The Coolidge examiner., 1936-08-14
Prepared by National Geographic Society.
Washington, D. C.-WNU Service.


n A ANY visitors to North
N N Africa begin their eXplo-
v ration of the Dark Con-
tinent at Alger (Algiers),
and remember it as one of the
loveliest ports in the world. Its
dazzling white buildings climb a
terraced hillside above an incredi-
bly, blue, crescent-shaped bay. Be-
hind the hills blossoms the narrow
fertile plain of the Mitidja, above
which tower the mighty snoW-clad
Atlas mountains.
Alger, the White City! Only a
little over century ago it was the
lair of cruel sea wolves, the blood
thirsty Algerian pirates who cap
tured and enslaved Europeans and
even Americans. Today it IS a
beautiful modern French city with
many Europeans among its thou
sands of inhabitants.
Alger is kept in constant touch
with France by submarine cables,
by regular postal and passenger air
service, and by daily steamers to
French ports. Railroads connect
it with points in Morocco and Tu-
nisia.
Not only is Alger an important
French naval station, but it is the
largest city in Algeria. From it
is shipped much of the country's
produce. Its waterfront is lined
with merchants warehouses,
wharves piled high with merchan-
disc, and docks beside which lie
large steamers.
Alger's European section has
we'll built streets along which
electric Irams and automobiles
rush past theatres, hotels and at
tractive shops. Strolling along
broad sidewalks sheltered by ar
cades, and in cafes fronting palm
shaded squares, one sees we'll
dressed European men and modish
French girls as we'll as yelled
women and stately Arabs in flow
ing burnooses.
These streets are in direct con-
trast to the narrow, cobbled alleys
of the native quarter which climb
up the steep hillside. Along them
gayly-colored houses are crowded
together.
The native quarter affords many
picturesque sights. At the corner
of market place is an Arab coffee
house. Outside, squatting on the
pavement or seated on benches
against the wall, are Arabs, Ka-
byles, Negroes, men of all classes
and ages-merchants, small shop
keepers, clerks, laborerS-convers-
ing volubly, playing cards, domi-
noes, draughts, or merely sitting
sitting idly, vacantly, unconscious
of those around them. No man
on earth - Neapolitan lazzarone,
Hindu ascetic, or Buddhist priest
seeking Nirvana is capable of
such utter detachment from the
world as the ordinary Arab.
They Love Coffee
A few of those gathered in front
of the cafe hold tiny cups of coffee
in their hands, taste it, drink it
slowly, savoring every precious
drop of the pennyworth of fragrant
dark fluid. Inside, at the tiled,
waist-high fireplace, the cook dips
a small, long-handled measure into
the steaming copper pot resting on
a handful of red embers and fills
the cups for the bare-armed at
tendant to take to customers seated
on benches or huddled on mats in
the interior of the establishment.
The walls are scrawled with
crude drawings of mosques, palm
trees, tigers and elephants-these
last by an artist who had evidently
never seen either animal-or chro-
mos of French presidents and Euro
pean royalties.
A gray-haired, wild-looking man
in rags, hung round with the skins
of small animals, Strums one
stringed guitar made from the shell
of a tortoise. He enters the cafe
and, half shambling, half dancing,
holding out hand for money, wan
ders among the customers. AS he
moves he sings in a high-pitched,
nasal voice, and the contrast be-
tween the eastern love song and
it's singer is striking.
In better establishments, situated
nearer the French quarter and pat
ronized by well-to-do Arabs, one
often finds a superior orchestra.
Three or four black-coated, white
collared gentlemen in red fezzes
play strange instruments - a big
guitar, a large drum called a te-
boul, a long one, the derbrouka,
similar to an Indian tom-tom: a
ghaita, sort of fageolet shaped
like a doctors stethoscope, and
perhaps a tambourine the while
they sing in nasal tones.
To the poor n3tive the cafe is
club, a hotel, a home. He brings
his crust of bread, his handful of