23 Dec Tunisia: towards the Great Eastern Erg

Whenever something torments my soul, I flee to the desert in search of solace. The new cause of my sleeplessness is none other than the disaster that occurred in the last charity race organised by the Asociación Deportiva de Corredores de Hoyo de Manzanares (they don't sponsor me (yet) but I like what they do, why and how). In this race not only my brother-in-law Eduardo beat me, who for the first time since we have been running together I have not even seen his exhaust pipe, but just before the finish line a boy of no more than 10 years old, a machine, gave me such a humiliating pass that my ego, always in need of praise, is going to need even more to recover completely.

 

 

This fact, although isolated for the moment, is but the first real symptom of ageing. Although I refuse to accept it and look so incredibly well-preserved (for my age) as well as beautiful (why deny it), I'm already entering the discount time and it scares me because I still have too many things left to do.

 

 

So, on this occasion, I have come to take refuge and find peace among the Tunisian dunes of the Great Eastern Erg, taking advantage of the fact that I happened to be in Tunisia attending to one of my own. Although in the end I have only managed to deceive myself, because coming here is not a balm for my pain but a temporary placebo, since as I move away from the Sahara, my sorrow returns.

 

 

But while I am in the desert, time stands still and everything fades away. There, the noise of the city does not reach me, nor all that torments me. Sometimes, with luck, the only perceptible noise is the Song of the Dunes, celestial music played by the grains of sand as they move and which the Tuareg attribute to sirens or djenous, whose songs lure travellers to their doom (and that is a call I have never been able to resist). Ralph Bagnold (you have no idea who he is but I've already told you about him, one day I'm going to have to give you a pop quiz) claimed that this sound could be so loud that he sometimes had to shout to be heard over the noise of the sand.

 

 

Before I start to tell you something about the Erg, which I know I haven't started yet, I'm going to do a mental exercise with you. Try to close your eyes (for a few seconds, you can't fall asleep) and imagine a place where you would like to be right now (it has to be in the desert, not a resort in the Caribbean, how lazy) to relax and enjoy yourself, forget about everything, etc etc. Now, open your eyes and tell me if what you had thought of looks like this below.

 

Or if you like, imagine an oasis where you can get lost and run around naked (some of you might even want to be dressed) among the palm trees, with the song of the birds and the sound of the jets of water falling into crystal clear pools... and tell me if it is anything like this one here.

 

 

 

If the answer is yes, you are in luck, because I invite you (this verb is not to invite to pay, but to encourage...) to come with me here so that you can fulfil that dream that your unconscious has been shouting at you all your life.

This has been just an advertising break, I'm on a trial period until I can get sponsors for Desertando, your association...

 

 

 

Going back to the Tunisian desert, there are so many things to see, oases, palm trees, deserts, Douz, Ksar Gilane, Matmata, Chebika, Chenini, deserts, palm trees, oases... that you would need almost a lifetime to stay and another one to visit them. Moreover, you should not see everything in one trip, otherwise you would leave the country without feeling the need to return for more, and you should never leave any place with that feeling.

 

Mohamed, a new Berber friend, says, with that simple but overwhelming philosophy that reigns among the people around here, that the important thing is not the places you plan to visit, they are all special, what will really make the trip unforgettable is what the road will show us, and each one will be different. I totally agree. It could be that, among other things, he was referring to sunsets like this one.

 

 

So, in this entry I just propose to get there, rent a Dyan 6 or something similar and drive through the dunes, first from Douz to the ruins of the Roman fort of Tisariven, in the ancient confines of the Empire. The next day we would continue through the dunes, passing through the oasis of Ksar Gilane to Tataouine. And we'll see what else the road has in store for us...

 

 

The end of this journey, Tataouine, is a special place, where the most momentous battle in human history was fought. At its gates, the Coalition forces under the command of Luke Skywalker and aided by the Ewok, those little cuddly toys born from the union of a raccoon and Winnie the Pooh on a night of madness, defeated the Imperial Forces, guaranteeing the safety not only of the free world but of the entire galactic empire, including the planet Ganymede, from which, according to Cuarto Milenio, we all come from. The truth is that I didn't get there, horrified by the possibility of running into some motivated geek (and there are some) with a Darth Vader mask, as I've heard that they go there on a pilgrimage. Next time we'll pass by and then I'll be able to wear my R2D2 costume.

 

 

Of course, any organised route must include a visit to Chott el Jerid, one of the largest salt lakes in Africa, as well as to the four oases located in the strip of land that separates the two lakes that form it. Dry and brittle, once an insurmountable obstacle to exploration, it is now a unique experience to cross it, to delight in the variety of colours of the water and to let yourself be confused by the deceptions of Fata Morgana, an optical illusion very common in this area.

This photo that I attach must be another one of Fata Morgana's tricks, because I took a selfie of myself inside the lake and despite the distance I can see an incredible resemblance to George Clooney.

 

 

If after a few days in the desert you're still in the mood for more adventure, or suffering, then I recommend travelling back on the overnight express that connects Tozeur with Tunis. Lacking in detail and with a definite commitment to austerity and discomfort, its crowded carriages evoke those early Ryan Air flights. I woke up cold and bewildered, with the door of the carriage broken, open to the cold of the night, and seeing the passengers so warm and seeking each other's warmth, I found it hard to identify whether I was on the train from the Tunisian desert or had crossed the space-time barrier again and was travelling through the Irutsk oblast, in Siberia, the land asleep in the cold. All in all, hell, I mean an experience. The good thing is that you save a little money, but I do recommend that when you get on the train you leave with your pee in your pants.

 

 

 

After crossing the Chott el Jerid we will find ourselves at a crossroads: we can either continue on our way to Nefta, an ancient holy city, dotted with mosques and Koranic schools, or better still, climb towards Midet in the mountains, on a route that will captivate you, with more desert, more oases and more earthy colours. Both are the last Tunisian oases, behind them is Algeria, where we find the Tassilli N'Ajjer, one of the most beautiful deserts in the world, whose door is closed to us because of the bad guys. Fortunately, thanks to some friends I already know how to open it. I will write about it soon.