Tunisia chapter eight
ATVs, camels, and a night in the Sahara desert.
In the morning I say goodbye to my host. He thanks me for my advice; his son has managed to find a reasonably-priced hotel thanks to my suggestions. I wish him well.
Boutheina arrives and we climb into the car. We head east out of the city and then turn right, driving across Chott el Djerid, a large salt lake we must traverse to reach Douz, our gateway to the Sahara.
Almost midway through our journey we stop at a small rest stop to take tea and to use the restroom. A few small attractions have been built in the plains, two white camels and, somewhat inexplicably, a wooden boat they’ve named the Titanic. Boutheina insists on taking my photo in the boat and I stand at the bow, arms outstreched. I’m the king of the world!
We continue on to Zaouia, stopping by the Zaouiet el Anes hot springs on the edge of town. The water is piped in from under ground, steaming through the complex used to cool it down for human use. A few people bathe at the base and I consider digging out my flip flops so I can join them. But there’s not time enough and we move on.
On the edge of Douz we stop to ride ATVs and camels in the desert. Boutheina gets us into a group just about to head out on ATVs and I’m asked if a boy can join me. At first I think he’s part of the group and then realize he works for the company running the ATVs. It’s unclear whether he’s there to help me or to watch over the group. On the way back he has me speed ahead so he can hop onto the ATV of the leader of our party.
At the far end of our trip the leader stops and positions an ATV on a small dune so that people can take photos of each other in the desert; action poses abound.
Back at the ATV shed we hop off our vehicles and cross the street to ride camels. It’s a short out and back to a group of abandoned buildings at the edge of a grove of palm trees.
It’s a sunny day, but Boutheina has bought me a scarf from a shop that serves as the base for camel rides and he’s tied it tightly around my head in the proper fashion. They’ve also lent me a thawb with which to cover myself.
We lunch in town. Boutheina tells me that the name of the town comes from the French word ‘douze,’ meaning twelve. It was the 12th city occupied by them during the war.
The International Sarah Festival is underway celebrating the heritage of the Arab Berbers. The road to the festival grounds is lined with people headed to watch, and I wonder where the couple I met in Tunis might be. It’s not on our itinerary and we drive past the grounds, the stalls filled with onlookers. I make note of it and file the knowledge away, thinking I may plan a trip around it in the future.
We switch cars at the edge of town. Mohammed loads us into his 4x4 and we speed out towards the Sahara on the sealed road. An alarm goes off, an annoying high pitched whine. It appears to be a speed check as it silences when he slows down. We pull over by the side of the road and a number of phone calls are made befoer we decide to deal with it and drive on at a slower speed.
Our destination is the Tinri camp in the middle of Jebil National Park. I check in alongside a Japanese couple am shown to my tent. Boutheina tells when dinner will be served in mess tent and leaves me to my own devices.
I climb the dune above the camp and find a spot to sit to watch the sunrise. The sand is soft and fine and I run it through my fingers as the sun drops every so slowly towards the horizon.
Back at the camp I join Boutheina and the Japanese couple’s guide in the reception tent for a drink. There’s a bow and arrow sitting in the corner and the guide picks it up and invites the Japanese couple and myself to a competition.
Their guide manages to stick the plunger into the wall, but none of us are able to. On my attempt the arrow bounces off the wall and strikes a man seated on a couch nearby. He calmly gets up and moves to a new spot.
Later, the guide will tell me that the man is the former Prime Minister of Tunisia. He jokes that I’ll be reported for an attempted assassination.
We head out to the campfire to watch the sand bread being made. We’ve missed the preparation when it was placed and covered in the sand, and arrive as the baker fishes the bread out from the hot ash and coals. He beats the sand off with a cloth and then slices it before us, inviting us to taste it. It’s delicious, hot and salty with a great crunch and chewy texture.
We have dinner together, the Japanese couple, their guide, Boutheina and I. The couple asks about Carthage and Dougga. They don’t have time to visit both and ask me my opinon of the two.
Their guide beams when I tell them I preferred Dougga. He’s from there and the pride he feels is evident.
After dinner everyone retires to their tents. A group of French tourists lingers by the fire. It’s a cold night and I steal blankets from the empty beds to place upon mine. But I’m not quite ready to go to sleep.
I dig my headlamp from my bag and step back out onto the sand. I climb the dune once again and find a dark shallow amongst the dunes at the top and lay down to gaze up at the stars. It’s a dark night and as my adjust more and more stars reveal themselves. As I stare up at the sky a shooting star appears, headed almost directly at me, a bright star growing brighter that dissipates in the atmosphere. 🇹🇳
29 February 2024
