The Edge of the Desert

by Ianthe M. Dunbar

There is a beautiful stretch of sand along the small Bay of Gabès strewn with shells and pieces of coarse sponge, brought in by the tide. Sponge fisheries are found further south, but the variety at Gabès itself is of no good. There are tunny fisheries here, and also a trade in shell fish carried on with Marseilles. The little river is frequented by native fishermen who use hand nets which they throw with great skill. The net is circular and draws up close together when in the hand. When thrown it opens wide on reaching the water and sinks owing to its leaded edge. After leaving it for a few minutes the fisherman pulls it in, the strain on the cord closing the mouth again. As a fisher is stationed at every few yards, I do not think the fish population can be a large one.

Women Washing

I. M. D.

Further up the river the women collect to do their washing, and make picturesque groups in their blue and red garments. They use both hands and feet to pommel and wring the clothes, and beat them with the stem of a palm leaf. Some have soap, but many use only a kind of earth, and all the washing is done in the cold running water of the stream. They chatter like a flock of paroquets, some knee deep in the water, others squatting on the bank, amongst them many negresses with their short hair twisted into innumerable small plaits across their foreheads. I thought them to be Nubians, from their features and dark colour and the style of their hair dressing.

One came up to where I was painting, a tall, good-looking girl, very black, carrying herself with the graceful nonchalance of her race. A flat basket laden with newly washed clothes was on her head, and she stood comely as a statue, backed by the tawny sand and the dark green of the oasis, the firm outline of her shoulders and breast showing through the blue stuff drawn round her. Heavy silver anklets clashed as she moved. When near me she smiled and said something in Arabic. Mansour, translating into French, said she asked where I came from, and if I would take her as a servant with me to England. I had a swift vision of the scandalised horror with which my Devon household would view her arrival in the character of maid. “Tell her,” I said, “that she would not like England. There is not enough sun there. She would be cold and unhappy.” But still she smiled. I gave her a coin, and she went away regretfully, walking like a queen, evidently still yearning for the post of lady’s maid in a land paved with gold and silver. Whilst I went on with my painting, Mansour told me these negresses are great travellers. They will cheerfully leave their country and fare into the unknown, and they make excellent servants. I think the Arabs have no feeling against the black races.

Meanwhile the Arab women were busy over their washing. “That girl over there,” remarked the guide, “is my cousin. I recognise her by the tattoo marks on her leg.” I had been told that these designs were often peculiar to a family, and Mansour’s remark seemed to bear this out. Most of the women were tattooed on the shin as well as on the lip and forehead, and sometimes on the tip of the nose. They only made a pretence of veiling themselves when he looked their way, and I gather that in the south of Tunisia the harem system is not very rigidly enforced. They seemed very happy, laughing and gossiping amongst themselves, spreading out broad strips of coloured stuff, red or orange or indigo, on the stones to dry, whilst the bright hues were reflected in the clear green water, and small brown children in abbreviated shifts played solemnly close at hand.

“Never do women cease talking together whilst they wash linen at the water’s edge,” said Mansour, “and it is strange how barely one day can pass without something requiring to be cleansed,” he added meditatively.

Behind us were the low mud walls of the village, with the towers of the minaret and the domed mosque rising above them, and a flock of black lop-eared goats came round the corner driven by a ragged youth. On the far side of the stream countless palms were inter-threaded with the branches of fruit trees, and in and out amongst the oasis ran little dusty roads between mud walls topped with thorns or spiked palm leaves, to keep off trespassers. By every path flowed runnels of clear water, pied wagtails stepped daintily about the edges, a film of green showed where the early crops were beginning to come up, and I could picture to myself the joy it must be in another month or two to step from the bare desert into this paradise of blossom and leafy shade.

Riding through the oasis one day we came suddenly upon a small white marabou or holy tomb set at the angle of two pathways. A solitary figure knelt in prayer at the entrance, whilst the mule he had been riding cropped the herbage by the stream, with a trailing rein. It was very silent, except for the far sighing of the palm trees above our heads.