The race-course at Biskra is as unusual in its frame of palms as the sports that take place there. Nothing could be more picturesque than the Bach Agha’s procession as it winds along under the palms; nor more beautiful than the groups into which in half-military fashion it breaks to watch the races. The crowds, who in their gala array encircle the course, vie with the horsemen in decorative effect, whilst the dancing girls outdo them all in sheer splendour of texture and tint as they flutter round their tents.
Men of distant tribes in strange garb are also here: some wearing head-dresses of waving plumes, like huge busbys; another, one of the dreaded Touaregs, in dark robes with dark turban, veiled, like a woman, in black or intensely dark blue. These are masked men, fierce and mysterious as the sun they contend with and the desert they rule.
The races are good and the Arab horses fine, but the excitement of novelty comes in with the fantasias. These fantasias are mock fights or powder play; but there is a method, a savage fierceness, a fiendish glee in their performance that gives an uncomfortable thrill, and a feeling that any trifle might turn play to earnest, and a knowledge that if it did, the performers would exult more than ever.
The Mozabites fight on foot. They are small, wiry men, wearing full gandourahs as short as kilts, with curious fringes and tassels of camel’s-hair hanging from their broad belts. They bind their haïcks loosely, and arrange them to cover the lower part of their faces, the usual precaution in their own torrid country far to the south, beyond Laghouat. A warlike tribe, one of the last to submit to France, they still cling to their independence in religious matters, and are called in consequence Khammes, or the fifth, because they are outside the four recognised orders of Mohammedanism. Industrious and hard-working, they travel far, and are often shopkeepers in the large towns, but, for all that, to them gunpowder is everything. Government allows a certain amount yearly per man, and this can only be obtained by order. All the same, great quantities are made in secret all over the country, and the hiding-places where work is done are rarely discovered, except when, owing to unscientific methods, an explosion takes place, killing several men. This is of constant occurrence, it is said, but no one minds.
A MOZABITE FANTASIA
The fantasia begins with shouts, then a rush forward of eight or ten men, who turn and fire their guns into the dusty ground a few feet ahead. Before the smoke has cleared, another squad charges and fires at the feet of the first party with shouts and yells, and they toss their guns into the air, the tom-toms and pipes play martial music, and the din is deafening. Rush after rush follows, the squads prance forward, fire, run back, reload and fire again. Excitement grows and grows, the dust, smoke, and noise are appalling, and the yells become more and more savage as the smell of the powder maddens them. Then it is that accidents often happen, for the guns are old, all of them dating at least fifty years back, and many of them being really antique. Some are quite elegant and are inlaid with silver, but one man had a queer old weapon, thick and short, that might have come from the Tower of London. It took twice as long to load, and needed an extra charge of powder. Its owner took care to have the field to himself when he fired, and rejoiced at the stunning report, loud as a cannon. The officers said that each man fired off more than his year’s allowance of powder before the entertainment was over. If this was so, the secret factories had supplied them with a large reserve, for the excitement was so great that they went round the town after the procession, at the close of the day, and gave another fantasia outside the hotel, and continued firing at intervals far on into the night.
The fantasia of the Goums is equally exciting and a far prettier sight. The horses count for so much, even without considering the dash and go of the riders, the brilliant white of their robes, the rich colours of the cloaks and saddle-cloths, the glitter of golden trappings, and the flash of light on the drawn swords. It is a ride past. But such a ride! One after another, the horsemen come thundering down the course as fast as their light steeds can gallop. They fly by, all their draperies streaming in the wind, fire their guns, and wave their swords, right and left hands or reins are matter of no moment. Some take deliberate aim at the man in front, and ride as if to ride him down or die in the attempt; others fire at the crowd, and some make believe their enemies are at their feet.
Desert warfare is very real at such a moment, and it requires no imagination to picture what it would be. There is a concentration, a fierce determination in the mimic fight, which tells its own tale, and suggests a foe, hard to conquer or subdue because so absolutely fearless.
After this the camel races are tame, the movements of the picked Mehari who raced from Tougourt are too slow and stately in comparison with the tearing gallop of the horses. Even the fact that one of them is ridden by a Touareg in full array fails to make its due impression, so much is every one under the spell of speed and noise. The stealthy, quiet tread of the great beasts, even their picturesque qualities, had less effect than usual; they were finer on the desert, infinite space and light and mystery behind them.