THE BEGGING MARABOUT
The Arabs resort to Hammam Salahin, the Bath of the Saints, a solitary building, with the usual arcades and whitewash covering the hot springs, a scene of utter desolation, volcanic and grim. Even the two small clear lakes add no touch of beauty to the salt, sulphurous waste. But it is amusing to see the women, who bring great bundles on their heads, and who, after the ceremonies of the bath, put on clean garments, and then proceed to wash all sorts of brilliant rugs and draperies in the hot water as it streams away, making the wilderness gay by turning it into a drying-ground.
But, after all, the true barbaric fascination of desert life is shown in the most striking fashion during the races. The tribes come in from far and near, all in their gala dress, and the fêtes begin, continue, and end with processions and fantasias.
Strange processions, typically Eastern, a mixture of splendour and squalor, pass and repass in the streets. The Bach Agha in the place of honour, and the Caïds, glorious in all their bravery of red and white, glittering with gold embroidery and sparkling with orders and medals, ride beautiful horses, which step proudly under heavy trappings of gold. The details are as good as the effect; the cloth and silk are of the finest, the high boots of soft red leather.
The Sheikhs are almost as splendid, and the Spahis in their white and blue both ride and look well. Each Caïd is surrounded by his chiefs and Spahis bearing the banners of the tribe, and after these magnificent figures follows a motley crew, men and horses alike gaunt and poor-looking. They do their best to look imposing, with guns and swords and fierce looks, and the horses are decorated with long, trailing saddle-cloths of gorgeous, faded silks, which almost sweep the ground, as they move along. As they pass the centuries fade away. This seems no pageant of the present day, but a troop of freebooters starting on a foray in the Middle Ages.
The first event of the races is the ride or drive in the early morning through the villages of the oasis, where every roof is crowded with women and children gay as a bed of Iceland poppies, past the ruins of old Biskra, straight along the great desert road, to see the finish of the long-distance camel race.
The Meharis (riding dromedaries) had started from Tougourt 140 miles to the south, and were expected to appear about nine o’clock. Every vehicle and every camera in Biskra was there, and crowds were already waiting and watching, all eyes turned to the distant south, though the shimmering heat made it difficult to see far. At last in the distance appeared specks that moved and grew, and in a moment the waiting was over and the Meharis had come. One after another, with long, easy strides, they swept past, their riders still urging them forward with voice and hand. No appearance of fatigue, no hint of the distance covered in an incredibly short time, were apparent in the bearing of either the Spahis or their untiring steeds. Fit messengers they are to carry important tidings in time of need, as the French officers showed by their keen interest in the race.
THE PALM VILLAGE