Tozeur
is a small town built around a desert oasis. One of its notable
features is the distinctive brick-pattern designs in buildings all
over town. The oasis is large and well-managed; we learned about the
seasonal stages of harvesting and maintenance of the life-giving date
palms.
After
some free time in the peaceful medina streets we plunged into the
contrasting fray of the morning market. The butchers customarily
display the head of the meat they are selling; it signals that their
meat is fresh.
By
now I’d already happily acquainted myself with a few camels in this
country. Time for my specially arranged ride. Jelel drives me to the
rendezvous that turns out to be at the edge of "downtown."
Two guys we meet. One is there to ensure the arrangement, probably
the owner, and disappears almost immediately. Misbah is the camel
handler, age indeterminate, since he is very weathered and has few
teeth. And speaks a French mixture at machine-gun speed, but we learn
to communicate. He's had tourists from Quebec so "Montreal"
is his reference point for Canada.
I
mount a white beauty called Ali Baba. I check for blue eyes: nope.
And away we go along a curving back street that skirts the oasis
watercourse, behind and below the tourist hotels. It's quiet and
pleasant but the South Arabian saddle arrangement may become a
problem. I see places where palms lining the watercourse are black
and dead; our guide Sami tells me later there was a fire. The water
itself looks polluted and refuse has been dumped in spots, so at odds
with the pristine oasis we saw this morning.
Then
we pass a semi-grungy local bar getting primed for business — no
question the source of last night's lively music. Wave to the guys!
They cheer for me (“John
Wayne!”)
due to their cowboy interpretation of a Tilley hat. Misbah picks some
jasmine and bougainvillea from passing vines and makes a little posy
for me. Touristy but nice.
After
twenty minutes or so of stately pace the vista opens and we approach
signs of other activities. A golf course entrance, and an amusement
park of sorts. One or two families are about. Misbah is very aware of
photo opps and he knows the park. Ali Baba too is obliging and
accustomed to posing; I swear that camel is a born actor.
Misbah
places us in front of a giant replica of a man's head. In vain I try
to catch the Arabic name of the celebrity. Now I know it was Tozeur's
favourite son, "one of the first poets of modern Tunisia,"Abu
el Kacem Chebbi (1909-1934), born in the area where our hotel sits.
After
that to my surprise, we change camels. Reason unknown, a momentary
blip in our franglais. Maybe something to do with leaving the
cobblestoned street to hit dirt and sand underfoot. Now I am riding
black Mavroud who is older and (forgive me) a little moth-eaten, with
less conceit than Ali Baba. Maybe the switch is to give the poor old
guy some exercise! We fuss at adjusting things so I am not totally
behind the hump.
Misbah
and I agree emphatically that building golf courses in the desert is
regretful. Nevertheless we are traversing part of it on paths,
apparently following a familiar route. He waves his arms describing
new projected tourist plans. I’m quite happy there are no golfers
in sight. Then, at last. We reach the desert. Desert with tufts of
the grassy stuff camels like to eat. Away from civilization for a
bit. But the saddle is truly uncomfortable. Misbah understands we
need a conference. Stop, dismount. When I say "sore bum" he
repeats BUM delightedly. His new English word.
He
carefully rearranges the blankets. Then he says "Montez!"
pointing to Mavroud's neck. I pose astride the patient camel's neck,
another tourist trick I guess but what the heck. Old Mavroud is
gentle as a lamb. Set off again toward the waning sun and I wonder if
we are going all the way to the old Star Wars set. Misbah gives me
the nose lead and walks behind, switching the camel and commanding
him. A little trot, I wondered? Could I hope for a canter? Whatever
it was, it didn't work. My supplementary proddings are ignored.
Mavroud is simply not up to it today. We continue into the sunset,
already way over the allotted hour.
I
ask Misbah what is the smoke coming from the left (what on the desert
could possibly burn?!) ... with intense concentration I translate
it’s from the brickworks. He is eager to show me so we dip into a
fold between gentle hills to see acres of this walled open air
factory. Once there, he insists on taking photos of piles of bricks
as he explains the manufacturing process. The site is almost deserted
at this hour; it’s easy to see over the walls on camel back. We
poke back and forth along the enclosure. This place is likely the
town’s biggest employer.
Misbah
seems keen to go on forever but by this time my sitting bones are
very sore from the unrelenting saddle. The man has done all the
walking cheerfully and loquaciously, some of it barefoot. We take a
route through a different part of the golf course (still deserted)
with great views toward the town. We chatter a bit and he blows me a
kiss after some remark I make. Seems to me a sophisticated gesture
from a small-town small-time entrepreneur who may or may not even own
a camel himself.
Back
onto the watercourse and eventually into the corner of the town we
departed from. No Jelel. Misbah decides not to couche Mavroud
yet. We turn the corner, parade along a main street (more John Wayne
fans) and there's Jelel. I could have walked to the hotel from here.
As we part, we probably would have had a discreet hug but for prevailing convention; others were watching.
Probably
the best ever.
©
2015 Brenda Dougall Merriman
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