amongtheorchids

Sousse, Tunisia January 22, 2000

Fortunately, the plug fits, and my computer screen
flickers to life once again with the aid of a universal
electricity converter which fits into a socket in a seaside
resort hotel room in Tunisia, Africa.
Large paned french windows stand open in my mausoleum
style room and I can hear the gentle winter waves of the
mediteranean lap against the seashore just outside of my
second floor balcony. Down below, I hear the falsetto
twang of some uninteligable Arabic song, 'My wee a za ba a
bee, neesh a man I see we duc lam azri', and a few french
tourists sit placidly, lounging around cafe style white
tables underneath matching white umbrellas. Some somoking,
some drinking cheap bottles of house wine, and one couple
in particular holds hands across a table, gazing into each
others eyes with a familiar, youthful look of love, or the
need for, at least.
I can see them from my balcony, but they are unaware
of my private intrusion. They sit near an obtusely shaped
empty pool filled only with shimmering blue tile and icy
cold water. Beyond them, lies a pathway to the beach
surrounded with white sand and dotted by brush and palm
trees whose brown tendered fronds wave solemnly against the
sky blue peaks of the ocean.
Meanwhile, a small burro stands idly by, occassionally
stretching his neck for something green to nibble, and far
into the zenith, the azure sky meets the ocean in a crisp
silscreened line. Occasionally, the afternoon sun breaks
the overcast sky, casting shadows from the thatched roof
umbrellas dotting the beach, shading empty chaiz lounge
chairs.
The echos from the marble floors outside of my room
hint of other tourists, strangers, and cleaning maids
trying to go quietly about their way on a lazy Saturday
afternoon, and I can hear their French tongues mingled with
the Arabic melodies as they pass by my door. The gentle
lull of the ocean and the lazy day contrast sharply with my
harried morning in Kihrouan, from which I'm fortunate to
have survived and returend from so early in the day.
I started out three days ago, with a room call from
Faical, a young Tunisian I met upon my arrival. As soon as
I had arrived, I followed the sandy path out to the beach,
past the empty pool, not worried about the rain or
lightening or strong windy gusts, for I had not seen the
mediterranean in a long time. I found Faical crouched
against a wooden shanty beach shack with his back up against the
shanty, squatting, just out of reach of the storm. His dark eyes
follwed me curiously, until I was close enough for him to speak.
Smiling, he asked me for a light.
He was quite handsome, and as we talked, sizing me up
like an old friend, he eagerly invited me on an outing to
his parents home in the Sahara desert, outside of Kihrouan,
the bustling Arabic Islamic capitol of Tunisisa, about 70
kilometers away. A good idea, I thought at the time, for I was
curious to trek the desert without a gaggle of photo snapping
tourists.