COME WITH ME TO THE CASBAH
Racing with dolphins
I very nearly never made it to Algeria. Through a combination of circumstances including an irrational faith in the veracity of Spanish bus timetables, I was the last passenger to embark on the “Zeralda” in Alicante, and was observed stoically by three decks of zealously punctual Algerian passengers, who had watched unblinkingly as a dishevelled Englishwoman had screamed onto the quayside in a taxi and conducted a rapid process of passport and customs control with an uncomprehending Spanish border policeman at the foot of the gangplank. The officious Algerian steward reprimanded me as I stumbled up the ramp, red-faced and harrassed in that elegant British way. As it turned out, the ship did not move from the quayside for another hour, by which time I had more or less recovered my composure and was leaning over the rail with a nonchalant air, apprehension having given way to the thrill of horizons new, and the Dunkirk spirit ready to surge out at the first sign of trouble. Dammit, we’re British when all’s said and done!
During my week on the Costa del Sol I had encountered a certain number of that shoddy British export, the expatriate, who, on learning of my ultimate destination, invariably responded monsyllabically: “Why?” Even the Spanish policeman, in the few minutes of conversation held in fractured Spanish while carrying out the paperwork, had expressed the same sentiment. In fact, the conversation had gone along these lines:
El policeman: “Ehhhh Senorita, a donde vas?” (I look pointedly at Algerian flag hanging off back of ship) Me: “Euh …. Argelia?” El policeman: “Argelia? Ehhhhh porque?” Me (looking worriedly at men starting to remove gangplank) : “Euh … vacaciones?” El policeman: “Vacaciones? En Argelia?” Me: “Si ….” El policeman: “Porque?” Me (looking at watch, gangplank, then pleadingly at El Policeman): “Senor, por favor ….” El policeman (sighing): “OK, OK ….”
Why, indeed, was a lone Englishwoman, born in St George’s Hospital (now the Lanesborough Hotel), on Hyde Park Corner in opulent Knightsbridge, London, and a long-time resident of luxurious and sophisticated Paris, travelling from Alicante to Oran on an Algerian tugboat? A street-wise Berber immigrant had a lot to do with it, and precisely because of this, the implications were formidable. This was not ordinary tourism. On the other side of the Mediterranean I was going to meet my future in-laws. The journey was a profession of faith, a taking of the veil (hopefully not literally), a pilgrimage, a submission and a confrontation at the same time.
The Spanish coastline remained in view for a couple of hours, and even my apprehension of what lay ahead could not match my relief at leaving behind the Costa del Crass. When the land finally melted into the horizon and the horizon flattened into a straight line, my mind shifted into another gear and I moved to the prow, to face south, towards Africa. The journey lasted ten hours, during which time I moved restlessly from one deck to another, escaping in turn from the relentless sun beating down on the empty portside to the crowds seeking the shade of starboard. They were mostly Algerians, returning home from holidays with immigrant relatives in France or Spain. Unlike their British counterparts, however, these returning holidaymakers carried no straw donkeys and were stone cold sober. Their visible baggage was crammed with rugs, lamps, shoes and a motley collection of home furnishings and household goods that were scarce in Algeria. They did not laugh much, remaining in their family groups and sleeping on the deck, or gazing silently out at the turquoise wash that trailed out a mile behind the Zeralda.
The crew were, however, quite charming. I was rapidly spotted, the lone European woman with a heavy suitcase, and a sympathetic steward directed me to the lounge bar, advising me to dig in for the duration. The lounge was empty and just about air conditioned, but dingy and unwelcoming. I moved on to the cafeteria, where I was cheerily hailed by the cooks and immediately engaged in conversation by the stewards who seemed genuinely nonplussed that I should wish to visit their country. I was half-expecting the million-dinar question: “Pourquoi?” One steward even insisted on serving me at my table, much to the curiosity of other passengers, and ended up sitting down with me to discuss Macbeth while I tucked into my meatballs and chick peas. I started to enjoy the trip.
Ten hours on a boat with few facilities and co-travellers who resembled an undertakers’ day out can be a long time. I killed some of it picking up Arabic stations on my FM walkman, toiled through part of a tedious Robert Ludlum novel, jotted down a few reflections on the Costa del Sol and Algerian ferryboats, and counted cockroaches. Wandering through the bowels of the ship I happened upon an impromptu mosque where a handful of the faithful had thrown down some rugs, set their shoes in lines and were listening in rapt awe to a bearded teacher. I wandered back to the deck. For six hours there had been no sight of land, and another four to go. I was quite relieved when a young Algerian crew member came up to chat in French, although it soon appeared that he wanted me to smuggle something through customs for him. I politely declined, but accepted his invitation for a coffee just to pass the time. I was a little disappointed when it emerged that the coffee was to be served in his cabin three decks below, and excused myself, my benevolent thoughts towards the natives taking a momentary jolt. I returned up on deck, mistook some heavy-duty French oil men for English tourists and decided to repair to a quiet corner in solitude before I succumbed completely to boat fever.
The Barbary Coast finally materialised through a heavy fog, and dolphins raced the boat in for a while – what a tourist board this country must have! Because of the mist, I was deprived of the sight of Camus’ city from the sea. In any case, foot passengers were all herded down below deck a good half hour before we docked, to await disembarcation. Wedged between ancient tattooed ladies in chadors and noisy young blades in Lacoste tee-shirts, I tried to imagine I was on the Paris metro in the rush-hour, and perspired stoically and silently. I had been waiting almost an hour, the boat had docked, and I was close to wilting when my thwarted suitor from the engine-room appeared and plucked me and my suitcase out of the scrum. I followed him through and over the bodies strewn all over the lower decks (some of them still asleep, or perhaps dead from suffocation), wondering if he was about to exact his revenge for the earlier rejection. But I found myself lining up with the first-class passengers and crew, who disembarked first. It emerged that my fairy godbrother was a Kabyle, like my fiance, and the much vaunted brotherhood really worked. My chevalier was called Omar, and thanks to him, despite being last on the boat I was among the first off, which must have confirmed for my fellow passengers that I was really a VIP. I thanked him profusely as he left me at the immigration desk, and almost felt guilty for suspecting him of ulterior motives.
The point-of-entry hangar was steamy with condensation, and I prepared myself for the worst. The lone immigration official looked as if he’d been on duty for four days and nights in a row and snarled at me to step forward. Bright smile and British passport to the fore, I presented myself. He threw me completely with his first question: was I Irish? The name on my passport was of Irish origin. These people really knew their stuff. After a split second’s hesitation, I called his bluff and answered no. In truth, I had never been to Ireland. I explained that I was visiting Algeria as a tourist, and he waved me through disgustedly. I marvelled at the speed of the procedure and had almost breathed a sigh of relief when I espied a frenzied crowd, each carrying half a dozen bulging bags, descending on two customs officials who stood frozen to their stations. I sucked my breath back in again. A porter advised me to change my money first, and since I appeared to be the only non-Algerian disembarking, this was quickly done and I was directed back to the customs officials. Brightly smiling again, I thrust my passport at the man only to be asked again if I was Irish. I was beginning to suspect a conspiracy. I scrutinised the customs official closely. He was flicking through my passport without seeming to be able to read it. No, I smiled – British. I was complimented on my French, and after a cursory glance into my suitcase was waved towards the exit. More crowds, but by now I could almost feel the balmy night air, and my only concern was that my fiancé was waiting outside. Omar materialised inside the exit like a pantomime fairy and, grabbing my suitcase, demonstrated tackles that left me wondering why Algeria doesn’t have an international rugby team. At last we emerged into the Oranese night, Africa enveloping me like sticky syrup.
First steps in Africa – Oran
I eventually found Ahmed in the crowd, and as we hugged each other, Omar was swallowed up by the crowd, still clutching my suitcase. Ahmed couldn’t understand why I was so concerned about this bloke I’d met on the boat, and on learning he had my luggage, started to flash his eyes. However, Omar reappeared with my suitcase, the Kabyle lads did the secret handshake and Ahmed ended up giving him a lift to his mum’s in our VW Golf which had made the crossing from France.
The city of Oran, like many Mediterranean ports, rises up from the sea. It is an old city, with French style houses on the main boulevards and narrow climbing back-alleys. In 1987 it had a reputation for liberalism, which I only appreciated after I had been to Algiers. Most women in Oran wore the cream-coloured “haik”, but only one face in fifty was veiled, and haiks often covered smart Paris fashions. Elaborately painted eyes and well-turned ankles on high heels were often the frivolous top and tail of a walking bedsheet.
We had booked the hotel on the recommendation of the Hachette Blue Guide to Algeria, which had – somewhat generously – accorded the Timgad four flags. The hotel, like much else in Algeria, was singularly lacking in Eastern promise. The staff were courteous in that stiff, formal way the Algerians have. The restaurant was clean but badly provisioned, and the supply of drinking water ran out fairly quickly. Ahmed’s two brothers (one Paris based, one who still lived in the village) the French girlfriend of the Paris brother and her friend were at the hotel. Looks like we got us a convoy!
I had arrived during a short heatwave even by Algerian standards, and the evening of my arrival was hot and humid, an appropriate setting for my first steps in Africa. The Oranese sat out on their pavements late into the night, the turbans and haiks contrasting starkly with the familiar French architecture. I thought I caught a glimpse of Meursault leaning over his balcony, smoking as he watched the townspeople strolling through the sultry night.
The next day we set out to explore Oran. Half a day is quite sufficient to visit the town. The main square looked just like any you have seen in a large town in the south of France, symmetrical and lined with palm trees. The opera house, which had almost certainly not seen the phantom of an opera since 1962, still proudly proclaimed “Comedie, Danse, Opera” across its facade. The road which wound down towards the main mosque went through the Casbah, its cobblestones slippery with rotting fruit and vegetables, the waves of stench mingling with aromas of dubious cuisine wafting from the dingy eating places. The local men stood aimlessly on the street and watched us go by with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity. We had by now been joined by two more Bouhila brothers and their French girlfriends. Tourists were not much in evidence in Algeria even then, and aroused interest, peppered with a touch of resentment when they were obviously émigrés. The visit to the mosque was restricted to the courtyard, as a sign over the door announced “Interdit aux femmes”, much as pre-1962 restaurants might have proclaimed “Interdit aux indigènes”. I felt doubly sorry for the local women, who never got much of a deal before or after independence.
We spent our afternoons on the beaches out to the west of Oran, notably Les Andalouses, which was a passably equipped tourist resort. Resisting the temptation to search for the bloodstains of Meursault’s crime in the sand, I observed the Oranese at play. The “new” Algeria was displayed with all its contradictions: beachwear ranged from the bikini to the burnous for women, the jellaba to the G-string for men. The sand was fine, though not too clean, the sea a little rough but deliciously warm. Les Andalouses, and other beaches we visited, were supervised with almost excessive zeal by an army of lifeguards who patrolled the water’s edge incessantly, blowing whistles at imprudent bathers and running the red flag up at the first breaker that overstepped the mark. We ate lunch in a pleasant airconditioned restaurant with clean tablecloths, fresh flowers on the tables and chilled rosé wine. Dining al fresco was not an Algerian custom, perhaps because of the flies, and especially where alcohol was served. I had several more occasions to smile at this lip-service to Islam.
After three nights in Oran, which we all judged two nights too many, we headed towards Algiers in a two-car convoy. Leaving Oran in the cool of the early morning, we drove for seven hours, stopping occasionally in villages to draw on our rations of drinking water. The village women were swathed in cream cotton, and held their haiks closed with one hand, or with their teeth when both hands were full, leaving just one eye uncovered, presumably to see where they were going. On the last stretch, when the cool morning breeze was six hours behind us and the mid-afternoon sun relentless, we stopped to eke out our last half-bottle of Saida between us. A pick-up coming the other way stopped to offer us water. I began to realise the precious nature of something I had always taken for granted, as well as the extent of Algerian hospitality.
Our destination was a tourist resort called Sidi Fredj, which the majority of Algerians still referred to by its pre-independence name of Sidi Ferruch. It was a peninsula some 20 km west of Algiers, on the “turquoise coast” which ran for 50 km from Algiers to Tipaza. Sidi Fredj and Zeralda, its next-door neighbour, were vast tourist complexes offering all-day and all-night attractions. The hotels and bungalows were more typically North African, in white stucco with curving lines, Moorish archways and colonnades. However, at Zeralda someone had named one of the centres “Club Sahel” – in 1987 the word Sahel evoked drought and starvation. Perhaps it was a health farm, we mused. A good 95% of the holidaymakers were Algerians, mostly resident, with a small contingent of émigré Algerians from France. The foreign element was made up mostly of groups from the Eastern Bloc – as was – looking very much at home (an alcohol-free Cuba), and the occasional French or Italian couple looking a bit disappointed. Back to Club Med next year, Marcel. In the vast complex there was something for everyone – even an open-air disco which I bet isn’t there now – but nothing was quite right: the pool was murky, the clubs were alcohol-free, the restaurants never had things that were on the menu (although they seemed to have “makesh” everywhere – meaning “there ain’t none”), the rooms had the water cut off for a few hours each day. The staff were generally honest and good-natured, if just a touch officious (marriage certificates requested for couples sharing a room, and bills to be paid for in hard currency by non-Algerians – this applied to one of the brothers who had taken French nationality). However, under socialism of the Eastern Bloc variety there was invariably a section of the population out to make a fast dinar. Nothing really exorbitant, and seeing the way many people lived, I was inclined to be indulgent.
In any case, however much they were ripping us off, we and thousands of others were ripping off the Algerian economy even more by an ingenious system of currency exchange which was illegal but totally undetectable. It worked thanks to the number of Algerians in France with family back in the old country. It was undetectable because the money never actually moved – an Algerian resident in France would put a certain sum in French francs aside for a relative visiting from Algeria who could not bring money out. Algerians were so desperate to obtain francs that they would offer up to 10 times the official exchange rate. There was no shortage of dinars – quite the opposite, since there was nothing to spend them on in Algeria. When the émigré cousins came back home for the summer holidays, there would be the agreed sum of dinars waiting for them. The system was quite reliable as it was operated within families, which also guaranteed discretion. The Algerian authorities were powerless to do anything about it, and had to content themselves with controlling official exchange and making foreigners pay hotel bills in hard currency. In 1987 the official exchange rate was 0.80 dinars to the franc, whereas on the black market the franc was fetching about 7 dinars and rising.
Ahmed’s elder sister and her family were staying at Zeralda and we spent one day on their beach. Fatma was accompanied by her husband Akli, a good-natured idiot, five of her seven teenage daughters and her very spoilt little boy. With Ahmed’s two brothers and their companions, there were 14 of us in a family group. I began to understand what was meant by “extended family".
Riding with the Bouhilas
The Bouhila brothers were tough outriders, and on more than one occasion I witnessed demonstrations of survival Algerian-style. Of necessity, the average Algerian is very street-wise. Whenever we came across makesh, it was announced with an apologetic shrug and a “what can you do” sigh. Establishments with sumptuous decor and eager staff were obliged to serve undrinkable ersatz coffee made from roasted chick peas. Every time I visit the Algerian Coffee House in Soho I smile at the memory. Instead of the delicious oriental patisseries that are the stock in trade of any couscous restaurant north of the Mediterranean, all that could be found in Algeria was the “gateau national” as we dubbed it, a soggy, tasteless cream sponge made with powdered ingredients purchased in bulk by the state purchasing agency (we had seen the invitation to tender published in French newspapers). We soon realised it was a waste of time to pore over the lavish menus proffered by waiters, and more expedient to ask what there was (“Prawns or red mullet”) and then choose. In a very pleasant Kabyle restaurant in central Algiers, the headwaiter asked me at the end of the meal if I had by chance an aspirin or two, as he had a headache and they couldn’t buy them in Algeria. I gave him a whole packet of Paracetamol instead of a tip. He was over the moon.
Afternoons on the beach at Zeralda or Club des Pins were alternated with trips to Algiers, a sprawling city with several centres of activity. The population was young - in 1987, 60% of Algerians were under 25. There was not much evidence of fundamentalism then - at the time it was competing with football and rai music for the favours of the 60%, and failing. The government was attempting to quell any nascent unrest by building distractions: mosques were in construction everywhere we went, apparently meant to keep the fundamentalists off the street. As we have seen, this was a gross error of judgment. One such skeleton construction we passed on a Friday was packed, the faithful spilling out through a doorway that as yet had no doors. There was also a spanking new shopping mall underneath the monument to the Martyrs of the Revolution where fountains, hanging plants, air conditioning and MTV were meant to tempt Algerian youth away from Allah and towards Mammon. Polite notices asked shoppers to please not spit on the floor. In October 1988 an impoverished mob of youths smashed the place to pieces. As far as I know it has never been rebuilt.
Downtown Algiers was a metropolis compared to Oran, with smart parts, smelly parts, women in veils and women in Valentino, and millions of artful dodgers with the nouse of Del Boy and the faces of unwashed cherubs. The city teemed with people and cars, many of both in a state of patent disrepair. All vehicles in Algiers had one superfluous component - the rear-view mirror. No-one used it: the Algerois technique for overtaking, for those with the courage to try it, was to drive as fast as possible with one fist hard down on the horn until the manoeuvre was completed.
Contrasts and surprises waited on every street corner in the form of dusky goddesses in blue uniforms. The elegance of Algiers traffic policewomen put the Parisian WPC to shame. No lip service to feminism this: on two occasions we were pulled up sharp by a shrill whistle administered by Isabelle Adjani in epaulettes who approached the car with a disdainful swagger, followed by a smart salute and a strict telling-off. I suspected Ahmed of taking a couple of one-way streets the wrong way on purpose.
The heights of Algiers are approached by broad, snaking roads that wind up through the smart districts of Hydra and El Biar. Luxurious villas rubbed shoulders with Embassies and Ministries, and there is hardly a chador or a turban to be seen (unless they’re on the heads of the cleaning-lady and the gardener). From the terrace bar of the Aurassi hotel - one of the few places in Algiers where one could drink alcohol outside in mixed company - I looked out over the lush slopes of El Biar and wondered how often its cosseted residents had occasion or inclination to set foot downtown. As the call to prayer wafted up from the El Biar mosque (headquarters of the as yet unheard-of FIS), I watched a construction worker three floors down spread his jacket out on the ground for a prayer mat and perform his ritual alone, unaware of our presence high up in the smart hotel, and oblivious to everything around him. Everywhere I looked in Algeria, I saw two worlds staring each other in the face, and wondered if curiosity would turn to hostility or a handshake. I didn’t have to wait much more than a year to have the beginnings of an answer.
In contrast to the smart parts of Algiers, the Casbah was a smelly, dirty, cholera-infested district lacking in any of the colour or magic conjured up by its name. It was grey - grey with dust, age, poverty and disease, and the stench pervaded the air. Lethal looking meat hung putrefying in the heat, and we took care not to slip on the rotting fruit that littered the cobbled streets. We kept to the main thoroughfare, Bouhila escort notwithstanding, and peered curiously but timidly up the mysterious alleyways that twisted upwards into unseen peril.
For an intrinsically undisciplined people, the Algerians have adapted with an almost British stoicism to the queue. The Square of the Martyrs is so named, local legend has it, for the thousands of martyrs who wait hours each day for buses. Blocked in a traffic jam in the centre of Algiers one day, we observed a couple of hundred people clustered in front of an anonymous building. A similarly immobilized neighbour in a French-registered car was grinning, and offered us an explanation. “It’s to go over there,” he gestured vaguely in the direction of France. Glancing at our French plates, he grinned again. “We’re better off over there, eh!” he laughed.
Tadmait City
After a week of shunting between Sidi Fredj and Algiers (over the road is a mysterious sign reading, in English, “Safety Road”) we moved on to the Mecca of our trip, Kabylie, which begins an hour’s drive east of Algiers. This mountainous region has an entirely distinct personality, and its people are culturally far removed from the Arabs. They are Berbers, the original inhabitants of North Africa (give or take a bit of rape and pillage) prior to the Arab invasion in the 10th century. The race of Hannibal and Saint Augustine. Their language is orally transmitted, the written key having been lost in the mists of time. Their dress, crafts and even their physique are different: the Kabyle woman does not wear chador or veil, but a brightly-coloured peasant dress and an equally brightly-coloured and often clashing headscarf. Around the waist they tie a sort of sarong in red and gold striped fabric. Kabylie is famous for its pottery and rugs, decorated with geometric symbols, and also for enamelled silver jewellery. The Kabyle is often taller than the Arab, with a rounder face and eyes, shorter nose, lighter skin and generally more European aspect. Some Kabyles are blond or red-headed, although this is probably due to a Visigoth ancestor. They are fiercely independent and despise the corrupt and religion-obsessed Arabs. As a people they share certain qualities with the Scots: hardiness, fierce in battle, and thrifty.
Even the Kabyles, however, have their faults. Driving through fields and villages I was struck by the abundance of melons, to the exclusion of any other crop. Shops were piled to the rafters with giant watermelons, and the fields were dotted with yellow honeydew. I asked Ahmed why melon appeared to be the only crop. He pulled a wry face. “The melon” he explained “needs no water. You plant it and leave it.” He glanced at me in a sardonic manner. “Got the picture?”
The Amraoui hotel in Tizi Ouzou was, with the Aurassi in Algiers, the nearest thing to a four-star hotel we found. Of course, there were problems over rooms. Here we had no choice but to take two rooms, manque de marriage certificate. The altitude and distance from the coast, and forest fires nearby, meant that the temperature was considerably higher in Kabylie than down in Algiers. The hotel swimming pool was almost as cloudy as that at Sidi Fredj, but at least the air conditioning worked in one of our rooms.
Tadmait, to my surprise, was signposted on the main Algiers-Tizi road. It turned out to be not the one-horse staging-post that had been described to me, but a small town with railway station, mosque, cemeteries, and even a factory (probably for processing melons). My future in-laws lived in a tiny three-roomed house on the edge of the village, tucked away at the end of a dirt road where children squatted, staring unblinkingly at the newcomers. I immediately went into culture shock. Sitting on a low stool in the miniscule courtyard, with the fat from the recently-slaughtered Aid-el-Fitr sheep hanging from a plastic washing line over my head (to make suet, I was told), with my prospective father-in-law sleeping a yard away on a sheepskin in the corridor, I looked up through the canopy of vine leaves and listened to my inner voice shriek: “WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING HERE???” I wanted a gin and tonic. I wanted a cigarette. I wanted to go home. Strike out on all three. It was possibly the most difficult afternoon of my life. This was the panic I should have been having on the boat. No, correction - this was the panic I should have had before I ever got on that boat.
My future in-laws lived an extremely simple life. They were peasants, originally from the mountain but now settled in the village - after a 20-year stopover on the outskirts of Paris. Life was well regulated, there was no room here for the ever-present “Why?” that had dogged me since Marbella. Ahmed’s mother Melha, (meaning “salt” - shades of King Lear) showed emotion sparingly, and was constantly busy about the house. His father, Slimane, was a stern patriarch whose two main activities were sleeping and scowling. Sometimes he did both at once. They were puzzled at my passion for taking photographs, but occasionally accepted to pose. It was impossible, however, to get them to smile for the camera. It was difficult to get them to smile for anything, in fact. They posed for photographs in the manner of Victorians, stiff and formal and unsmiling. Looking at some photographs I had brought from home, Melha asked me with genuine curiosity why I was “baring my teeth” in so many of them. I snatched a wonderful picture of Slimane one day, glaring balefully at me. After he died, every member of the family wanted a copy, saying it captured his character perfectly.
We had a day’s touring in the Djurdjura mountains, which were lush with eucalyptus and pine and almost Alpine. One trip took us up to the Benni Yenni, a group of villages perched on the top of the Djurdjura and famed for their enamel jewellery. In another village, Taguemount-Azzouz, we visited a traditional rugmaker and ordered colourful woven rugs.
The last day of our stay in Kabylie was the day of the pilgrimage “to the mountain”. This was the top of the hill overlooking Tadmait, where the Bouhilas had lived for generations until bombed out by the French during the Algerian war in 1958. We set out at 6 a.m. to benefit from the cool of the morning, and climbed for an hour and a half up winding mountain paths, led by the surefooted 67-year-old Melha. The house where Ahmed was born was in ruins and overgrown, but Melha described where every room had been, where the French had placed the explosives, and how she had helped to build the house, carrying the large stones up from the village on her head. We admired the view down to the sea, and Melha pointed out the boundaries of what once had been their land. She touched individual olive trees, reminding Ahmed which ones were his. The summit of the mountain was abundant with prickly pears (Barbary figs), and Melha showed me skillfully how to peel one without ending up with pincushions for hands. She pointed out fossils in the rocks, explaining how long, long ago the sea had come up this high. Before her grandfather’s time, she told us. Long before.
The journey back down took half an hour, Melha leading us down the steep slopes at astonishing speed with a basketful of prickly pears (Barbary figs) balanced on her head. As the slope levelled out we passed a number of small houses, and at each one the occupants stopped us to offer us something - home-grown tomatoes, honey cakes, home-baked bread.
Sweet Liberty
We returned to France from Algiers, by car and with a first-class cabin booked. Arriving at the port we spotted the gleaming white bulk of the “Liberte” - and both nearly saluted the French flag flying from her stern. As a parting shot, the Algerian immigration officials pulled Ahmed in to prove he was not evading military service - ever vigilant, he always carried his military discharge papers when travelling in Algeria. Once through the gates, we drove onto the boat at full speed and nearly fell up the steps to the bar. The French barman smiled indulgently as we clinked large glasses of gin and tonic with the toast “Vive la France”. I guess it wasn’t the first time he’d heard that.
The 24-hour crossing was just the holiday we needed after a stay in Algeria. Four-course meals prepared with exquisite French flair, buckets of wine, and animated discussions over dinner with French travellers high on the relief of not being in Algeria any more.
I very nearly never made it to Algeria. Through a combination of circumstances including an irrational faith in the veracity of Spanish bus timetables, I was the last passenger to embark on the “Zeralda” in Alicante, and was observed stoically by three decks of zealously punctual Algerian passengers, who had watched unblinkingly as a dishevelled Englishwoman had screamed onto the quayside in a taxi and conducted a rapid process of passport and customs control with an uncomprehending Spanish border policeman at the foot of the gangplank. The officious Algerian steward reprimanded me as I stumbled up the ramp, red-faced and harrassed in that elegant British way. As it turned out, the ship did not move from the quayside for another hour, by which time I had more or less recovered my composure and was leaning over the rail with a nonchalant air, apprehension having given way to the thrill of horizons new, and the Dunkirk spirit ready to surge out at the first sign of trouble. Dammit, we’re British when all’s said and done!
During my week on the Costa del Sol I had encountered a certain number of that shoddy British export, the expatriate, who, on learning of my ultimate destination, invariably responded monsyllabically: “Why?” Even the Spanish policeman, in the few minutes of conversation held in fractured Spanish while carrying out the paperwork, had expressed the same sentiment. In fact, the conversation had gone along these lines:
El policeman: “Ehhhh Senorita, a donde vas?” (I look pointedly at Algerian flag hanging off back of ship) Me: “Euh …. Argelia?” El policeman: “Argelia? Ehhhhh porque?” Me (looking worriedly at men starting to remove gangplank) : “Euh … vacaciones?” El policeman: “Vacaciones? En Argelia?” Me: “Si ….” El policeman: “Porque?” Me (looking at watch, gangplank, then pleadingly at El Policeman): “Senor, por favor ….” El policeman (sighing): “OK, OK ….”
Why, indeed, was a lone Englishwoman, born in St George’s Hospital (now the Lanesborough Hotel), on Hyde Park Corner in opulent Knightsbridge, London, and a long-time resident of luxurious and sophisticated Paris, travelling from Alicante to Oran on an Algerian tugboat? A street-wise Berber immigrant had a lot to do with it, and precisely because of this, the implications were formidable. This was not ordinary tourism. On the other side of the Mediterranean I was going to meet my future in-laws. The journey was a profession of faith, a taking of the veil (hopefully not literally), a pilgrimage, a submission and a confrontation at the same time.
The Spanish coastline remained in view for a couple of hours, and even my apprehension of what lay ahead could not match my relief at leaving behind the Costa del Crass. When the land finally melted into the horizon and the horizon flattened into a straight line, my mind shifted into another gear and I moved to the prow, to face south, towards Africa. The journey lasted ten hours, during which time I moved restlessly from one deck to another, escaping in turn from the relentless sun beating down on the empty portside to the crowds seeking the shade of starboard. They were mostly Algerians, returning home from holidays with immigrant relatives in France or Spain. Unlike their British counterparts, however, these returning holidaymakers carried no straw donkeys and were stone cold sober. Their visible baggage was crammed with rugs, lamps, shoes and a motley collection of home furnishings and household goods that were scarce in Algeria. They did not laugh much, remaining in their family groups and sleeping on the deck, or gazing silently out at the turquoise wash that trailed out a mile behind the Zeralda.
The crew were, however, quite charming. I was rapidly spotted, the lone European woman with a heavy suitcase, and a sympathetic steward directed me to the lounge bar, advising me to dig in for the duration. The lounge was empty and just about air conditioned, but dingy and unwelcoming. I moved on to the cafeteria, where I was cheerily hailed by the cooks and immediately engaged in conversation by the stewards who seemed genuinely nonplussed that I should wish to visit their country. I was half-expecting the million-dinar question: “Pourquoi?” One steward even insisted on serving me at my table, much to the curiosity of other passengers, and ended up sitting down with me to discuss Macbeth while I tucked into my meatballs and chick peas. I started to enjoy the trip.
Ten hours on a boat with few facilities and co-travellers who resembled an undertakers’ day out can be a long time. I killed some of it picking up Arabic stations on my FM walkman, toiled through part of a tedious Robert Ludlum novel, jotted down a few reflections on the Costa del Sol and Algerian ferryboats, and counted cockroaches. Wandering through the bowels of the ship I happened upon an impromptu mosque where a handful of the faithful had thrown down some rugs, set their shoes in lines and were listening in rapt awe to a bearded teacher. I wandered back to the deck. For six hours there had been no sight of land, and another four to go. I was quite relieved when a young Algerian crew member came up to chat in French, although it soon appeared that he wanted me to smuggle something through customs for him. I politely declined, but accepted his invitation for a coffee just to pass the time. I was a little disappointed when it emerged that the coffee was to be served in his cabin three decks below, and excused myself, my benevolent thoughts towards the natives taking a momentary jolt. I returned up on deck, mistook some heavy-duty French oil men for English tourists and decided to repair to a quiet corner in solitude before I succumbed completely to boat fever.
The Barbary Coast finally materialised through a heavy fog, and dolphins raced the boat in for a while – what a tourist board this country must have! Because of the mist, I was deprived of the sight of Camus’ city from the sea. In any case, foot passengers were all herded down below deck a good half hour before we docked, to await disembarcation. Wedged between ancient tattooed ladies in chadors and noisy young blades in Lacoste tee-shirts, I tried to imagine I was on the Paris metro in the rush-hour, and perspired stoically and silently. I had been waiting almost an hour, the boat had docked, and I was close to wilting when my thwarted suitor from the engine-room appeared and plucked me and my suitcase out of the scrum. I followed him through and over the bodies strewn all over the lower decks (some of them still asleep, or perhaps dead from suffocation), wondering if he was about to exact his revenge for the earlier rejection. But I found myself lining up with the first-class passengers and crew, who disembarked first. It emerged that my fairy godbrother was a Kabyle, like my fiance, and the much vaunted brotherhood really worked. My chevalier was called Omar, and thanks to him, despite being last on the boat I was among the first off, which must have confirmed for my fellow passengers that I was really a VIP. I thanked him profusely as he left me at the immigration desk, and almost felt guilty for suspecting him of ulterior motives.
The point-of-entry hangar was steamy with condensation, and I prepared myself for the worst. The lone immigration official looked as if he’d been on duty for four days and nights in a row and snarled at me to step forward. Bright smile and British passport to the fore, I presented myself. He threw me completely with his first question: was I Irish? The name on my passport was of Irish origin. These people really knew their stuff. After a split second’s hesitation, I called his bluff and answered no. In truth, I had never been to Ireland. I explained that I was visiting Algeria as a tourist, and he waved me through disgustedly. I marvelled at the speed of the procedure and had almost breathed a sigh of relief when I espied a frenzied crowd, each carrying half a dozen bulging bags, descending on two customs officials who stood frozen to their stations. I sucked my breath back in again. A porter advised me to change my money first, and since I appeared to be the only non-Algerian disembarking, this was quickly done and I was directed back to the customs officials. Brightly smiling again, I thrust my passport at the man only to be asked again if I was Irish. I was beginning to suspect a conspiracy. I scrutinised the customs official closely. He was flicking through my passport without seeming to be able to read it. No, I smiled – British. I was complimented on my French, and after a cursory glance into my suitcase was waved towards the exit. More crowds, but by now I could almost feel the balmy night air, and my only concern was that my fiancé was waiting outside. Omar materialised inside the exit like a pantomime fairy and, grabbing my suitcase, demonstrated tackles that left me wondering why Algeria doesn’t have an international rugby team. At last we emerged into the Oranese night, Africa enveloping me like sticky syrup.
First steps in Africa – Oran
I eventually found Ahmed in the crowd, and as we hugged each other, Omar was swallowed up by the crowd, still clutching my suitcase. Ahmed couldn’t understand why I was so concerned about this bloke I’d met on the boat, and on learning he had my luggage, started to flash his eyes. However, Omar reappeared with my suitcase, the Kabyle lads did the secret handshake and Ahmed ended up giving him a lift to his mum’s in our VW Golf which had made the crossing from France.
The city of Oran, like many Mediterranean ports, rises up from the sea. It is an old city, with French style houses on the main boulevards and narrow climbing back-alleys. In 1987 it had a reputation for liberalism, which I only appreciated after I had been to Algiers. Most women in Oran wore the cream-coloured “haik”, but only one face in fifty was veiled, and haiks often covered smart Paris fashions. Elaborately painted eyes and well-turned ankles on high heels were often the frivolous top and tail of a walking bedsheet.
We had booked the hotel on the recommendation of the Hachette Blue Guide to Algeria, which had – somewhat generously – accorded the Timgad four flags. The hotel, like much else in Algeria, was singularly lacking in Eastern promise. The staff were courteous in that stiff, formal way the Algerians have. The restaurant was clean but badly provisioned, and the supply of drinking water ran out fairly quickly. Ahmed’s two brothers (one Paris based, one who still lived in the village) the French girlfriend of the Paris brother and her friend were at the hotel. Looks like we got us a convoy!
I had arrived during a short heatwave even by Algerian standards, and the evening of my arrival was hot and humid, an appropriate setting for my first steps in Africa. The Oranese sat out on their pavements late into the night, the turbans and haiks contrasting starkly with the familiar French architecture. I thought I caught a glimpse of Meursault leaning over his balcony, smoking as he watched the townspeople strolling through the sultry night.
The next day we set out to explore Oran. Half a day is quite sufficient to visit the town. The main square looked just like any you have seen in a large town in the south of France, symmetrical and lined with palm trees. The opera house, which had almost certainly not seen the phantom of an opera since 1962, still proudly proclaimed “Comedie, Danse, Opera” across its facade. The road which wound down towards the main mosque went through the Casbah, its cobblestones slippery with rotting fruit and vegetables, the waves of stench mingling with aromas of dubious cuisine wafting from the dingy eating places. The local men stood aimlessly on the street and watched us go by with a mixture of suspicion and curiosity. We had by now been joined by two more Bouhila brothers and their French girlfriends. Tourists were not much in evidence in Algeria even then, and aroused interest, peppered with a touch of resentment when they were obviously émigrés. The visit to the mosque was restricted to the courtyard, as a sign over the door announced “Interdit aux femmes”, much as pre-1962 restaurants might have proclaimed “Interdit aux indigènes”. I felt doubly sorry for the local women, who never got much of a deal before or after independence.
We spent our afternoons on the beaches out to the west of Oran, notably Les Andalouses, which was a passably equipped tourist resort. Resisting the temptation to search for the bloodstains of Meursault’s crime in the sand, I observed the Oranese at play. The “new” Algeria was displayed with all its contradictions: beachwear ranged from the bikini to the burnous for women, the jellaba to the G-string for men. The sand was fine, though not too clean, the sea a little rough but deliciously warm. Les Andalouses, and other beaches we visited, were supervised with almost excessive zeal by an army of lifeguards who patrolled the water’s edge incessantly, blowing whistles at imprudent bathers and running the red flag up at the first breaker that overstepped the mark. We ate lunch in a pleasant airconditioned restaurant with clean tablecloths, fresh flowers on the tables and chilled rosé wine. Dining al fresco was not an Algerian custom, perhaps because of the flies, and especially where alcohol was served. I had several more occasions to smile at this lip-service to Islam.
After three nights in Oran, which we all judged two nights too many, we headed towards Algiers in a two-car convoy. Leaving Oran in the cool of the early morning, we drove for seven hours, stopping occasionally in villages to draw on our rations of drinking water. The village women were swathed in cream cotton, and held their haiks closed with one hand, or with their teeth when both hands were full, leaving just one eye uncovered, presumably to see where they were going. On the last stretch, when the cool morning breeze was six hours behind us and the mid-afternoon sun relentless, we stopped to eke out our last half-bottle of Saida between us. A pick-up coming the other way stopped to offer us water. I began to realise the precious nature of something I had always taken for granted, as well as the extent of Algerian hospitality.
Our destination was a tourist resort called Sidi Fredj, which the majority of Algerians still referred to by its pre-independence name of Sidi Ferruch. It was a peninsula some 20 km west of Algiers, on the “turquoise coast” which ran for 50 km from Algiers to Tipaza. Sidi Fredj and Zeralda, its next-door neighbour, were vast tourist complexes offering all-day and all-night attractions. The hotels and bungalows were more typically North African, in white stucco with curving lines, Moorish archways and colonnades. However, at Zeralda someone had named one of the centres “Club Sahel” – in 1987 the word Sahel evoked drought and starvation. Perhaps it was a health farm, we mused. A good 95% of the holidaymakers were Algerians, mostly resident, with a small contingent of émigré Algerians from France. The foreign element was made up mostly of groups from the Eastern Bloc – as was – looking very much at home (an alcohol-free Cuba), and the occasional French or Italian couple looking a bit disappointed. Back to Club Med next year, Marcel. In the vast complex there was something for everyone – even an open-air disco which I bet isn’t there now – but nothing was quite right: the pool was murky, the clubs were alcohol-free, the restaurants never had things that were on the menu (although they seemed to have “makesh” everywhere – meaning “there ain’t none”), the rooms had the water cut off for a few hours each day. The staff were generally honest and good-natured, if just a touch officious (marriage certificates requested for couples sharing a room, and bills to be paid for in hard currency by non-Algerians – this applied to one of the brothers who had taken French nationality). However, under socialism of the Eastern Bloc variety there was invariably a section of the population out to make a fast dinar. Nothing really exorbitant, and seeing the way many people lived, I was inclined to be indulgent.
In any case, however much they were ripping us off, we and thousands of others were ripping off the Algerian economy even more by an ingenious system of currency exchange which was illegal but totally undetectable. It worked thanks to the number of Algerians in France with family back in the old country. It was undetectable because the money never actually moved – an Algerian resident in France would put a certain sum in French francs aside for a relative visiting from Algeria who could not bring money out. Algerians were so desperate to obtain francs that they would offer up to 10 times the official exchange rate. There was no shortage of dinars – quite the opposite, since there was nothing to spend them on in Algeria. When the émigré cousins came back home for the summer holidays, there would be the agreed sum of dinars waiting for them. The system was quite reliable as it was operated within families, which also guaranteed discretion. The Algerian authorities were powerless to do anything about it, and had to content themselves with controlling official exchange and making foreigners pay hotel bills in hard currency. In 1987 the official exchange rate was 0.80 dinars to the franc, whereas on the black market the franc was fetching about 7 dinars and rising.
Ahmed’s elder sister and her family were staying at Zeralda and we spent one day on their beach. Fatma was accompanied by her husband Akli, a good-natured idiot, five of her seven teenage daughters and her very spoilt little boy. With Ahmed’s two brothers and their companions, there were 14 of us in a family group. I began to understand what was meant by “extended family".
Riding with the Bouhilas
The Bouhila brothers were tough outriders, and on more than one occasion I witnessed demonstrations of survival Algerian-style. Of necessity, the average Algerian is very street-wise. Whenever we came across makesh, it was announced with an apologetic shrug and a “what can you do” sigh. Establishments with sumptuous decor and eager staff were obliged to serve undrinkable ersatz coffee made from roasted chick peas. Every time I visit the Algerian Coffee House in Soho I smile at the memory. Instead of the delicious oriental patisseries that are the stock in trade of any couscous restaurant north of the Mediterranean, all that could be found in Algeria was the “gateau national” as we dubbed it, a soggy, tasteless cream sponge made with powdered ingredients purchased in bulk by the state purchasing agency (we had seen the invitation to tender published in French newspapers). We soon realised it was a waste of time to pore over the lavish menus proffered by waiters, and more expedient to ask what there was (“Prawns or red mullet”) and then choose. In a very pleasant Kabyle restaurant in central Algiers, the headwaiter asked me at the end of the meal if I had by chance an aspirin or two, as he had a headache and they couldn’t buy them in Algeria. I gave him a whole packet of Paracetamol instead of a tip. He was over the moon.
Afternoons on the beach at Zeralda or Club des Pins were alternated with trips to Algiers, a sprawling city with several centres of activity. The population was young - in 1987, 60% of Algerians were under 25. There was not much evidence of fundamentalism then - at the time it was competing with football and rai music for the favours of the 60%, and failing. The government was attempting to quell any nascent unrest by building distractions: mosques were in construction everywhere we went, apparently meant to keep the fundamentalists off the street. As we have seen, this was a gross error of judgment. One such skeleton construction we passed on a Friday was packed, the faithful spilling out through a doorway that as yet had no doors. There was also a spanking new shopping mall underneath the monument to the Martyrs of the Revolution where fountains, hanging plants, air conditioning and MTV were meant to tempt Algerian youth away from Allah and towards Mammon. Polite notices asked shoppers to please not spit on the floor. In October 1988 an impoverished mob of youths smashed the place to pieces. As far as I know it has never been rebuilt.
Downtown Algiers was a metropolis compared to Oran, with smart parts, smelly parts, women in veils and women in Valentino, and millions of artful dodgers with the nouse of Del Boy and the faces of unwashed cherubs. The city teemed with people and cars, many of both in a state of patent disrepair. All vehicles in Algiers had one superfluous component - the rear-view mirror. No-one used it: the Algerois technique for overtaking, for those with the courage to try it, was to drive as fast as possible with one fist hard down on the horn until the manoeuvre was completed.
Contrasts and surprises waited on every street corner in the form of dusky goddesses in blue uniforms. The elegance of Algiers traffic policewomen put the Parisian WPC to shame. No lip service to feminism this: on two occasions we were pulled up sharp by a shrill whistle administered by Isabelle Adjani in epaulettes who approached the car with a disdainful swagger, followed by a smart salute and a strict telling-off. I suspected Ahmed of taking a couple of one-way streets the wrong way on purpose.
The heights of Algiers are approached by broad, snaking roads that wind up through the smart districts of Hydra and El Biar. Luxurious villas rubbed shoulders with Embassies and Ministries, and there is hardly a chador or a turban to be seen (unless they’re on the heads of the cleaning-lady and the gardener). From the terrace bar of the Aurassi hotel - one of the few places in Algiers where one could drink alcohol outside in mixed company - I looked out over the lush slopes of El Biar and wondered how often its cosseted residents had occasion or inclination to set foot downtown. As the call to prayer wafted up from the El Biar mosque (headquarters of the as yet unheard-of FIS), I watched a construction worker three floors down spread his jacket out on the ground for a prayer mat and perform his ritual alone, unaware of our presence high up in the smart hotel, and oblivious to everything around him. Everywhere I looked in Algeria, I saw two worlds staring each other in the face, and wondered if curiosity would turn to hostility or a handshake. I didn’t have to wait much more than a year to have the beginnings of an answer.
In contrast to the smart parts of Algiers, the Casbah was a smelly, dirty, cholera-infested district lacking in any of the colour or magic conjured up by its name. It was grey - grey with dust, age, poverty and disease, and the stench pervaded the air. Lethal looking meat hung putrefying in the heat, and we took care not to slip on the rotting fruit that littered the cobbled streets. We kept to the main thoroughfare, Bouhila escort notwithstanding, and peered curiously but timidly up the mysterious alleyways that twisted upwards into unseen peril.
For an intrinsically undisciplined people, the Algerians have adapted with an almost British stoicism to the queue. The Square of the Martyrs is so named, local legend has it, for the thousands of martyrs who wait hours each day for buses. Blocked in a traffic jam in the centre of Algiers one day, we observed a couple of hundred people clustered in front of an anonymous building. A similarly immobilized neighbour in a French-registered car was grinning, and offered us an explanation. “It’s to go over there,” he gestured vaguely in the direction of France. Glancing at our French plates, he grinned again. “We’re better off over there, eh!” he laughed.
Tadmait City
After a week of shunting between Sidi Fredj and Algiers (over the road is a mysterious sign reading, in English, “Safety Road”) we moved on to the Mecca of our trip, Kabylie, which begins an hour’s drive east of Algiers. This mountainous region has an entirely distinct personality, and its people are culturally far removed from the Arabs. They are Berbers, the original inhabitants of North Africa (give or take a bit of rape and pillage) prior to the Arab invasion in the 10th century. The race of Hannibal and Saint Augustine. Their language is orally transmitted, the written key having been lost in the mists of time. Their dress, crafts and even their physique are different: the Kabyle woman does not wear chador or veil, but a brightly-coloured peasant dress and an equally brightly-coloured and often clashing headscarf. Around the waist they tie a sort of sarong in red and gold striped fabric. Kabylie is famous for its pottery and rugs, decorated with geometric symbols, and also for enamelled silver jewellery. The Kabyle is often taller than the Arab, with a rounder face and eyes, shorter nose, lighter skin and generally more European aspect. Some Kabyles are blond or red-headed, although this is probably due to a Visigoth ancestor. They are fiercely independent and despise the corrupt and religion-obsessed Arabs. As a people they share certain qualities with the Scots: hardiness, fierce in battle, and thrifty.
Even the Kabyles, however, have their faults. Driving through fields and villages I was struck by the abundance of melons, to the exclusion of any other crop. Shops were piled to the rafters with giant watermelons, and the fields were dotted with yellow honeydew. I asked Ahmed why melon appeared to be the only crop. He pulled a wry face. “The melon” he explained “needs no water. You plant it and leave it.” He glanced at me in a sardonic manner. “Got the picture?”
The Amraoui hotel in Tizi Ouzou was, with the Aurassi in Algiers, the nearest thing to a four-star hotel we found. Of course, there were problems over rooms. Here we had no choice but to take two rooms, manque de marriage certificate. The altitude and distance from the coast, and forest fires nearby, meant that the temperature was considerably higher in Kabylie than down in Algiers. The hotel swimming pool was almost as cloudy as that at Sidi Fredj, but at least the air conditioning worked in one of our rooms.
Tadmait, to my surprise, was signposted on the main Algiers-Tizi road. It turned out to be not the one-horse staging-post that had been described to me, but a small town with railway station, mosque, cemeteries, and even a factory (probably for processing melons). My future in-laws lived in a tiny three-roomed house on the edge of the village, tucked away at the end of a dirt road where children squatted, staring unblinkingly at the newcomers. I immediately went into culture shock. Sitting on a low stool in the miniscule courtyard, with the fat from the recently-slaughtered Aid-el-Fitr sheep hanging from a plastic washing line over my head (to make suet, I was told), with my prospective father-in-law sleeping a yard away on a sheepskin in the corridor, I looked up through the canopy of vine leaves and listened to my inner voice shriek: “WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING HERE???” I wanted a gin and tonic. I wanted a cigarette. I wanted to go home. Strike out on all three. It was possibly the most difficult afternoon of my life. This was the panic I should have been having on the boat. No, correction - this was the panic I should have had before I ever got on that boat.
My future in-laws lived an extremely simple life. They were peasants, originally from the mountain but now settled in the village - after a 20-year stopover on the outskirts of Paris. Life was well regulated, there was no room here for the ever-present “Why?” that had dogged me since Marbella. Ahmed’s mother Melha, (meaning “salt” - shades of King Lear) showed emotion sparingly, and was constantly busy about the house. His father, Slimane, was a stern patriarch whose two main activities were sleeping and scowling. Sometimes he did both at once. They were puzzled at my passion for taking photographs, but occasionally accepted to pose. It was impossible, however, to get them to smile for the camera. It was difficult to get them to smile for anything, in fact. They posed for photographs in the manner of Victorians, stiff and formal and unsmiling. Looking at some photographs I had brought from home, Melha asked me with genuine curiosity why I was “baring my teeth” in so many of them. I snatched a wonderful picture of Slimane one day, glaring balefully at me. After he died, every member of the family wanted a copy, saying it captured his character perfectly.
We had a day’s touring in the Djurdjura mountains, which were lush with eucalyptus and pine and almost Alpine. One trip took us up to the Benni Yenni, a group of villages perched on the top of the Djurdjura and famed for their enamel jewellery. In another village, Taguemount-Azzouz, we visited a traditional rugmaker and ordered colourful woven rugs.
The last day of our stay in Kabylie was the day of the pilgrimage “to the mountain”. This was the top of the hill overlooking Tadmait, where the Bouhilas had lived for generations until bombed out by the French during the Algerian war in 1958. We set out at 6 a.m. to benefit from the cool of the morning, and climbed for an hour and a half up winding mountain paths, led by the surefooted 67-year-old Melha. The house where Ahmed was born was in ruins and overgrown, but Melha described where every room had been, where the French had placed the explosives, and how she had helped to build the house, carrying the large stones up from the village on her head. We admired the view down to the sea, and Melha pointed out the boundaries of what once had been their land. She touched individual olive trees, reminding Ahmed which ones were his. The summit of the mountain was abundant with prickly pears (Barbary figs), and Melha showed me skillfully how to peel one without ending up with pincushions for hands. She pointed out fossils in the rocks, explaining how long, long ago the sea had come up this high. Before her grandfather’s time, she told us. Long before.
The journey back down took half an hour, Melha leading us down the steep slopes at astonishing speed with a basketful of prickly pears (Barbary figs) balanced on her head. As the slope levelled out we passed a number of small houses, and at each one the occupants stopped us to offer us something - home-grown tomatoes, honey cakes, home-baked bread.
Sweet Liberty
We returned to France from Algiers, by car and with a first-class cabin booked. Arriving at the port we spotted the gleaming white bulk of the “Liberte” - and both nearly saluted the French flag flying from her stern. As a parting shot, the Algerian immigration officials pulled Ahmed in to prove he was not evading military service - ever vigilant, he always carried his military discharge papers when travelling in Algeria. Once through the gates, we drove onto the boat at full speed and nearly fell up the steps to the bar. The French barman smiled indulgently as we clinked large glasses of gin and tonic with the toast “Vive la France”. I guess it wasn’t the first time he’d heard that.
The 24-hour crossing was just the holiday we needed after a stay in Algeria. Four-course meals prepared with exquisite French flair, buckets of wine, and animated discussions over dinner with French travellers high on the relief of not being in Algeria any more.
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