EMPIRES OF THE DUNES : Rediscovering Algeria’s ancient kasbahs, Sahara sands and Roman ruins

Algeria’s litany of invaders have shaped a land where echoes of history’s greatest empires still catch in the desert winds; but visitors today will also discover a country finding its own voice

At the museum in Djémila I spied a sublime sight. It was a Roman mosaic depicting the licentiousness of the god Bacchus: murder, sacrifice, orgy and wine. It was quite the show. It also caused me to ponder something that, up until then, I hadn’t thought about: how might modern Algeria be represented in tesserae? After some deliberation I decided that, regardless of what was depicted, it would be an utterly mercurial sight. After all, so little is known about Africa’s largest country.

I started conjuring the Algeria mosaic in my head, piecing together bits of classical civilisations, oases bearing the sweetest dates, Mediterranean sunshine and scorching sands migrating wispily across Saharan dunes like transient djinns. It would be a bit frayed at the edges, representing the turbulent decades that saw this North African behemoth firmly off travellers’ itineraries. But Algeria has changed in recent years. With security vastly improved, its mosaic of historical and cultural wonders is once again reachable – and barely a three-hour flight from London. It is something that a new vanguard of visitors will be eager to explore, even if procuring a visa is tricky, thanks to the Socialist siege mentality of the ruling regime making it tough for those not travelling as part of an organised tour.

“Algerians are a mixture of many peoples,” said M’hamed Gueraini, a gentle giant of a guide, upon meeting our small group at Algiers airport. “We’re more Berber and Arabic than French, Roman or Ottoman, but overall, we’re unique.”

That cultural mix quickly materialised on the drive into capital Algiers. M’hamed delivered a potted summary of 3,000 years of history as the city’s denim-blue Mediterranean coastline drew near, beginning his tale in 800 BC. This was when the Phoenicians were trading with Carthage (Tunisia), he said, before Rome conquered all. In turn, the Romans were swept aside by Berber-Arab dynasties, who ushered in Islam. He scarcely need mention later occupations: downtown Algiers revealed lustrous domes dating back to Ottoman rule, while the French colonisation of 1830 was apparent in housing blocks of Neoclassical finery.

Algiers is a city of hills and café culture. Every morning, I walked from my hotel in Telemly district to grab a black coffee and a croissant, conjuring memories of Marseilles: the déshabillé architecture, the horn-blaring traffic and the busy seafront marinas all felt oddly familiar. Yet Algiers’ apogee is found in Martyrs’ Square and its kasbah. Here the Mediterranean sunshine cast shadows from the surrounding minarets and Art Deco architecture onto the city’s main plaza, which was lively in the bustle around the Friday prayer. Families browsed stalls of hanging Deglet-nour dates, Berber costumes and tagine dishes as their children excitedly chased pigeons. But it wasn’t always like this.

“In 1832, the French massacred nearly 4,000 people who were defending the kasbah’s Ketchaoua mosque from being converted into a cathedral,” said M’hamed. In his words I could almost hear the gunfire entering the kasbah, as if the higgledy-piggledy narrow lanes trapped an inescapable palimpsest of history within its labyrinth.

The kasbah was once called Icosium, a Phoenician port that acquired its current guise as a walled medina around the mid-10th century AD, under the founder of the Berber Zirid dynasty which went on to rule parts of the North African Maghreb. Elsewhere, I had seen medinas so gentrified that they had lost all connection with the past; but here, the surviving mashrabiya (screen balconies) and cramped workshops of woodworkers and brass metalworkers nurtured authenticity in lanes politically charged with murals, such as that of Emir Abdelkader, an Islamic scholar and military leader who unsuccessfully resisted French occupation and died in exile in 1883 in Damascus.

Secreted within the kasbah were several sumptuous palaces from the era of Ottoman rule (1516-1830), during which Algiers grew rich from trade and piracy along the Barbary Coast. The 1799 palace of the Ottoman governor bore a sumptuous courtyard of marble fountains encircled by columns that supported horseshoe-shaped arches. Its hammam was now a themed restaurant, and over a meal of couscous, grilled vegetables and lamb, M’hamed filled in the blanks. He explained that after France superseded the Ottomans it took over a century for Algerians to revolt against their rulers, with conflict finally erupting in 1954. Independence came eight years later, but at great cost: “One million Algerians died during the revolution,” he finished.

Independence unleashed chaotic decades of authoritarian rule, a coup d’état and a vicious civil war against Islamic extremism. “But things are changing,” said M’hamed. “The government has been listening to recent peaceful protests for more rights. We call it the ‘Revolution of Smiles’.”

Into the dunes

From Constantine we flew two hours south to the oasis of Timimoun, deep within the Sahara desert that covers over 80% of Algeria. The Grand Erg Occidental is the country’s second largest dune system, located on its eastern border with Morocco. This is the realm of the Berber, or Amazigh – the name ‘Berber’ actually derives from a Greek word meaning ‘barbarian’. Throughout Algeria’s history, successive Berber dynasties rose to conquer the land before being vanquished themselves.

“It’s our paradise, but to outsiders it’s like the fire,” said Houari, our local driver-guide, his face enclosed by a white shesh (headscarf). He showed pride at his Berber heritage. “The dialect we speak is Zenata; it’s very old, although the youngsters do not know it, so we speak Arabic on the street.”

He collected me from Hotel Gourara in Timimoun, the terrace of which is the place to be at sunset, clutching a cold Algerian beer and watching the palmery (palm grove) briefly flicker an intense green before the chilly Saharan darkness blots out everything. Timimoun itself is ramshackle, its walled lanes collapsing in on themselves, and the soft sand pathways make for tiring walking. But it also instils an inescapable respect for a culture that thrives in temperatures capable of reaching 50ºC.

Heat is good for longevity, insisted Houari. “How old do you think I am?” he asked. I hate these age-guessing games. “Thirty-five,” I responded, diplomatically. “No, 45. The Sahara has given me ten extra years,” he laughed.

Everything else we saw while exploring the ancient ksour (castles) that day was crumbling and old. We drove deeper south, passing Berber women who appeared like ghosts in full-length white haik, their dresses rippling in the winds. We saw tiny gardens amid the sand; each was shaded by date palms and filled with lemon trees, potatoes, carrots and pears. They were fed by one of the world’s largest underground aquifers, I was told: the Bassin du Sahara Septennial.

“But the water is going down,” Houari noted. “The rains traditionally come in spring but are not as heavy these days.”

Water shortages may have been behind the abandonment of the castle we saw in Guentour, its adobe walls perched on a rock pedestal pitted by wind erosion and engulfed by sand. M’hamed estimated it could be as old as 700 years. “They were used as protection against enemies who came to steal land or supplies,” he said. “Many invaders arrived: the Persians, the Fatimids, the Almoravids and many more.”

One ancient institution had survived allcomers in
Guentour: the zawiya. I removed my shoes and entered the cool interior of a long, arched, whitewashed building bedecked with carpets where platters of buttery dates were offered by way of greeting. Seated before me was the marabout, or sheikh, an elderly religious leader with a pale beard the colour of his robes. He explained that the building dated from the 1500s, but that it still functioned as a madrassa (school) for religious education and a place to mediate local disputes.

Ah yes, disputes. Time to raise the topic of dates. I had learned quickly in Algeria how to play devil’s advocate, but it didn’t stop me making the mistake of asking what the best Algerian date was. Cue the inevitable fervid discussion. Varieties were bandied about: one had no stone, others could be eaten after months of being buried underground.

“We have 300 types sweetened by oasis water,” explained the sheikh. “We still trade them with communities south of here, such as the Sudanese – sometimes for camels.” Eventually, everyone agreed that the Deglet-nour variety was the sweetest of them all.

I returned later to Timimoun by following a sun-burnished escarpment topped by a weathered ksour from the 11th century. In the grip of sun-frazzled lightheadedness, I could almost picture the defenders who had spent countless soporific days on sentry duty staring south, watching for any new invaders sweeping their way.