Algeria from within

by R. V. C. Bodley

Of course, from the point of view of the country, the change has brought in a great deal of money and the town has an air of fat prosperity unknown in the other places we have visited. Arab guides are paid the wages of colonels and the hiring of camels is as expensive as a motor-car. The cafés of the Quarter charge what they please and the numerous Palace hotels have corresponding prices.

It is a curious place and well worth a visit. It is difficult to decide which arrival is the most attractive—possibly that from the south, because the oasis is the first thing seen. It is an impression of palm-trees, three times as many as at Laghouat, and as one approaches in the evening, the golden light seems to envelop their feathery heads in a mysterious radiance as the wind rustles through them.

From the northern approach the coloring on the rocks and hills will perhaps be as wonderful, but there is not that same feeling of the Sahara because the town masks the oasis.

The largest hotel is the Royal, and from its tower a wonderful panorama of the desert is spread before one. Unfortunately it is difficult to keep up this atmosphere long, as it is impossible to close one’s eyes to the Anglo-Saxon hibernators who have brought with them their knitting and their bridge and their crossword puzzles, while the foreign waiters in their starched dickeys jar horribly after the silence of the Great South. Moreover, if one steps into the street superb guides in sky-blue robes assail one—flight north seems the easiest course only to find a gallery of curiosity shops stocked with gaudy merchandise from Syria. Again fleeing from the oily merchants toward the sounds of a deep flute, one finds oneself in a coffee-house, as dirty as in the other cities, with the only difference that the mint tea costs five francs. Again in a wretched state of persecution mania one turns south again and, seeing a brilliantly lighted building of Moorish architecture, one hurries in; lights dazzle one, the sounds of bad dance-music strike the ear mingled with monotonous cries of “Rien ne va plus!” It is the casino, but, just as one is about to depart again into the night in search of a haven of refuge, the curious scene arrests one’s steps.

Of all the habitués of casinos in the world I think that those collected in that of Biskra are the most remarkable. The Biskra casino has no kind of pattern or atmosphere; it is just an amazing jumble like the background of one of Mr. Piccasso’s pictures. The hall is full of cheery French inhabitants of Biskra sitting at little tables drinking beer, laughing, and occasionally dancing gaily to the noisy band. A few solemn Britons join in the fun, while Arabs of serene countenance sit and watch without showing the smallest trace of emotion. At the gaming-tables a party of travel-stained tourists belonging to a Transatlantic tour are learning the mysteries of the play under the supervision of the company’s guide in his khaki uniform plastered with medal ribbons. Two or three Anglo-Saxons in dinner-jackets, with their consorts in smart evening gowns, contrast vividly with the robes of the Arab chief whose turban, unlike those we have seen up to the present, is bound about with much thicker strands of camel’s hair and crossed and interwoven in a fashion peculiar to the district.

In a kind of theater, a music-hall show is taking place, partly composed of the usual French turns, partly of Arab music and dancing. If one is lucky one may hear the great tenor Mahi-ed-Din sing the ballads of the Tell. The audience is as mixed as in the other room, but it is gay, and in spite of oneself one is drawn back to this scene each night. It has the great advantage over the native quarter in having no pretensions. It is as genuine as possible and is certainly unique.

The only peaceful spot in the whole of Biskra is the famous Jardin Landon, erroneously supposed to be the Garden of Allah. It is unknown who first spread this story, and it was certainly not the fault of the author that the legend arose. The Garden of Allah is, of course, the desert; the land from which Allah has removed all vegetation and life in order that man may not come and interfere with his solitude, and where He can walk in peace. The restful garden in question is a wonderful plantation of tropical trees and flowers. It was created by the Count Landon de Longueville, and it gives the impression of a conservatory in the open air. Paths run about through passages of trees; green grass grows in abundance, and the ceaseless noise of water ever running through the seguias is as soothing as soft music.

It is a question as to whether the impression of sunset lights is best seen from its wall or from the tower of the hotel. Both views are enchanting, but perhaps that of the garden is more vivid, as it is closer to the desert and to the herds of camels and goats passing slowly across the dried-up river bed which is the continuation of the Mzi we saw at Laghouat.

This long, long river which bursts up here and there to create oases is said by the natives to rise in the Djebel Amour Mountains above Laghouat and, flowing right across the desert to Southern Tunisia and Tripoli, finally to disappear in the Nile.

If one has not come up from Touggourt and one is anxious to get an impression of the sand desert, there is a tract of land to the southwest, the other side of the oases, which is really worth seeing. It is a natural fake, like Bou Saada, and a photograph of the proud traveler sitting on a hired camel can safely be labeled as having been taken in any part of the “Grand Erg.”