  The next stage on the long journey to Tunis is Hammam Meskoutine, or the Accursed Baths. Now the name alone ought to be sufficient to scare strangers away, but it seems to have precisely the opposite effect. Many, indeed, come for one night only, and linger on from day to day, loth to leave a place so unusual and attractive. The wayside station, half-hidden by graceful eucalyptus trees, leads to no village, for the simple reason that there is none—nothing but the baths, a farm or two, and a few scattered gourbis. There is not much to see. There are no fatiguing sights, no amusements whatever—only a tranquil country, a freshness of untrodden paths, a touch of the unknown and exceptional in the hot springs and falls to give piquancy to the surroundings. It is a country of soft outlines, Greek in its simplicity, breathing rest and peace. A land of hill and dale, rich pastures and many trees, where glare, dust, and bustle are alike forgotten. The uplands are covered by a cloud of grey-green olives, some of them age-old trees, whose gnarled and Cutting across the smiling landscape like a scar is a plateau of whitish grey rock, pools of boiling water and clouds of steam, the region of the springs. The water comes bubbling up through the grey crust, then flows out over the surface with no fuss, no fountain, no spray. Dense clouds of steam rise from these bubbling springs in all directions, and also from the water as it falls over the rocks down to the valley below. This water as it cools leaves a thick white coating on whatever it touches, thus raising in the course of ages a succession of terraces now some two hundred feet high, resembling on a smaller scale the once famous pink terraces in New Zealand. These terraces are of every tone of yellow, orange, russet and green, and are full of small cauldrons. Pouring over these natural basins and mingling with these many tints flows a steady stream, sometimes the rich colour of thick cream, sometimes the snowy whiteness of foam, but though airy in appearance, perfectly solid, absolutely still. Only the water moves softly and the steam rises ceaselessly—a wonder straight from the under-world, a silent waterfall. THE SILENT WATERFALL, HAMMAM MESKOUTINE And not silent alone, but carved in stone—a finished work in one sense, yet ever changing; for the springs are capricious, appearing now in one place, now in another, and just now a new stream has started some little preparations for terraces on its own account at the side of the railway, and has even arranged to cross it. The earth’s crust seems unpleasantly thin and crumbly, and the heat is so great that it is well to be heedful and walk warily, for water at a heat of 203° Fahrenheit is too warm for comfort, even when it has cooled itself somewhat on the rocks. The only other springs known to be hotter than these are the springs of Las Trincheras in South America and the Geysers of Iceland, but they are only 3° and 5° warmer respectively. It is amusing to watch the amount of cooking done in the open—eggs and vegetables are put into a bubbling pool, and anything else the chef thinks a good scalding will improve. Hot water for baths is fetched in a garden tank on wheels, and if any is wanted at odd times a jug can always be dipped in a stream, for the hotel is quite close to the falls. The old baths—some of them Roman of course, for what did not the Romans know?—are still in use, for these are the most celebrated springs in Algeria; though Hammam R’hira, beautifully situated in the mountains not far from Algiers, runs them very close. The hotel is built on no conventional plan; it is a series of low buildings set in the olive grove with a wild garden in their midst. An Eastern garden with a central fountain, surrounded by lemon and orange trees, laden with golden fruit, shading fragments of THE ARAB WEDDING, HAMMAM MESKOUTINE In a little hollow near the springs is a group of curious cones, petrified like the falls, and now half-covered by grass and shrubs. Exhausted and now quite dry, the water having long since found new ways to escape, these cones are scattered over the ground for some distance. One special group, distinguished both by its size and by the peculiar shapes of the pillars of stone, has such terrors for the Arabs that they dare not pass it at night, from their firm belief in the legend which gave the place its name of the Accursed Baths. For once there was a sheikh, a rich and powerful man, who had one only sister, beautiful as a flower. He loved her with an exceeding great love, and thought her so supremely fair that no man could be found worthy of her. He therefore determined to wed her himself. The elders of the tribe arose and made loud protestations, for as an Arab told me in his odd French, “Il est trÈs dÉfendu dans le Koran de marier avec sa soeur.” But the sheikh paid no heed to their exhortations or their prayers, and caused those elders to be beheaded before his tent door. Then he made a great feast, but as the end of the marriage festivities drew near, a great darkness overtook them, a tremendous earthquake shook the earth, out of which came flames of fire, and demons were seen abroad. Deafening thunderclaps followed, and a storm raged mightily. In that moment the accursed couple met their fate. Ever since that dreadful night the whole wedding party has stood there turned into stone: the Sheikh Ali and his bride, Ourida; the Cadi who married them, and who is known by his turban; the father and mother who gave reluctant consent; all their friends and servants; the musicians, the camel laden with bridal gifts, the distant tents, even the cous-couss left over from the feast. The wrath of God had fallen upon them because they did not obey the laws of His prophet, and for evermore the smoke of the fire ascends—a witness to all men of the punishment that awaits the evil-doer. The subterranean lake is an excuse for a lovely walk over the hills. This lake only came into existence about twenty years ago after a great storm. The earth fell in with a tremendous crash, disclosing the entrance to a cavern. From some hidden source water came rushing in for about six weeks, and then suddenly ceased. The cavern is dark as night, even in the afternoon One of the women was beautiful, her colouring was of the North, and the moon of her fair face was surmounted by a crescent moon of white linen. At least this veil, stretched over a frame or cap, should have been white, but was, in fact, sadly dirty; the gourbi they lived in was even worse. It was built of stone, roughly thatched, and surrounded by a wall to form a sheep-pen. The ground within and without was trodden into mud. Many of the animals shared the hut with the family, who seemed to have scarcely any possessions, and who, had it not been for their beauty, would have seemed lower in the scale of life than their own flocks. The joyous rush of a motor car on a good road is no bad antidote to overmuch strolling in flowery meads or lounging under trees. Ancient ruins and motors sound incongruous, but, after all, surely the Romans would have revelled in the sport, and the fear of demons would scarcely have terrified them as it would the men of the Middle Ages, or the Arabs of the present day, whose ways made the drive to Tibilis amusing. The road twists and curves round the hills far above The ruins of Tibilis, now Announa (found by General Creuly in 1856), are finely situated on a hill, so the last part of the journey must be done on foot. The path, when it exists, is only to be avoided, so stony is it and rough, and also swampy in places. The distance is nothing, but the way seems long from its steepness and the scorching sun. It runs first downhill to a brook which it crosses by a bridge of slippery planks, then up a steep brae, and along a valley, when the toil is ended by a final scramble to the top. Here on a bare brown hill are a few weather-beaten trees, leafless and desolate, and all that remains of the ancient city—a stretch of paved road, a simple triumphal arch, one of the town gates, two or three arches, a Christian basilica, a few fallen columns, and traces of many buildings, including an amphitheatre. A last gleam of sunshine touched the arch to beauty, then storm-clouds gathered on the neighbouring heights, Forsaken ruins such as these are to be found all over Algeria, but more often the sites are now occupied by modern colonists, and the ruins sacrificed to or incorporated with new buildings. A few, however, are still preserved to attract travellers, as at Tebessa, Tipaza, and Cherchell. In Tunisia ruins abound, and are even more remarkable for their extent and beauty. But it is a thousand pities that in both countries nothing is done to remove difficulties, so that expeditions are given up in despair from absolute lack of information and fear of discomfort. It seems a point of honour to know nothing off the beaten track, and as even on it the standard of comfort is not high, and requires some experience and a little tolerance, much of the country cannot be visited by ladies at all without a camp—a rare luxury. Even men, accustomed to really roughing it, suffer more than they care for from bad food in the French villages, and from noise and dirt in the native Fonduks. One of these out of the way places is Dougga, where the Roman ruins are so beautiful that no one should count the cost in fatigue and trouble too great for a visit. About two hours short of Tunis is the station of Medjez el Bab, the gate of the ford. In olden days a triumphal arch and a fine bridge across the Bagrada (Medjerda) justified the name. Both have now vanished, and the new bridge, built of the debris, is absolutely picturesque with age. One of the chief roads of Roman Africa passed over the original bridge, uniting Carthage with Theveste and continuing to the borders of Numidia. Military boundary stones all along the route still bear this testimony—Karthagine ad Thevestem ... usque ad fines NumidÆ. The walled town nestles on the river banks almost under the shade of a wide avenue, much appreciated in the burning sunshine of May. In obedience to orders a carriage and pair awaited our arrival in the station-yard. This sounds imposing, but its appearance was utterly wanting in dignity save that conferred by the dust of ages. The vehicle was a rattling old shandrydan of a waggonette, roofed after the fashion of the country, and with leather curtains, which could be buttoned together closely to keep off the sun or rain; and, strange as it may seem, the darkness and shadow of this box were after a time a relief from the glare. Heat shimmered over the plain—blue, with a flickering haze. The white ribbon of the road looped carelessly round the olive groves, or stretched boldly across undulating fields, already golden and ready for harvest. The men amongst the corn, the very horses on the road, were steeped in lazy drowsiness. They worked, but it was as in a dream—just a pretence suited One of these, surrounded by ruins, bears the name of Chehoud el Batal, or the false-witness; for once, so runs a legend, men, women, and children united in bringing lying evidence against a man great and holy, much beloved of Allah, so in the very act they were all turned to stone, and the stones remain where they fell for a witness to this day. At mid-day we halted at Testour, once Colonia Bisica Lucana, though little is left to tell the tale. Really it is a bit out of Spain, an Andalusian hill city, with minarets that recall the old belfries of that country. The inhabitants are still called Andaleuss, and are said to be direct descendants of those Moors who escaped from Spain in the time of Ferdinand and Isabella. Donkeys, laden with huge water-pots, led us up the steep hill, into the town, towards an open space, or plaza, with arcaded cafÉs blinking in the sunshine. Low one-storied houses with tiled roofs are built on either side of a street which is both wide and straight—a most unusual plan in a Moorish town, and very unsuitable for great heat. Every scrap of shade was occupied by listless Arabs, who just roused themselves sufficiently to take part in the slight bustle of our arrival, followed by the A little further on is Ain-Tunga, or Thignica, a small village now, whose importance in the past is shown by the ruins scattered round a few poor houses. The Byzantine fort still preserves an air of solid strength, but only fragments enough remain to excite a languid interest in the two temples, the theatre, and a triumphal arch. As the shadows lengthened, the country became more and more charming, for we were nearing the borders of Khroumirie, the most beautiful part of Wonderful legends of lions are told of all this district. As many as sixteen are said to have been seen together at one time in one valley, through which we now drove so carelessly. The scenery is too peaceful to suggest the thought of wild beasts, and it is easier to believe in lions amongst the rocks of El Kantara, or the mountains of the Atlas and the Aures, than in this sylvan spot. Teboursouk, the goal of the day’s journey, appeared at last on the brow of the hill, its walls and minarets rising from a silvery sea of olives, the witchery of the sinking sun increasing the effect of height and distance, and throwing a veil of light over the few modern houses on the outskirts. Notwithstanding the noise and clatter caused by our arrival, the inn, with its imposing name of HÔtel International, seemed fast asleep; but at last the shouts of the travellers by diligence produced an Arab servant. Happy-go-lucky is the only way to describe the place. The Italians who kept it were fettered by no ordinary ideas of the proprieties. Dogs and babies, food, empty plates, pans and brushes, decorated the staircase and upper hall; pretty girls trotted about in an artless nÉgligÉ of chemise and petticoat, with their hair down and their feet bare, until the second dÉjeuner, when they appeared in flowery cotton wrappers, with their hair elaborately dressed. It was not till dinner-time that Another of the peculiarities of Teboursouk was that it contained no carriages, so that we were bound either to retain our rattling, boneshaking conveyance at a fee of twenty francs a day, or else pay the penalty by making the return journey in the diligence, a still sorrier vehicle, always crowded to suffocation with colonists and Arabs with their bundles, who, not content with over-filling the seats, perched themselves on the top of the baggage on the roof. Though Teboursouk looks its best from a distance, it is still an attractive country town, with few pretensions and almost unspoilt. Two mosques, one with many domes, and both with good square minarets, stand in its narrow, winding streets. There are only a few tiny shops—hardly enough to call a bazaar, but the whole effect is picturesque. The children are particularly pretty and charming, playing games gaily in every nook and corner. Small girls dance about with still smaller children, riding in a sort of pick-a-back fashion, with legs round the bearer’s waist instead of their shoulders. The colour adds to the effect; in no other village have we seen such perfect shades, or such variety of red, yellow, and orange. Many of the boys were in Columns and fragments of the Roman city Thibursicum Bure are built into the walls, and near the old fountain is an inscription recording its name. In the walls are also to be seen the remains of a triumphal arch. There is a Byzantine fort formed for the most part of ruins. Several bishops of this See are mentioned by Saint Augustine, and it is also known as the place of martyrdom of a Christian called Felix, in the reign of Diocletian. Early morning saw us once more on the road, or rather the rough cart-track, to Dougga. The air was deliciously fresh and pure, and laden with the fragrance of the wild flowers that covered the sward. The horses did not like their work, and jibbed at the constant hills. Progress, therefore, was slow, as they only behaved properly on the down grades. A few Arab boys, who had invited themselves to places on the box and roof, jumped down and pushed and shouted lustily, but the last hill was too steep, so we climbed it on foot. However, the driver insisted on the poor horses going to their orthodox stopping-place half-way up, and rewarded them by fetching us in the evening with a team of three, harnessed abreast. TEMPLE OF CELESTIS, DOUGGA A primitive Arab village covers part of the site of the ancient Thugga. This is the simplest form of the name, but an inscription near the temple gives the following elaborate title, much too ponderous for daily use: “Respublica ColoniÆ LiciniÆ SeptimiÆ AureliÆ, AlexandrinÆ Thuggensium.” The name was probably derived from the Berber, and means green grass. The city stands on a green hill, olive groves surround the ruins, and the valley of the Oued Khaled, a tributary of the Medjerda, is rich with green also. Undoubtedly the most beautiful of all the ruins here is the great temple of Celestis, sometimes called the Capitol, which stands on the top of the hill, commanding a wide outlook, a really exquisite view of wood, valley, and mountains. The fine lines and proportions of this building, the situation, and even the warm, mellow tones of the stone, bring memories of Athens. Time and weather have worn away the stone and added tender greys to the colouring, but have not greatly injured the grace of the fluted columns, the delicate work on the Corinthian capitals, or the richness of the mouldings. The sculpture on the pediment, however, has suffered much, giving the opportunity for many discussions as to whether it represents a lion, the rape of Ganymede, or the eagle of Jupiter. Wings are certainly visible, but the rest is a blur. The fine door of the cella is still perfect, and consists of three L. MARCVS · SIMPLEX · ET · L · MAR It was dedicated to Jupiter, Juno, and Minerva. At the present time workmen are busy rebuilding the walls of the cella—a work which seems a sad waste of time and energy. The existing masonry, of a later date than the rest of the temple, possibly Byzantine, is of a style much used in North Africa, consisting of courses of stone laid horizontally, with upright bars of stone at intervals of about four feet, the square interstices filled with odds and ends of stone, like “the long and short bond” found in Roman and Saxon work in Britain. Bruce thought this “one of the most beautiful ruins of a temple in white marble in the world.” Playfair considers it as built of nothing less than Lumachella Antica, one of the lost Numidian marbles, now worth its weight in gold. The theatre is also a gem, and though there is now no performance, it is still a joy to sit in the deep, cool shade on the almost perfect marble seats, and look across the stage and the broken columns to the sunny landscape beyond. It is finer in every way than the theatre at Timgad, and almost as large as the well-known theatre of Taormina. At the entrance to the olive groves stands a triumphal arch of the decadent period, called Bab el Though the men and boys spent the day in a circle round us to watch and to criticise, thoroughly absorbed in the sketch, yet they had charming manners, dignified and smiling faces, and not even the smallest boy dared to be troublesome—a great contrast to many in Algeria, who have picked up the bad ways of the modern town-urchins. The same may be said of Teboursouk. At Medjez el Bab another display of fine courtesy was found in a most unlikely quarter. The hotel was said to be quite impossibly dirty, so we were advised to dine and wait for the late train to Tunis at a cabaret near the station. The place was a shanty, full of men drinking and smoking, colons and railway employÉs. Every one took our appearance as a matter of course, bowed politely, and did their utmost to make us feel at home, the smokers retiring outside. Dinner was served for us at a table apart, quite nicely laid and cooked. There was good soup, chicken, wine and dessert, all for a ridiculously small sum. After dinner some of the men wished to talk, asked many questions |
|
