Tea on the lawn

Green areas as imagined by today's planners are ecologically nonsensical, and a cultural anomaly to boot. Mohamed Moftah comments
Planting the desert -- but gardens in semi-arid parts of the world must take water scarcity into consideration
photo: Mohamed Lotfi
Every governor of Cairo in the past 50 years has pledged to plant a green belt around the capital. It was never totally clear what this green belt would consist of, but the implication was that it would be a woodland scheme that could act as a wind-breaker and protect the city from the sands of both Eastern and Western Deserts.
The numerous governors, no doubt, were inspired by the 10-mile-wide green belt that was planted around the built-up area of London after World War II. It served as a recreation area and barrier between the old city and the new dormitory and industrial towns that were being constructed as satellites of London. Our version of a belt, on the other hand, long existed only in various press releases issued by a great many functionaries.
Finally, a green belt of sorts is emerging today, in the form of large expanses of lawn: the gardens and common areas of the new cities and suburbs that have sprung up around Cairo. The government, not to be outdone by the private sector, has also planted many of the highway medians on the various desert roads with Bermuda grass.
It is quite remarkable how lawns have caught on since the British invasion of 1882, starting with the Gezira Sporting Club (1886) and then the desert suburbs of Maadi and Heliopolis, where a lawn was planted in front of every villa. Gradually, the idea of having an outdoor green carpet captured the popular imagination. Owning a piece of lawn is now a widespread ambition.
In a country that has depended on agriculture historically and is dominated by vast expanses of desert, this is quite a radical change in perception.
Farmers spend a great deal of effort and money to fight various grasses, especially Bermuda grass, a perennial weed. In the desert, livestock immediately graze any grasses that sprout. Now, though, large expanses of land have been devoted to permanent decorative grasses (various Bermuda hybrids) that have no economic return and are greedy consumers of both water and fertilisers.
Less than a decade ago, the country waited with bated breath in the hope that an abundant Nile flood would materialise before the water ran out of Lake Nasser. The acreage planted in grasses that guzzle useful water -- like rice (Oryza sativa, annual grass of the Gramineae family) and sugar cane (perennial grass of the genus Saccharum) -- was greatly reduced.
Now the lake is full to the brim. During the next cycle of lean years, will people be asked to stop irrigating their lawns? Will they comply with a law that would cause their lawns to whither and die, wiping out a substantial investment?
Gardens in semi-arid parts of the world have always taken the scarcity of water into consideration. The gardens of the Islamic world that spread from Samarkand to Grenada had certain features in common. Invariably, they featured no grass. Any grass that appeared was immediately removed. The garden was always in the courtyard of the house, and afforded every room a view. It was always shaded (very bad for grass) and always had a fountain or pool as its centre. The bottom of the pool or fountain was usually tiled in blue mosaic, to give a feeling of depth without wasting water unnecessarily. The pool fed narrow canals that cooled the garden, produced a soothing sound and irrigated the flowers, fruit trees and shade trees. The idea was to have a private, cool paradise suitable for both solitary contemplation and receiving guests. The ground was paved in stone except for the tree wells and flowerbeds. The flora was carefully chosen to ensure that a variety was always in bloom. Peaches, plums, oranges, olives, pomegranates and figs were common, providing colour and fruit. Grape and loufa trellises provided the shade.
Even in Agamy, a resort founded by the Europeans of Alexandria, the desert gardens that were created respected the environment. The predominant flowers were the oleander and the hibiscus. The most common fruit tree was the fig. Grapes were planted for the shade they provided. Prickly pears, tamarisks, palms, casuarinas and the occasional royal poinciana made up the borders. The soil was indigenous sand. Cactuses, semi-succulents and watermelons flourished. The occasional guava was sometimes to be found. The garden was irrigated with well water, and the plants had to have a tolerance for a certain amount of salinity.
Gardens that used limited amounts of water and provided beauty, shade and fruit served the inhabitants of the area well for thousands of years; then, it seems, they were struck by collective amnesia.
Suddenly the model garden became a hybrid between the English, French and American gardens. Functionality was overlooked. Lawns, to flourish, require an abundance of sunlight; as a result, it is impossible to sit in these unshaded gardens during the long summer months. Architects therefore have designed terraces overlooking the lawns, where a ceiling fan can be suspended. The fan's air cools and keeps away flies and mosquitoes, but this is only necessary because lawns must be sprinkled with water for many hours a day, and so mosquitoes and other insects have flourished in the humidity. Another unforeseen consequence of the ecological absurdities we call gardens today: the use of copious amounts of insecticide.
In Agamy, where mansions have replaced the small chalets and bungalows of the early years, the desert gardens have given way to manicured lawns and rose gardens that emulate the Commonwealth Cemetery at Al- Alamein. Many fig trees have been preserved but, due to excessive irrigation, they no longer bear fruit. In most cases, these gardens are irrigated with large amounts of treated drinking water because sewage has seeped into many of the wells.
Lawn and pasture grasses are common in rainy areas because they are nearly cost-free to cultivate. In Egypt, the lawn craze has taken hold in spite of its prohibitive cost and the prediction by many analysts that the region will be engulfed in water wars during the 21st century.
It is sheer profligacy that in Egypt, with its perfect climate, fertile soil and low- salinity water, we should devote a large portion of arable land to two winter crops -- clover (barsim, Trifolium Alexandrina) and wheat (cereal grass of the Gramineae/ Poaceae family). Yet another portion of our limited arable land and water is consecrated to the perennial weed Bermuda grass. This is a perfect example of the misuse of scarce resources.
When Egypt was the granary of the Roman Empire, cereal grasses and pastures planted on the Northern Mediterranean coast were irrigated by rains and wells. Now, this coast has become a concrete jungle planted with buildings that serve as summer residences for 60 days a year.
Ironically, a people who are very much at home have adopted a fad the British launched to combat homesickness: surrounding themselves with lawns that reminded them of their green and pleasant land.
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