An African Adventure

24 April, 4:30 a.m., Athens to Tunis

Almost every adventure I undertook in Athens started off as a disaster due to problems with alarm clocks, electricity, and taxis. I decided to set up three alarms to make sure that a traveling companion, G. Sloan Geyer, and I woke up on time to start the African adventure. First I set the normal, and due to electricity problems, unreliable alarm clock. Then I set the travel alarm clock. Thirdly, I set the alarm on my stopwatch in case the travel alarm clock battery died during the night. So Saturday morning at 4:30 a.m., for the first time in travel history, my companion and I actually awoke on time for the trip (it should be noted here that the main alarm clock did not go off because, having spent extra time preparing the back up alarm clocks, I forgot to turn the main one on). By 6:30 a.m. I was on my way to Tunisia.
As G. Sloan slept on the plane, I thought back to a book that I first read when I was 8, called The Little Prince. The book is about a pilot who crashes in the Sahara Desert and meets a little prince, who is from another planet. The little prince ends up getting bitten by a snake and dying at the end of the book. The last page contains the following passage and picture:

This is, to me, the loveliest and saddest landscape in the world. It is the same as that on the preceding page, but I have drawn it again to impress it on your memory. It is here that the little prince appeared on Earth, and disappeared.
Look at it carefully so that you will be sure to recognize it in case you travel some day to the African desert. And, if you should come upon this spot, please do not hurry on. Wait for a time, exactly under the star. Then, if a little man appears who laughs, who has golden hair and who refuses to answer questions, you will know who he is. If this should happen, please comfort me. Send me word that he has come back.

When I first read the book I immediately packed a suitcase to go off in search of the little prince. I figured my parents would have no problem buying me a plane ticket and after I packed I informed my mother of my plan. I sulked for a week after I was told that I would not be allowed to go to the desert. I vowed that somehow, someway, I would go look for the little prince even if I had to wait until adulthood to do it.

The trip to the desert had caused a small disagreement between G. Sloan and I. His main reason for visiting Tunisia was to see ancient Carthage and the Bardo museum, which houses the best preserved collection of mosaics from the Roman era that can be found in the world. Since we only had three days in Tunisia (Sat – Mon) it was debated whether or not there would be time to visit the Sahara. But after much sulking and silent treatment on my part, G. Sloan gave in and arranged an itinerary to include a trip to the desert. It should be noted that his sudden change of heart may have actually had to do with reading a section of the tour book describing overnight camp outs in the desert. A decision was made that G. Sloan and I would sleep in the Sahara.

It should also be noted that while in Tunisia we traveled incognito as Canadians. Some of the Tunisians displayed outright hostility towards Americans so it was decided that there would be less trouble if we pretended to be from somewhere else. My original intention was to claim to be from some more exotic location, such as Iceland, but my fantasies were ended with a withering look from G. Sloan who reminded me that English is not the native language of Iceland.
Finally, it is important to say that my observations of Tunisia are from a budget traveler’s perspective. There are many beautiful, modern 5 star hotels set up on the edges of the towns I visited and a person staying in these hotels could have a view that the country is a luxury playground for the French (which it is). In short, the amount of money spent on a trip to Tunisia dictates the viewpoint someone may have on the surroundings.

12:00 p.m., Tunis, capital of Tunisia
We arrive in Tunis late because of a delay flying through Rome. The first 30 minutes of our arrival were spent arguing about what time it was in Tunis. According to the ticket folder we received from Consortium Travel, Tunis was in the same time zone as Rome (this later proved to be false). Then G. Sloan got upset with my “I told you so” comment when a clock indicated that Tunisia is actually an hour behind Rome. We proceeded to the ticket counter for Tuninter, the in country airline of Tunisia, and booked tickets for that evening to fly to Tozeur, the jumping off point for the Sahara. Then we changed money and rode in silence to the Bardo.
The atmosphere at the Bardo soon relieved any tension between us. We were greeted by a very friendly ticket agent who was extremely impressed with G. Sloan’s Arabic. He also complemented G. Sloan on his lovely traveling companion (a situation that occurred often on the trip). We had decided to spend two hours in the Bardo and then to go see Carthage, so we made a quick tour of the museum. It is a converted castle and has to be seen in person to really be appreciated. There are huge mosaics that take up entire walls that are perfectly preserved. The scrollwork in the wood is absolutely amazing and the floor was either of marble or composed of mosaics taken from the Roman ruins.

But after two hours I was over the mosaics. So we grabbed a taxi to go to Carthage. This is where things on the trip took a bizarre turn. The taxi driver became super friendly with G. Sloan after learning G. Sloan spoke Arabic. He decided to spend the drive from the Bardo to Carthage mapping out itineraries for us, since we only had until 8:30 p.m. to see Carthage because of the flight to Tozeur. The taxi driver would turn around to the back seat and hold up his hands and count “ok, three hours Carthage, one hour Sidi Bou Said (a small village on the tourist track very close to Carthage), one hour Medina (the famous market in Tunis), then airport”. After being counseled over ten times by G. Sloan that in fact we had no intention of going to Sidi Bou Said and that we just wanted to see Carthage the guy finally seemed to give up. He agreed to spend the rest of the afternoon driving us between the 12 different sites of Carthage, which are spread out over an 18k distance.

When the Romans invaded Carthage, they leveled it to the ground and then salted the earth so nothing could ever grow there again. That about sums up the sites of Carthage. Only one place, the Antonine Baths, had any recognizable ruins. Even this place is described in the tour book as “more impressive for their size and location than anything else”. Other places we visited included the museum, the roman villas, and the roman theater.

G. Sloan was also very set on seeing the US War museum. But after the poor taxi driver, who seemed to be getting more animated and expressive at every stop (I suspect he was imbibing in Celtia, the only beer sold in Tunisia, as he waited in the car), continued to drive around asking people where the museum was, G Sloan decided it wasn’t worth the effort and told the driver to take us back to Tunis.

When G. S. asked for the name of a good restaurant the driver thought we were inviting him to dinner. The thought of listening to his maniacal chattering that at this point was hardly translatable into English made us exit his cab hastily and decline the offer of dinner. He continued to yell to us as we disappeared into the Medina that he would meet us to take us to the airport at 8:30.

At this point it was about 5 p.m., prime time for tourists in the Medina. The narrow walkways were packed with shops and rude shopkeepers determined to get us into their shops. The walkway was literally a wall of people and in much of the Medina roofs or other coverings stretch over the narrow streets giving the feeling of a cave. After about 20 minutes in this environment I decided that if I didn’t get a beer and some food soon I was going to start setting stuffed camels on fire.

G.S. and I traipsed around the Medina in vain to find a place for a beer. At one point, seeing an escape hole onto the main street, we were able to actually find where we were on a map of the medina from our guidebook. But once back inside the Medina the twisting, unmarked streets, along with the bad representation of the roads in the guidebook, caused us to be hopelessly lost until finally, after many mis-directions, we exited the Medina back into Tunis proper.

Consulting the guidebook once again, I suggested a restaurant, Restaurant Baghdad, which was highly recommended. The couscous, Celtia beer, and salad were all very good after a day of not eating, though the atmosphere was ruined by a midget doorman. We arrived at the restaurant around 6:30 and were the only people in the place. A very ugly and deformed midget showed us to a table and then insisted on trying to select the food for our dinner. I have nothing against midgets but this guy was persistent, trying to hold my hand in his unbathed hand to show me to the ladies room when I got up from the table to wash my hands. His eyes went in two different directions, his teeth had probably never been graced by Crest toothpaste, and he tended to spit all over everything when he talked, gesticulating with hands that had palms that were adult sized and fingers that were those of a small child.

He stood next to our table, his head barely clearing the top of it, and gave us a very hard to understand history of his mother and father. He constantly grabbed G.S.’s arm and patted him with his hands while I cowered in the corner. Finally, after exhausting all his English-speaking abilities (which were diminishing as fast as the beers he was drinking), he pulled a chair up to our table and began trying to converse with G. S. in a mixture of Arabic and French.
At some point the midget was recalled to the kitchen and we never saw him again. His glass of beer was surreptitiously removed from our table by a waiter. We contemplated the poor guy’s fate over our couscous. G.S. was convinced that the staff had him back in the kitchen, holding him on the floor and tickling him. “This is what they DO to midgets,” he said as we paid our bill and headed to the airport.

11:30 p.m., Tozeur
Figure 4: the nice part of TozeurWe arrived in Tozeur exhausted. It was 1:30 in the morning Athens time and a shower and bed were desperately required. We once again consulted the guidebook, which by now we realized was riddled with inaccurate information, for a hotel and took a taxi to what sounded like a nice hotel at a reasonable price. But after some words were exchanged with the proprietor over the price of the room, which he had greatly inflated over the price supplied in the guidebook, we decide to find somewhere else to stay. The young doorman ran after us as we left and directed us to a nice hotel down the street.

Although Tozeur is a “tourist” town I looked around wearily in the dark at the cement buildings and run down architecture that I generally associate with countries in Central America. I admit to some doubts concerning the feasibility of actually seeing the Saharan desert.

Then, on the way to the hotel, I saw a sign with a picture of the little prince on it, straight out of the book. I stared up at the picture with wonder and excitement. After 21 years I was going to get to see the Saharan desert. We carried on to the hotel with a new sense of purpose.

25 April, 7:00 a.m.
The overnight desert trip had to be arranged in a small town called Douz, which is on the edge of the Sahara, situated between the Chott el-Jerid and the Grand Erg Oriental (Oriental means Eastern and is part of the Eastern Sahara, the Western Sahara being in Morocco). To get there, one had to fly (as we did) or drive to Tozeur, and then take a hired car to Kebili, about 1-½ hours drive from Tozeur. The trip to Kebili involves a drive through the Chott el-Jerid, which is a flat desert with a mountain range visible in the distance. From Kebili another hired car goes to Douz, about a ½ hour drive.

Figure 5: Belvedere RocksBefore setting off from Tozeur for Kebili-Douz, we decided to go see the Belvedere Rocks. The Belvedere Rocks are three huge rocks that look over the oasis outside Tozeur. You can actually climb on them. Our initial idea was to get up early, climb the rocks, and then watch the sun rise over the oasis. Instead we did not get out of bed until 7:00, so the sun was already up. We began the 30-minute walk to the outskirts of Tozeur, along the way encountering many camel taxis who rather forcefully tried to insist on giving us a ride. G.S. would usually respond to these guys by saying “la la la” which means “no no no” in Arabic. One camel guide found this so hilarious that he kept repeating “la la la” to his camel before kissing the animal on the lips.

There is also a “hot spring” right before reaching the Belvedere Rocks. The water is tepid at best, but it is interesting to see the water in the midst of the desert.

Figure 6: the Chott el-Jerid
Figure 7: hot springAfter the trip to the Rocks we headed for the hired car stand. The hired cars are called louages (pronounced LOW – ODDJ). This is how they work: they have signs posted on the top of the car indicating their destination. When a certain number of passengers are available (usually 6) they leave. We were very lucky in both Tozeur and Kebili as the cars were filled immediately and we did not have to wait. The drive to Kebili was amazing. The Chott el-Jerid is a flat expanse of the most compact sand imaginable. It looks like a hard salty crust. Except for the mountains in the distance the terrain is flat with no greenery in sight. Occasionally I saw people in little racecars or little planes, which are brought out into this desert for tourists to fly or drive around in.

The trip from Kebili to Douz was uneventful and upon arriving in Douz we immediately tried to find the hotel where, according to the guidebook, we could arrange a Sahara trip. Douz was a town in even worse condition than Tozeur.

Figure 8: the happening' part of DouzAlthough the tour book had hotels and restaurants marked on a map, the actual streets of Douz are not marked with names (only some occasional signs in Arabic) and none of the hotels listed in the book existed. We managed to set up a trip through an existing hotel and were told to be ready to depart at 4:30 p.m. and that there would be another person, a Japanese guy, accompanying us, as well as a Bedouin guide.

We were taken to a store to purchase turbans for the trip. The turban is wound around the head and face. It is made of a linen/cotton mixture and keeps the head cool in the beating sun and keeps sand out of the mouth, nose and eyes. We were given a quick turban adornment lesson and then sent on our way.

Since we had 1-½ hours to kill we decided to get a beer. After checking around we found out we would have to go to the “tourist zone” about 3 km. outside Douz to find any alcohol, as the town of Douz was a Muslim town. So we set off for a 5 star hotel and arranged for the taxi to pick us up at 3:30. The 5 star hotel was a feat of luxury and modernism. We sat in a darkened, air-conditioned bar and drank 3 beers apiece. Then, G.S. had a brilliant inspiration as we departed the bar. He bought four Celtias to drink that evening in the desert.

Arriving back at the hotel at 4 p.m. we were told to be ready to leave immediately. G.S. insisted on getting something to eat first so we went to a restaurant and ate a quick dish of couscous and then returned to the hotel. A taxi dropped us off at the start of the Sahara and we met the Bedouin guide, whose name was Masood. He spoke only Arabic and French. The Japanese guy was named Cots (sp?) and he quickly tried to assume control by insisting that he ride his camel unguided by Masood. A short discussion occurred as I, in a slightly buzzed state, stared at the camels.

It was the first time I had seen a real live camel. They are very big creatures with a hoof that bends forwards rather than backwards like horses. They have large beautiful eyes with long curly eyelashes and the most horrific teeth you can imagine. Since I was the lightest of the group, I was put on the pack camel and got to be first in line. Then G.S.’s camel was tied to the back of my camel, with Cots’ camel bringing up the rear.

I hopped up on my camel, which was lying in the sand, and was sitting in a pleasant fog when suddenly the camel decided to stand up. A camel stands up by kneeling on its rear legs first so the rider is tilted forward at a precarious angle, made even more precarious since there is only a small wooden stick box at the front of the “saddle” to hang onto. Masood grabbed me and helped steady me as the camel continued its ascent. Finally I was perched comfortably on top of the supplies and the other camel riders were also situated so we set off.

At first I tried to memorize landmarks on the way into the desert in case there was a catastrophe and I had to find my way back alone. This proved to be useless after the first hour. I settled back on the camel with a nice buzz from the Celtias to enjoy the quiet and splendor of the desert. The spell was constantly broken by my camel, which farted every five minutes.
At one point Masood looked back to check on me and discovered that he had not tightened the supplies properly and I was gradually sliding down the right side of the camel. I, in my happy state, had not even noticed but G.S. was taking pictures from behind as I slid farther and farther to the right. Masood stopped the camel train to tighten the supplies and by making a “schhhhhk” noise was able to get my camel to sit down. At the time the camel started its descent I almost fell head long into the sand as the camel’s front legs suddenly buckled down but Masood once again saved me. While Masood was getting the other two camels to sit my turban seemed of great interest to G.S.’s camel, which kept trying to bite my head. Then when the camels were brought to a standing position to continue the journey G.S.’s camel tried to bite my shoe and kept nudging me in the back with his nose. Luckily my camel began farting again, causing G.S.’s camel to back off.

The trip into the desert took a total of four hours. Masood held the reign of my camel loosely in his hand as he walked barefoot in the sand. There was nothing but desert as far as the eye could see and a deep quiet pervaded the trip. There was more greenery than I had imagined there would be.

As the sun began to wane, along with my buzz, the whole desert took on a quality of softness with a glow that was more apparent as the light from the sun faded.

Eastern Sahara, 8:00 p.m.
Arriving at the camping spot G.S. and I looked around. Nothing but sand. It was like being in the middle of the ocean with no land in sight. Unlike the desert in White Sands, where the sky seems to sit right on top of sand, the Sahara appeared to try to rival the sky, stretching out to the horizon as if it were as vast as the atmosphere. Masood unpacked the camels as we struggled to run up sand dunes.

The sand in the Sahara is like no other sand I have ever felt. The grains are so fine when you put your hand in it, it seems as though you are putting your hand in water. It was surprisingly cool to the touch and left the same cool feeling that your skin feels when you dip your hand in water and then hold it up to a breeze. The sand was as fine as talcum powder.

The first order of business in setting up the camp was collecting brush for the fire. We set out in four different directions. I had a momentary panic my first venture out when looked around after gathering up some sticks and realized that I could not see the camp anywhere. I had wandered for about fifteen minutes and the landscape looked the same. I had no idea which direction I had come in. I ran up the nearest dune. I couldn’t see anyone or any sign of the camels. Then I realized I could follow my footsteps back to the camp. So I headed back with my bundle of sticks.

When stick-gathering time was over everyone congregated at the camp. Masood said something to us about the camels. We thought at first that he wanted us to look for them. There was an admitted alarm in the camp when we all returned to find them long gone and nowhere in sight. It turns out Masood just wanted to know what direction they had gone in. He had tied their front legs together so they couldn’t wander far. Grant translated Masood’s Arabic the best he could to let us know Masood would find the camels the next morning.

While Masood cooked dinner G.S. and I climbed a dune to watch the sun set. As the sun sank lower and lower the orange color intensified to the point where it looked like the flame of a campfire. A reddish-pinkish light the color of watered down blood seemed to spill over the sand until the sun was three quarters of the way down. Then the light intensified almost to the white color of a flashlight focused down the sand corridor. Then there was an instant white flash like the flash on the camera and the sun was gone. The light still burned on the horizon like embers for another twenty minutes while the moon came into sight and it was night.

Because there was almost a full moon the light reflected off the sand giving the impression of candlelight. G.S. and I moved towards the fire and watched Masood prepare a stew. It was made of tomatoes, potatoes, and carrots with hot spices added. After the stew was put on the fire to heat up Masood made bread. Flour, salt and water were mixed together in a pan and the bread was flattened out into a pizza crust looking thing. Then Masood placed the dough on the hot embers left from the fire and buried it in the sand. After about twenty minutes he dug the bread up and brushed the embers and sand off of it. We ate this with the stew and had oranges for dessert. G.S. managed to spill his stew all over the front of himself and of course there was no way to clean him up. I bring this up only because he had to wear these clothes for the next two days with bright red tomato stains on them and he became paranoid at times that people were staring at his stew stains.

While Masood began to prepare the tea I undug the beers from the sand, where I had buried them to try to cool them off. We asked Masood (who was a Muslim) if it was okay to drink them and then we gave one to Cots. His face lit up when he saw the beers as if we had just presented him with a winning lottery ticket. I had noticed also that he was out of cigarettes so I gave him a pack of mine and the bonding session was complete. We drank the beers and talked as Masood did the dishes, which involved scrubbing off the plates and utensils with sand.

Cots told us his story in very broken English. He worked for a Japanese volunteer organization like the Peace Corps. His specialty is botany. He had been working in Africa for two years helping the farmers in Mali. He had hoped to stay longer but after multiple bouts of malaria was told to go home. He seemed bittersweet about returning to Japan. He had not been back the entire time he had been in Africa. Besides Tunisia, he had also been to Egypt. He had a friend in the Corp stationed in Douz, which was how he came to be on our little expedition. Cots seemed to be a nice enough guy but there was no meeting of the minds between him and Masood. His pushy behavior was insulting to Masood, although I don’t think it was intentional.

We had tea. The tea has the leaves actually floating in it, as opposed to being in bags. It is sweetened with lots of sugar and mint leaves. After tea Masood turned the pan over that he had used to prepare the dinner and kneeling in the sand, held it between his legs. The pan looked like a larger version of the type of pan you bake a cake in. He began tapping on it rhythmically with his fingertips and singing a song in Arabic.

After a few minutes of this Masood told Cots to get up and dance. Cots thought Masood was trying to make him the butt of a joke, so he got up and did a ridiculous dance. Then Masood took my turban off my head and tied it in a sash around my waist, with the long end hanging to the side. The he told G.S. and I to dance. We did our version of “white man dances to hip hop” and then got Cots to dance with us as well. When we sat down G.S. asked Masood if he was a Sufi, which Masood confirmed.

Sufism is a mystical Islamic sect that believes in achieving communion with God through spiritual development rather than the study of the Qur’an. There are many different Sufi orders because Sufism takes into consideration local beliefs and superstitions. Probably the only knowledge of Sufism that a Westerner would have is seeing people walking on hot coals or eating glass, acts which some sects believe brings them closer to God. Their main beliefs lie in people and nature, as opposed to a religious text. G.S. had realized that Masood was a Sufi by the music he played and the fact that he asked us to dance. This is a typical celebration by which the participants are driven to a state of awareness through the dance and the music.

After G.S. talked briefly with Masood about Sufism, Masood asked me to do a traditional women’s Sufi dance. As he tapped on the pan and sang I knelt beside him and rolled my head around, shaking my hair as if at a heavy metal concert. G.S. found this quite amusing and kept shouting encouragement. I paid for this little dance the next day with a horrible stiffness in my neck.

At this point Cots decided to take over the show. He unceremoniously reached over a grabbed the pan from Masood and tried to play it. His hollow taps on the pan were less than inspiring. After 5 minutes of failed attempts Masood took the pan back and handed it to G.S. G.S. did a better job but was still no match for the master. Masood offered the pan to me but I graciously declined, as I have no musical talent.

Figure 9: Cots pulls out the harmonicaAs we settled back for another round of tea, Cots surprised us all by pulling out a harmonica. He spent a couple minutes blowing notes on it and then began playing “When the saints come marching in”. We sat through the first round and then the second round G.S. sang the song (or at least the words he could remember), and then Masood sang some Arabic for the third stanza. By fifth stanza I had had my fill of the saints so I asked if he knew any other songs. He played a Japanese song and then he put his harmonica away, saying those were the only two songs he knew. G.S. and I later had a good laugh over that since it turned out he had been playing the harmonica for ten years.

At about midnight G.S. and I decided to turn in. Masood rolled out the blanket that had been a saddle for my camel and then gave us two sleeping bags. We went off a short distance from the fire and set up our bags. We brought everything over with us as we had read in the guidebook about frequent sandstorms. I decided I wanted everything near me in case I had to dig it out later.

G..S. climbed into his bag and started wiggling around. When I asked him what he was doing he said he was taking his clothes off because he always sleeps naked. We had a short discussion about the intelligence of his actions. I tried to convince him that if there were a sandstorm he would be much better off with his clothes on but it was to no avail. By then it had started to get pretty cold (about 48 degrees F) and when I looked over at him he had his bag completely closed around him with only his little moon face partially sticking out.

My sleeping bag did not close up and I slept only for short intervals. For one thing, I was paranoid about the beetles. We did not see any animals or scorpions but there were black beetles the size of a silver dollar everywhere and huge ants. Sometimes in the night when I rolled over I could hear them crunching as I squished them on the blanket. I kept trying to roll my sleeping bag close to G.S., who radiates heat, but he kept rolling away from me until finally he was lying completely in the sand.

26 April, 5:30 a.m.
I awoke as the sky was lightening. I saw the edge of the sun on the far horizon of the desert. I shook G.S., who by this point was completely entombed in his sleeping bag.
“Grant, wake up. The sun is coming up.”
“Nmmmm.”
“Grant, it’s sunrise. Wake up.”
“NMMMMMM!”
I watched the sun for about five minutes and then fell back to sleep. When I woke up again G.S. was sticking his head out of his sleeping bag. He looked over at me and said, “Hey, we missed the sunrise”.
I did not reply.

While G.S. rolled around like an epileptic in his sleeping bag trying to get his clothes I went around taking desert pictures. Masood prepared bread for us and then took off in search of the camels as I smoked and drank a Coke I had brought with me into the desert. We packed up and I waited on a high dune for an hour, watching for Masood. As the minutes ticked by and there was no sign of him I imagined the headlines and the people at the American embassy laughing over the stupid Americans lost in the Sahara. Then suddenly I saw a moving dot, which turned out to be Masood with the camels. I ran back to camp and Grant, Cots and I all went to the dune to watch his arrival.

As Masood packed the camels I decided to make a friendly overture to them by feeding them the orange rinds left over from dinner the night before. This later proved to be a mistake as all the camels ended up with diarrhea and even worse farting problems than they had had going into the desert. The ride back was less fun because I was sober, tired, unbathed, and saddle sore from the ride out the previous day. We saw a couple of jackals and were trying to take pictures of them, which was when G.S. noticed that his zoom lens did not work.

The Sahara sand is so fine that it penetrates every possible nook and cranny. Even stuff we had in plastic bags had sand in it. It blows constantly, making the ripples that are seen in most desert photography. I had sand up my nose, in my mouth, and in my ears, and G.S. was in a foul mood about his camera.

After arriving back at the hotel where we arranged our trip we showered and the world brightened considerably. The hotel did not have towels so we used a bed sheet and our turbans to dry off. Then we took a louage to Kebili.

We waited in Kebili for about 45 minutes for our car to fill to return to Tozeur. The louages are like modified station wagons, with three rows of seats. The back seat has no room to speak of and since we were the first arrivals we decided to take the middle, roomier seats. The louage driver explained to G.S. that while he could ride in the middle seat I had to ride in the back because I was a female. In a show of our solidarity G.S. folded himself in the back seat with me.

Tozeur, 12:30 p.m.
We had initially planned on flying back to Tunis once we reached Tozeur but we could not get tickets. So we arranged to take the bus at 11:00 p.m. that night. It is an 8-hour ride that we had hoped to avoid but we figured taking the bus was not so bad and we would not have to pay for a hotel room. We had plenty of time to kill until the bus left so we set out to explore Tozeur.
At this time of the day everything is dead and the heat presses down on you like a hot iron. We decided that some refreshments were in order. Almost all of the restaurants were closed so we went to the bar at a beautiful 5 star hotel. There we sat alone at a table watching French tourists parade through the lobby to the swimming pool. Although the tour book said that modest dress was a must the French were running around in sleazy swimsuit wear. We killed a number of Celtias and then tried to go to the local museum, which is actually three museums in one. It was closed so we ate pizza at a restaurant across from the museum and then set out for the oasis, which was highly recommended by our tour book. The museum, strangely enough, was open until midnight so we figured we would tour it after the oasis.

6:30 p.m.
We walked for an hour through the outskirts of Tozeur to the Oasis. Apparently we are the only tourists to have ever walked though this part of town. We were mobbed by mosquitoes and little Tozeurian children. Most of the kids were returning from school and they stared at us as if we were aliens. G.S. chose this particular moment to break into a number of show tunes from such musicals as H.M.S. Pinafore and The Pirates of Penzance. This actually amused, rather than frightened, the kids. They tried to talk to us and they gave us fruit to eat off some trees in the oasis that was fenced off from the road we were walking on. Grant grabbed a little boy and girl who were fighting and tried to force them to hold hands. Then he was mobbed by a group of 5 girls wearing catholic school looking uniforms.

This troop followed us to the entrance of the oasis, gaining numbers as we went along. When we finally reached the entrance we discovered the oasis was closed. We walked a further distance to the zoo, which houses scorpions in match boxes and other travesties, to find that it was also closing. At this point I was a mess of mosquito bites. No taxis were in sight so we started walking back the 3 km to the museum.

A 17-year-old boy came running out of one of the houses. He spoke rudimentary English. He insisted we come to his house immediately. A fight broke out. A ten-year-old boy had been the first to approach us and he insisted we go to HIS house. As the commotion ensued a taxi appeared out of nowhere and we quickly flagged it down. As we tried to get in the children clung to us, not wanting us to leave. One of G.S.’s girl groupies stuck a rose in my hand as the taxi pulled away.

It was about 8:00 p.m. We had initially planned on a dinner at the 5 star hotel, which was highly acclaimed in the tour book, but neither of us was hungry after our beers and pizza. So we went to the Dar Charait museum. The first museum was dedicated to Tunisian life. It was a great museum, with rooms decorated as if the museum were a Tunisian palace. There were beautiful rugs and furniture with wax people sitting on it. One room showed a bride preparing for her wedding. Another contained men, shown waist up only, in the public baths. After we finished this museum we decided to go to the next one, since we still had time before our bus left.
Although I swore to G.S. I would never admit to anyone that we went to this museum, I have to mention it. I can only describe it as a cut rate Disney land version of the “it’s a small world” ride depicting Tunisian history. The first room in the museum contained giant statues of dinosaurs portraying the pre-hominus era in Tunisia. The next room had wax statues of man’s evolution. As we walked through the hallway that led from room to room in the museum a frantic man in traditional Tunisian dress would run ahead of us to turn on the lights and the special effects for the next room. Then as we would leave the room he would shut the displays off.

The most interesting display showed the Vandals on their ships. The walls vibrated with the sound of booming cannons and screams were broadcast from every corner. The display depicted a guy being hung from the ship’s boom and a guy getting his head cut off while a strobe light flickered on and off. Fun for the entire family…
At this point we decided we were through with Tozeur. We went to the bus station an hour early. I read the guidebook (which I was now considering a work of fiction) while G.S. tried to fix his camera’s zoom lens.

27 April, 5:45 a.m., Tunis
We arrive in Tunis after a miserable bus ride from Tozeur. Apparently the bus company never took into consideration that someone over 5’4” would ever want to ride their buses. The headrest ended somewhere around my shoulders and I literally had to put my legs in the aisle because they would not fit in front of me. The bus was packed and the main occupation of everyone on the bus seemed to be nose picking. There was a TV at the front of the bus playing Islamic TV. After about four hours the bus stopped to give the passengers a quick smoke break and then we continued on.

As soon as we got into the bus station I headed to the bathroom to brush my teeth and try to clean up. The bathrooms were Turkish toilets, e.g. a hole in the ground. I found a cleaner-than-most sink and began to brush my teeth. I saw a cleaning woman come in to fix her hair up into her hat before work. I watched in amazement as she ignored the chunky vomit splattered all over the counter and the inside of the sink she was standing in front of as she poured herself a glass of water and drank it.

After G.S. and I cleaned up we headed to the Medina. The Medina was much more pleasant, even beautiful in a way, at 6 in the morning with no tourists or shopkeepers around. There we met a guy who claimed to be a famous European boxer. He gave us a quick tour of the Medina and then took us to a teashop for tea. We had to catch our flight back to Athens at 11:00 a.m. so G.S. was in a hurry to see the Medina and after many hints the guy finally figured out we wanted to keep moving rather than sitting around in the tea-shop. He offered to take us to see a “special view” of the Medina.

The special view ended up to be a four-story carpet shop whose roof looked down on most of the Medina. After we took pictures the guy took Grant to the third floor to see carpets while I waited on the lower floor looking at stuffed camels and post cards.

Figure 12: the famous boxerFinally G.S. was able to free himself from the carpet guys, one of whom was very tall with a black eye who kept insisting that G.S. look at the carpets and buy one NOW. We took off, disappearing into the streets of the Medina, but somehow we kept running into the boxer guy, who seemed to spend his time wandering the narrow streets. We saw the souq el-Attarine (perfume souq), the Great Mosque, the Dar el-Bay (the Prime Minister’s office), the souq el-Berka (the souq for slaves, which was described to us as a “place to buy a bride”), the Dar Othman (an old palace), the Tourbet el-Bey (mausoleum), a French cathedral (an odd sight in a Muslim country), the Kasbah mosque, and the souq des Chechias (where they make the little red felt hats that you see in movies). Unfortunately, although we avoided the crowds being in the Medina so early, most things were closed. And a few places we went into seem to serve not only as little museums, but also as people’s offices. When we went into one building everyone was sitting around eating in one of the rooms and the guide resignedly showed us around, pointing listlessly at stain glass windows and wood scrollwork.
Finally, our adventures were about to end. We went to the airport to change money. As it happens you are required to show a receipt for the amount of money you changed, other wise they won’t change it back for you. I had accidentally lost one of the receipts in the Sahara but luckily we still had our ATM slips.

We then boarded the plane to Rome, where we had a 6-hour layover before returning to Athens.

Rome, Italy, 1:30 p.m.
We arrived in Rome after a short delay in Tunisia. G.S., although an extensive world traveler, had never seen Rome. He had a burning desire to see the Coliseum and since I had been to Rome before I determined that we would have time to do it.

We got in line for our passports and G.S. got in a different line to try to surreptitiously get his passport stamped without my knowledge (I had warned him beforehand that they don’t stamp them unless you ask). As I was leaving my line I heard him ask for a stamp and had to go back to my guy to get a stamp as well. Then we bought tickets for the Termini, a train that goes into the heart of Rome from the airport, and then we were going to take the subway to the Coliseum.

As luck would have it the train pulled out of the station right as we were running for it. The next train wasn’t for another hour. I looked over the train map and quickly devised another plan. We would take another train that dropped us off about ½ km away from the Coliseum at Stazione Ostiense. G.S. immediately wanted to purchase new tickets but since we had stamped the old ones as we ran for the train we couldn’t get our money back. After a slight argument, we boarded the other train with our wrong tickets.

The conductor did give us a short lecture on the train for having the wrong tickets and I smiled sweetly while G.S. stammered excuses. We arrived at the station and walked into the street. The day was rainy and overcast. We were both tired and dirty from two days without real showers and three days of the same clothes. G.S. was insisting on asking every passerby the way to the Coliseum and he was having serious doubts about my ability to read a map. A short fight took place and we walked along in silence until suddenly, around a bend in the street, there was the Coliseum. We ran to the entrance and did a twenty minute tour. We decided to spend another 45 minutes at the Forum and timed our subway ride back to the Termini to catch the train to the airport.

The problem was we had forgotten to look to see what time the train left to go back to the airport from the Termini and there was no way to check the train times from the subway. We calculated it as best we could, added 15 minutes in as a buffer, and then went to the Forum.
We had toured the Coliseum so quickly we only took in our surroundings, not the people. So at the Forum we stopped in total wonder because suddenly we became aware of the fact that we were surrounded by Americans. Almost every group was speaking English. I was in shock after so many months away from the states at hearing people speaking my language – with no accents!

It was nice just to be able to ask people in English to take our picture. G.S. ran around the Forum happily and with renewed energy, taking it all in. Then we walked to the subway station at the Coliseum and arrived 10 minutes ahead of schedule at the Termini.

As soon as we entered the Termini I saw our train, posted to leave in 5 minutes. Having visions of the airport incident I yelled to G.S. to run and we went to the track posted. It was empty. So then I ran the entire line of twenty trains trying to find the train to the airport. The last track was marked to go to the airport but the train was gone. Then G.S. realized that I had been looking at the “Arrivals” board, rather than “Departures”. It turned out we actually had 25 minutes. So we went into the station where G.S. got a canoli, and lessons in the proper way to pronounce “canoli”, and we both had a bottle of real beer.

Athens, 11:00 p.m.
After an uneventful flight home we arrived in Athens. The taxi ride was a somber one as we were both exhausted. The taxi driver kept giving us disdainful looks in his rear view mirror. G.S. was sure it was because of his stew stains. We hopped in the shower as soon as we arrived home, our clothes in a big pile on the bedroom floor. After the shower I walked into the bedroom and noticed a horrible odor. I checked the trashcan, which had been emptied, and under the bed. I opened the bedroom door leading outside to the balcony to see if something out there was causing the smell. Finally, I realized it was our clothes. They stunk of camel and buses and Tunisian pollution.

We threw the clothes in the living room and collapsed into bed. Our trip had been a masterpiece of timing, captured in 8 rolls of film. We discussed quietly our African adventure as we drifted off to sleep.