This is quite a different affair to the ordinary storyteller, who chants long passages from the life of Mohammed accompanied by the sounds of his own tom-tom. He will sit and play with a cloth spread in front of him, looking like a living idol, and the women working in their tents send little children with offerings of bread or flour tied up in their veils, for veils are still used in the near East for carrying treasures as they were in the days of Ruth. The old man sits impassively droning quietly on, neither heeding nor caring for the groups of children who come and go, staring and listening with wondering eyes. Odd little figures they are in their trailing burnouses or bright-coloured shirts, the boys seeming to have a partiality for yellow and orange, while the boys and girls alike are toddling imitations of their fathers and mothers. Only the smaller boys wear a fez or cap and no turban. Nearly all go barefoot; it is only the very well-to-do who wear yellow slippers, and socks are still more uncommon.
THE STORY-TELLER
If, as often happens, a boy wishes to go to France or England, he will promise anxiously, as if it added greatly to his future usefulness, “If you will take me with you I will wear boots.” It is quite evident that the wearing of boots is in itself considered a proof of progress, and if it is possible to procure a pair however old, or a ragged coat, men and boys alike will add them to their own proper clothes and wear them proudly, quite unaware of the painful effect.
That is one of the trials of Biskra, the degrading of the native character and appearance by the example of the lower class of the Moghrabi, or Westerners, as they call strangers. Of course this happens everywhere, and more’s the pity; but it has gone so far in some of the larger towns like Algiers, that there are few of the old families left, and it is now an almost European city with a mixed population in the lower class. Here the Arabs are only learning, but already they drink and beg, bother and tout as guides, and even gamble. Night after night, wealthy Arabs may be seen in the casino playing “Petits chevaux” with stolid, immovable faces, taking their gains and losses with equal indifference. El Kantara may not be an earthly Paradise, but Biskra is far enough from the age of innocence.
A VILLAGE STREET, BISKRA
CHAPTER V
LIFE ON AN OASIS
Enthusiasm about a desert life comes quickly, so perfect is the view from the roof; but disillusion follows as easily, with the desire to explore in every direction. Difficulties and drawbacks then begin to appear; for this is not Egypt. Here are no rows of big white donkeys and picturesque groups of smiling boys waiting your pleasure. No dromedaries growl and grumble as their riders mount, though now and then some unwary tourists may be seen on pack-camels, fondly imagining that they are learning the qualities of a real ship of the desert. Even horses are rare and hard to get. The concierge smiles and suggests a carriage or a tram, for it is not given to every one to enjoy long trudges over rough tracks or on dusty paths. But a tram! Could anything be more unromantic? Even a carriage hardly sounds better for a voyage of discovery.
Finally, having decided that there is no help for it, and that romance must be quite independent of such details, some expedition is arranged, only to end perhaps in bitter disappointment. Instead of being greeted in the morning by the expected sunshine, there is a downpour of rain, which makes the roads a sea of mud and quite impassable for days, leaving the roof the one dry place available for a walk. For though the sun can broil and scorch, there is no lack of rain; and rain in the Sahara is almost more out of place than a tram, and certainly far more depressing. The mud is of a depth and stickiness quite unsurpassed, and those who dare its dangers find progress slow, as they slide back nearly as much as they advance.