175 - Return To Ksar Ghilane (Sahara, Tunisia)
MY FIRST TRIP TO KSAR GHILANE LEFT ME WANTING. Pressed for time. “Guides” with zero motivation to please. Shitshack accommodations kilometers from any point of interest (i.e. the dune sea). A travel companion with diarrhea. Perfecto.
But not this time. Oh, no. This time I’d have my own transport, a “hotel” by the dunes, a redhead without diarrhea, plenty of alcohol to lubricate the vision, and an extended horsey ride. Yippee Ki Yay, motherfucker.
A sealed road led the way to the oasis. The Punto took care of the rest. The road inside is suitable for non-4WD vehicles, but I gave el Punto a “good game” anyhoo. We stayed at Camp Ghilane, the hotel-ish place I should’ve stayed last time. It’s nothing special, but more than adequate and, more importantly, a two-minute walk from the sand piles.
After lunch, we saddled up the Punto and went for a trawl around the oasis. There aren’t a lot of options. All roads lead into deeper sand, but we did get a decent look-see. Is it not amazing to consider that verdant natural luxury smack dab in the middle of barren nothingness, all because of an underground spring? Oh, how this place must have appeared to the weary desert traveler. Now, it’s more of an Asshole Tourist Wonderland than a beacon of hope for desert nomads.
After our exploration, I had a reunion with Mr. Berber Man. He missed me. Well, no, but he did remember me after some reminiscing. Not only did he recall what I was wearing (it happened to be the same shirt I had on), he also recalled the giggling galloping goofball on one of his Arabian horses. How could he forget the cackling lunatic headed for equine disaster? (Admittedly, I was a tad out of control) We laughed. We cried. Emotions ran high.
From Google Images
I wanted another go on Mister Ed, so he set us up with two gallant steeds and provided his French Canadian girlfriend and a not-so-jolly man I presumed to be his brother as guides. No half-hour tryst for me this time. We spent two hours playing Berber in the Sahara, having a look around the defunct nearby fort. I was happier than a pig in poo-poo. No reckless galloping, just a nice leisurely jaunt in the late afternoon sun.
I failed, yet again, to photograph myself upon Seabiscuit, or Mr. Berber Man in full ethnic regalia. Not my fault. At the fort, a sandstorm straight out of “The Mummy” came tear-assing across the desert, seemingly out of nowhere. One minute I'm photographing Ksar Ghilane from my fortress perch, the next I'm swallowing a sandbox. Had I seen it coming, I would’ve snapped a pic of the onslaught, but by the time I realized what was happening, it was too risky to take out the camera. The fine, insubstantial grains of sand penetrate anything and everything. We were shaking sand out of our crevices for the next two days. Still, it was worth the discomfort to experience the phenomenon. I'd seen slow-rolling balls of orange in Baghdad but had yet to witness such a fast-moving tempest.
Following dinner, we spent the evening frolicking in the dunes under a waxing, wobbling moon. Enter two bottles of wine, two gin and tonics, and a smidgen of vodka. Wobbling moon, you say? I’m sure getting smashed was a factor, but that, combined with atmospheric idiosyncrasies, made the moon vibrate ever so in the black of night sky. It was fucking mesmerizing, made more so by passing clouds. I had to remind myself I hadn’t swallowed psychedelic mushrooms… had I?
And then there was the goddamn lightning. Off to the north, just above the horizon, was a silent, thunderless light show courtesy of Mother Nature. It was magnificent to behold. All that synergized with the blanket of pale gray moonlight over the dunes created a mood I’d never experienced. It’s like we’d been transported to a barren, lifeless planet. It was too much. I did the only thing I thought could improve the scenario—I got naked. Duh.
I shed my outer coil, then ran in chaotic circles while swinging a stick I found in the nothingness at Earth's lunar sycophant. Cringeworthy? Sure, but I implore you to reserve judgment until you've happened upon a similar landscape. Some thing came over me. I acted without inhibitions, as did my fully clothed partner in surrealism. We may or may not have had naughty time in the grit between dunes… allegedly. It was ridiculous. We weren’t at it for long. It was like we had a passing moment of clarity and asked, “What the fuck are we doing right now?” Alcohol destroyed our abilities to sense, well, anything. We kind of just gave up and nodded at one another. Quittin’ time, Earl.
This was the first instance of even a hint of dissension, more a product of alcohol than anything, though loss of inhibition sometimes makes people say superficially absurd things with rock-solid kernels of truth. Leslie was trying to cement our bond, bring me in closer, physically and emotionally. I was as aloof as ever, so taken with the nightscape, I widened an insurmountable gap destined to come between us. I thought she’d finally seen me for what I am and would announce her departure in the morning. I knew it couldn’t last. She sees me now. In retrospect, perhaps my pickled brain intensified skewed misperceptions. The next morning, all was right as rain. We laughed long and hard about the previous evening. We were good… for now.
What struck me as remarkable was the complete lack of other sentient beings. My primary motivation for returning was the opportunity to gambol in the desert at night. I assumed others would be similarly motivated. What the hell is wrong with people? There’s nothing like it. Nothing. Go.
I had planned on catching the sunrise, but near zero shuteye put the kibosh on that idea. I attempted to sleep among the dunes, but soon discovered, without a mat to protect me, the chill of the cold sand seeped through my sleeping bag. I was, however, lucky enough to catch one more inspiring sight: a crimson moon setting on the horizon. What a fucking night! Sa-HA-ra! Fuck, yeah! Doesn't get any more American than that, eh?
I watched this vehicle approach the sand, certain the man driving would turn around before the inevitable. When I returned an hour and a half later, this is what I saw—the driver and his wife digging out his quasi-minivan. Frown. Um, pardon me sir, where the fuck is you headed?
