166 - Sa-HA-ra! (Ksar Ghilane, Tunisia)
A FELLOW AMERICAN AND I TEAMED UP to conquer the Sahara, enthralled at the prospect of frolicking among the dunes in the world’s hottest desert. (Antarctica has the largest.) We anticipated an experience like no other. We got it, just not the one we’d hoped for. At least we had each other.
An all-night bus from Tunis led us to Douz, a small town christened “the gateway to the Sahara.” Our plan was to rent a 4WD and blaze off into the desert with eighty gallons of water (for when we got lost) and our wits. Also, a bit of couscous for nibbling. The Ksar Ghilane oasis is the southernmost tourist outpost, but we were willing to venture down to Tunisia's southern tip if need be. Fuck, yeah. Our testicle size bore an inverse relationship to our IQs.
We wanted more than a taste of the Sahara (pronounced “sa-HA-ra!” with a violent crotch grab). We wanted a heaping mouthful. Our fantasy was thus: An oasis tent camp surrounded by an ocean of dunes, simmering desert sunsets, peaceful star-filled nights, crackling campfires, and an inescapable feeling of desolation that would echo through our dreams. Perhaps a short camel diversion led by a desert-hardened Berber man with one eye and a scorpion forehead tattoo would be in the cards. Ever heard the expression “wish in one hand, shit in the other”?
Rent a 4WD drive? Not a chance. Nobody was interested, though we found many a tour operator willing to charge the going rate for an internal organ to fulfill our desert fantasy. One woman quoted a price of $200 US per person, per day for a three-day 4WD extravaganza (with driver) into the Grand Erg Oriental. Um, what… the… fudge?!
We surmised this agency was legit, and that our sojourn would be tip top magoo, but twelve hundred fargin dollars? If we were floating above the sand in a hovercraft and bedding down in a tent city fit for a Sultan, the price might be justified. How about a motorcycle? No problem. Only $206 US per day. What, what, whaaaaaaaaat?!
Independent travelers are as common as Sasquatch. Most folks come to Douz as part of a prepackaged tour that incorporates a desert “safari.” They’re on a brief vacation, throwing gobs of moment around like a post-apparition Ebenezer Scrooge. Can't blame Americans on this one. These yahoos hail mostly from Europe. The merchants in town are so jaded, they balk at the mere idea of negotiating a discount. “But you from America” was their irrefutable evidence we possessed more money than grains of sand in the Sa-HA-ra! This would prove to be a common theme.
After speaking with various travel offices (including our hotel), random people on the street, shop and restaurant owners, and just about anybody who might help us find a reasonable deal, we swallowed a big fat disappointment sandwich with an extra helping of dejection sauce and weighed options over copious amounts of coffee. 1) We could hire a 4WD with driver from a fellow by the name of Zou for the bargain basement rate of $240 for the two of us that would include a ride through the desert, a night Ksar Ghilane, and transport to Matmata the following day. 2) We could book a camel trek in the area surrounding Douz (described as a mere Saharan hors d'oeuvre by the guidebook) and hope against hope it would not be a campy Venus flytrap a la tourism. 3) We could attempt to conjure a 4WD/camel combination and sell our plan to imagination-deficient tour operators. 4) We could backtrack to the city of Gabes and see about renting a vehicle there. 5) We could roll the dice and give hitchhiking a whirl. Besides a 4WD track through the sand, there’s a paved road to Ksar Ghilane. 6) Or we could just go fuck ourselves.
We settled on the shits and giggles option (i.e. hitching with a supply vehicle or the like) but decided we’d make Zou (a rather intense fellow) one more counteroffer. To our surprise, he agreed to $200 all in and met us at a café to finalize the deal. He gave us strict orders not to reveal our arrangement to anyone, as this would hamper efforts by him and his compadres to bend over future tourists with thick wallets and nary a clue. We winked. We nudged. We shook hands.
The next morning, we forayed into the sandbox with Zou and driver inside a 4WD Mazda truck. Destination: Ksar Ghilane. It was an auspicious beginning, in spite of our crew's lackluster enthusiasm. Have I mentioned Zou's intensity? As a joke, I asked him how many girlfriends he had, to which he replied “four or five” in stoic deadpan, followed by a verbal inventory—one in Canada, Spain, England, etc.). And our driver? Well, he had as much desire to head south as I had about getting a sex change. He may have set a record for the number of text messages sent and received while driving. I believe he was the owner's son, conscripted into service as a way of compensating for our discounted price—no need to pay a driver.
Still, the ride was big fun. When not zipping along in a post-apocalyptic landscape, we were cutting through deep sand and dune-hopping at regular intervals. It wasn’t hard to imagine we were the only people for miles, at least until we came to a little café between hell and gone with a Coca-Cola sign out front. En route, we paused amid the sea of dunes for a quick frolic. It seemed a great introduction to what we thought was only the tip of the iceberg. So, we didn’t protest when Zou ushered us along with what seemed an imaginary urgency.
“Ksar Ghilane is where you'll understand the power of the Sahara's lure”… and appreciate the effect of mass tourism on what should be a remarkable place. We arrived at our camp/hotel to find ourselves underwhelmed, a not-so-alluring oasis-like scene surrounded by shitshack accommodation. Our “hotel” was uninspiring and unnecessarily modern (flushing toilets, hot showers, electricity, etc.). An odd complaint, yes, but fitting when you consider such excess in a desert.
Phil and I were hoping for a cozy Bedouin-style tent on the edge of a dune, not a half-ass tent city (notwithstanding the restaurant, bathroom facilities, and souvenir shops) swarming with middle-aged French tourists. We wanted to shit in the sand, damn it! After rereading this paragraph, one might assume we were on a homosexual desert escapade. Nothing wrong with homosexuals, Phil, or escapades, but Tunisia is not the place for a Big Gay Holiday, in case I gave that impression.
Our lodging was three kilometers away from the dune sea adjacent to the oasis, though there were hotels nearby. Our location was, no doubt, relational to the discounted rate. This was to prove vexing later on. After lunch, our driver brought us closer to the dunes, an area boasting of decrepit cafes surrounding a hot spring.
We sat sipping Fanta Citron (that sounds pretty gay), staring into thin air, and trying to figure out what all the hubbub was about. And just to punctuate the mood, an intoxicated local placed his hands on my head and tugged my hair as he made his way inside the café. (Also a teensy bit gay). At first, I thought it was my driver, but soon realized I was being fondled by a random asshole. I took exception to this and followed my groper inside to inquire. I gave him a “hey, man’” succeeded by a reenactment of the incident in a “what the fuck, hombre” tone. It was then I realized how drunk he was and gladly accepted his apology. Ain't no thang but a chicken wang, sir.
Not until I ventured into the dunes did I “understand the power of the Sahara's lure.” Oddly, I hadn’t realized it was there, thinking the region was similar to the area around our camp (i.e. rocky and bland). This is what we’d come to see. I found Phil napping at the foot of a dune covered with a thin layer of sand. (Sounds like an intro to a gay porno scene, no?) If I didn’t know better, I’d say he’d collapsed after a failed attempt to subdue the wilderness. As I stared, watching the light mist of sand waft over the dunes, I began to see what the fuss was about. Take away the dune buggies, quad bikes, camel rentals, drunk hairdresser, refugee-like tent facilities, Johnny Ambiance (Mr. Berber Man), fleet of Land Cruisers, and all the usual accouterments of factory tourism, and one can see the mystical nature of a forbidding landscape. You may have to squint a little.
I’ve never experienced such a finer (as opposed to coarse) type of sand. It’s so insubstantial it feels like a pile of dust in your hand, which I suppose explains the undulating formations. I conducted my own “mechanics of erosion” experiment by digging in my foot and watching as the wind shaped the small mound as I raised it above ground. This fascinated me for an inordinately long time. Moments like that provide flashbacks to childhood, and you can never have too many flashbacks.
I continued this exercise (joined by Phil) with an enthralling “chuck sand into the wind” experiment. One word: Dazzling. The way sand would suspend in the air for a fraction of a second before being captured and snatched away was awe-inspiring. I stood with a dopey grin, imagining an invisible force at play, an entity manipulating the breeze for its own amusement. I watched sand disperse into nothingness. A ghostly apparition would appear for an instant before floating off into the distance, content to make a fleeting cameo in the earthly realm.
I have alluded to the profane nature of finding modern intrusions like quad bikes shattering the illusion of solitude, but I must admit that had the rental fee not been exorbitant (around $40 an hour), I might’ve deigned to give one a spin. It looked like an assload of fun. Instead, I settled for more traditional transport.
I stood on a dune
in the late afternoon
getting in tune
with the earth and the moon
I saw at a glance
as if in a trance
a strange sort of dance
a man with no pants
high on a steed
a beautiful breed
it planted a seed
I long to be freed
I froze atop a dune contemplating the mystery of existence when out of the sea comes Mr. Berber Man galloping full tilt on a horse (a strange sort of dance). This struck me as a might queer (as in odd or strange). He was decked out in traditional Berber attire (no pants), and for an instant, I thought he might be the real deal. Nuh-uh. I realized this when he saw me from afar and started shouting something about taking Mr. Ed for a trot. That’s not to say he wasn’t of Berber descent, or that his garb wasn’t authentic, but it was clear he wasn’t a nomad of desert lore forging his way across the wilderness. He was the dude who owned the horse stables next to the oasis.
Image From Internet
Still, I was mesmerized, and as he approached, I could see the horse he mounted (also dressed for the occasion) was no broken-down nag. He dismounted and offered to let me play “desert marauder” for a spell at the bargain price of 15 dinar ($10) for a half hour. Resistance was futile. I figured it would be a “please kick my tourist ass for doing this” affair, but my excitement mushroomed exponentially when I discovered I was not to join the “let's ride circles in the sand” camel group a short distance away. No, sir, he was letting me fly solo. I nearly shat my dishdasha.
This magnificent animal (an Arabian horse) barely resembled the horse-ish creatures I'd mounted in the past. This was the real McCoy, underscored by the fact Mr. Ed was more responsive than my first car. It was fucking awesome! So, I trotted into the void, laughing like a hyena on nitrous oxide. I found it immensely entertaining when I approached the camel group being led by a local on foot. They were confused, likely assuming I knew what the hell I was doing.
Before dismounting, I had the good fortune to gallop on that bad boy (or girl). One word: Phenomenal. I was laughing so hard and looked so out of control (not a stretch), the owner called from a distance to slow the runaway train. His worried countenance dissolved when he realized I was cackling like the Mad Hatter. Pure delight. It might not seem like much, but I'd forgotten long ago I'd included “gallop on a horse” on my bucket list. Check. That all-too-brief experience made the whole shitshow worthwhile.
My equestrian-inspired bliss was short-lived when I returned to the hotel. Staying three kilometers from the epicenter of wonder was a real buzz kill. Not only could I not explore Duneland in the dead of night, I was also prevented from experiencing the sunrise. Fiddlestix! And if that wasn’t enough, Phil came down with a case of Vomiting Caca Syndrome, no doubt the result of less than salubrious chicken couscous. Super.
Between all the fine sand whirling about and my piss poor attitude, I took few pictures, most of which were on the trip in. It would have to wait for next time. And there would be a next time.
