This is one of the many ways in which the French have gained experience in Algeria and profited by it in Tunisia. The old cities are left intact, instead of being destroyed to make way for new boulevards, and the French quarter, its public buildings, theatre, shops and restaurants, grow up outside the walls. The two races dwell apart, but both flourish together. Street names, lighting, and cleaning have been introduced, and the old town itself is incredibly clean for an Eastern city—cleaner by far than many cities of France and Italy. Though trams encircle the city and run through the suburbs, all proposals to disfigure the central quarter, the Medina, have met with a stern refusal. To walk through its gates is to step into another world—a world as full of surprises and romance as it is of variety.
The old water-gate, the Porte de France, a simple horse-shoe arch, opens into a great hive. There, in a little open space, a swarming crowd, busy and noisy as bees, pushes towards the narrow streets which mount to the bazaars. At first East and West mingle. Then, step by step, the half-French, half-Levantine element gives place to the real East. “Bara Balek” (“Take care”) is the continual cry; and one must be watchful, or pay the penalty. It is true that wheeled traffic almost ceases, for the few carts generally only succeed in blocking the way, and must take hours to reach their destination. But strings of tiny donkeys, hardly larger than dogs, do all the work, helped occasionally by camels, which shove through the throng regardless of consequences. Then there are the porters. At first it is startling to see wardrobes, beds, or huge cases walking apparently on their own feet; but after a time the oddest loads are taken as a matter of course, a part of the universal strangeness of things. Yet it is wonderful to see these men in their characteristic dress, with bare arms and legs, and scarlet kerchief by way of turban, coolly walk off with a heavy weight that would take two men to lift at home. If it is so easy to bear a burden on the back by means of a rope passed round the forehead, why has not this simple method been adopted in the West? Thus, slowly, and in stately fashion, with all due regard for each other’s dignity, the crowd presses onwards to the heart of the city, the great Souks.
SOUK DES ÉTOFFES, TUNIS
There are no such Souks in all the near East. In Constantinople the men have discarded their turbans and flowing robes, and the vaulted halls though fine in form are cold and poor in colour. The bazaars of Cairo are quaintly informal, but lack architectural style, though the people are picturesque enough. In Damascus the buildings are modern, and look outside like railway stations with arched roofs, though within is seen the true and perfect life of the East, so unspoiled that the passing stranger feels his European clothes a positive eyesore, and knows that it is barely possible that the picture will be marred for him by any other intruder. Here the long vaulted halls, lighted only by rays of sunshine falling through square holes in the roof, are as fine as in Constantinople, and, in addition, are full of life and colour. The crowd is even more picturesque than in Damascus,—though here, alas! it is twice as difficult to dodge European figures,—whilst Cairo itself cannot show more quaint corners.
Each of the trades has its own Souk, and each Souk its peculiar character. Some only contain goods for sale, but most of them are workshops as well—a far more interesting arrangement. Bewildering, yet enchanting—a pageant of pure colour, where dusky twilight holds its restful sway, harmonising the tints, veiling the forms, filling the dark recesses with mystery.
Hour after hour, day after day, may be spent threading the mazes, watching and trying to decipher the open book that seems so full of ideas, some half-remembered, others wholly new, but all subtle and elusive, so different to our usual life. Bible stories mix themselves hopelessly with the Arabian Nights, and the whirl of thought is as rapid as the change of colour.
The first day it seems impossible to think of finding one’s way alone through this intricate network, but gradually the main lines become clear, and then it is easy enough to wander in and out at will, with the certainty that confusion, or even total loss of bearings, means nothing worse than another turn or two, and then the sight of some well-known landmark.
Such a landmark is the Souk des Etoffes, very formal, absolutely straight, but decidedly the most distinguished of all. A low archway of horse-shoe form opens into a hall with three aisles, of which the centre forms the actual street, and the two others the side walks. Short and sturdy pillars, roughly but effectively painted in pure scarlet and green, support the arched roof. Rows of square cells on either side, dark yet glowing with colour, are packed with piles of silk and embroideries of every tone and texture, overflowing the narrow space within. They are hung on the walls and from the pillars in well-arranged disorder. Persian and Kairouan carpets deck the walls with rich, soft hues, old brass lamps from the mosques, of fine damascene work, stand side by side with inlaid furniture, odd-shaped mother-of-pearl caskets, weapons, and other treasures, all placed by a master hand so as to tempt customers to the utmost. In each tiny shop the owner sits dreaming over a cigarette, or entertains a friend or possible purchaser with coffee. In one corner, bright with coloured tiles, a man whose whole equipment appears to consist of a charcoal stove, a pan of water, a wee coffee-pot, and some microscopic cups, does a thriving trade, and trots up and down the Souk continually to supply this pressing need; for without coffee nothing could be settled, nor any business done.
Watchful touts with keen eyes lie in wait for the unwary, whom they inveigle into the shops, whilst in a high-handed fashion they order about the real owner, who meekly obeys their orders. They pretend to bargain, but really raise the prices, which are preposterous even for the East, and of course pocket a large percentage themselves. However, they are very quick, and never forget a face, so that it is only the casual visitor who suffers. After a day or two one is free of the bazaar, and begins to have many kindly acquaintances. Bargaining is the game of the place, and a most amusing game it is to play. It demands infinite patience, much diplomacy, some instinct for fun, and, above all, either a real or a well-feigned indifference. The shopkeeper, impassive and smiling, has no hesitation in announcing that he will be ruined and his throat cut if he sells at such low prices. He is sure that anyone so exceedingly tall must be also extremely rich, or he tells you that your face speaks of riches. This was said to a very thin woman. But if the would-be customer answers in the same strain, the prices will descend by leaps and bounds, and on the conclusion of the bargain the ruined man implores his victims to come again to-morrow: “For, see, I have given it to you because I like you; you are my friend.” In out-of-the-way shops a few words of Arabic are a great help, as the owner often says, “Makansch Francees,” which means, “No French here.” The language is a dialect, and few of the familiar Egyptian phrases are of any use. Even to be able to count in Arabic is something, as the officious person who usually appears to translate invariably doubles the price. But though the Arabs often talk excellent French it is a terrible drawback neither to understand nor to talk Arabic easily.