Another drawback is wind. Icy wind from the snow mountains, or hot wind with sand-storms from the south. In a good season there is said to be wind three days a week, but in a bad season, or during the races, it blows daily.
Biskra races are the great excitement of the place and of Algeria, and it is a superstition (founded on fact) that whatever date is chosen for the great event, it is sure to prove the windiest week in the year. This sounds nothing to the unsophisticated, but to those who know, it means misery.
A day may open in peace; the sun shines; there is not a breath of air; it is warm—nay, hot. Ideal weather. Breakfast is hurried through; such a day is not to be wasted, an early start is made, and for the first hour or two all goes well. Then comes a little shivery chill; the sun is no longer as warm; the palms rustle. In a few minutes the wind blows hard. Dust rises in clouds, and everything disappears under that thick veil. The Arabs shrink and cower in corners, their hoods over their faces covering mouth and nose. Such a wind can last all day, the sun just visible as in a London fog, only white not red. In fact, the dust hangs in the air like mist, the mountains vanish completely, and nearer objects are only dimly visible. It is dense, luminous, horrible. In less than a minute everything is lost under layers of dust. Dust drifts through closed doors and windows, and makes little heaps as snow does in a blizzard.
On ordinary windy days the dust is very trying, and the dread of wind spoils many an exquisite day, as the wicked habit it has of rising morning after morning before 11 o’clock stops many pleasant plans. Still, when compared with memories of fog and rain, cold and slush, on the other side of the Mediterranean, the gain is so great that the sand-storm is almost agreeable.
The morning freshness has a quality in the desert unfelt elsewhere—a purity, a crispness, a delicious sense of invigoration that brings thoughts of the Engadine in a fine August.
The first impulse is to go south, to leave the town behind, and even the village nègre as the French call it, though few are the blacks who dwell there, to go forth beyond the monastery which Cardinal Lavigerie founded for soldier-monks, Frères du Sahara, who were to fight, preach, and abolish slavery, but who seem to have failed in their mission, as their home is now a hospital. Cardinal Lavigerie is held in special honour as is his due, and his statue stands looking towards the desert he loved, in an open space near the gazelles’ garden.
Even the Chateau Landon, the show garden of the oasis, must be left behind, though already, on the path beneath the walls, the call of the desert is felt. Nothing intervenes; the river-bed, wide and dry, is at your feet. The river itself, an insignificant stream, is lost in the expanse of sand and stones bounded by low cliffs of ochre-tinted soil, from which rises an oasis bright and fresh, but small. Beyond, nothing but infinite space, till sky and desert meet in a blue so soft that the French soldiers on their first coming cried, “The sea! the sea!”
Further on one can wander in and out on mud paths under the palms, listening to the soft murmur of running water from the rills, which carry life and refreshing moisture through the shady glades. From this welcome shade the river-bed looks white and dazzling, and whiter still the Koubba of a favourite Marabout planted in its midst.
All is light yet full of colour; the very mountains of the Aures are radiant with rose, and the long blue shadows are full of light. Arabs come from under the palms, and find their way to the river to wash and stamp on their clothes in the bright sunshine. A man and two small boys settle down beside a little stream under the trees with a burnous, which they scrub all over with soap, taking infinite pains to see that every corner has its share. Then they trample on it, and knead it with their feet till it is clean as clean can be; then they stretch and pull it into shape ere they spread it out to dry in the sun, whilst they enjoy a rest after their labour. Women and children come also: the women with bundles on their heads; the children moving quickly, mere flashes of colour.
