The Babelian Temporary Capital
When the plane landed, I went to get my luggages in the airport hall before looking at the surroundings.
The dominant type among both staff and travellers was the Mediterranean one, but some Europeans were present; Arabs were the next most dominant, along with some Blacks.
Most of these travellers come from or went to Mainland Portugal, Spain, Western, Northern and Equatorial African Community, Italy, Portuguese Africa, Western Europe, Britain, America and the Belgian Congo, without forgetting about the "European continental territories of the French Republic"
Madrid, Lisbon, Rome, Dakar, Yaoundé, Cairo, London, Luanda and Léopoldville, among others, were foreign cities to which Maison-Blanche was linked, and Libreville, Saint-Pierre, Tamanrasset, Djibouti, Saint-Pierre, Saint-Denis, Noumea and Papee'te were the among the French cities to which Algiers was linked, along with Marseilles, Paris, Bordeaux and Lyon, among other cities under "Communist administration."
I went to the tourist office to ask for a taxicab and a guide. Once there, I was able to see, while awaiting for an hostess, shops where were sold produces from across the Republic such as dates from Algeria, rum from the West Indies and pearl jewelry from Tahiti.
In the office itself was a map of all the territories the sovereignty of the French Republic was
de jure or
de facto: the West Indies, Guyana, Algeria, Corsica, Gabon, Djibouti, New Caledonia, French Polynesia and scattered points across the metropolitan coast were the "territories under sovereignty of the French Republic" painted in dark blue while a lighter blue was used to describe the metropolitan territory ruled by the P.C.F., described as "under
de facto administration" without describing exactly
who is administrating these areas.
A strong yellow star marked Paris, the legal capital, while a lighter yellow was used to mark Algiers, the temporary capital.
But back to my manuel and taxicab: the hostess, who wore a blue skirt dress and a blue hat, whose dark hairs were in a bun on the back of her neck and whose tagname wore the given name "Rachida", came to me.
- Here's your tourism guide. And welcome in France!
After Rachida handed me this guide, I went to the parking, looking at the yellow cars with a sign marking them as taxicabs.
I found a car and asked the driver, a forty-something mustachied man, to drive me to a hostel I selected in the manuel the hostess gave me.
- Sure. I will drive you there, but I know another hostel, good for penniless travellers. A cheap
hotel de préfecture (He spoke in English with a light Spanish accent.) In Bab-el-Oued. Near the sea. Trois Horloges. And call me Javier, please.
This looks like a common trick by drivers who either got a commission from a specific hostel, who want to prolong their travel to gain more money or both.
- Thanks you. What's the costs for the place you indicated me?
The price was lower than the place I earlier picked. But is it genuine? Looking at the guide, I found this driver might have been in the right.
- Yes, drive me at this place.
The traffic was heavy, just like every Sunday evening, and my cab driver used several curses during the trail on the .
We finally arrived to the hostel; Javier then helped me with my luggages, and I gave him the fare.
Once in the hostel, I took there a room and entered my name in the police registry, by a
fiche d'hotel. I wrote down my name (Hannah Watson), my date and place of birth (Kingston, Territory of Jamaica, on March 14th, 1962) and my home (London, Britain) among others informations, then I went in my room before sleeping, since I wasn't too much hungry.
I woke up Monday morning and, while listening at the radio about how both Denmarks, the Free and the Red, were working on furthering their relations and how the former was set to abrogate the martial law who was proclamed four decades ago, when the Soviets sat up their own government.
After I took a trouser and a blouse, with a hat and a denim vest, I went to the lunch room, where I asked for a café au lait and a croissant. Oh, and a glass of orange juice, please.
While awaiting for my breakfast, I observed the surroundings.
The room was decorated with pictures and old advertissements, among them an old propaganda poster from the Sixties featuring all the territories administrated or claimed by the French Republic: Algeria, the French West Indies, Corsica, Guyana, Gabon, Réunion Island, Comoros, French Polynesia and New Caledonia were in blue while Metropolitan France, Madagascar and Vietnam were in red; a legend indicated dark blue was for "free area administrated by the French Republic" while red was for "territories occuped by Communist armed bands." A lighter shade of blue indicated associated states, currently Comoros and the city-state of Diego-Suarez, which itself claims to be the legitimate government of Madagascar.
Their revendications on Sarreland and Tende and Mendon were present too.
Small dots were scattered on the Atlantic and Med. coasts to indicate where they managed to keep "free towns," which are, even now, under military administration, being the direct contact point with the "Communist rebels."
A fine print indicated it was paid for by the "Cercle Jean Le Pen" (C.J.L.P.).
Another poster featured in the right an Eiffel Tower with a Red flag and in the left, a Mauresque-looking building with yet another Red flag; below the Eiffell Tower was
Paris aujourd'hui (Paris today) and, at the tight
Algers demain? (Algiers tomorrow?) and, below all this was the word
Jamais! (Never!).
The same C.J.L.P. was written as authors.
A third featured a bullfight in an arena.
Behind the counter, a certificate of the Mérite touristique was featured for the owner, someone named
"Charles, Marie, Paul DUPONT"
My lunch brought to me, I listened to the other patrons.
A particular interest made me listen to a group of students, or at least it is the impression I had while looking at these young persons, three men and two women, from across the Republic.
Apparently, they were discussing about politics; maybe the events at the other end of the Mediterranean Sea and how they should influe on a France Outremer under martial law since the World War Two stimulated these discussions - after all, the "Communist insurgents" are on the verge of dropping Communism, and the reunification of the French nation might come out of it!
I then went down to the lunch room and asked for a
café au lait and a
croissant from the
patron; while waiting for my meal, I looked around me, first to see what was behind the counter (a certificate attesting the owner received the
Mérite touristique for running his
hotel de préfecture since 1957), then I saw the numerous patrons who came for the Bastille Day, slated for tomorrow, who came for watching the military parade, organisated in Algiers since the French government had to fled the mainland Thorez and his henchmen had taken over.
I asked the owner which were the interesting points to see and go in Algiers, both to take photos and interviews. He told me to go to to the classicals such as the Casbah, the Basilique, the palace and, please, sent your mails and package from the Great Post Office because the building is wonderful. A small trip on the seafront is well-indicated.
- I planned to go to Oran and the Mitidja the day after the Bastille Day, to take pictures of the parade.
- Do you want to go to the Mitidja? It's a very good place to take photos: fields, forrests, wineries,.. Wonderful place for photographs! Visit the landmarks today, for tomorrow most of them will be closed.
- I might visit the rest of Casbah tomorrow, since some shops might be open, but the Cathedral, the Mosque and the Palace of the Dey are important landmarks for taking images.
- Well, the July Fourteeneth is a great occasion to take photos of the parade and the parade-goers. After this, the Casbah and the Palace are the places-to-be to see interesting persons. And Bab-el-Oued is a good place to visit today.
- Thanks.
- With the advices I'm giving my patrons, the Initiative Syndicate should be giving money to me!
With these pieces of wisdom, I decided to go today to the Casbah before closing with the Great Post Office to sent my first impressions to my friends. Tomorow, I might go see the parade before going to Tipasa or Cherchell after the parade, or go to these two cities on the 15 before departing to Oran.
Finally, today, Bab-el-Oued, tomorrow, the Cashab and the day after, off to Orléansville through Tipasa and Cherchell.
Bab-el-Oued, in the North of Algiers, is a popular neighbourhood primarily populated by settlers from Mediterranean countries such as Spain, Italy and Malta. Later, migrants from the rest of the Free France, along with peasants from the douar, came to Bab-el-Oued.
This place was surrounded by the more upscale Saint-Etienne and the more touristic Casbah, where I planned to go tomorrow.
I took a walk to the sea shore but befire, I decided to go to the Bab-el-Oued Market, which the hostel manager described as the most
populaire from Algiers "La Vilette, but better", where, he said, "Algiers's true Mediterranean character could be found" before giving me advice on how to haggle and where to find the best finds, both in price and in quality. "Go there before 12 AM, it's when the most interesting stuff can be found and bought!"
After taking the Bouzaréah Avenue, I found the Market.
The Market was placed between the streets of Roussilon, Alma, Général de Wompfen and the Moulins and has opertures to the two first streets I listed; it was, as = described to me, an especially anarchistic place, with sellers everywhere, and mainly on the streets.
Yet, in this chaos, an order could be found, and areas where each product, such as snacks, fish, vegetables and meat was sold.
I took my camera, went to a remote and discret corner and took my first photography; after this, I went to the market to look at the surroundings.
The mob in the market, both buyers and sellers, perfectly described the diversity of its inhabitants and the accidents of history leading to them ending togheter in Bab-el-Oued: along the Iberian, Maltese and Italian population came Arabic rural migrants and, later,
héxagonaux, or refugees fleeing the establishment of Communist rule in their homeland, and
zoreils, term taken from La Réunion slang to describe migrants from the rest of the French Republic, here from the West Indies.
While there, I mainly walked around the stalls, occasionally, for flowers and copper pans, asking their owners to take photographies, which had to be done quickly because of the affluence caused by the proximity to th Bastille Day which made them not wanting to lose time.
Finally, I went to the crossing of Alma Street and Roussilon Street and took the picture of the Sidi-ben-Nour Hill and the Saint-Joseph Church.
This task done, as hunger took me at 12 A.M., I went to a stall and bought from the seller a dish named
calentica.
The
calentica is a dough made from chickpea flour the seller sold me encased in bread; here, in Algiers, they add eggs, olive oil and cumin. Along this, I bought a cup of mint tea to the same, who told me to consume them as hot as possible.
After this, I went to the front of the Saint-Joseph Church I photographied earlier, situated between the '
Baseta', where was the city library, and the Maillot Hospital. It was the main church of the neighbourhood, for all the Catholic faithful to be bapticised, married and blessed before being buried in the nearby Saint-Eugène Cemetery.
I entered there to rest myself and enjoy the freeze under the dome of this holy place, but not before putting my vest back and removed my hat, before seating on a pew near the door.
After a while, an old man, dressed in a suit, holding a cane and wearing glasses and a hat, entered the church, went near the altar and started to pray before starting to leave the building.
Suddently, he saw me.
- Hello, he said. Did you came here for the first time? he continued in French.
- It is the first time I come, and I wanted to see how this church is.
- Since I came live in Bab-el-Oued forty years ago, it is here I pray and worship. I just came back from Maillot, they have a chapel but I am more used to this one - are you a tourist? Your accent isn't from any corner from France. American?
- British. I came to do reportages and take pictures for a magazine.
- Good, he responded. Algeria, what a beautiful province..
And he left.
Given the fact he came there in the 1940s and that he was limping while saying he just came from the Maillot Military Hospital, I could only conclude he was an
hexagoner who fought during the French Civil War, was wounded in the legs and fled with his government to Algeria, where he established himself since then. He might even have started to fight during the World War Two.
Back to the present: I went to the front of the Maillot Hospital, on the Champagne Boulevard.
François Maillot, born in Briey on 1804, did research on malaria cures and, among the rewards it earned him were were a town named from him in Kabylia and this military hospitals for conscripts, soldiers, dependents and veterans such as, presumabely, the old man at the church.
In front was the terminus of a trolleybus line leading to the Basilica of Our Lady of Africa, where I inted to go; I entered a vehicle, paid the fare and seated into a seat, looking around while enjoying the trip to the Basilica.
I saw the Caramoussa, from which a panoramic view of Bab-el-Oued could be obtained, the Maillot hospital and the Saint-Eugene Cemetery before landing to the Basilica.
I found on a flyer the following informations:
Madame l'Afrique or
Lalla Myriem, as the Basilica is called, is a Neo-Byzantin style church built by Jean-Eugène Fromageau, who built several churches and cathedrals in Algeria, under orders from nthe Most Reverend Louis-Antoine-Augustin Pavy, who is buried here, starting from 1858, and inaugurated on 1872. Each Avril 30th is held a Marian pilgrimace.
I took pictures of the landscape and the church, put back my vest and removed my hat before entering inside the church. While the architecture was neo-Byzantin, the decorum inside was Spanish-Moorish.
After passing through the door, I walked the stairs and came to the nave, between the Sacred Heart Altar and the Saint Joseph Altar. The walls were littered with 'ex-votos' from believers across the world who wanted to thank the Virgin Mary for healings and other good events by stone slabs in French, Arabic, English, Spanish and Italian.
I was a man wearing a cassok: a priest (maybe the rector? Not enough information to determine this!). I went to him to ask if I could take pictures inside.
- American tourist? he replied.
- British photographer. I'm doing a serie of articles and pictures on Algeria.
- Can we speak English? I want to better my elocution in this tongue. For the faithful and the visitors.
Several Roman Catholic British and American servicemen, their dependents and tourists are present in Algeria and the rest of Free France.
- But I forgot: I'm Father Jean Gomez and I'm a priest here. Since 1978. Are you Catholic?
- Methodist.
- Not an issue here. You chose the good time to come here. If you came tomorrow, the place would have
been full. Can I help you to see the interesting points?
- Yes. And can I take photos?
- Yes, but no flashs, it disturbs the church.
- Thanks.
- I would like to help you with visiting
Lalla Myriem.
- But..
- No, no, don't worry, I've much time at hands. Come and look.
He showed me the interesting points of the church, repeating the informations from the brochure while adding details coming from his personal researches about the history of this building and from his pastoral experience.
For exemple, he gave me additional details on the '
ex-votos', describing how some of the persons came to thank the Virgin for them having a cancer healed, how they recovered the use of their eyes or how they managed to get a baby after several years of trying.
- This one, he said while showing me a ceramic slab written in French, is from someone who wanted show his gratitude for him meeting his brother after forty years of separation. He fought during the Civil War.
- And his brother?
- So do he, but on the other side. The Reds'.
- They must have had very cordial relations, isn't it? I asked ironically.
- They both lost contact during the World War and, consequently never knew they were on two opposite sides until the Red Cross helped to made them meet again.
It was litterally a "brother against brother war", I thought.
- And now?
- They are trying to make up for the lost time, more or less successfully. Now let's go to less sad subjects.
We left the nave and entered the choir.
- To the right we can see the Saint Augustine Apse, where the six Saint Charles de Foucault's
ex-votos have been placed, and to the right the Saint Monique Apse.
And, getting closer from the high altar:
- Behind, you can see a prayer to Our Lady asking her to pray for us, the Christians, and for the Moslems.
I read, in the back of the choir, the following inscription:
OUR LADY, PRAY FOR US AND FOR THE MUSLIMS
I asked if I could take a picture of the choir, and he acquiesed.
After thanking Father Gomez for the attention he afforded me, I left to go back to the hostel, but not
before going to the post office to send a letter.
At the end of the day, I decided to go to the Great Post Office, to write to my friends back London how was my first day in Free France.
The Grand Post Office was a building on the border between Bab-el-Oued and the Casbah, built in the neo-Mauresque style.
After coming back to the front of the Maillot Military Hospital, I walked to the Great Post Office through the neighbourhood, passing in front of the Bugeaud Lyceum before coming at destination.
Once there, I wrote my letter, bought stamps and a folder and sent the letter to the "Etranger" box.
When I arrived there, I went to the common room of the hostel to await the meal time, where a television post, a wireless and a library was available, and saw the owner's children make paper decorations for tomorrow.
While there, I met a customer, a student from this morning.
Pierre Deschamps, 22-years-old, studied at H.E.C., a business school which went from Paris to Algiers during the Civil War, and lived in Fort-de-France between school terms. He was presently there to see a friendly backpacker who came here from Ireland and a student from the E.N.S.
- Are you a kind of journalist? he asked me in French. Since you have a photo camera. And can we speak in English, 'please', he conclued in English.
- Yes, I came in Algeria to do a reportage.
- Interesting subject. And which books did you read to prepare for the trip?
I remember coming in Oran for a school trip with my grammar school, and I read
The French Civil Wars: 1934 to today by Jacques Chirac, professor of political sciences at Harvard,
The Recent history of France by Professor Robert Hammond,
The History of Algeria by Joseph Lecuyer, professor of history in the university of Algiers and, while publicly confessing reading this one, at least not without knowing if Pierre was a S.D.E. agent, was a bad idea, even in the present climate,
White Terror in Black Africa, describing the political repression across French Africa after the French Civil War, extending to the Belgian Congo after the Belgian Civil War, Portuguese Africa and then, debording the title of the book, the rest of the French Republic and abording on the South African case.
- You must have read the "classics"?
- Yes, of course, I replied.
- All?
- Yes.
- Don't worry, it will remain between us.
Suddently, the cook signaled it was meal time.
- Sorry, I must leave. I wanted to meet a friend, I meet him before you and I must now leave, said Pierre.
- Good night.
I went to the room and I ate a "Jewish salad" (sweet peppers, anchovies, tomatoes and garlic), '
fritas' (fried vegetables) with beef and
'cornes de gazelle'.
I then went to my room, read the map in the travel guide to know where to go for tomorrow before going to sleep after going to the shower room.
The morning after, I 'reveil' and climbed down the stairs to go to the meal room to eat my lunch; while I awaited for my service(?), I watched from the windows the street agitation, which was more than yesterday, due to the Bastille Day.
As every year in Algiers, since the Civil War ended up with the
Fuite, military units from across Free France come to march on the Sadi Carnot Street, the Baudin Boulevard, the Bugeaud Boulevard before converging on the Government Place, in front of the Cathedral, in the Casbah.
After drinking my 'café au lait' with orange juice while eating a
'chausson aux pommes', I leaved the room to see the march, in front of the Saint Phillippe Cathedral, in the Casbah.
Taking the same path than yesterday, when I went to the Grand Post Office, I managed to go across the important crowd and arrived in front of the Saint Phillippe Cathedral, in the crossroad of the Lyra Street and the Bruce Street.
I decided to look at the soldiers marching and the crowd watching, taking notes in my mind about interesting facts and preparing to take photos of the interesting things.
On the television post in the hostel, I saw the cadets at the most important molitary academies such as Polytechnique or Cherchell marching on the Sadi Carnot Street; now, I saw them, in their uniforms, whether the parade dress, for the officers, or in khaki and battle dress, for the soldiers who came after them.
Now came artillery and cavalry units, whether nominal or literal.
In front of the Mosque, on the Government Place, a platform held the major personages of the French Republic, the mayor of Algiers, the prefect for the City of Algiers, . Of course, the president, General Martin Dumont, was there, watching the spectacle.
Along the streets, the crowd, civilians who wanted to watch their army march for their National Day, occupied most of the space and revealed the diversity of the population of Algeria: along with the Arabic and Berber members, some wearing veils and traditional
doiar garb, Europeans, whether North Africans, describing the population born from the influx of settlers in the beginnings of the conquest, in the XIXth, or
héxagonaux, the nearly two millions who fled the "Red insurgents" along with their descentents, Africans from the West Indies, Gabon and the African Communities.
Farther in the horizon, I could see warships in the Bay of Algiers, moving in the water.
Yes, "Algiers the white" was really the Babelian Temporary capital.
The march was concluded by an unit of the Foreign Legion, from Sidi-ben-Abbès, who came last because of their different step, in the instrumental of their anthem
Le Boudin.
Finally, parachutists landed in front of the platform and a choir performed
La Marseillaise.
The crowd then proceded to leave the street to go to the several parties organised for the occasion, the soldiers went back to their barracks and some set up points of contacts with the civilian population, and the leaders went to the Palace od the Deys for the garden party.
I decided to go visiting the Cathedral.
Saint Philippe Cathedral used to be a mosque before the French conquest. It is a building in the mauresque style. I took a booklet on Saint Philippe, deciding to go peeking inside and take pictures.
Revealing the original destination of the place of worship, some details, such as some Quranic verses still present there, were present.
Someone was handing out booklets. After taking one, I read, on the title,
Vie de Jean Le Pen (1928-1948). It was on Jean Le Pen, a young man from Britanny, describing how this man, whose father died during the war, enlisted in the resistence against the Germans and then against the Red Guards, before dying. The Cercle Jean Le Pen.
After taking pictures, I leaved the premises and went to the Government Place to see soldiers doling out field rations. Cool, I thought, I will save money.
The ration I received was lamb with rice and beans, pilchards, candies and other assorted trnasportable food.
After eating, I went to take a walk in the Casbah.
The Casbah was the fortress during the pre-French era, where the fortress of Algiers was; now, it is an historical neighbourhood, populated mainly by Arabic middle classes and migrants from Kabylia; artisans were still working there, making silverware, copperwork, leatherwork and woodwork and selling their products to turists.
I once found a queue of men in front of a house, each singing the first couplet of the
Marseillaise.
I asked a nearby policeman what was happening, forgotting to use French:
- It is the
promotion patriote, or P.P., held by a tolerence house.
Maison de tolérence, he added.
- What's the P.P.? I replied in French.
- Do you speak French? he replied in English. Fee divided by two if you can sing the national anthem. It is for men only.
- And, .. what's a
maison de tolérance?
The policeman replied with a laugh.
I immediately left the place to go to another point of the Casbah but I suddently found a neighbourhood party organisated by inhabitants, featuring a buffet, the local fanfare and some soldiers who were given leave by their officers.
A good occasion to mingle with the denizens, I thought. Suddently someone shout to me:
- Do you want to stay with us?
Jumping on the occasion, I accepted.
The local fanfare played patriotic songs, people were dancing in the street, police officers were watching to maintain order.
During the hour I spent here, I mostly chatted with party-goers, describing why I came here and hearing how were their lives, either directly or by hearing other conversations.
Parents were telling how they were hopeful their children would enter in the Bugeaud Lyceum, debating whether the classical or the modern track is better and pondering whether, after their primary education certificate, they would be able to enter into a vocational school in the Casbah to become artisans.
While there, I enjoyed the occasion to eat some of the dishes in the buffet. There, I ate
accras, a French west Indian fried preparation with cod and dough,
calentica and several Arabic or Kabyle dishes. So as to quench my thirst, I also drank the available lemonade and Orangina.
Unfortunately, I wanted to see the rest of the Casbah:
- I'm sorry, I have to leave.
- Don't you recognise me, Hannah?
- No.
- From the hostel. I'm the owners' son. Jean.
After further reflexion, I was forced to admit I already saw him in the hostel.
- Beautiful city, Algiers.. he said. And is it true you want to do a reportage?
- Yes.
I went walking around the Casbah, occasionally taking pictures.
One of the numerous palaces I saw and immortalisated was the former Palace of the Dey, where, as indicated by its name, the Dey lived, before being turned by the French colonists into a museum.
After the Civil War, the French president went to live there, the Elysée Palace being "under Communist occupation."
Of course, I couldn't enter but I could see the Republican Guards at the doors.
After this, I decided to go back to Bab-el-Oued.
Walking near the sea, I arrived to the hostel, where something special was being organisated for today, for the patrons.
As in the Casbah, a buffet was available, featuring tapas, '
accras', dried fruits, '
kémia', '
bestilla' and other typical dishes of the French Algerian cuisine; Orangina, lemonade, pastis and wine were available to drink.
Given it was late and that I had much walking on this day, I decided to enjoy the proposed food and drinks.
After I had had my full, I went to the common room to read and watch, on the television post, the images of the festivities I saw this morning.
Suddently, Jean went to ask his parents something. His parents seemed to agree.
Then Jean came to see me.
- For today, my father wants to organise a barbeque in the old quarry. Do you want to come with us?
- Why do you ask me to come with us? (I'm just a visitor who came yesterday and who will leave tomorrow!)
- You seems interesting.
(Not a good reason but it is such a good way to get occasions to get information from locals!)
- Yes, I will come with you.
- Good. We will go in thirty minutes, he said before leaving.
From the window, I could see packs of drinks, meat, bread and vegetables being loaded into a van.
Then Mr. Dupont came to tell me everybody and everything was ready to go. Paul's friends were coming too.
- Thanks.
The travel was short; when I see we were in the Duterte Place, I knew we were leaving Algiers.
We then arrived to the Joubert Quarry, and we all unloaded the foodstuff and the grilling appareil, and the latter was mounted by Paul, Jean's elder brother.
While Mr. Dupont was grilling the meat and Mrs. Dupont was preparing the vegetables and the bread, I discusses with Jean and Paul.
- Do you come often here, I asked.
- Jean likes cars and motos, and he comes with his friends here to drive motos, said Paul.
Other subjects were aborded during this talk, such as:
- I finished studying mechanics, said Paul. My father has a cousin in Nouméa, and I could work there to fix autos. But my father thinks I'm too young to leave Algiers. He told me to wait to be 18 before going there. "New Caledonia is booming", he said," and such jobs can be easily found."
- And what does Paul plans to do? I asked.
- I want to manage the hostel, replied Paul. And you? My parents and Jean told me you were a journalist.
- Yes. What's deserving to be noted in Algeria?
- There's only one thing to know, and it is mandatory to know this before starting to study this place, said Jean.
- What's this? I asked.
After a short silence:
- Algeria is ruled by persons who came from the metropolis.
Héxagonaux. For them, the best time for being French were the 1920s, said Jean with a botter tone
- If you want to seriously study Algeria, if you want to write articles on this, you should always have this in your mine, added Paul. Plenty of things can be explained by merely knowing this law.
Suddently:
- The food is ready, said Mr. and Mrs. Dupont.
We then ate the
merguez, the grilled pork chops and the chicken with the bread and the vegetables we brought. After this, we drank lemonade, Orangina and Coca-Coka while watching the fireworks in the sky.
After gathering all out trash and our belongings, we entered back into the car.
After we came back from the quarry to the hostel, I went to my room to go to sleep into my bed.
The day after, I went to the room, took my breakfast (
café au lait and bread with fruit jam and butter), went to the bus terminus and took the bus to Tipasa.