On to the Casbah

So where were we going to stay in Algiers?  "My friend, Mr. Belkadi --Zizo -- you know him, we stay in his beautiful house in Rhode Island once, you remember?  His sister, she has an apartment we can spend the night.  Sometimes she lives there, sometimes in Paris. You see.  It will be good."   But his sister, Fatiha, is not in Paris.  She makes everything ready for us, even setting out a tray for breakfast, then leaves the whole two-bedroom apartment for us.  She spends the night elsewhere.  We are very touched.  And exhausted.  We need that good night's rest.  

We've taken only what we need for the night and the flight to Paris later that day, so it's not a hardship to go up the five flights of stairs.  In the morning after my feeble attempts to make breakfast for everyone (on a strange coffee maker), she returns to make sure we're fine.  

She shows me her back porch, which she loves because of the tree.  Her living room is wallpapered in flowers, because she lived in a place with gardens, and she needs flowers around her.  We learn that she worked in a newspaper, and that her husband is a famous journalist, one of the ones who flew back with Khomeni after the fall of the Shah of Iran.  They lived in Iran for several years as he did his work, before the tides turned and they had to return.   She's now retired, happily free to visit grandchildren.  

We tell her of our trip to the Sahara, and how a friend would love to go on a tour.  She'd just come back from a wonderful tour of the deep Sahara, much further south than we went.  She handed me a thumb-drive and we saw pictures of a marvelous adventure in ancient cities, on camels, on a joyous bus ride, in small comfy homes around a garden oasis. 

We're deeply appreciative of all she's done, but she decides to do more.  Although she has an appointment now, she'll join us later and show us the Casbah, which she knows well since she and her brother grew up there, lived there as children!  Then she gives me a gift.  She shows me two scarves, and I'm to choose the color I like. The blue is heavenly.  I attempt some scarf thing, and she says, no, this is how it's done.  She wraps it expertly around my face.

 I am now not only modest, but Sahara sand-storms don't have a chance.  Such a sweetie.
We're off.  Parking in Algeria, as in any big city, is an issue and a half.  Abdekedar is the designated driver, and Djelloul, Zizo here, and I are stuffed into the back seat, with Rock in the front.

Maybe I took this picture while waiting for the car, but it's a good 3-wheeled example of Algerian ingenuity.  I think it only makes left turns, if you notice the tail lights.  

The french influence -- nouveau business in art nouveau--

 And flower stalls and plant shops everywhere.  Algiersians love their plants.

 The car is finally parked.  We meet Walid and Mohammed, and we're off on our tour of Algiers.  Rock is wearing a gift from Djelloul, the jacket for the Algerian soccer team.  It's appreciated.

Some shops we'll come back to and visit later.

 It's called the 'white city', for good reason.  Beautiful moorish and French architecture.

 . . . and plant shops.

All built on a hill rising up, as Oran does, from a plateau over the Mediterranean.

The fancier apartments.

This might be the university.  Or government buildings?  ?

Fatiha joins us and we make our plans. The first one is to climb the great steps on either side of a public garden in the town center.  There's a floral clock, and a statue from the days of Rossian influence, after independence. Mohammed received part of his military training in U.S.S.R.  

the view from half-way

The floral clock.

United, nothing lost  but our chains.

Up we all go.

It's a lovely, lovely view from the way top.  We have to say good-bye to Mohammed and Walid.  They'll drive several hours home to Oran after giving us all so much of their time and care.  We urge them to visit us in Brooklyn.  We hope they know how grateful we are for all that they've done for us, all that they've shared.  And Mohammed's English, it is an 8.

 We follow Fatiha.

Past yet more flower and plant stalls.

Business opportunities abound.  This kitty wondered if we'd go into partnership.  She hasn't been able to keep up with the watering and stuff.  She'd go 50/50.  Ok, 80/20.  Ok a few fish a day and the profit's all ours.  No?  Please?

As in Paris, regulation leaf-cuts for trees.
Who does all this work? What are they called? The Tree-Clipper Brigade?

We all love these proud mighty doors -- Fatiha tried to get it open so we can see inside.

And the mandatory statue of the man on horseback with a sword.
(A greatly beloved Algerian liberator.)
  I feel like the next swipe may be at my camera, so I move on.  

I always love to look up at the stories near the roof.

But the planters on the street  also tell of a love of the beautiful.

A de Chirico scene.  Markets. Quiet today.

We walk the lovely  promenade along the seaside.
Zizo shares the sweet story of how he met his American wife as we walk and I snap.  At one point I snap and a man across the street yells at me to stop.  Oops. A policeman.  It's their station.  Zizo responds to him with smiles and hand gestures, as if to say, look!  She's just a tourist!  She likes the architecture!  Tourists are good, right?.  The policeman relaxes, waves us on.  Dear friend.

The necessary touch of tile, -- even modern mosaic.

A mosque, I think, being restored as a joint Algerian/Turkey project.
Reminded me how the grand new mosque in Oran which the Sahara Mohammed's daughter is working on, is also funded by Turkey.

Getting closer to the Casbah, now.

When I see laundry from every window,  all I think of is clean.  These folks like clean.

And here we are. Fatiha leads us into the dark passageway, into the Casbah.  "Are you coming?" they ask.  

My image of the Casbah was romantic, mock-cinematic -- a cloaked man holds you in his gaze and whispers, "Let me take you to the Casbah!" He raises his eyebrows meaningfully several times, and you know if you go in you'll never come back.  My first glance didn't help. I confess my heart beat a little faster.  Fatiha led the way as normally as I'd lead any visitor into a subway tunnel. 

There is nothing but warmth in the siblings' feelings for this place, where no car ever rode it's hundreds of streets and alleyways. Where they played safely as children. The disrepair, from an earthquake here, a bomb-blast there -- made them sad,  "The walls, you know," said Zizo, "are more than a foot thick, and who has the skill to restore such places? Who has the money?"  Well, it's a UNESCO site, now, and people are trying.  

 From Wickipedia and  http://www.aramcoworld.com/issue/201401/the.casbah.of.algiers.endangered.ark.htm -- in italics.

Construction of the city began in 1516 and continued until the 17th century.

Ah.  There's a reason this feels like Shakespearean England.

Always a small and contested space at the center of Algeria’s history, it comprises some 60 hectares (150 ac) of densely built houses, laced through with 350 winding rues (streets), ruelles (alleys) andimpasses (dead ends), which, if laid end to end, would add up to a 15-kilometer-long (9.3-mi) opportunity for getting terribly lost.  

And you felt it.  I'd like you to get the feeling of going deeper and deeper into a labyrinth, up dark stairs, along one dark passageway after another, where you -- where a 5 year old-- could touch both walls and the roof is close with ancient rafters, then up a wide stairway, turning into another dark passageway, up another stairway, glancing back, glancing up.  How would we ever find our way back?  And the man Fatiha befriended? Who offered to be our guide?  Is he trustworthy?  Where is he taking us?  I comforted myself with her ease and confidence.  Also the thought that it's a city on a hill, and in a city on a hill, however labyrinthian, downhill, eventually leads to open sky and sea. 
The reverse is true, too, we discovered.

The Casbah’s population is reckoned at a tightly packed 80,000, within a city of more than 3.5 million residents.

So we experienced just a glimpse.  Enough, for us, to be unforgettable.

The doors are five and a half feet' tall at the most.  

Up we go.  And up.  and up again.

 And every now and then there's a wider street and I glance back.

Up again.

 And again.

An opening from a collapsed building gives an opening for some soccer practice.

 And again.

   Although the administrative and military organization implied the presence of many Turks, Algiers was not an Ottoman city. The city combined the science of Turkish military architecture with Arab-Mediterranean architectural tradition. 
It's decoration is charming, yes.  But this is a source of water for the community.  One of many.  This is near a mosque, and at one point we heard the haunting call to prayer close, and there was an energy, a rising of people to go to prayer.  If cleanliness is next to Godliness for some, it is Godliness for others, for you cannot enter prayer or  the mosque unclean and your feet, face and hands must be freshly bathed.  Even when we were on the highways the big gas stations along the way had bathing stations and a building set aside for private prayers. I saw one topped with an onion dome.  An important service. Prayer is a conscious duty.

Our guide.  At one point he called to me as I was heading down for a photo.
 "Madame!  You do not want to go that way!  Are you with us?"
I hustled back.

They're speaking Algerian -- I think we're near the place where their home was, but no one is home.

In one of the clearings, a youth gives some fresh air to his beloved birds.  Like Dadou's oldest son, it's a popular hobby with boys.

This may be from the earthquake.  Or a bombing.  Or  from French demolition.
On the site we saw that was bombed
-- they still remember how many were killed.

Notice the braces, keeping the buildings from falling in on each other.

Playgrounds.

Young people engage us in conversation, trying out their English.  "Americans!  We like America!"

 The guide arrives at his home near the top. He welcomes in Fatiha and I.  I follow Fatiha, but the others stay back.

I'm stunned when I enter.  I wish I'd held the camera straight up, because it was all sky.

 A courtyard, where children play.  A grandma comes out of an upper door and waves.  The young mom comes out with some laundry and smiles.  She signals me not to take a picture of her.  The children are playing safely under their gaze.

I love the children's easel there.

 He leads up to the upper galery.  They love their plants!

And beckons us to follow him up the steps at the far end.  

 and out through a door to the balcony, out to the roof decks.

 "Here," he says.  "Stand on this."  He puts down a rickety box.  The walls are high, and I need the step to see over the wall.

I have to smile.  Light, and sky and sea.

Now it's back down again.  The men are persuaded to step in, which they do respectfully, then leave, tipping our guide for his generous offer of time and the opening of his home. And down we go. Fatiha assured me that all the apartments on the hill had this same structure, this same courtyard open to the sky.  What appeared to be dark passageways were really safe walls around homes, full of light and children.

Catching views along the way.  

 Past a grand park, leaves just beginning their bloom.

Past a middle school.  This is the exquisite sign to tell you it's a middle school.  The Fatima of the mountains told me there are art schools in the cities, and one of the things they do best is calligraphy.  In Algiers I also passed a conservatory of music.  

I'd see this everywhere in Algeria, in every section, old or new buildings, every balcony with a satellite dish and the week's laundry.
Made me think that any architectural rendering was incomplete without them.  Might as well be honest.

Djelloul overlooking some ancient fort/ lighthouse.

and a beach for needed sunning on this warm spring day.

and  a port for fishing boats.  Speaking of fish, we're hungry.  Time for lunch.  

Down below are the restaurants where the fisherman have sold some of their morning's catch. 

 We go down the stairway and the smell of fish is strong, but also the smell of fish cooking.

Fresh sardines.  Djelloul's favorite!

And other fish to fry, too!

And here we are, and the fish is, as always in Algeria, superb.

And the veggies fresh.

 And it's farewell to the Casbah,  farewell to Algiers.  We have a plane to catch.  But first, some gifts to buy for friends at home.

Zizo and Djelloul take the bargaining seriously.  I have no idea what we finally paid for these, but everyone seemed happy.  And we can not return to Paris or the states without fresh dates. So another zip and rumble down to another neighborhood.  Djelloul and his friend go from date booth to date booth until they find the best ones, where the figs are soft, tender, fresh and sweet.  He hands us a box as a gift.

 Then back to Fatiha's where we've left our bags.  And the kitty is out from the porch now, and we all become acquainted.
She doesn't see well, but she knows a good pose.
I thank her, and thank Fatiha.  We all do.  We'll be in touch.

 And there at the airport, faithful Moctar with our luggage.  All is well.
All goes easily.  Hugs, kiss-kiss on each cheek twice.  Farewell Algeria.  Farewell dear friends.
 On to Paris.