The Pearl of The Sahara by Musa Chowdhury

T h e p earl o f t h e S a h ara

Inside Africa

Climate controlled: the streets and houses of Ghadames were designed to make life bearable in a place of extreme temperatures

In the Libyan oasis town of Ghadames, Fiona Dunlop discovers a place that provides a fascinating insight into desert life and redefines ‘green’ architecture

e are nearly 700km southeast of Tripoli when a sandstorm suddenly swirls around us, engulfing our vehicle in a cloud of fine yellow particles and blanking out the entire outside world. Minutes later it is gone, leaving only a few trickles of sand sliding down the windscreen. ‘It can be so dense and long-lasting that you sometimes need a tractor to get out,’ my guide, Jamal, says. ‘At other times the wind is so fierce that it scrapes the paint off the car – just like sandpaper.’ We are lucky, but that short burst of nothingness is enough to make me realise how unpredictable this Libyan desert can be, how treacherous, and how glad I am not to be on camel-back. One hour later, in the legendary oasis town of Ghadames, I also realise how sophisticated its early inhabit-

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ants were when it came to building. The label ‘green’ architecture sounds like a bit of a misnomer in this desert context, but that is precisely what this labyrinthine mud town is about. Once known as the ‘pearl of the Sahara’, Ghadames beat even Timbuktu in the table of great trading crossroads. Yet where Timbuktu now conveys a depressing sense of neglect and commercialisation, Ghadames is harmonious, beautiful, compelling. One good reason is that being less known, tourism here is sporadic and embryonic. Another is the regeneration that is starting to take place. For the past 20 years, the tufted date palms of this Saharan oasis have flourished around a virtually deserted medina (old town). In the mid-1980s, on Colonel Qaddafi’s orders, the entire population of around 10,000 was moved out to concrete high-rises with all ‘mod cons’ in an adjoining new town. At the same time, Unesco declared the  TRAVELLER

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Staying cool: a typical traditional interior in Ghadames (above); boys swim in this restored pool of spring water (right); the old town’s streets combat desert winds (top right)

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traditional homes and even to a couple of courtyard tea-houses; touristic perhaps, but this means life. Although Byzantine details are still visible from Roman times, the medina structure took shape in AD663 when Arab invaders brought their own urban style as well as a new religion, Islam, to the Fezzan, this southern swathe of Libya. Five centuries later, and the oasis town had become unique in the chain of towns edging the northern Sahara. As my guide tells me about this, I can almost hear the camels roar, the sheep bleating, the animated hubbub of turbaned traders, see the colour and dazzle of exotic goods and smell incense and, not least, sizzling lamb for supper. For

this was the Sahara’s main meeting point for caravans from Tripoli, southern Tunisia and Algeria where they swapped horses, cloth, glass, brass containers, weapons, rugs and pewter with ostrich feathers, gold, ivory, civet and resins, before some plodded onwards to Timbuktu, Ghat or Bornu. here was one little problem however: slavery. The economic heyday of Ghadames was built on the misery of sub-Saharans bought to work in the oasis or sold on to Tripolitanians. The earliest Western witness of this was a Scot, Major Alexander Gordon Laing, of the Royal African Colonial Corps, who spent a month here in 1825 en route to becoming the first

Manshour, a statuesque local Berber, guides me through the web of dark zinqas (alleys) every few metres penetrated by shafts of blinding light.

Photographs: Fiona Dunlop; Musa

medina a World Heritage Site, a move that did not prevent its slow collapse. Today while the ‘new’ apartment blocks and concrete houses already look decidedly decrepit, the crumbling walled town is undergoing a radical facelift thanks to funding from local authorities who at last recognise its value. Wheelbarrows creak and hammers ring out, there are reconstructed stone and mud-brick walls, fresh coats of limewash, new palm-wood ceilings and an immaculately rebuilt pool of cool water straight from an artesian spring 120m underground. Restoration is everywhere, yet never jeopardises the authenticity of architecture or materials. Above all, the Ghadamsia are drifting back to their

European to reach Timbuktu before being murdered on the road. Inevitably widespread abolition of slavery also spelled the downfall of Ghadames. As a result, by the early 20th century the semi-bankrupt town was easy prey to a succession of colonial occupiers (the Ottoman Empire, Italy and France) until it merged into newly independent Libya, in 1951. Manshour, a statuesque local Berber with typically clear blue eyes, guides

me through the web of dark zinqas, alleys, every few metres penetrated by shafts of blinding light from skylights. At its centre, he waves airily at two arcaded squares, both framing giant mulberry trees. He omits to mention that these picturesque settings were where the slave markets were held, therefore paradoxical symbols of a time when emaciated men, women and children were dragged from sub-Saharan Africa to be sold like

animals. I wonder if the current renewal also means rewriting history. The architectural complexity of the labyrinth is both stunning and ingenious. Built in curves to prevent sudden gusts of sandy desert wind, the covered alleyways draw the visitor inwards through their meandering, shadowy depths, at times plunged into total darkness. At one point Manshour picks up a candle from a niche to lead us with the flickering flame. As I walk I revel in the coolness and in the gentle breezes that occasionally drift through from open squares or skylights. This is definitely urban design for the desert, where summer temperatures soar into the 50°Cs,  and in winter night temperatures TRAVELLER

Easy does it: guide Manshour relaxes inside a Ghadames house (left); the local women’s domain was traditionally hotter – being rooftops such as these

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Control for the irrigation system came from a relay of custodians, positioned inside the mosque above a spring. drop dramatically to zero. Nor is the path monotonous, as structural shapes change and decorative plaster bas-reliefs or engravings appear in the curve of an arch or on a wall. Doors of simple palmtrunks are the rule, and when studded with a confetti of leather or paper scraps, signify that the house-owner is a Haji, having made the pilgrimage to Mecca. When we come across a group of galabieh-clad men lounging on dakkar (stone benches), Manshour explains that despite competition from a massive domed affair towering over the new town, male inhabitants return to a handful of still functioning mosques in the medina. It is Friday midday, time for prayers, so within minutes they disappear inside. Further on, one large open square, which all streets seem to lead to, is flanked by two mosques: the Yunis, from 1400, crowned by a sturdy, square minaret, and al-Atiq, the ‘Ancient Mosque’, dating back to AD668, although rebuilt after Allied bombing in World War II. This square was the heart of an ingenious irrigation system, the lifeblood of the oasis that was carefully measured out to 121 private gardens. Control came from a l Fo r I n s i d e A f r i c a a i r t i m e s o n C N N please visit cnn.com/insideafrica

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relay of kadas, or custodians, positioned inside an alcove of the Yunis mosque above a spring, who with a punctured copper bucket and a palm fibre rope, calculated the flow of water through channels to each garden. As the bucket took three minutes to empty and each bucketful was recorded by a knot in the rope, 20 knots equalled one hour. Such a method was typical of Ghadames: apparent simplicity belied great sophistication. ut in the sunlight, the limewashed walls of sun-dried mud bricks (a mixture of salty clay, sand and straw, perfect insulation material for extremes of heat and cold) either glow white or are a beautiful natural ochre colour edged in white, like icing. Surrounded by lush gardens of date palms and vegetables, the fortified perimeter walls enclose seven quarters, each one belonging to a different clan and closed off at night. In another street, Manshour at last stops at a door, pulls out a hefty iron key from his robe, and ushers me inside a house. It is one of 20 or so private homes (of a total of 1,400) that are opened up to visitors, and is a revelation. After the dusty tones of the exterior I have stepped inside a treasurechest of incredible, unexpected

lavishness. The first-floor living-room, the tamanhat, is a riot of colour and detail that shines out even in the gloom, from scarlet geometric murals to sumptuously patterned cushions and rugs, built-in cupboards, shelves and niches of memorabilia, dozens of suspended copper pots (their quantity reflecting the family’s social status) and mirrors, both elements designed to refract available light. This multiplies when Manshour opens a trapdoor in the ceiling, letting in a flood of sunbeams. At the very top of the house, a last flight of steps brings me to a large roof terrace. Here I look out over yet another desert world, a jigsaw of low walls, triangular finials, steps and bridges that connect each house to the next. This, I am told, was the domain of the women, who cooked, sewed and gossiped while fulfilling their other role as lookouts for caravans. Compared with the cool shadows of the men’s world below, it seems a bit of a rum deal. Then I realise that I have not seen one woman in the medina, and the rooftops GETTING THERE Fiona Dunlop travelled to are deserted. It Ghadames with The Traveller, seems renewal a specialist in archaeological and cultural tours. still has some Tel: (+44) 20 7436 9343 (www.the-traveller.co.uk way to go. n