The distribution of water, therefore, is done very methodically. There is, of course, the underground layer, in which rest the roots of the palms, but the surface water for the lesser vegetables is another matter. There is always a point where the water actually comes to the surface in the form of springs, and, of course, the river-bed which, during the winter rains, is running with water, sometimes after big storms is a raging torrent overflowing the land.
The water is, therefore, captured at these points and carried into the oasis by means of channels called seguias, so inclined that the water is always flowing round the gardens. The oasis is, moreover, divided into areas, and the areas receive the water at regular intervals. A garden has so many minutes, according to its size, and it is calculated that the whole surface under cultivation is flooded for its appointed period once every seven days. The system is ingeniously worked by sluices, padlocked by the water controller of the area, who, when the appointed day occurs, lets in the water, while the owner of the domain diverts it into the necessary quarters on his own land, according to its need. At the end of the appointed time the controller closes the sluice-gates and floods the next garden. Rain is considered as an extra, and whatever the weather the water-day is continued.
Apart from gardening, which is the hobby of all good Laghouatis, there are other industries. Carpet-making and weaving, the occupation of the women of the south, is very important here, and some of the best burnouses and other woolen goods originate in Laghouat; and, of course, there is sheep-breeding; this is the great occupation in the northern Sahara, and a source of substantial revenue.
Some of the Jews are goldsmiths; they are also cobblers, and they embroider leather to make into bags and saddles.
A walk in the evening in the dancing-girls’ quarter will remove all the theatrical atmosphere which the same thing in Bou Saada has created. The streets and coffee-houses are thronged nightly summer and winter alike; the squeal of the raïta and the beat of the tam-tam never cease, and if one strolls in and sits down on a bench the performance will not change because of the entrance of the tourist. The women continue dancing slowly up and down the middle of the room, while the men sit in serried ranks and stare, sipping their coffee or mint tea. There is no charge except for the cup of harmless beverage which costs five sous. Sometimes a dancing-girl will hold out her hand, and will be delighted with a packet of cigarettes or a franc, and occasionally the band makes a collection, but there is none of that grasping rush to exploit tourists associated with those more popular centers.
There is little else to describe in the oasis, as the atmosphere of the past is impossible to realize for those who live in great cities. The lack of traffic, the blueness of the sky, the tall, feathery palms, the dignity of the Arabs, the silence—especially the silence—are things which must be seen and felt to be appreciated.
It is a setting of peace, an atmosphere of calm—a solution to the worries of modern life.
CHAPTER XXIX
THE MZAB
The journey south to Ghardaïa is very desolate; even the tufts of alfa have practically disappeared. The road runs straight across the flat plain, with nothing to relieve the eye except occasional groups of dreary trees known as pistachiers. Flocks of sheep graze by the roadside. The nomads’ tents stand out like black patches on the stony ground. Sometimes a herd of gazelles will be seen in the distance, bustards rise and flap languidly away, hares abound. It is a great country for hawking.
If the day is hot, mirages will spring up and disappear as quickly. It is not a picturesque journey to the land of the Mzab. Half-way, the caravanserai of Tilrempt is reached; it is a long white building standing in a dip surrounded by pistachiers. A very worthy “mine host” will greet the traveler and regale him in this desert home with one of the best meals he will taste in Algeria.