Tuesday, April 14, 2009

Douz, Tunisia

Sahara Desert

The Scorpion Whisperer

We ducked into the doorway of a teahouse in the dusty desert town of Douz and allowed our eyes a moment to adjust to the dim interior. There were cozy nooks scattered throughout the café, as well as colorful rugs and backgammon boards. From the array of patrons, our trusty guide, Youssef, somehow identified the trekking company manager with whom he had arranged to meet to plan our expedition into the Sahara. I remember that this impressed me, since the man’s face was obscured by the shade cast from the brim of his hat, and the two had never met in person. Before approaching Sahib Shady, Youssef motioned us to a table near the front of the café and suggested that we might get a better deal if he were to negotiate on our behalf. Jason and I obediently took a seat with the children, while Youssef joined Sahib Shady in the rear. It soon became apparent that the two men had no intention of involving us in their planning session and that this might end up being a lengthy affair, so we decided to distract the children with copious quantities of sugar in the form of mint tea.

Since we had not yet learned how to play backgammon, we pulled out the Uno deck and declared a World Championship match. The contest would be played in Arabic, so we could practice the numbers and colors we were all attempting to memorize, and the winner would be crowned victor of North Africa.

Three cups of tea (and one hefty sugar buzz) later, I noticed Sahib Shady ducking out the side door without so much as a Salaam. Youssef approached with a proud grin to announce the sum he had succeeded in negotiating for our trek. I have personally never rented five camels and two guides, so I guess I had no expectations. Youssef’s air of satisfaction, however, told us that a Thank you was in order, so Jason offered to buy him a cup of tea. But teatime had apparently passed. Instead, Youssef steered Jason toward the door. I grabbed the children, swept the unfinished Uno game into my daypack, and set off on a mad scramble to secure provisions. We would depart at daybreak.

Youssef zipped us from one outfitter to the next, where we gathered all of the items deemed indispensable for navigating the Sahara. Each one, he mentioned, he had secured for us at a very good price. Sunglasses, loose long-sleeved tunics, snacks, and water to supplement what would be provided by our guides. The provisions they bring may be enough for Tunisians, Youssef advised, but certainly not for Westerners. At the last shop of the afternoon, we were each instructed to choose a long scarf, which was to become the most vital piece of our desert ensemble: the turban. We each selected a long, thin band of material in a shade to our liking, ranging from desert white to sandy brown (with the exception of Bella, who chose electric turquoise to complete the colorful Arabian princess get-up she had spent the afternoon assembling). Youssef selected a brown scarf, but being a city boy, had no idea how to put it on. The shopkeeper demonstrated the clockwise wrapping technique, and how to leave just the right amount of material behind the head to be draped in front of our eyes and nose in the event of a sandstorm.

As we were leaving the shop, I eyed a pair of the traditional canvas trousers I had seen Berber men wearing—the original balloon pants—tight around the waist and ankles and nowhere in between, with a drop-crotch that falls whimsically somewhere below the knees. These form-adverse pants, I decided, would complete the wardrobe of modesty that I had been amassing. No man in his right mind would find me attractive in these britches. When I emerged from the dressing room to model my newest acquisition, attempting to navigate the shop without tripping over the drop-crotch, little Cruz pointed out a potential benefit that I hadn’t even considered when he asked, Mom, can you poop in those?

Youssef woke us before daybreak with enough time to don our fancy new desert costumes. Rise and shine! It’s time to milk the chickens! By sunrise, our eclectic party was assembled atop a sand dune at the northern edge of the great Sahara: the Smirkman Five, Youssef, two guides, and five crabby camels who were none too happy at being awoken before dawn. I was relieved to see that Sahib Shady would not be part of our expedition. Instead, the two guides, who were each smiling kindly below their turbans, introduced themselves in Arabic. Nameen was the elder of the two, a tall and graceful man who walked with a slow, intentional gait that reminded me instantly of my grandfather. He could have been anywhere between seventy and ninety years old. He extended his right palm in introduction. I shook his hand and fell into his bottomless black eyes. For reasons that were altogether unclear to me, I immediately trusted this man. His sun-worn leather face smiled sagely beneath a white turban, showing off wrinkles and valleys redolent of the arid dunes that stretched behind him. After a long moment, Nameen gently blinked, releasing me from my trance and presented his sidekick. Key was a shy young man with a cheerful round face, sandpaper hands, and a lopsided smile.

Nameen motioned us toward the camels, who were kneeling atop an adjacent dune, and gestured for us to take our pick. Our turquoise princess had already selected her fetid friend, who she declared should henceforth be addressed as Butterfly Rainbow Fairy. Youssef mounted the largest of the beasts and swung little Cruz in front of himself saying, He will be the most safe with me. (This assertion was apparently based not on any actual experience Youssef had with camels, but rather on the assumption that his Tunisian blood alone would render him a more apt custodian atop a dromedary.) This left three creatures from which to choose. I’m generally not one to look a gift camel in the mouth. However, just five minutes downwind of our malodorous mounts had made it clear that this experience was going to engage all of the senses, not the least of which would be olfactory. I gravitated toward the least smelly of the remaining beasts and stroked its long coarse neck to stake my claim. Just in case it was not clear to the camel the qualities for which it was being selected, I named it Jasmine. Cyrus, our cautious child, has always been my wingman; he chose the camel next to Jasmine. This left Jason to the grouchiest of the monsters, who by unanimous consensus we christened Grumpy.

When we had successfully mounted our dromedaries, Nameen passed behind, smacking each on the rump while Key berated them threateningly in Arabic. The camels countered with much grumbling and gurgling to illustrate their displeasure until they eventually recognized that there would be no way out of this ordeal. Each finally began the arduous task of standing up, a process that involved unfolding one skinny leg at a time from beneath its massive upper body. Swaying its torso back and forth violently to gain enough momentum to unfold the next leg. And the next. And the next. Until, with much additional gurgling, each camel was finally on its hooves. The swaying eventually subsided, and I looked around to make sure everyone had come out of the experience unscathed. When the first wave of motion sickness overcame me, I suddenly understood why Tunisians refer to camels as the ships of the sea.

As we took a few moments to straighten our turbans, Nameen and Key examined our assembly and relayed to Youssef how elegant we looked in our fancy desert outfits. We, likewise, complimented their blue jeans and t-shirt ensembles.

Our Arabian Armada fell into line behind our guides, who would apparently be leading us on foot. And in house slippers. Over the coming hours, we settled into a steady rhythm. Our camels unhurriedly crested and fell over the endless series of dunes. Any sense of time was washed away as we were lulled into the slow, mesmerizing pace of the Sahara.

Late in the morning, we came upon a shepherd dressed in a white turban and a lovely pair of drop-crotch britches. He watched patiently over his grazing flock of camels and chewed pensively on a twig. As we drew slowly nearer, the patient shepherd became my old uncle Howard back on his farm in Kansas, chewing on a shock of wheat—swap out the turban for a cowboy hat, camels for heifers, and house slippers for cowboy boots. Unexpectedly these two rugged men on opposite sides of the globe became indistinguishable. Each man wanted the same basic things out of life: enough food to feed his children and some good grazing land.

Jason was excited by the prospect of sharing some of the excess water with which poor Grumpy was loaded, but Uncle Howard seemed uninterested in his offer. He did accept one of Nameen’s cigarettes, however, before continuing on his way.

As the sun reached its highest point in the sky, shadows disappeared and the desert stretched in all directions like a blinding white sea. Nameen navigated our cantankerous camels toward a shrub that might briefly shield us from the sun. In the absence of a fence post, he taught Bella how to hobble each camel by tethering its feet together with a short rope in order to minimize the distance it might wander off.

Meanwhile, Cruz and Cyrus threw themselves from the tops of nearby dunes while Key instructed Jason on the fine art of making sand bread. He started by building a small fire, and then mixed together a simple dough consisting of flour, salt, and water. He formed the dough into a large Frisbee-shaped disk. Then, pushing the coals to one side with a branch, he made a shallow Frisbee-shaped hole in the hot sand, threw down the dough, and quickly covered it again with sizzling sand. The fine Sahara sand bubbled as the bread cooked. Five minutes later, he uncovered a perfectly toasted disk, which now resembled a pizza crust. This was a very exciting concept for the children who miss pizza terribly and never expected to find it in the desert. Key whacked the hot disk against his knee a few times in order to dislodge the sand, and broke the bread into pieces. As we passed the warm freshness around our little circle, I vowed to take this recipe home to supplement freeze-dried camping food on future backpacking trips.

As the noontime sun softened and shadows returned to the landscape, we saddled up and sauntered on. The only sign of haste in this arid landscape, I noticed, were the tiny grains of sand. They scurried relentlessly from one slope of each dune to the next, perhaps to see whether it might be greener on the other side. Following the slow progress of sand particles over the fluid landscape was hypnotic; little Cruz had no problem taking his afternoon nap on camel back. The rest of us may have slept a wink or two as well; it’s hard to tell. At some point, the difference between slumber and our waking stupor became imperceptible.

Later that afternoon, we came upon a small clutch of white canvas tents clustered around an unlikely patch of shrubs, where Nameen made a house call. Two ancient women, who were draped in Technicolor tunics and appeared to be in charge of the encampment in the absence of any men, hobbled out in bare feet to greet us. The wrinkled matriarchs squatted on a nearby dune, steadied by their walking sticks. In silence, their tattooed faces attempted to make sense of our outlandish caravan. Nameen must have relayed to them that we came in peace, and after a few awkward moments of silence they invited us into their nomad camp. Bella immediately sprinted toward the encampment where she had spotted a tribe of baby goats grazing amidst a giggling pack of young children. The rest of us followed behind more cautiously. Cyrus timidly positioned himself behind me, occasionally peering over my shoulder to watch his younger siblings frolic. A tit for a tat: the dusty youngsters in the encampment allowed Bella and Cruz to stroke their wiry little goats while they, in turn, busied themselves caressing silky blond hair.

The Technicolor matriarchs insisted that we stay for dinner. Glancing around the sparse encampment, however, we couldn’t imagine they had sustenance to spare so we were relieved when Nameen politely declined their invitation. As we returned to our camels, Jason offered to leave a large container of water for their camp. No interest. They did gladly accept some oranges, however, and a bottle of antibiotics from our medical kit before bidding us farewell.

Each evening just before dusk, Nameen chose a low, flat area to be our camp for the night. As Bella set off to hobble the camels, Cruz and Cyrus would resume their competition to determine who could heave himself from the tallest dune. Youssef and I helped Nameen scour the camp for scorpions before assembling the biblical tent under which we would all sleep. Jason, meanwhile, assisted Key in making a fire and preparing our dinner, which always consisted of couscous, vegetables, and sand bread. I, for one, was thankful to have a break from meat after our most recent restaurant experience.

The night before our trek, we happened upon a restaurant back in dusty Douz that was serving grilled camel, a delicacy Youssef had already insisted we must try. We compliantly filed in behind Youssef around a low table, perching atop brilliant magenta rugs on the floor. He ordered on our behalf, and as the smoky aroma of spit-fired dromedary began to waft in around us, he entertained us with tales of Tunisian camel men. Shepherds spend months at a time away from their homes as they graze their camels through the Sahara, he said, relying on nothing but their flocks for both shelter and sustenance. Any camels that are uncooperative or ill-tempered, he continued with an ornery grin, become dinner meat!

As steaming plates of ill-tempered camel were set in front of us, Youssef chuckled and relayed the old Tunisian joke that must have originated around a shepherd’s campfire: What’s the only thing worse than a cup of camel’s milk? The second cup!

Jason felt obliged to reciprocate and so pulled out the one about the chicken crossing the road. This drew only a blank stare from Youssef, and as I lowered my gaze to the plate in front of me, I made a mental note never to attempt to expand my business by translating joke books. I reluctantly tucked into the seared dromedary staring back at me and gave the kids the evil eye, indicating that they should follow suit. The flavor reminded me of the liver and onions that Ma would sometimes force us to eat toward the end of the monthly grocery budget. But minus the onions, which had been the only good part. And with a consistency reminiscent of grilled cowboy boot.

When bedrolls had been laid out beneath our canvas tent and the camels were tethered, we relaxed around Key’s campfire and watched the full moon rise in the east as we savored each morsel of couscous. After dinner, Nameen taught Jason how to make red tea that was so strong it looked like it was made from rusty nails that had been steeped in a metal bucket for a summer or two. I had been told by British friends that a proper cup of tea should steep for precisely five minutes and absolutely never boil. Such subtleties don’t seem to apply in the Sahara. Nameen’s method was to chuck two huge handfuls of equal size—one of red tea and another of white sugar—into a small metal pot of water, and then proceed to boil the hell out of it. It’ll put hair on your chest.

Though the moon was high above and bedtime long past, we were all too jacked up on Sahara Red Tea to sleep. Instead, we lounged around the campfire for a couple hours more and watched the moon drift across the sky as we swapped folk songs. Nameen, Key and Youssef sang traditional desert melodies, which rose in undulating waves much like the wind prints snaking through the sand beneath them. We answered with John Denver tunes, which somehow seemed appropriate.

We woke with the sun early the next morning, though Key and Nameen had apparently been busy for hours. A campfire was burning, the camels were loaded, and the scent of breakfast lifted us from our bedrolls. Over a meal of hot sand bread and strong Sahara Red Tea, which turned out to be the perfect hair-of-the-dog remedy for curing a sugar hangover, Nameen, who must be some sort of a scorpion whisperer, captivated the sleepy children with the scorpion he had caught outside our tent as we slumbered. The exquisite and deadly creature was perched gracefully in the palm of his hand, rendered harmless by his tranquil presence. I knew exactly how it felt.

We saddled up, and Nameen took my sweet Jasmine by the reigns, leading us to the front of the pack. As we set off, I massaged my sore hips and tried out various postures on Jasmine’s back, eventually settling in for another long day of straddling. The other camels fell slowly into line behind us. Nameen, walking steadily in front, removed a cigarette from his crumpled pack, lit it with a wooden match, and inhaled deeply. He then lit another and serenely handed it to me, without taking his gaze off the horizon ahead. And, though I had never before even entertained the idea of a morning smoke, I accepted his gift unquestioningly. I brought the cigarette to my lips as our Arabian Armada sauntered off into the tranquil Tunisian morning.