Contents May Have Shifted by Pam Houston

Author:Pam Houston
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: W. W. Norton & Company
Published: 2012-01-03T05:00:00+00:00

73. Zaafrane, Tunisia

It is already below freezing, an hour before sunset, when we take off on the camels, Rick on Don Quixote, me on Ali Baba, Sasan (which means poet, he tells us, in Arabic, or trickster) on foot. In his Yankees cap and leather jacket, Sasan looks more New Jersey than Tunisia though he speaks French, Spanish, and Arabic, and is, he said, learning English a little at a time.

Sasan tells us repeatedly how tired he is, which comes as a relief after all those smiling guys in Douz who couldn’t stop talking right up in our faces, who wanted to sell us a tablecloth their grandmother made, or a camel ride, or a rug. He makes a big deal of telling us how strong Ali Baba is, twice the strength of Don Quixote, and I look appreciatively down at Ali Baba’s giant feet, less like hooves and more like bedroom slippers, padding slowly, steadily, and soundlessly across the dunes that are washed golden and deeply shadowed in the waning light.

We haven’t gone half a mile when Sasan says the camels need a rest. I raise one eyebrow at Rick. I thought the whole point of camels was that they could walk hundreds of miles between oases, without a blade of grass or a drink or a nap.

Sasan throws his shoulder into Ali Baba’s chest and makes a gurgling noise deep in his throat. Ali Baba drops to his knees, groaning in return.

We sit on the crest of a cold dune to watch the sun—now a ball of hot lava—pour itself onto the desert floor, Sasan between Rick and me. Sasan takes my hand and pours sand into it. “Farina,” he purrs, drawing out all the vowels, making gentle circles in my palm. I take my hand back and dig both palms under the sand, but his hand finds mine and continues to draw circles.

Besides a low dune here and there, the Sahara stretches out forever flat in all directions, and Rick asks Sasan how camel drivers keep from getting lost.

“We know the desert like we know the faces of our mothers and fathers,” he says. “We sleep in the day and navigate by the stars.”

I try not to roll my eyes. What Sasan doesn’t know is that I used to be a river guide, used to be married to an African safari guide, and this particular brand of guidely bullshit is old news and worldwide. What I don’t know is that while he is turning circles in my palm with his left hand, he is turning circles in Rick’s palm with his right.

Another mile down the camel trail, Ali Baba peels off in one direction, Don Quixote in another. Apparently, Ali Baba is the camel in error.

“Turn him, Pam!” Sasan yells, but I have no reins, and leg pressure has no effect.

We are nearly a mile apart by the time Sasan trots over.

“I ride with you,” he says, slinging himself up in the saddle behind me, making a different sort of throaty noise that encourages Ali Baba to trot.

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