemila is intense.

The excavation of Djemila has been carried out with much more care
and system than that of the other Roman cities in Algeria; this
is chiefly due to the intelligent interest taken in the place by
its curator, the Comtesse de Crésolles. This charming lady lives
in a comfortable house overlooking the ruins, and if the visitor
has the good fortune to make her acquaintance he will find in her
a fund of information about the excavations, and an untiring guide.

Djemila can be seen in a morning, but a week would seem more like
the period required really to study the ruins properly. The first
thing that strikes one on entering the precincts of the ruins is
why this town was built on a spur so far below the mountains which
tower menacingly above. The reason is quite clear. At the end of
the first century, when the city was founded, the main roads ran
along the bottom of the valleys, and it was therefore necessary to
plan the military centers at some point where they not only formed a
guard over the long arteries of civilization, but also a stage for
the caravans as they passed up and down from Constantine and from
the coast. But quite apart from the military side of the question,
Djemila under the Romans was one of the great cereal centers of the
empire and within its walls the grain was brought to be despatched
to the far-flung limits of the mighty empire.

The first portion of the town to be visited is the Christian
quarter. Begun in the third century it rapidly grew in importance
and was undoubtedly the see of a bishop. The great basilica of
Cresconius was built by this Christian bishop as a mausoleum for
his predecessors. There are two other churches excavated near this
cathedral, and there are no doubt other important buildings still
under the earth.

The most interesting edifice, perhaps the most interesting in all
the Roman remains on account of its state of preservation, is the
baptistery. To the reader used to well-preserved churches and art
museums in Europe it is difficult to convey the real impression
created on the mind on entering the low doorway of this first
evidence of Christianity in this part of the world: outside, the
desolation of the barren hills and the sadness of the gray ruins;
inside, the fresh color of mosaics, stuccoed niches, graceful
pillars. A gallery runs round the actual place of immersion,
lined with hollowed-out seats, reminding one of the stalls in some
university chapel in England. Rich gold mosaics stud the walls;
on the floor all kinds of intricate designs in rich colors, which
make one realize the trouble taken by that dead race to beautify
all that was their work.

At each end of the baptistery, two doors lead into the center
portion where the converts were christened. The floor is carpeted
with delicately colored pictures of fishes and seashells; above,
a canopy carved out of one block of solid stone rests on four
pillars; on the floor of the primitive font a mosaic inscription
in Latin reads:

 “A day will come when all people will have been baptized.”

It is with a feeling of reverence that one quits this jewel in the
midst of the ruins.

It seems useless to describe the other edifices in detail; they are
like all Roman ruins, and require the atmosphere of loneliness to
produce their effect. A few words will suffice:

The theater is in about the same state of preservation as at
Timgad. It is, however, being gradually restored, and will soon be
in its original state. Only the other day (1926) a company of the
Comedie Française gave a performance of _Œdipus Rex_ on its stage.

Leaving the theater it is advised to take the path leading to
the northwestern extremity of the ruins, passing the baths of the
capitol and various private houses. Turning to the left, one enters
the capitol which formed the northern extremity of the old forum.
The temple of Jupiter, with its six columns forty-two feet high,
rose majestically above the other buildings; a colossal statue was
in the center. Now only two bases of columns can be seen in place,
the remains of others lie about the steps and before the altar
of sacrifice.

The ruts of the chariot wheels are less distinct in the Cardo Maximus
here than at Timgad. The drain down the center is clearly visible.

The new forum is very impressive. On the right a triumphal arch
seems to leap from the earth almost intact in the middle of the
ruins. An inscription dated 216 tells that it was raised in honor of
Caracalla, conqueror of many nations. On the other side of the open
space stands a great temple. Broad steps lead up to the lofty pillars
supporting the remains of a roof; the walls, though shorn of their
marble facings, are almost intact. Another inscription states that
the temple is in honor of the family of the Emperor Septimus Severus
and was erected in the year 229 by the Republic of Cuicul. From
the entrance a fine view can be had of the original city.

The visit has been rapidly accomplished, and only the great
baths remain to be seen on our way to the hotel. As usual they are
magnificent in all their luxury; nothing seems to have been omitted
by these Romans in their far-away exile to make their homes as like
as possible what they had left in the northern country.

It rather reminds one of the Briton who, in all his arrogance,
carries his clubs, and his drinks, and his games into whatever
distant corner of the Empire he settles himself. To the Roman
nothing was good which was not from Rome. It is rather the same
with us, and I suppose it will always be so. Machinery makes life
more complicated, but it does not change the mentality of mankind.

There is a good museum near the hotel where the excavators have
collected the best things found in the ruins. Apart from the usual
implements of daily life, seen in greater profusion at Timgad, there
are some very fine mosaics. It would take too long to describe them,
but to those interested the museum is well worth a visit, and when
one looks upon those lovely designs, so intricate, so artistic, one
wonders why the Arab and the Algerian of to-day does not copy his
floors from these pictures in stone instead of plastering everything
with hideous modern flags of impossible colors. And yet even the
beauties of those Roman cities of the past do not bear comparison
with the monuments of the mother country.

There is something coarse, unoriginal in them, which at first
leaves one wondering, until one suddenly realizes that one is in
the presence of the Roman colonists, the expatriated wanderer who
set out to seek his fortune overseas, the retired soldier or the
rich grain merchant. He tried to copy what he had at home; he did
better than would a present-day colonist from England or France,
but it was not the real thing.

Still, the dead cities of that great empire are of vast interest
and, to those who like to live in the past, it is a joy to wander
through the silent streets and realize how great and civilized this
colony once was, and how still greater the desolation and misery
caused by the advent of the Arab.

From Djemila the traveler can either return to Algiers direct
or continue the voyage through Constantine, or, if time presses,
he can leave out Constantine and make direct for Djidjelli.

For the moment we must turn our attention to the third city
of Algeria, the first city of Christianity under the Emperor
Constantine.

                             CHAPTER XXXV

                       CONSTANTINE TO THE COAST

The scenery along the road to Constantine by either route differs
little from that just passed. It is a land of cereals, once upon a
time properly irrigated by the people of a great empire, now sadly
dependent on the rainfall.

The approach to the city is impressive. It seems to stand out on a
rocky pinnacle, and as one crosses the bridge and looks down into
the depths of the Gorges of the Rhummel, one suddenly wonders if it
is not all a stage setting: chasms, perpendicular cliffs, natural
rock bridges and tunnels, the houses clinging dizzily to the rock
wall, and, far beneath, the silver streak of the river. Constantine
was originally the capital of the Numidian kings, and was known as
Cirta. Syphax, Massinissa, and Micipsa ruled here, but it was not
until the fourth century and after it had been destroyed during
one of the many conflicts which raged round its walls, that it was
rebuilt by the Emperor Constantine.

Its history during the rest of time is a series of revolts and
conspiracies, and, though a few of the beys during the Turkish rule
built some lovely houses, its record is not elevating. There are only
three interesting things to visit, and they can all be done in the
day. First is the Gorges of the Rhummel, a most amazing spectacle
of natural arches and passages hundreds of feet below the level of
the town. When finally the river bursts out of this chasm into the
open plain at the foot of a perpendicular rock towering up to dizzy
heights it is like the entrance of a giant church. To the top of
this rock, which watches over the whole plain of historic interest,
tiresome or unfaithful wives of the bey were taken, placed in a sack
with a cat, and hurled to their doom below. No one has yet been able
to explain the cat, but I suppose it added to the fun of the thing.

Standing once on the summit of this pinnacle with a Scotch friend who
was traveling without his better half, I recounted this story. He
was a man of few words, and for a moment he made no reply; then,
peering cautiously over the precipitous edge, he exclaimed, “Oh,
for the good old days!”

The next place to visit is the palace of the bey of Constantine.
It is now used as the divisional headquarters, and, though it is
not properly kept up, one can get an impression of something very
lovely: a series of courts open to the sky with marble floors and
delicate pillars, enclosing miniature gardens, in the middle of which
fountains splash gaily. The walls are covered with multi-colored
tiles, while the ceilings and doors of rare wood are adorned with
intricate carvings. On a sunny day it is a vision of blue and white
and green and orange, and, though the drab clothes of the modern
inmates and the click of the typewriting machine jar on the senses,
one can imagine the enchanting atmosphere of these quiet courts
when men in splendid robes passed in and out, followed by their
dark-skinned slaves.

Communicating with the palace is the present-day cathedral, in
the old time the mosque of the bey, who could pass unseen from his
residence to his devotions. The French have enlarged it, but it is
quite easy to see what was the original building. Here again there
are some very lovely blue tiles.

There are other mosques, also Jewish and Arab quarters, which are
worth a visit if the traveler has not been anywhere else, but after
the long journey with all its scenes of Arab life, it will suffice
to visit the above-mentioned places and return to rest, prior to
the journey to the coast.

By starting early one will be able to lunch at Djidjelli, and the
afternoon run along the _corniche_ to Bougie can then be taken
leisurely. The first impression on starting is that of hills. Up
to the present all traveling has been done across rolling plains,
but serious gradients have been unknown. The descent from the
crag on which Constantine is perched again makes one wonder how
it was captured by force. The cereal lands continue to give to
the country a very desertic appearance, and, though it is not the
desert of stones and rock, the rolling fields, with lonely farms,
do not attract one to stay. One gets good examples of the desertion
of villages by the French colonists, always yearning to get to the
big towns near the coast.

Mila, at the fifty-fourth kilometer, was once a Roman city of
importance; it is the last village of any size we shall pass.
Thence onward the country is very wild. At Zeraïa (junction of
the road from Djemila mentioned in the last chapter) we traverse
forbidding gorges, after which the road runs for a few kilometers
across a small plain of olive-yards, crosses a river, and then
starts the long climb to the Col de Fdoules.

The road is a masterpiece of engineering as it climbs dizzily
along the steep cliff of the mountain. At the hundred and fourth
kilometer the Col, three thousand feet above the sea, is reached;
from the watershed there is one of the finest mountain views in North
Africa. To the north and to the south the hills rise up sheer and
the valleys are lost in deep shade. The road then runs down into
the Gorges of Taberkroutz and for the first time after the long
travel, trees appear quite close. The road climbs up again and the
woods approach, until soon we are in a thick forest. At the Col
de Texenna a splendid panorama of forests and mountains is spread
out before one. It is a wonderful sensation to return to luxuriant
vegetation after the perpetual desert, and the sound of water with
the smell of the damp earth revives the mind, weary with staring
over limitless expanses. Another sensation of delight seizes one
as the sea comes in view and, rapidly approaching the shore, the
road follows it to Djidjelli.

One can either lunch at the hotel or picnic in pleasant surroundings,
but whatever plan is adopted the new atmosphere and the fresh air
will give one the appetite of the proverbial hunter. Djidjelli was
originally a Phœnician settlement, and later, under the Romans, was
an important harbor. It is most famous as being the first capital
of Barbarossa the elder, who came here after his first failure to
dislodge the Spaniards from Algiers, and when his original Tunisian
lair at the island of Djerba had become too inhospitable for him
to return. His greatness began with his election as Sultan of this
little seaside city. His conquests and raids are world famous,
and though it was his younger brother who eventually ruled Algiers
and became the scourge of the Mediterranean, it was the temporary
Sultan of Djidjelli who in reality was responsible for the pirate
fleet which was to terrorize the sea from its headquarters in
Algiers for three hundred years.

At the present day Djidjelli is the center of the cork trade.
The forests cover an area of one hundred and fifty thousand acres,
and cork is exported from the harbor to ports all over the world.

The road along the seacoast from Djidjelli to Bougie is one of
the loveliest in North Africa. Deep red cliffs look down on to the
sapphire blue of the Mediterranean, while the green of the forests
above contrasts again with the azure of the sky. Natural tunnels
are traversed, and here and there the road clings dizzily to the
perpendicular rocks. This road, like many others in North Africa,
is a wonderful piece of engineering.

At the thirty-sixth kilometer stone there are some marvelous caves
well worth a visit. An Arab looks after them, who will illuminate the
multitude of stalactites and stalagmites which adorn its fairylike
halls, creating a vision of enchantment.

Pretty little villages succeed pretty little villages, where one
would like to spend the day lazily watching the tranquil sea. In the
hills there are masses of game and wild boar abounds; occasionally
one sees monkeys—the famous Barbary ape.

Bougie has a Spanish aspect, but is in itself not particularly
interesting. In Roman times it was a colony for veteran soldiers,
and later it became like most Algerian ports, a harbor for pirates.
Charles Quint spent a few days here after his disastrous attempt to
capture Algiers. If time permits there are some delightful excursions
round about, but the traveler by this time is probably so weary of
motoring and contemplating scenery that he will want to return to
his trunks and his comforts in Algiers.

As stated in the plan of the journey there are now four alternatives
before us—the direct run to Algiers via Bouira and Palestro,
or via Azazga and Tizi Ouzou—or else, if time permits it, by
Michelet and the Massif Kabyle or by Tigzirt, the coast, and Dellys.

By Bouira and Palestro the road runs through a smiling valley and the
return to Algiers can either be made via the gorges and Menerville
or by the Bouzigza Pass. By Azazga and Tizi Ouzou or by Tigzirt
the same routes will be followed as far as Azazga; the road rises
rapidly up through woodlands to the Col de Tigdint, whence a superb
panoramic view of the Kabyle Mountains can be seen on one side,
while all about appear those quaint stone villages perched on the
summits of every peak. Running down again, the forest of Yakouren
is entered, and the road wanders through delightful glades, restful
to the eyes, until the little village of Azazga is reached. It is
recommended to picnic in the forest.

If Algiers is the goal it is straight ahead.

Tizi Ouzou, apart from its name, has nothing curious; silversmiths
make massive jewelry here, but there is no need to stop. The road
runs through orchards and tobacco plantations rather monotonously
after all the gorgeous scenery of the rest of the journey, and the
arrival in Algiers will be welcomed.

If the road via Tigzirt has been selected one must turn off to
the right some six kilometers after Azazga. The road continues
bearing to the right and climbs steeply up to a Col whence one gets
a magnificent view to the south of the Djujura range, deep in snow
in winter. The road now runs down to the coast and then follows it
for twenty-six kilometers to the little seaside resort of Tigzirt.

Here, if time does not press, and if one does not mind primitive,
though clean, comforts, one can pass the night in the hotel and
thus have an opportunity of visiting the delightful ruins of an
old Phœnician settlement, later Romanized.

Thence the run to Algiers is via the seacoast to Dellys, and after
that the dull Tizi Ouzou road—one hundred and fifty kilometers
in all.

It is, however, hoped that the season of the year will have permitted
the traveler to visit the Great Kabyle country, and in the next
chapter I will endeavor to describe the scenery and the people of
this district, which is almost as unique as the Mzab.

                             CHAPTER XXXVI

                                KABYLIE

The Kabyle country lies to the northeastern extremity of the
department of Algiers, with a small portion lapping over into
the department of Constantine as far as Bougie. It begins at
Palestro, runs down to the sea, and is bounded on the south by
the road from El Kseur to Bouira. It seems curious to speak of a
country in the middle of a French department, and yet its physical
boundaries are as defined as its people. Like the wild men of the
Aurès, the Kabyles are hardy mountaineers of the same race—the
Berbers. Perhaps a little purer than the people of the Aurès, who
undoubtedly intermarried with Roman soldiers when the Empire fell,
whereas their cousins of the north have remained intact since the
days when the foreigner had not set foot in Africa.

The actual area of the country is about thirty-eight hundred square
miles, and is composed of great mountains running up at some points
to an altitude of six thousand feet, and deep in snow from December
to March.

Unlike the people of the Mzab, the Kabyle types vary considerably,
and though the majority are tall, blond men, one notices many who
are small and dark. They have the same spirit of independence as
the Berbers of Ghardaïa, with the great difference that they are
all warriors and brook no interference. There is no area in Algeria
which has caused so much trouble to the French, and even now the
inhabitants consider themselves superior to all other races, and
only accept the foreign rule because they have to. In spite of
this these people never seem to have had any sort of main state,
and though the word _zouaoua_, from which is derived the appellation
of the French regiment _Zouaves_, is the name given to this group
of Berbers, they have always been a divided nation; and it is only
since the French fully pacified them that they have ceased to be in
a perpetual state of internal war. These wars usually originated as
vendettas, it being admitted that a man killed required another man
killed and that all disputes about land must be settled by the sword.

Before this period each village was a kind of little republic of its
own with the principle of government of the people by the people,
that is to say that the _Djemma_, or local council, was supposed
to be composed of all the men who had attained their majority. As a
matter of fact this was rarely put into practise, and the government
of the village lay in the hands of the heads of families, the elders
and a few young men of note. These men elected an Amine, who presided
over the assembly, which decided every detail concerning the daily
life of the community. The Amine had, however, little real power,
as his position depended on the good-will of the other members over
whom he presided, and who could by a simple ballot dismiss him. It
was a state of absolute socialism, and the man of good family or
the richest farmer had no more authority than the poorest laborer.

Moreover, to this day there is no distinction of class; there are
no fine houses for the prosperous; the beggar and the rich man
wear the same rags and live in the same squalor. The _Djemma_ still
exists and the simple stone seat on which the worthies sit can be
seen in any village. The wars or vendettas also continue, but in a
somewhat more discreet manner, and though they still speak of the
_Cof Oufella_, the clan of the higher levels, and the _Cof Bouadda_,
the clan of those below, the French do all they can to keep order.

They are all naturally industrious farmers, and though the
difficulty of cultivating this steep land, combined with the
density of the population, makes farming no easy matter, the
results are amazing. The growing of cereals holds a minor place
in their agriculture, and their attention is chiefly directed to
trees, especially the fig and the olive, of which the fruits are
regularly exported. Owing to the overcrowded population, however,
one finds few large landed proprietors, and the ownership of
property is carried to the most ludicrous extremes. For instance,
a whole family may own a fig-tree without owning the land on which
it grows, and cases have been known of a man who owned an olive-tree
hiring out the branches to the olive exporters.

The family ideals are the same as among all Berber groups: absolute
respect for the head of the family, precedence for the males, but
unlike the modern Arab family, no position at all for the women. It
is true that polygamy is much rarer here than in the rest of North
Africa, but this is largely due to economy rather than to anything
else. Otherwise the wife is an absolute slave, and one is at once
struck on the roads by the sight of Monsieur riding his mule while
Madame trudges behind. As soon as a girl is of marriageable age,
and often before, she is bought, and from that moment she must
do all her husband’s work, bear and bring up his children and,
if he wishes, be divorced. Even if he dies she is not allowed to
keep her children, who are taken over by the man’s family as soon
as weaned. Moreover, no woman can inherit from a man. When she has
passed the period of bearing children she is relegated to the status
of a beast of burden. Against this she has much more liberty to go
about unattended, and she is not veiled. Small compensation!

It is hard to instil different principles into these wild people,
as they are very hostile to all forms of European interference,
and it is with the utmost difficulty that the children are made to
go to the French school.

What is still more extraordinary to note is the fact that men who
have been educated and who have actually been to Europe will return
to their villages and, without the smallest hesitation, rebegin their
old life, sleeping on the floor near their donkeys or their horses,
while the women chop wood and do the rough work. Neither are these
isolated cases as, since the war, many an old soldier, realizing
the unequal struggle in his own country, has gone to France as a
workman in a factory, and during that period has made money which
has been regularly sent back to the family in the mountains, but
once weary of Europe he has returned to his people to lead the same
life as before. Berbers they were two thousand years ago, Berbers
they are still, and, like the men of the Mzab and of the Hoggar,
of the Aurès and of the Riff, they remain unaltered, and there
seems little prospect of anything changing them.

As in the Mzab, the villages differ considerably from those of
the Arabs of the plain. Here again we find the town built on a
pinnacle. Practically every peak in the Kabyle Mountains is dominated
by a group of houses which cling dizzily above steep precipices. The
houses themselves are small, low and squalid; the better ones consist
of three rooms very slightly separated from one another. One room
for the men, one for the women and children, and one for the animals,
but there are many cases where men and beasts all dwell together.

[Illustration: The Departure of a Caravan in the Far South]

[Illustration: Market Looking toward Trajan’s Arch, Timgad]

[Illustration: Praetorium. Lambèse]

The men are poorly dressed, and one never sees the prosperous white
robes of the Mzabite nor the costly burnous of the Arab chief, but
in spite of their rags they stalk along the road, stick in hand, the
head high, and a look of defiance in their clear eyes. The women,
on the other hand, wear brilliant colors—red and yellow and green;
their heads are wrapped in high turban-like head-dresses consisting
of many scarfs wound one above the other. Their faces, unveiled,
are handsome and, contradictorily to their status, have usually an
expression of great gaiety. Like most people who have never known
anything better, their lot seems to them normal, and they have no
other ambition.

They are all very superstitious—childishly so, and they carry
countless antidotes against spells and the Evil Eye. Their courage
is proverbial, and they callously bear pain. A man who had been
stabbed in the abdomen was seen to push back his intestines into
the gaping wound, mount his mule and ride off to the nearest French
authorities to make his complaint. A doctor once said that if he
saw a Kabyle cut in half he would not give a death certificate
until he was sure that the heart had stopped beating!

Unfortunately space forbids my recounting countless anecdotes and
stories about them. Like the Mzab, this is a country where one can
linger quietly for some weeks and never have a dull day.

The road from Bougie to Michelet runs first of all along the foot of
the Kabyle Mountains, giving one an excellent idea of the isolation
of this district from the rest of Algeria. Great barren peaks rise
up and the red earth of the slopes contrasts brilliantly with the
olive-yards and fig plantations.

Shortly after Akbou we meet the road from Sétif to Algiers via
Boaria, which can be taken if the suggestion to run straight through
to Algiers from Timgad has been followed, or if one is making
straight from Bougie to Algiers via Palestro. Our own course is to
the north and, turning sharply to the right, the road begins to climb
steeply up into the mountains. It is a magnificent drive, and the
panorama from the Col de Tirourda is one of the most superb in North
Africa. The whole of this great system of mountains is around us,
chain succeeds chain, with the quaint little villages perched on the
top of every point of vantage. It is as new a scenery as the Mzab,
and one is hardly able to realize that barely a week ago one was
staring across those desolate plains of stone and rock. The road
winds on along the edge of precipitous slopes to Michelet.

Here there is an excellent Transatlantic hotel which, unlike most