Adventure and Spontaneity II

(Scheduling conflicts and internet inavailablity prevented regular posts. More frequent posts can be expected for the next while. To compensate, please find a a seven pager. If it is two long, theres a dashed line representing a convenient stop.)

Adventure and Spontaneity II

Arriving in Gabes near 4:00 am, we groggily left the train. Climbing down the steps we found another train directly in front of us, parallel to our train. We were forced to file like animals between the two trains until a break allowed us to cross the tracks, into the station, and to scatter our separate directions. I was still not sure if I would board the waiting bus for Tatouine, or wait until daylight and catch the first Louage to Nouveau Mamata, one went south one went west. From what I read they were both ghost towns with their highlights being the touch of star wars, and some underground houses. Hesitation made the decision for me, the bus was now out of seats and there would be no way I would stand for 2 hours starting now. I would go west to Nouveau Mamata.

Entering the train station, and taking a "church pew" like bench, I begin rooting through my belongings. Pulling out cheerio’s, some yoghurt, and my guidebook, I starting preparing my breakfast as if I was sitting at the kitchen table in East Tracadie NS. I knew I was being stared at, I don’t blame them, it was four o’clock in the morning, in a small railway station, I was the only foreigner, I was mixing my cheerio’s into my yoghurt and crunching the cheerio’s like I was walking on fresh laid gravel.

Finishing my gourmet meal, I venture into the street. Doing my best to cloak that I am an un informed foreigner, and that I am totally clueless about my surroundings, I hide in an alley so I can open up my guide book and get my bearings. It has not worked; before even finding the right page, I am approached by a young man. In French he asks where I am going. Heb Nimsh Nouveau Mamata. He kind of looks at me strange and begins speaking Arabic. "Lay lay lay" I say, "manakash arabie".

Ah he says, and starts speaking in French. Seconds later my secret is revealed that my French is poor too, and he switches a third time and is now speaking English. He shows me to the louage station, which is nothing more than a few concrete blocks surrounding the base of an Esso sign. A dim orange street light illuminates a woman sitting on the base of the Esso sign with a baby in her arms crying. I wonder if they are without a place to sleep, or if they’re waiting for the louage too. I suspect it’s the latter but debate taking a picture regardless, because if it is the former, it is a scene far removed from Canadian reality, worthy of a picture. I decide against it and continue the conversation with my personal guide. Answering his question, I say I am from Canada.

He picks his head up a few degrees and looks at me, he says somewhat in wonder, and inhales deeply while saying “Oh Canada”

He then explains the reason for the wonder “this is the first time I have spoken to a Canadian “

“I tried to go to Canada, I had the money and everything to do my studies, but they would not let me go. You know why? “

“Why?” I ask suspecting I will be told regardless.

“Because of my name” he says. “I had everything prepared, but they wouldn’t let me enter because my name is Osama. They think because my name is like Osama Bin Laden, that I am a terrorist. After they told me I was rejected, the lady asked me if I would apply again. I say no way I am going to spend my time and money on applying again."
I tell him that I hoped that wasn’t the reason but I couldn’t say for sure. I tell him that maybe the person who reviewed his application thought that, but not all Canadian people thought that way. He doesn’t seem to hear me and continues talking. He was probably not wrong to not hear me. I did hope it wasn’t true, but in reality what percentage of Canadians wouldn’t make a derogatory comment, or hold some inhibitions with employing, or spending time with an individual with this name, let alone legitimately be scared. I try and rationalise in my head that maybe the Canadian government is trying to protect its people; maybe it would cause some problems having an Osama moving through the system. If it's true don't you think that the government is mollycoddling us more than protecting us?

I later ask a travelled friend, if he thought there was merit to the claim. He tells me he doesn’t know, but he knows there’s a law in the United States that if anyone tries to send money to someone living in the US named Osama or Mohammad or another religious name, the money is stopped. I think of a CNN interview where they tried to tear up, Democratic Presidential Candidate, Barack Obama, and all they could come up with was his last name sounded like Osama, and that he dressed like Mahmoud Madinajad, the Iranian prime minister, who is "suspected of pursuing nuclear ambitions".

Returning in my head to Mamamta, Osama is growing more passionate. Its 4.30am, on a street with me, him, and a mother and crying baby. He says “Some people ask me, why don’t you change your name” “I’m not going to change my fucking name” It’s my name, I like it. You change your name if you want. My friends even make fun of me for it, when I’m walking down the street, I hear hey bin laden!”

Assessing, that he has been waiting for this Canadian for quite some time, I change the conversation. He works in Tunis at a call centre which explains his English. I learn that Gabes is a factory town and the pollution is very bad, after a few other tidbits, the conversation returns his visa or lack thereof. “You know he says, that woman at the desk, she holds all the power. All of us Tunisians who want to go to Canada, she decides. I’m not sure if he's wrong or right, so it's hard to console or negate his anger. I try and change the subject less drastically by asking what he knows about Canada. He discusses some schools in Quebec, and the notorious quebecuois French. He was never mad at me, but at the situation, and while the conversation is reverting to a normal friendly level, the louage arrives.

Thanking him for his help, we shake hands and I depart for the louage. The louage driver is wearing a traditional Tunisian men's cloak, essentially a hooded housecoat. There is religious music playing on the tape deck. The baby has stopped crying and has joined its mother into the louage. We are four waiting to fill up 8 seats. With streets this bare, it is unlikely we’ll be filling these seats quickly. I decide step out of the louage and wait, I may as well be trying to sort out cultural differences with my friend Osama than sitting here in this stuffy louage.

Osama is glad to see me, and I am greeted by a piece of paper with his email address and phone number. I suspect he was intending to stop the louage to give it to me; it appears I was correct and he didn't really blame me for the problems of the Canadian immigration system. We talk for awhile about subjects unrelated to his name. Osama’s brother arrives on a scooter, he departs, telling me to call if I have any problem.

Even to write his name in this blog sounds a little different. Due to the events of Sept 11th, the name has become something far larger than the name. It's like saying "I was talking to Santa Clause the other day…."

Excuse me for my second comparison between a “terrorist” and Santa Clause in 2 or 3 blogs, however it lends credit to my Canadian relative who says that the war on terror is spoken of like you are fighting the boogey man. An imaginary figure to keep you scared and believing that you need your government to keep you safe.

Again, I make my way to the louage which now has 7 including me and the driver. A man approaches and is trying to negotiate the fare. The louage driver says something and the man leaves. He returns minutes later, this time with a little more money he has bummed at the recently opened café. It appears the louage driver agrees with my diagnosis that it could be awhile to fill the last seat as he accepts the bargain and the man enters.

The man climbs over a bag of baby paraphernalia, into the back, and sits next to me. The driver, taking down his hood, and turning down the music, puts the transmission into drive. The interior light has been shut off, and I am left to study my new neighbour, his finger nails are very stained with Tobacco. He reeks of cigarette smoke. His face is twitching, and he is pinching his right pointing finger between his left thumb and left pointing finger. He is scratching feverishly his left thumbnail with his right. It does nothing to build comfort in my situation. I would like to sleep, but would like to have my wallet, passport, and remain an untouched person when I wake.

Supposing that if he will freak out, he’ll do it whether I am sleeping or not. I do what I can to ensure my passport and cell phone are safe, and pull my jacket over my head, in a pathetic attempt to rest my head on the curtain without directly laying my face on the space that a thousand customers have probably laid there face before.

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Waking up in Nouveau Mamata, I find a typical Tunisian small town. A collection of adjoining white houses, with decorative black, blue, or rusted iron metal gates, a gas station, and more convenience stores selling coke and phone cards than you can shake a stick at.

I check out the louage station, the louage for Vielle Mamata is empty. I tell the driver I will go with him and I will return. I begin walking in the direction perpendicular to the main route. I am sure this will take me to the edge of town. After climbing two walls of a dusty soccer stadium, the second wall takes me exactly there, the edge of town. I can see maybe four or five homes. "Homes", not "houses".

Resting my back against a low dilapidated wall, opening my school bag, I pull out what’s left of my cheerio’s and open another yoghurt.

The sun rises, a neon red orange. I think if I walked a mile or two towards the sun, I would find the sign leading me directly to the middle of nowhere. Its reminiscent of Homer Simpson’s dream after eating too much Chilli, where he finds himself talking to a red dog from the top of a pyramid with the red moonlight in the distance.

After taking a few pictures, I pack my empty cheerio box in my bag, making my way around the walls, I pass a hunched over woman sweeping hear stoop. Feet away rest a stands a donkey munching a pile of hay. A dog raises his head but after a low growl loses interest and goes back to Sleep.

At the louage station, the driver going to Vielle Mamata starts asking me a slew of questions.
“Will you stay in Vielle Mamata?”
“No”
Where will you go after Vielle Mamata?
“Douz”
“Why are you alone?” Not the most appropriate question, or one that I care to elaborate on, and revel that my nearest acquaintance, let alone friend, aside Osama, is ten hours away. I do my best to close the conversation, but he continues.

“Will you go to Tamrezet?”

“No” I reply

“No?!” he asks, acting both surprised and offended
“Oh its necessary you visit there, there are many Berber homes (Tunisian Indigenous).”
“If you want” he says like he is offering something special for me “I will take you to Vielle Mamata, leave you there for a while, come get you and take you to tamrezhet and return you to Gabes.”

What time will we get back to Gabes?
“Ten am” he responds.
How much?
Sizing me up he answers, “vingt dinars” (twenty dinars)

Acting as appalled as he was that I wasn't going to Tamrezhet, I say “whoooooo, Bersha Fulooz” (A lot of Money)

“combien?” (How much) he says

“je n’avais pas un beaucoup de l’argent” (I don’t have a lot of money) I reply, hopefully acting better than he has when pretending it was a good price

“combien est-ce vous avez” (How much is it that you have )

“Pas un beaucoup” (Not a lot), and I pull my hand out of my pocket showing him under ten dollars

“Pour vous, dix dinar" (for you, ten dinar,) Again pretending this is really something special just for me.

I tell him I don’t know, that for now I would just go to Vielle Mamata with him and possibly I would change my mind when I arrive.

He is a little pissed that he stuck his neck out to cut his price in half and still got no bite. There are now only two people in the Louage, I have lots of time to decide.

I wander to the curb in the middle of the street and take a seat. Shortly after the driver follows me and pitches to take me to Vielle Mamata, and than take me to some Berber homes in Tamrezhet for five dinars. After that he says, I can find a drive to Douz from Tamrezhet.

Recalling my guidebooks "getting there and away" section on Tamrezhet, transportation in and out of there is sparse, and I suspect on this holiday it will be no better.

"How will get to Douz?" ie you think I'm too dumb too know there's no way out of there, except when you try and get 20 dinars to take me to gabes after I'm stranded.

"I have a friend at a café there, I will call him and he will look for people passing through"

I don't trust him let alone his questionably existent friend, and I repeat that I would like to go just to Vielle mamata and maybe will change my mind.

A bus arrives; I enter it to ask the driver when the next is going to Douz. Nodding he says fatha fatha Douz, ( Enter Enter, Douz)

I try and explain in French that I don’t want to go now; I want to go after I return from Vielle Mamata. The driver and his three occupants are getting impatient and the driver is trying to close the door. I give up and leave the bus.

I return to the general area of the louage driver, He is my only acquaintance, yet the only person who is not impressed with me within hundreds of miles. He believes I planned to change my mind and not go to Mamata at all, but go to Gabes with the bus driver.

The bus has already left, and the louage driver asks sarcastically
“You’re not going with him?

“No, I would like to go with you to Vielle Mamamta? “

“Oh, now you want to go to Viele Mamata with me, only now that the bus not going there.” I begin to explain why I was talking to the bus driver but shortly after cut my losses and make my way to the louage to reserve a seat.

We leave a while later; a few minutes and we are out of the town, there is now nothing. A one lane paved road, with the occasional guard rail. Now and again, we stop to let someone off, or if we have an empty seat, we pick someone up. I wonder where the people that leave are going, or where the people who enter have came from.

Vielle Mamata Is the land of the trogolyte home, the trogolytes to avoid the sun had made their homes under ground, but this was extreme. For tens of miles, I could see nothing, but low rolling hills, the odd tuft of grass then a steep rising mountain in the background which met the horizon.

Vielle Mamamta appears a slow thirty minutes later, paying the driver, he returns what I interpret to be a dirty look, and says Shookran (Thank you)

“Shookran” I say, and make my way into the village. I start walking, occasionally readjusting my direction based on the advice of a passer by. I am looking for Hotel Sidi bo driss. It is one of the sites of Star Wars, but it is really the only thing that I know exists here, and my real goal is to be invited inside an everyday inhabited trogolyte home.

The entrance of the hotel is a cave cut into a mud bank. Inside, there are some left over star wars moulds stuck into the mud carved walls. Occasionally there is a courtyard where I can look 7 -10 feet up to see ground level. I am taking a few pictures when approached by a waiter. He takes me for a quick tour, takes a few pictures of me making “star wars” like poses and then shuffles the change in his hand, not so discreetly gesturing for a tip. I offer to give him 500 millemes, (1/2 dinar) he shakes his head, and looks at my hand which is closed around some small change. I open it, and he reaches in and takes out a dinar, I reach back and take back my 500 millemes. He smiles, not impressed I took back the 500 millemes. I smile back not impressed that he had a problem with my tip.

Leaving, I encounter a youth who I had asked earlier for directions. He has a shop and tells me fatha fatha (welcome, welcome), I enter and buy two postcards for a dinar, he points me to a trail that leads atop of hotel sidi bo driss.

I follow the trail. I look down into the sidi bo driss, take a few photos, but continue on for my real goal. I have left the small touristic zone and am approaching the actual village. I see woman hanging clothes, children playing while their fathers work nearby. There is an old car with no tires and a tarp over the window. I wonder how the hell it got here. I try to pay strict attention, as at any minute, there could be an opening in the ground exposing the courtyard of a house with its floor the same 7-10 feet down. It's difficult to keep my eye on the ground as the surround landscape is incredible. I am essentially in the middle of a circle of low mountains, no rocks, and little vegetation, all brown sand and sandy clumps hosting small plants. A communications tower sprouts from the top of one mountain top.

The fact that there are probably 300 people still sleeping in front of me, but all under ground is a little bit surreal. Noticing a small Mountain goat braying, and digging the ground with his horns, I quit pretending that I am not a tourist, and take out my camera. Shortly after, two larger goats appear, and start scraping the ground with their front hooves. I take the hint and make ground fast back towards the main road.

Along the "main road" I encounter two or three adults leading a string of 15-20 children. They are all brightly dressed, and many are toting drums and whistles. Clearly some sort of festival and I assume it is associated with the birthday of Islam’s Last Prophet Mohammed, which is celebrated today.

I follow the parade, at a few hundred meters back, and from this vantage, I see people are literally popping out of the ground, freshly showered cleanly dressed and coming from all over to join them. It's like watching aunts move in and out of an ant hill. They are moving towards a mosque on the hill. As they approach the mosque, I watch from a distance. A young teenager approaches me. Speaking French and a little English, we run through the basics, did you see the hotels yet, what country are you from. How do you find Tunisia? He asks me if I’ve ridden a camel. I tell him not yet, and he tells me he has a camel. I respond to his question, that “yes I would like to ride one”

We enter lowland the size of an infield of a baseball diamond. In the middle, there is a camel. A stud sticks through the top of his nose and comes out the natural hole. A faded blue rope less than a foot long is tying his front two feet together, his back feet being tied by a yellow rope about three feet long to a stake in the ground. There is an impression a few inches deep in the ground where the camel has circled back and forth within his three feet of freedom.

Taking the rope tied to the stud in the camel's nose, the boy starts pulling the camel towards the ground and making a ckkhhhhhhh noise, as if he is trying to well up some spit in his mouth. The camel bows on its front knees. Then pushing on the camels hump and bringing the camel to its knees he makes a gesture for me to mount. I ask him to go first; he grabs the hump and swings himself up like he is mounting a bicycle somewhat too large.

As soon as the boy dismounts, the camel jumps to its feet; the boy begins repeating the process. This time the camel doesn’t want to go. He starts making the ckkkhhh louder. And starts yelling at the camel and pulling harder on the stud in its nose. “Mish Mush Que” I say, (its not serious), ie I don’t need to ride it.

The boy believing that the size of tip he will get will be directly influenced by whether or not I ride this camel, he continues to make the noise.
"Mish mush que" I say. Finally the camel drops on all four. He points towards the back.
Here goes nothing…. how many chances am I going to have to ride a camel. I walk behind the camel envisioning stories of cows and horses kicking farmers and knocking them uncold, but also making the unfriendly comparison that unlike most cows, the hip of this beast is at eye level.

I am quite nervous as I walk behind the camel. I reach up and my arms touch a point on the camels back about 20 percent of the camel's length. Just as I rest some part of my weight behind his hump, the beast bucks and takes off forward. His acceleration causes me to slide backward, off his hump and stumbling onto my feet.

The camel makes it a few feet until the rope stops him. I take off running backwards, away from the centre of the rope. The boy, taking the camel by the rope on his nose, begins pulling him to the ground again. He is pissed at the camel. How often it is a tourist ventures here, and the camel is gypping him of a dinar or two. “Ckkkhhhh ckhhh”,He screams Ckkkhhhh ckhhh, the camel is resisting strongly, the rope in his hand is becoming tighter, the noise he makes is becoming louder. I can see the stud turning inside the camel's nose increasing the size of the unnatural hole. The camel is wincing.

“Mish mush que” I am growing louder too, "arête, Mish mush que”.
He is bloody screaming at the camel, I am bloody screaming at him. The boy isn’t even acknowledging me now. He is certain the louder he goes, the more likely the camel will drop.

I begin approaching the boy to put my hand on his shoulder to gesture its okay, or to pull him away from the camel whatever it takes to stop this abuse which I have started.

-----------------------------Will post part III before next Friday--------------------