168 - Scooter Dreams (Djerba, Tunisia)
I HAVE THE DISTINCT FEELING LONELY PLANET WRITERS don’t always audit the places they describe. The island of Djerba has its appeal, but it didn’t measure up to the hype. In all fairness, the LP did prepare one for the onslaught of mass tourism, but still fostered a glimmer of hope for staying above the fray.
Phil and I made the village of Houmt Souq our base of operations. It does possess a certain charm, but describing it as “so polished and charming, it's like eye candy for those living in concrete jungles” is a stretch. I knew better than to put my faith in a guidebook, but hope overruled my analytical brain. Hope can be a dangerous thing… sigh.
Our plan was to arrive in Houmt Souq, secure a scooter rental, and buzz the east coast in search of beach lodging. That plan blew right out of our asses. We found a shop, but the owner wanted $40 per day, per scooter. And he gave nary a rat's ass about our patronage. We made zero effort to negotiate. He had a shifty vibe we couldn’t ignore.
Another afternoon down the shit can. It was fortunate we got along as well as we did, or this trip might’ve been nigh unbearable. Stimulating conversation made up for ill fortune. If only we were homosexuals. Then, our lives would’ve been perfect.
The next morning, we hopped a local bus and headed southeast. We read there were other places to rent scooters, so, being masochists, we gave it another go in the aptly named Zone Touristique. Five rental shops, a carriage and taxi ride, and a string of frustrating negotiations united us with two beat-up road piglets (as opposed to “hogs”). We secured our hellraisers for $30 per day. This still felt steep, but, unlike other shops, our benefactor let us have them for twenty-four hours. Score.
Negotiating was more cumbersome than normal. The problem? We were Americans. Full stop. Djerba has been so jaded by cash-flaunting tourists on short blowout vacations, any attempt at bargaining was seen as a clear insult. Merchants loved pointing out that prices are fixed in America. The fact Northern Africa and the whole of the Middle East are renowned for bargaining culture was lost on them. We were filthy rich and should’ve ceased being whiny little bitchbags. Touché.
After blast off, we didn't get far. My spark plug cable kept separating from the engine. Upon return to the shop, an employee showed me how to screw in the cable to avoid constant breakdown. Super. Off we went… again. In the late afternoon, we blazed across the sand at Flamingo Point, a picturesque peninsular beach on the northeast coast. We loitered, only to discover elderly nudists letting it all hang out. This was hot. Super hot. And, yet, we tore ourselves away.
The terrain wasn’t ideal for scooters, but they held up well… for a while. Near the peninsula’s tip lies Plage Ras el Rmal Djerba, where we discovered huts used for boat trips originating from Houmt-Souq across the inlet on old-school faux sailing vessels. Raging rich asshole tourists are dropped off for a spell to explore the area and enjoy a barbecue at a makeshift restaurant. Only random fishermen and caretakers plied the beaches while we were there. We swam near one of the docks, soaking up the sun-drenched backdrop. It was lovely.
Just when it was coming together, Phil's piglet shit the bed. The accelerator broke and left us stranded on a semi-barren peninsula, up the proverbial shit creek sans paddle. We had a go at repair, but my mechanical skills were subpar. You'd think seven months on a motorcycle in Indonesia would’ve left its mark. Nyet. I wasn’t current on advanced scooter technology. Thankfully, a local fisherman on a moped stopped to lend a hand. After a quick MacGyver impression, Phil was able to gas the beast with the pull of a cord. We were off… but not really. It was now my bike's turn to act up. Bessie didn’t want to start. I assume it was flooded because after about twenty exasperating minutes, it came to life. Reborn!
We had no choice but to return to the shop. I was ready to throw in the towel, but Phil was more sanguine about our prospects. We debated whether to switch bikes and return them the next day, or wash our hands of them. The owner made the decision easy by allowing us to return on the morrow to pick up the bikes at no extra charge, a welcome if not unexpected, gesture considering our billionaire status. How refreshing.
After dinner, we took the only action two idiots on our lucky streak could: We went to the Grand Casino de Djerba. We figured if we were going to spit in Fortune's eye, might as well go full tilt. Not only did we both win over a hundred dollars, we even managed to quit while ahead. Bravo, gentlemen! I thought we were doomed for sure when I spotted a black cat wandering between tables. A black cat in a casino? Seriously? Why not just walk under a ladder as you enter and smash a mirror in the bathroom while you're at it? Life sure is unpredictable. Huh.
On day two, we remounted for a final island twirl. There was a wide-open salt flat near the coast we exploited to catch our hair and pants on fire. Those pigs can fly! The rest of the afternoon was spent beachside, throwing back a few beers and engaging in more stimulating banter. I made a play at getting a discounted room at the Radisson Blu, but was rebuffed by the obscene price tag. I was hoping to skim the coastline on a horse and glimpse more naked senior citizens. Oh, well.
I did little to engage the island’s cultural treasures, a real shame in light of its history. The island has a small population of Jews whose ancestors have occupied Djerba for the past 2500 years, remarkable when you consider Tunisia's Islamic history. And then there’s the Ibadis, an offshoot of the Kharijites, an independent sect of Islam. Djerba’s old seaside forts, octopus catchers, Islamic monuments, and distinct architecture are not to be overlooked… which is exactly what I did. Had the trip gone smoothly, or if the area felt less like a tourist quagmire, I’m certain I would’ve engaged. Instead, I went scootering, drank beer, gambled, sat by the beach, and complained a lot. Way to go, assface.
Odysseus and his crew may have a difficult time pulling themselves away from the island of the Lotus-Eaters, but we garnered the strength. Ta.
