Adventure and Spontaneity III

I approach the boy to put my hand on his shoulder in an effort to stop this. The camel, now breathing heavily, has his head pointed away from me, the big eye on the side of his head watches me like a security camera. I am treating the camel and the boy as one. My eyes remain on the camel, as my hand blindly feels for the boys shoulder. I reach the boy, and he turns fast and looks at me. It’s the first time throughout this, that I’ve paid much attention to him. His eyes are frantic. He is in a panic state, like his shoelace is caught in a train rail. He really wants me on this camel. Who knows how the winter seasons affects someone whose dependence rests solely on the arrival of tourists. I pull back on his shoulder so he knows I really don’t want this to continue.

He has understood, he stops the noise, he lets go of the rope, and stands up to face me. As a last ditch effort he says “un photo sil vous plait monsieur?”

I don’t know who I thought I was helping by agreeing, but I did. Not one to put my self in camel kicking range… more than once in a day, I stand at the camel’s side. Why is he taking so long I think as the boy is fuddling with the buttons. The flash goes off, and as quick as the light moved to my eye, I moved away from the camel. This was not the camel adventure I was expecting, but it will more than suffice.

The boy says something to me as we walk away from the camel, but I just nodded. The beating of my heart slowly returns to normal. Probably more than I can say for the camel. Poor bastard will probably spend all day in the sun trying to get over the ckkkhhhing.

I don’t know why I felt the need to further expose and exploit traditional life here, but I had come this far, and when the boy said that he had a house here, my true goal in Mamata came rushing back.

“under ground ?” I ask

“Bien Sur” he says, do you want to see? He turns around and gives a “follow me” symbol.

We walk up over the roofs of other houses and approach the opening of large pit of a courtyard, where four or five wooden doors hang on rope hinges tied through holes in the clay. The ground closes up again as we continue walking. Then it opens onto a second pit, this one with a clay ramp at the far end.

Still a little jittered from the camel, I follow him down the earthen ramp. There is a woman ironically sweeping the clay floor of the “front entrance”. At the start of the next cave, or roofed area, there is a dog tied up, he is barking, running in circles. He looks like a smaller mutt version of a German Shepard. No doubt in my mind if he breaks the rope I’m finished. He runs to the stake, to the extremity of the rope, and back and forth, loose and tight. The damn thing is foaming at the mouth. The boy probably doesn’t even know what rabies is.

Keeping my distance I move to the wall on my right. I’m watching the dog which is now back and to my left. Concentrating on it, and stepping forward, my right foot goes further down seemingly falling through the floor. I tumble the next few feet. Regaining my footing, I go back to inspect the cause of my stumble. The hole is actually the floor of another room that cuts into the path that makes the hallway. The door is close to 3 feet tall, but the room is probably five feet tall, just deep enough to hold the hunched over camel peering out at me. You want to talk about being quick on your heels. I was out of that hole before you can say ckkkhhhh three times fast. As we continue I notice there are holes all through the cave hallway. Here a camel, here a dog, here a donkey, here a sheep, everywhere a sheep sheep. There is hay on the floor and the place smells like urine.

Contrary to when I first entered, I hope that this is just a tourist attraction and that in this day and age no one lives here. We exit the cave into the same courtyard I saw from above. All the doors are locked save one. He opens this door; inside there is a small wooden frame bed, neatly made, with some clothes hanging on wooden stakes on the wall. Closing the door, entering back into the courtyard and assessing the unpredictability of this place, I become conscious that there is really one exit from this place, and my wallet, not to mention my cell phone and camera, would equal a few months’ wages for this boy. I hate to be condescending but it would be a hell of a crime of opportunity.

I notice a dark low hole on my right. Probably the home of an animal, maybe it’s the TV room? Turning around, the hole is an endless black pit, there are no eyes peering out of this one. Seeing my interest in the hole, the boy asks if I would like a picture in front of it. In my recent contemplation of paranoia, I reluctantly oblige, but try to keep my back against the wall.

As I take my position on my haunches, the boy reads my mind. “gauche” he says (left), and points me directly in front of the hole. I swallow, and make a pathetic attempt to move left to appease him. Is this standard protocol? Get the tourist in front of the hole, and mug him? Or will I be the first. Camera flashing, I jump up to my feet and do what I can to induce the boy into making fast tracks with me, around the camel looking, dog barking, woman sweeping and up the mud ramp.

Back on the main road, he talks to me about how the police are always watching to make sure the locals aren’t taking money off the tourists. For the adrenaline that I just received, its well worth it, I just wish I could make him split the 2 dinars I give him with the camel. At the louage station we meet my old indignant friend the louage driver. “Nouveau mamata” I say, and wave goodbye to my guide.

The day passes quickly and uneventful from here. 30 minute wait for a louage to Gabes. In Gabes, I intertwine the two hours waiting for the louage to fill with sleeping on some jacket separated curtains.

Arriving in Douz, I am, as the guidebook predicted, bombarded by offers to go on a camel tour. A young, Tunisian, dressed in designer American and Italian clothing, is the first to approach me, and sticks with me after I’ve passed the menagerie of locals looking to take me anywhere’s and everywhere. The young mans name is Saber. Speaking near perfect English, he tells me there is a trip leaving this afternoon if I would like to go by camel. Or if I like there is another leaving by 4x4 later in the day.

I’ve learned to beware of anyone that speaks English. However, I put that aside at the thought of a trip into the sahara on camel for 40 dollars? How does one refuse that? A mild limp and a steady head cold are justification enough for me, and I decide to hold off on the offer. Besides if I make this tour quick, I can be in Tozeur in time to catch the 8.30 train to Tunis.

My suspicions about Saber are reinforced when a forty year old man, wearing somewhat of a Turban approaches. He too is speaking English, however a much more broken English.

“Don’t listen to him he says to me”. Leave him alone he says to Saber. The old man looks at me and says, “This guy has nothing, he just wants your money. Go to the tourist office, they’ll tell you everything you need. Saber is not offended, which suprises me. He doesn’t even revert to speaking Arabic. “And what do you have old man?” He taunts. Saber is grinning as if he has had this conversation a thousand times.

I have a hotel says the old man.
“A hotel do you?” says Saber mocking surprise
You have a guide book Saber asks me? I pull out “the lonely planet”. Go to page 220 he says, which opens exactly to the spread of Douz. Saber uses his finger to navigate past the books advise not to buy camel rides from anyone but the tourist office, and to the section on hotels.

“Let’s see” he says to the old man. Whats the name of your hotel? “Hotel Khenix, and it isn’t in there”. None the less, Saber continues to read through the names of the hotels. The man is getting aggravated and starts speaking in Arabic, then English, then Arabic. The gist of it is, Saber doesn’t care that I won’t give him my business, but the old man is embarrassed that his hotel is really nothing to anyone. The old man has enough, he says something about the tourist office and takes me by the arm.

I walk with the old man who is only muttering under his breath now. A few feet down the road we run into “a friend of his” who has a hotel. Even the Samaritans are trying to hook you up. No thanks I say, just looking for a sandwich. The hotelier offers to walk me to a restaurant. I decline, but he shows me to the main drag all the same.

Visiting two restaurants, and deciding the second is clean enough to eat at, I grab sandwich, and eat it in the taxi en route to the zone touristique. The guidebook says if you’re short on time, it is from here that you can see “the grand dune”. Essentially, a small taste of the Sahara. I take the driver; Sami’s number, so I can get picked up….by taxi….. At the Sahara desert. He drops me off at a three way intersection. Palm trees and a pave strip in front of me and on my right. A small break in a concrete wall on my left, through which I see nothing but sand.

Throwing two dinars on the seat of the taxi, slinging my school bag on my back, I break out of the taxi, like a school child running off the bus and into his mother’s arms after his first day of school. Unbelievable I think, Me, at the mouth of the Sahara. I throw my jacket over my head to protect from the pounding sun. The crumpled plastic pop bottle on the ground takes away from the authenticity, but the camel caravans I see resting in the shade of some palms brings it back. I don’t want to turn around and see the asphalt. In front of me is nothing but a sandy hill. The horizon is in front of me, and above me, a few hundred feet away, and is defined by the border between white sand and blue sky.

I break into another run, and reach the top of the hill. There is nothing in front of me now but Sahara, white sand, palm trees and returning camel caravans. “Oh F__K me” I say, “un real”. How can I be in the Sahara. I try and rationalise this. I say well this isn’t the heart of the sahara, and how authentic is it if you can walk there from asphalt.

I don’t know I where I’m standing is any less of the Sahara, than the Sahara we’ve read about and thought of as a figment of the imagination, or that couldn't accept that I was literally In…. the…. Sahara…,

I am taking pictures like a tourist fool and trying to leave nothing in the photo that will make the experience less formidable. No foot prints, no pop cans, nothing but sand and trees. After 15 minutes, the sun is unbearable. I put my camera away, waste what is left of my water, and descend the dune to reality. Fifteen minutes of unbelievable turned off by the need to catch the 8.30 train.

I call Sami, and return to the asphalt intersection. From here, I watch two decked out four Stroke Street and trails bikes bust off the pavement and go balls to the wall into the desert. Loaded down with sleeping packs, water, and gas jugs. Modern day camels setting off for one hell of a spring vacation.

Waiting for Sami, I call Jessica. Again I disauthenticate the Sahara by using my cell phone to call someone, who is to her dismay is in the middle of reality. Not sure if I was gloating or sharing the experience, but either way we both enjoyed it.

Nothing good comes of getting dropped off at the louage station. I learn that I can’t take a louage direct to Tozeur. I must go to Kelibi, and then await another for Tozeur. Not to mention that the louage leaving for Kelibi is dead empty. Throw in that my closest companion, is the person I trust the least, enter Saber, and you’ve just defined shit out of luck. My reasons for trusting him were not that founded. But in travelling I usually assume it’s safe to trust no one. Granted, there are huge exceptions to that rule, but I had a good feeling this case represented the rule, not the exception.

Grabbing a bottle of water and a pack of cookies, I start to worry that if this louage fills like it has, or has not, for the last hour, ill miss my louage out of Kelibi as well. I try and find out how much for a taxi to kelibi. It’s looking like 15 dinars. I call Sami. After some broken French and my even brokener Arabic numbers, we agree at ten dinars. Breaking my commitment to the louage driver for Kelibi, I hop in Samis recently arrived Taxi. We start to pull away, and I confirm the figure he has asked of me. Miscommunication has toyed with us, and he was actually looking for fifteen dinar.

I’m not sure if he really always intended it to be 15 dinars, or if he thought since I was already in the taxi, he could get away with it. Either way, I wasn’t quite comfortable. Sahmani I say. Excuse me. And I motion for him to return. He isn’t put out my departure, but I am. I step out of the taxi to meet an unimpressed louage driver, and Saber, who asks what’s up. Embarrassed, I explain the confusion. He laughs, but then says, so you’ll pay ten dinars to go to Kelibi?

Really at this point I would probably pay fifteen to avoid the stares of the disgruntled louage driver. I’m not sure he wouldn’t throw me in the dune on the way to Kelibi even if we do fill the louage any time soon. I know there is a louage union “local 747” somewhere with my name highlighted orange on their people to kill list.

“And you don’t mind taking a private car?” He asks
No, that’s fine. Why not I think? It’s an adventure.

Saber jogs off to a Black Peaugot 406 that’s been passing back and forth. It’s a cross between a Camry and a Cadillac. Saber hangs in the window for a minute, and then enters the car which pulls off without giving me much of a response. Returning a few minutes later, the car parks a few hundred meters away. Saber enters the centre of the circle of chatting louage drivers, shakes hands with a few, speaks some Arabic and then they all laugh quite heartily while looking my direction. Saber leaves the circle towards me and while still smiling he asks, “you ready?”

“Uh sure” I say, “to Kelibi?, Ten Dinars?” I confirm

“Yeah sure” he says, as if its an insignificant fact, not forming 100 percent of our entire relationship..

Saber leads the way to the car and insists I take the front seat. The driver asks saber in Arabic what I speak. Ah francais he says, and acknowledges me for the first time. Vous etes francais? No, Canada I say, but I speak French, . I still haven’t figured out that question, is he asking if I speak French, or if I am from France, but my response covers both bases.

The car is still parked, the driver lights a smoke and turns his body towards me and asks me if I smoke. Between puffs of tobacco, I see his teeth are all capped silver. He is almost a little bent over in the car to keep from hitting the roof. Well dressed, clean cut, he looks like an educated version of jaws from James Bond.

Kelibi? He says looking at Saber in the back seat who is talking vigorously in Arabic on the phone. Naam he says. (Yes)

Jaws I learn, is from Tunisia, but has worked in France now for a few years. He is on vacation here for a month. If striking gold was the American dream, working in France is the Tunisian dream, and I wonder why someone doing quite well is driving tourists around for small change.

He tells me that the car is a French car. Its made in France I ask? No he explains, the car was bought in France he just brought it with him for vacation. For no particular reason I ask how much it costs to ship it here. Around 1500 he says. Aller et retour? (Round trip?) No he says, just one way.
Its fifty a day for a rental car here. He’s here for thirty days, that’s 1500, where he will pay 3000 round trip. A flight to france is 300 max. So he could do it for 1800 by renting or 3000 by shipping. Things aren’t quite adding up. If he’s got money to blow, I again ask myself, why is he driving tourists around for petty cash. I look up and see a Tunisian inspection sticker. Okay Luke, calm down for a sec. Maybe he had to get it inspected to stay for a month? Maybe you’re confusing the French here. Maybe he didn’t say that he brought the car from France. Maybe he’s just playing with me.

Either way, what a f”’king idiot I am, five dollars I’m saving? I know there are four hundred people, twenty of them who are reading this, who would give me the extra five dollars to have taken the taxi.

We are on the main drag of Douz now. Road construction stops us conveniently in front of a police station directly in front of a police officer. I try and get as much exposure to the window as I can. If these guys are local criminals, the police officer standing out front will surely have a problem with them driving around with a tourist…wont he? Or was I hoping that some super sonic cop would be on staff to make up for my stupid decisions.

Maybe I thought, they’re going to Kelibi anyway, and he just wants some gas money… Yeah, that makes sense. Shortly after the police station, we pull into a series of small alleys. I foolishly try and keep track of where we are going. Jaws sees my head spinning left, right, behind, trying to note the surroundings and he says t’inquiet pas (don’t worry). DON’t worry? Who said I am worrying? And that’s easy for you to say, you’re going to get out of here alive.

Jaws pulls turns into an incredibly narrow alley, so tight that he has to pull the car over so close the passenger side door, my passenger side door won’t open. The other side has about 18 inches. Saber slides between the frame and the door and enters the house nearby for a few minutes and returns with a knapsack. That’s about enough to set my imagination on fire. What was so urgent that he needed a knapsack for? Looks about the same length as a lead pipe to me. I fumble for the window, thankfully it opens but all it has done has exposed a dirty sandstone wall four inches out from the car door parallel to the window.

Saber gives directions in Arabic, we pull out of the alley, retrace our steps, past robo cop and move North out of town. On the road, there are periodic homes and businesses appearing and disappearing as things in a car window so often do. On the right is a large dune running parallel about 100 feet from the road. I suspect that the other side is probably sand and palms as far as one could see or run.

I’m playing everything over in my head. I can’t get over the holes in the story. I’m picking the skin on my thumb like the man in the back of the louage 12 hours earlier. Oh how safe that scene seems now. I want to reach for a drink of water, but I am scared that I’ll need it to stave off thirst when they throw me in the desert. I want to eat a cookie, but I’m scared I’ll need it to stave off hunger. I want to speak, but I am scared they’ll smell fear on my breath.

We pass a police road block, standard Tunisian road sight. The uniforms make me feel safe. Surely these guys will have a problem with this situation. My hopes are dashed, when jaws rolls down the window to receive a friendly greeting from the fully dressed officer working the road block.

What I interpret to be a plain clothes police officer also approaches the car and sticks his hand in to shake with all three of us. That is to say, with them, and with me. The man enters the car. I try and assess if he has joined them, or he has joined me. He is an associate of the police that is clear. So I am safe, or I am screwed, screwed beyond belief.

------------------ If you've had enough of the cliched stops in the middle of the story, letme know. See you next week. -----------------------------------------------