I've been thinking a lot about Graham Greene lately, and not just because of my afternoon drinking with priests. I read Monsignor Quixote on this trip, and am currently re-reading The Lawless Roads.
In Roads, Greene describes the Mexican desert and says that he cannot see beauty in landscapes that are "unemployed or unemployable." For Greene, only land that can be used - fertile, verdant land - is truly beautiful. Only "Romantics" see God in deserts and on barren mountain tops.
I know that Greene traveled in Africa, but I don't know if he ever saw the Sahara. I wonder how Greene would describe Algeria's dunes and palmeries - surely better than I do - but most of all I wonder if he would see beauty there.
Friday, March 28, 2008
In Constantine
I decided to travel north instead of back south for S'bou. I have only a few days left in Algeria so I wanted to travel to places I haven't yet been rather than return to Timimoun.
So I am in the north where the orange trees are not yet in bloom but the hills are green and the air cold.
Constantine is another one of Algeria's 'dramatic' places. Just as Taghit and Beni Abbes startle the visitor with dunes, Constantine does it with cliffs and bridges. The city is built on a massive rock cliff surrounded by a river valley. It seems an unlikely place for a city. Too high. Too unreachable. A place for gods rather than men. Fantastic bridges link the city to the 'mainland' and these bridges are what Constantine is most famous for. I waited out a morning rainstorm then made my way across and back the great spans of iron and stone, realizing that I am developing vertigo as I age.
So I am in the north where the orange trees are not yet in bloom but the hills are green and the air cold.
Constantine is another one of Algeria's 'dramatic' places. Just as Taghit and Beni Abbes startle the visitor with dunes, Constantine does it with cliffs and bridges. The city is built on a massive rock cliff surrounded by a river valley. It seems an unlikely place for a city. Too high. Too unreachable. A place for gods rather than men. Fantastic bridges link the city to the 'mainland' and these bridges are what Constantine is most famous for. I waited out a morning rainstorm then made my way across and back the great spans of iron and stone, realizing that I am developing vertigo as I age.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Easter with the White Fathers
It was a scene out of a Graham Greene novel: Africans, Catholics, priests and whisky.
I'd been looking forward to meeting the White Fathers in Ghardaia for some time. The Peres Blancs have been ministering to African communities for a long time now, and maintain a library of books about the cultural, religious and natural history of the Sahara. In Algeria, the Fathers serve a very small community of Christians but focus most of their efforts on establishing dialogue between Christians and Muslims. It seems like a very contemporary goal, one that became suddenly important in the last decade, but the White Fathers have been commited to this work for over a hundred years.
I arrived in time for Easter mass and was greeted at the gate by an English priest, Father John. The opportunity to speak easy English was delicious; I've been struggling with French and have not had a real conversation with anyone for weeks. The church service, though, was mainly in French. It was ministered by a priest from Tanzania and there were prayers sung in Swahili, the readings were translated into Polish, and the Lord's Prayer was sung in Arabic.
It was a beautiful service, even for this retired Catholic. For all my abandonment of my religious belief, religious ritual still inspires me. To quote Tom Robbins, "To practise a religion can be very beautiful. But to actually believe in one can be deadly."
(My mother won't like that last quote, but she was happy to hear I made it to church on Easter.)
The Fathers invited me to join them for lunch, and almost immediately bottles of gin and scotch appeared. I drank a dram with the priests, then some watery wine from northern Algeria. We talked about my writing and their work among the Algerians, and enjoyed a wonderful meal. One priest spent a few years in Montreal and the White Sisters that were present came from places like Burkina Faso, the Congo and Rwanda. When I left hermitage Father John shook my hand and said he was happy to make me feel a little at home.
I returned to the next day to use their library and to meet the Bishop of the Sahara who was passing though Ghardaia on his way to Algiers. The Bishop represents the second largest diocese in the world (Siberia is the largest) but ministers to the smallest congregation. Unfortunately, the Bishop had very little time to spare with me, but I hope to return to Ghardaia and write a story about the Bishop and the White Fathers.
I'd been looking forward to meeting the White Fathers in Ghardaia for some time. The Peres Blancs have been ministering to African communities for a long time now, and maintain a library of books about the cultural, religious and natural history of the Sahara. In Algeria, the Fathers serve a very small community of Christians but focus most of their efforts on establishing dialogue between Christians and Muslims. It seems like a very contemporary goal, one that became suddenly important in the last decade, but the White Fathers have been commited to this work for over a hundred years.
I arrived in time for Easter mass and was greeted at the gate by an English priest, Father John. The opportunity to speak easy English was delicious; I've been struggling with French and have not had a real conversation with anyone for weeks. The church service, though, was mainly in French. It was ministered by a priest from Tanzania and there were prayers sung in Swahili, the readings were translated into Polish, and the Lord's Prayer was sung in Arabic.
It was a beautiful service, even for this retired Catholic. For all my abandonment of my religious belief, religious ritual still inspires me. To quote Tom Robbins, "To practise a religion can be very beautiful. But to actually believe in one can be deadly."
(My mother won't like that last quote, but she was happy to hear I made it to church on Easter.)
The Fathers invited me to join them for lunch, and almost immediately bottles of gin and scotch appeared. I drank a dram with the priests, then some watery wine from northern Algeria. We talked about my writing and their work among the Algerians, and enjoyed a wonderful meal. One priest spent a few years in Montreal and the White Sisters that were present came from places like Burkina Faso, the Congo and Rwanda. When I left hermitage Father John shook my hand and said he was happy to make me feel a little at home.
I returned to the next day to use their library and to meet the Bishop of the Sahara who was passing though Ghardaia on his way to Algiers. The Bishop represents the second largest diocese in the world (Siberia is the largest) but ministers to the smallest congregation. Unfortunately, the Bishop had very little time to spare with me, but I hope to return to Ghardaia and write a story about the Bishop and the White Fathers.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Wedding Night Jitters
Just when I thought my French was getting better...
Last night I was listening to a shopkeeper across from my hotel tell me about the traditions of the Muslims in the area. He was talking in French and I was pretty proud of myself that I was understanding most of what he was saying.
Then he told me that he was circumcised on his wedding night.
At least that's what I thought he said. Either my French is failing me again or there are some rituals around here that seem both counter-intuitive and counter-productive.
Last night I was listening to a shopkeeper across from my hotel tell me about the traditions of the Muslims in the area. He was talking in French and I was pretty proud of myself that I was understanding most of what he was saying.
Then he told me that he was circumcised on his wedding night.
At least that's what I thought he said. Either my French is failing me again or there are some rituals around here that seem both counter-intuitive and counter-productive.
The Mozabites
There are only a few communities ofIbadi Muslims in the world. There are Ibadis in Oman, a few in Libya and Tunisia, and a large community here in the M'zab Valley around the town of Ghardaia where I have been staying for the past few days.
Ibadis are very conservative and do their best to isolate themselves from people with other beliefs. Here in the M'zab that means that the old Ibadi towns are walled and most insist that foreigners come inside only if accompanied by an Ibadi guide. This sounds rather unfriendly and xenophobic, but as long as foreigners do not smoke cigarettes in the presence or take photos of women and children, everything is fine. I wandered through one of the towns that does not require a guide the other day, and was treated with sincere welcome.
The old towns and the Ibadis traditional dress are all designed with the desert climate in mind; temperatures in the valley can reach 48 degrees in the summer. Homes are painted in light pastels to reflect much of the sun, and village streets are kept narrow and shaded. Men wear trousers with fabulous pleated crotches that hang don to their ankles - any waiter who has ever worked a patio shift in the summer can understand the logic here in this. Their white caps also work to reflect back the sunlight.
But, as is so often the case in this part of the world, the women are the most interesting. They wrap themselves in a sort of chador made of thick white cotton. Unmarried women keep their faces uncovered, but once a woman is married she pulls the cloth over her face so there is only a small hole for one eye to look out of. I still haven't gotten usd to seeing these ghostly, peeking, women. I am resisting the temptation to wink at them. I am sure that would be frowned upon.
I will stay for a few more days and attend Easter mass at the church of the White Fathers, an old Christian mission that has been around since the 19th century. They maintain a library of books about the Sahara that I would like to see before I go.
The orange trees are blossoming now, and the streets are thick with the perfume. With this fragrance, and the soft colours of the streets, this is a very beautiful place to be.
Ibadis are very conservative and do their best to isolate themselves from people with other beliefs. Here in the M'zab that means that the old Ibadi towns are walled and most insist that foreigners come inside only if accompanied by an Ibadi guide. This sounds rather unfriendly and xenophobic, but as long as foreigners do not smoke cigarettes in the presence or take photos of women and children, everything is fine. I wandered through one of the towns that does not require a guide the other day, and was treated with sincere welcome.
The old towns and the Ibadis traditional dress are all designed with the desert climate in mind; temperatures in the valley can reach 48 degrees in the summer. Homes are painted in light pastels to reflect much of the sun, and village streets are kept narrow and shaded. Men wear trousers with fabulous pleated crotches that hang don to their ankles - any waiter who has ever worked a patio shift in the summer can understand the logic here in this. Their white caps also work to reflect back the sunlight.
But, as is so often the case in this part of the world, the women are the most interesting. They wrap themselves in a sort of chador made of thick white cotton. Unmarried women keep their faces uncovered, but once a woman is married she pulls the cloth over her face so there is only a small hole for one eye to look out of. I still haven't gotten usd to seeing these ghostly, peeking, women. I am resisting the temptation to wink at them. I am sure that would be frowned upon.
I will stay for a few more days and attend Easter mass at the church of the White Fathers, an old Christian mission that has been around since the 19th century. They maintain a library of books about the Sahara that I would like to see before I go.
The orange trees are blossoming now, and the streets are thick with the perfume. With this fragrance, and the soft colours of the streets, this is a very beautiful place to be.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
The Occidental Tourist
Since my last post I finished a circuit of the Grand Erg Occidental which took me from Taghit to the oasis towns of Beni Abbés, Timimoun and, now, Ghardaia. It occured to me I've written mostly about the landscape here and not about the people. That has been an omission.
My favourite moment with the Algerians of the Erg came on the journey from Beni Abbés to Timimoun. Our bus stopped to pick up a large family who were waiting on the side of the highway. There were not enough seats for all of them, but as soon as they boarded the bus the other passengers reached out to hoist the small children onto their laps. The children didn't cry. They didn't fuss. They simply endured a few kisses and pinches then fell asleep in the arms of strangers. When the bus began to move, the father - with white robes, a loose white turban, and great yellow teeth - looked around to ensure all his children had a friendly lap to sit in. Then he settled into his own seat. It was a tender moment that speaks to the kindness of the people here.
There are other images from the past few days that will stay with me. The young men in Taghit who spontaneously began to sing and dance and drum in honour of the Propet's birthday, still days away. The women who wear cloth over their noses and mouth that look like surgical masks fringed with lace. The crumbling state-run hotels with great wooden bars, broken tiles and empty swimming pools that must have seemed grand 40 years ago. The butchers in Beni Abbés who lay freshly-severed camel heads on the sidewalks in front of their shops by way of advertisement, the blood trickling across the pavement. The way even strangers say hello to each other.
The Prophet Mohammed's birthday is tomorrow but the biggest celebration happens in Timimoun on the 27th. I will return there for the fesitval. In the meantime, I will spend the next few days, including my own birthday, here in the M'zab Valley among the Ibadi Muslims, the White Fathers and the palm groves.
My favourite moment with the Algerians of the Erg came on the journey from Beni Abbés to Timimoun. Our bus stopped to pick up a large family who were waiting on the side of the highway. There were not enough seats for all of them, but as soon as they boarded the bus the other passengers reached out to hoist the small children onto their laps. The children didn't cry. They didn't fuss. They simply endured a few kisses and pinches then fell asleep in the arms of strangers. When the bus began to move, the father - with white robes, a loose white turban, and great yellow teeth - looked around to ensure all his children had a friendly lap to sit in. Then he settled into his own seat. It was a tender moment that speaks to the kindness of the people here.
There are other images from the past few days that will stay with me. The young men in Taghit who spontaneously began to sing and dance and drum in honour of the Propet's birthday, still days away. The women who wear cloth over their noses and mouth that look like surgical masks fringed with lace. The crumbling state-run hotels with great wooden bars, broken tiles and empty swimming pools that must have seemed grand 40 years ago. The butchers in Beni Abbés who lay freshly-severed camel heads on the sidewalks in front of their shops by way of advertisement, the blood trickling across the pavement. The way even strangers say hello to each other.
The Prophet Mohammed's birthday is tomorrow but the biggest celebration happens in Timimoun on the 27th. I will return there for the fesitval. In the meantime, I will spend the next few days, including my own birthday, here in the M'zab Valley among the Ibadi Muslims, the White Fathers and the palm groves.
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Taghit Oasis and the Search for New Superlatives
There are places in the world that can defy a travel writer's art. There are scenes that are so breathtaking that they completely defeat him. I feel that dunes of Taghit have defeated me.
Taghit is an oasis village on the edge of the Grand Erg Occidental, Algeria's western sea of sand. It is a small place with one main road, a big empty hotel, a post office, a Martyr's Square (does every city in the Islamic world have a Martyr's Square?) and a few cafés that are masculine temples to idleness. That is all.
But the dunes that hover over the village make Taghit smaller still. As my bus crested the hill that overlooks Taghit to the north, the scene was remarkable. I grew up near the Rocky Mountains so I am familiar with massive landscapes, but this is different. Even when they are beautiful, mountains are hard and forbidding. They are rocky and, therefore, harsh. The dunes that tower over the Taghit oasis are the opposite of this. It seems impossible that things so huge, so overwhelming, can also seem so soft.
The dunes change colour as the daylight changes. In the early morning they are a pale yellow and remind me of enormous lions laying on the landscape. They are most beautiful, though, at dusk when they turn deep orange, like the crema on the espressos I drink in those idle cafés.
Dusk is also the time of day when the frogs sing in the palmerie. On the other side of the village is the valley where the palm trees grow. They form a strip of unlikely green where farmers grow dates and figs and fava beans. A fresh water spring feeds the gardens through channels dug in the dirt. Unfortunately, nothing is being harvested at this time of year. There are no dates in the palms, and the figs are still as small as grapes.
Taghit is an oasis village on the edge of the Grand Erg Occidental, Algeria's western sea of sand. It is a small place with one main road, a big empty hotel, a post office, a Martyr's Square (does every city in the Islamic world have a Martyr's Square?) and a few cafés that are masculine temples to idleness. That is all.
But the dunes that hover over the village make Taghit smaller still. As my bus crested the hill that overlooks Taghit to the north, the scene was remarkable. I grew up near the Rocky Mountains so I am familiar with massive landscapes, but this is different. Even when they are beautiful, mountains are hard and forbidding. They are rocky and, therefore, harsh. The dunes that tower over the Taghit oasis are the opposite of this. It seems impossible that things so huge, so overwhelming, can also seem so soft.
The dunes change colour as the daylight changes. In the early morning they are a pale yellow and remind me of enormous lions laying on the landscape. They are most beautiful, though, at dusk when they turn deep orange, like the crema on the espressos I drink in those idle cafés.
Dusk is also the time of day when the frogs sing in the palmerie. On the other side of the village is the valley where the palm trees grow. They form a strip of unlikely green where farmers grow dates and figs and fava beans. A fresh water spring feeds the gardens through channels dug in the dirt. Unfortunately, nothing is being harvested at this time of year. There are no dates in the palms, and the figs are still as small as grapes.
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