Tom Foran Clark

The sunrise -- this was now early in February -- came in a blaze of orange fire amid the clouds over the ocean. Men were already walking along the road in their cocoa-brown djellabas, all morning smiles and salutations. One old man rode by on a sad, scarred mule, sitting sidesaddle on the beast, whacking it with a rush whip. He had on blue tennis shoes under his black-and-white striped djellaba. His eyes sparkled mischievously out from under the djellaba’s hood.

Pike and Emery rode through orange and lemon groves and down avenues lined in lush palms and cypress trees to Hammamet, going straight to the oceanfront where, on the vast beach, fishermen were busy stretching their enormous spreads of nets on the golden sands, met by the turquoise sea. On the north bay rim was the Kasbah, or Citadel, a golden stone fortress with glorious views to the whole coast. They walked with their bikes to the Medina, situated atop a rocky promontory. As in Tunis, its Grand Mosque was at the city’s core.

At the central square, the riders got sandwiches. The merchant took a huge swift knife in hand, and cut through two loaves of bread and filled them with pickled vegetables, salmon, egg-whites, olives. Emery caught him by the arm just as he was going to ladle on hot red-pepper sauce."Mandacheena!" he cried out -- "No!"

After eating, they roamed in the souks awhile, then continued on, traveling along the dazzling coast under a broiling sun. Relaxing along the riverbed of the trickling Oued Batten were a dozen and more camels. A pair of camel drivers waved to the two passing bike riders enthusiastically. Resting by olive and orange trees, Pike and Emery were approached by the same old man they’d seen in the morning -- wearing tennis shoes, his eyes twinkling under the hood of his djellaba -- still riding sidesaddle on his battered mule. He bid the two follow him. They were led to a great, rounded, dome-topped, whitewashed, palatial house. The old Arab dismounted from his mule and began speaking vigorously, using mixed French and Arabic, explaining the place belonged to an Italian -- an Italian entrepreneur -- an Italian entrepreneur in the macaroni trade. The house was under construction. The house was, in fact, abandoned. The Italian, though he had been doing a brisk business in Tunisia, had recently fallen on hard times.

As if acting on behalf of the Italian, posing as his realty agent, the haggard man showed Pike and Emery the house. Within, all was elegant. The cool evening air wove freely through the villa’s open, uncompleted chambers. The Arab bid the two stay the night, then departed.

Pike, fearing a trap, refused to sleep in the house. He went out into the surrounding fields. Steps built into one wall led to the rooftop, a patio. Emery went up there to sleep that night, also in the open air. Just as dawn was breaking, Pike joined him, climbing up with his bike, gear, and sleeping bag.

The two slept through to mid-morning, when the mule-beater reappeared, offering them red-peppers -- a fire eater’s breakfast. When Pike asked if he could take a picture of the man and his mule (he meant the man on his mule), the old gentleman placed his hand inside a front slit in the tatters of his robe and faced the camera like a proud Napoleon. Then he coaxed his tired beast to the very place he’d just stood and gestured to Pike to go ahead and photograph the waiting mule. Pike was obliged to pay for the latter photo, the Arab explained. Pike forked it over.

Gray and silver clouds swarmed overhead. Low, pyramid-like, ragged mountains lay along the horizon. Camels grazed all along the road -- big beige-brown lumps of beasts frowning disdainfully or perusing their surroundings in deepest perplexity and dazedness.

Pike and Emery arrived that morning in the village of Bou-Ficha, where they took a breather under the half circle arches of a café, sipping orange sodas. A wind rose up, blowing dust down the road. Soon, the winds took on sandblast force, huge gusts blowing grit over the streets in whorls. Then came sudden rain, a downpour, lasting not half an hour. The scorching sun returned, quickly evaporating all the many shallow pools of water in the streets.

They rolled out of Bou-Ficha, back onto the narrow highway, stretching toward barren flatlands. The winds now flew up in smooth gusts, shoving them sideways -- sometimes this way, sometimes the other. The two struggled on a good distance, then finally packed it in, early, pitching the tent by a dry creek bed under towering Eucalyptus trees swaying in the gentle breezes through the night.

In the morning, they went on, continuing on the Eucalyptus-lined road to Enfidaville, where they bought their morning rations – carrots, tomatoes, potatoes, onions, lettuce, tangerines -- trailed all the while by jubilant village children. Roadside, a butcher held a chicken over a gutter. He put his foot on a wing, grabbed the bird’s neck, and knifed the pulsing jugular. The blood flowed.

The road out of Enfidaville was flat. All around was flatness. The Eucalyptus lanes had vanished. The road was now lined with only emptiness --in every direction. Pike and Emery were grateful for the clouds over them, offering some motion and distraction from the barrenness. They were glad on approaching the dull village of Kondar, where the road was at least lined with dull green cactus.

Leaving Kondar, they found themselves in what could only be called Nowhere -- with a capital "N" -- where a couple of guys in djellebas appeared out of Nowhere. Inquisitive, talkative, friendly young Arabs. It was assumed by them the two strangers were French or German, and that they had brought extra blue jeans with them to trade or sell or give away. Pike -- feeling he'd quashed their hopes, deeply fearing repercussions -- on the surface seemed quite cheerful.

The final ten mile stretch to Kairouan -- the name means "Caravan" -- was harsh, rough going on a narrow, pitted, badly rutted road. Tourist buses roared by in caravans on enviably wide, unsuccumbing wheels. Pike and Emery walked with their bikes along the outer creamy sandstone walls of Kairouan, then entered through a gate and went in search of the Grand Market and the old city, the Medina, where the nestling souks and clusters were white and warm in the afternoon sun. They took a third floor room -- pale green, mint julep -- in the Hotel Barrouta at the heart of the labyrinth. The stairwell to their room was generously decorated with exquisite hand pained tiles. The room’s one window opened out onto the colorful snarl and commotion of a busy, narrow lane of souks.

The two set out on foot for the Grand Mosque, the Djama El Kabir -- by some also called the Djama Sidi Okba. The minaret was a squat, thick watchtower of cream-gold sandstone. Arched vaults lined the inner square, with fabulously handcarved woodwork doors set all through the inner arcade walls.

Clouds rolled in on the open blue. The moon, now full, made an appearance near the elegant minaret tower. Pike and Emery were kept from sinking into too deep a reverie by the shenanigans of the village children tugging at their shirtsleeves, calling out "Donnez moi! Donnez moi!" Going to the mosque, the two came to a door with a clear view offered to within, and encountered a forest of pillars, straw mats, shelves full of shoes, glittering chandeliers hanging from a black ceiling, kneeling men in robes praying, sitters studying, reading in the Koran.

Two laughing, snickering, raucous street urchins took Pike and Emery by their elbows and led them away, turning a corner to show them two cats caught in the frantic, heated throes and grip of mating. The two boys wanted money for this -- for bringing Pike and Emery to this scene.

From the loudspeakers of the minaret came the lullaby of chanting, pervading all. The stir and commotion of the late afternoon settled to a soft, calm quietness of shuffling feet, murmuring voices, echoey coughs. The night air turned cool. The full moon beamed overhead, outrageously luminous.

The clinking and clanking of water buckets being emptied into the lanes awoke them in the morning. Pike and Emery packed, walked out of Kairouan and, under dim gray skies, got on the road east to Sousse. They encountered first vacant flatlands, then rough, bristling badlands. They put in a long day of churning, snacking on fruits and bread through the day -- all the long haul. The full moon appeared in the late afternoon, lonely in the hazy sky. At dusk they arrived at a small straw-and-mud hut that the two of them barely fit inside -- but they did fit. They left their bikes and gears outside, leaning on the hut, and threw in their sleeping bags. Exhausted, they turned in for the night.

The dawn came up yellow, like melting butter -- smooth. The sun, an amber globe as it rose from the horizon, soon paled, ascending into the silver cloud cover. While the two sentient early risers gazed on this scene, they were shocked by the sudden appearance of a sneering, frowning, angry human face. Behind that face there then appeared an even more startling, accusing visage, peering down on them. The two youths wore gray and brown hooded djellabas. They began talking both at once, yelling at the intruders, Pike and Emery. Pike looked white as a sheet, pulling on his jeans. He pulled his jacket over him as he went out. He had his hands thrust deep in his coat pockets. Emery felt sure all was lost. Pike was arguing with them.

Five minutes went by before Pike turned back into the hut to tell Emery what was happening. "They want four dinar," Pike informed Emery, turning purple in the face. "This is a hotel, they are telling me. We have stayed overnight in their hotel and now they request payment for their services. They want four dinar or two pairs of blue jeans. They don’t know anything about the treasure or the map. They don’t want our passports. They just want blue jeans." Pike turned to go back out, but his way was blocked. He listened to a new command.

"They’re saying we won’t be leaving their dog-gone hotel alive, if we don’t come up with some jeans," Pike said, rolling his eyes as he sat down on his sleeping bag. "I told them we don’t have any blue jeans and offered them two dinar."

"Hey, give them the four dinar, two for each, then let’s get the hell out of here."

At the entryway, the two had pulled out knives. "Donnez moi," one said.

"Jackals," Pike murmured under his breath.

Pike and Emery were ordered out. The two musclemen pulled them from the hut, and one went in to search through their things. He threw stuff right out through the open door -- flashlights, candles, pens, pencils, Pike’s St. James statue, Emery's journal, matches, batteries, underwear, socks, gloves, shirts. He came upon their keepsake coveralls -- the mechanic’s overalls Pike and Enery had received from their guardian angel in southernmost Italy -- matching twin overalls, each bearing the patch with their rescuer’s name: Giovanni.

The clothes and things stopped flying when the hotel keepers stumbled onto those. Now Pike offered them four dinar -- then six dinar. But they would take no money. Imploring now, the two assured Pike and emery they would let them go free. They would not cut, dismember, dice, or murder the two intruders, if only they would freely give over the coveralls.

This was fifty miles out of Sousse. The road in front of the hut stretched straight east to the coast. To the satisfaction of their hosts -- accommodating and all apologies now -- Pike and Emery paid their hotel bill with Giovanni’s overalls. While Pike and Emery picked up the strewn litter of their remaining valuables and packed, the keepers tried on their new outfits. They were so happy with the overalls, they boldly invited Pike and Emery to stay longer at the hotel -- honored guests -- a second night. Smiling pleasantly, Pike declined, pushing off toward the road. Emery followed.

"The treasure’s safe!” Pike called across the barren desert in jubilant relief -- once the danger had passed. “They never searched my coat!” he laughed, wobbling distractedly. Unlike Pike, Emery was not in a good mood. He was incensed, outraged at the loss of Giovanni’s overalls -- talking to himself, his thoughts occupied with all the things he could have said or would have said had he only spoken French or Arabic.

Riding in on the shady Rue de Sakka lined in tall, fanning palm trees, the two arrived at the high white sandy walls of the Sousse Medina and entered through the Bab el Khabli. They plunged to the core of the pulsing clamor of the souks and emerged a stone’s throw from the Grand Mosque on the Place Farhat Hached, looking out on the sailboats, tugboats, and cargo ships of the port.

Knowing that Sousse, like Carthage, had been founded by Phoenicians, Emery asked Pike if he had anything in his book about Magna Graecia concerning Sousse. Investigating, Pike found this footnote: "Hannibal the Carthaginian used the Phoenician town Hadrumete, settled long before Carthage, as his primary military base during the second of the three Punic Wars against the Romans. During the Third Punic War, the village joined forces with Rome, afterwards enjoying prosperity under the Roman Emperor, Diocletian. The conquering Vandals called the town Hunericopolis. The conquering Byzantines called it Justinianopolis. The conquering Arabs called it Susa."

For all that, the two were glad of just sitting in the sunshine, on the beach, eating sardines from Hammamet. After eating, they walked barefoot on the sand, got their feet wet in the sea water, leapt and danced and splashed a while -- purging much pent-up, toxic rage -- then rode out of town on the narrow shore road leading to Moknine, where they were as good as invisible, rolling past intent, pokerfaced card players at café tables, nary a one looking up from his cards as they swept by. They arrived at a central traffic loop where they wove their way amid horse-drawn carts, mo-peds, and other bikes to the main road again.

Late in the afternoon they arrived at a silent, dusty intersection of many paths and roads, but there was only one road sign. It pointed out the way to Sfax. Pike was determined the two ought not go straight south to Sfax, but should rather travel along the coast by way of Monastir and Mahdia. As there were no signs for Monastir, Pike suggested the two again do as Saint Francis had done while traveling with Brother Maseo, Francis spinning Maseo around till he fell on the ground and, rising, faced the direction they would go. Pike spun Emery around and around. Emery opened his eyes onto a road going generally in the right direction, southeast, so they went that way.

They rolled through olive orchards and arrived at the rim of a vast dry lake called a sahel. This particular sahel was so vast it had been dubbed Lake Sahel -- on the even vaster Plain of Sahel. Pike and Emery ventured away from the edge of this enormous plain on assorted paths -- all leading to dead ends circuitously turning back again to the rim of the sahel. Finally, the two recognized they’d best get back on the larger road by which they’d come. In the dark of night they arrived again at the intersection of spoke roads where the lone road sign pointed straight south to Sfax. Under the canopy of stars and moonlight, Pike again spun Emery around. When he opened his eyes, he faced a southeasterly road the two had not yet been down. That was the way they now went.

They pitched their tent roadside. They did not sleep deeply. They were soothed, in the morning, by the amorphous, consoling ambience of early morning Islamic chant drifting over the Sahel Plain from Moknine. The two pressed on and soon arrived in the village of Sahline which, according to their map, was directly on the route to Monastir.