Even within the walls there is the same suggestion of a fortress: the walls are high, and seldom broken by doors; windows in the accepted sense of the word are rare—a few holes in the wall suffice to give air and light. Another peculiar feature is the way some of the houses are built across the streets, forming square, tunnel-like passages exceeding dark after the glare. Mabrouk threaded his way in and out, up and down through the labyrinth of alleys, all rather lonely in the early morning, left to a few old men crouching in sunny corners, and to an old woman or two carrying water; for El Kantara women, though they do work occasionally in the gardens, and do some washing down by the river, seem, as a rule, to keep as quietly within their walls as if they were town-bred. The paths down to the river wind through palm gardens, and are largely at the mercy of the streams used for irrigation. These are turned on and off by the simple method of putting in a stone or a spadeful of earth, and thus diverted into new channels they often swamp the path to such a degree that it is difficult to pick one’s way, the clay becoming very slippery when wet. Every garden has a right to a certain quantity of water each day, which is carefully measured by time. Under the palms grow many fruit trees, notably figs and apricots. Down in the valley, across the artificial watercourse, out on to the dry part of the river-bed, a very wilderness of stones and small oleanders, blindingly white in the sunshine, the village appears in a setting so different that it loses all resemblance to its fellows in the Sahara or in Egypt, and suggests old drawings seen long ago of places in the tropics. Perched on the top of a cliff, the orange tones of the soil repeat themselves in the walls; the huts seem turret-like additions to the natural formation, and form a curious foil for the few well-placed palms and the delicate tints of some apricot trees in blossom; behind this the deeply-fissured ridge stands sharply defined against the sky.
There are three villages, the Red, the White, and the Black, with imposing Arabic names, and each with its special interest, making it quite amusing to poke about and watch the life. If one is too lazy to walk, and yet does not mind a good shaking over rather uneven tracks, and turning a few slightly alarming corners,—alarming, that is, to people unaccustomed to Eastern roads,—it is possible and very pleasant to drive round the oasis, making little detours on foot to see special objects of interest, and particularly to stroll along the edge of the cliff to enjoy the sight of the river and the trees; for there is no lack of palms, considering there are said to be over 90,000 of them.
CARDING WOOL
Mabrouk, notwithstanding his travels, gives the oasis a wonderful character. “Every one has enough and is content. The dates are good; fruit, corn, and vegetables are plentiful; and the flocks and herds prosper.” In short, an earthly Paradise! Not a paradise suited to European tastes, perhaps, for who would care to live in a windowless adobe hut, to sleep on a mud floor wrapped in a burnous, or to live for ever on cous-couss and dates, even though it all might be rather fun for a change? The villagers are friendly folk, and give pleasant greetings. The elder men utter a sonorous blessing in Arabic, while the younger say “Bon jour” fervently, and often like a chat to air their French.
No one ever begs, or even looks expectant, though they will walk with you along the road, telling of much that is strange and interesting, and asking innumerable questions. To show how kindly they are to each other and to strangers, any man who was near at the time would stand on guard over me whilst my boy trotted off to get his dinner, holding an umbrella over my head with great care if it was sunny, and would slip away with a ’slama, or good-bye, when the boy returned, not even thinking of a reward.
But it is a different matter when it comes to painting inside one of the huts. To paint a woman! Mabrouk said he would take me to his uncle’s house in the white village because I was “so nice a lady,” but that it would not have been possible had I unfortunately been a man. It is rare to gain an advantage for such a reason, but the privilege was not to be despised, so we started off, my painting things carefully concealed under his burnous. With infinite precaution, to avoid meeting any of the men, and great care in looking out to see that no one observed or followed us, we at last arrived at a rough door in a high wall. He knocked and talked, and at last after some fuss, the capturing of barking dogs and shutting them up, we were admitted, only to be confronted by one of the dreaded men, who absolutely refused to let his young wife, whom he evidently considered very beautiful, sit for me. Happily he relented sufficiently to send for another woman—to my mind far more attractive: tall, slender, and graceful, and wearing her flowing cotton garments as if she were a queen. He then disappeared to the café, and we set to work in the courtyard, a corner of which was swept clean for me. She stood calmly spinning and looking down, intensely interested and amused by my proceedings, which were watched and sometimes interrupted by the various animals who inhabited the place—a horse, a cow, goats, sheep, and some fowls. Having safely disposed of the tyrannical husband, the other woman began to fancy she would like to be painted too, so long negotiations began in Arabic, with the result that we were to come back in the afternoon and she would card wool, as she had been doing all the morning. Going back and coming again were made into a delightful farce by the extreme wariness displayed.
IN THE HEART OF AN OASIS
Nothing exciting happened after all, but there was great pleasure for my boy, at any rate in the exercise of his cleverness. Personally, I was never quite certain whether it was all a game or not. Some artists told me that in other places they had managed to get into the interior of the houses by expending a good bit of money, but then they may not have seen the prettiest wife. Anyhow the younger woman posed in the house, the horse was turned out to make room, the gate was securely barred, and quiet reigned. She was quite short and very fat, with a soft, clear complexion, big eyes, and eyebrows touched up with kohl. She wore a muslin dress wound about her and kept on by a girdle and brooches, and she had plenty of silver ornaments and charms. The elder woman was dressed in printed cotton, obviously from Manchester, but there was nothing crude in the colour, and the floating garments had a most Oriental appearance. There is no furniture in these dwellings,—just a shelf, some hooks, a mill to grind the corn, a few finely-shaped jars and pans, and a good many coloured cloths and burnouses. Being hospitably minded, they offered dried dates, corn and nuts in flat plaited baskets, in the same kindly way that Mabrouk himself would always bring a branch of some special dates for me, insisting on their goodness, “for, see, the date comes off and leaves the stone on the stalk”—to his mind a sure sign of a perfect fruit. The open door let in light and air, but otherwise there was only a small square hole; the roof was supported by two square pillars. The sheep and goats trotted in and out all the time, and so did the chickens, all perfectly happy and at home. Both the women had charming smiles and manners, curious though they were about every detail of my dress and painting. They had not an idea of being frightened by a camera, and posed proudly and willingly. They became a little anxious as the afternoon wore on; so after many farewells, blessings, and good wishes, we slipped away in the same watchful, mysterious fashion as before, but by another route.