Reflection of a Tunisian Oasis 2003 by Ken La Rive
March 16
It was a hot and dry afternoon, 111/16. The
Tunisian sun was unrelenting without a centimeter of shade. The stickers on my
hard hat were melting, and my Ray Bans cracked in three places when I tried to
take them off. From my vantage point on the Rig floor, I could see in every
direction, north to south, east to west, and in that vast wasteland only three objects
stood out with the possibly to explore.
We sat in the middle of a giant salt flat that
sparkled like diamonds in the morning and evening sun. The only road for sixty miles stretched over
the horizon like an India ink scribe-line, scored straight and true... Beyond
that, there was a hard sandy, and very eroded
mound with high cliff faces that I suppose was once an island in this
now dehydrated inland sea...
My Russian Rig seen through a gap in the island.
Close to the horizon, I saw a string of sand dunes
with plant life, and about twenty degrees to the left of that, and a mile
closer, was a little splash of green and aqua blue, an oasis. It was indeed
striking, a vivid display that looked like a precious jewel... From there a sliver pipe came directly to us,
bringing fresh water that was cool and clear. I was told it had appeared on a
day they were doing a seismic survey. The concussion fractured a shallow water
table that escaped to surface, creating a deep and seemingly bottomless pool.
Though it might be considered valuable now, becoming a new camp for several
tribes of Bedouin, the Nationalist Tunisian Land Men had raised holy hell about
it. I made up my mind right off that I
would go swimming there... yes, even in this desolation, something of worth can
be found... but I found so much more.
Early the next morning, even before the sun
popped over the horizon, I watched a perfectly clear sky full of stars slowly
turn into a deep Parish Blue, with a small dome of gold on the horizon. The temperature
quickly rose from the low forties to over a hundred, just a taste of more to
come by mid afternoon.
With a bit of time to myself, as we waited for our drill
pipe, I drove my Toyota truck several miles to the oasis. I was told that about
twenty miles away there was quick sand, but the crunching of salt crystals
under my tires left a solid trail. Several times I stopped and turned off my
motor. The silence was deafening, with only a slight hum from the rig motors. The
next time I stopped, the hum and grind of our rig’s motors were finally silent.
I parked my car when I got to what looked to be a camel track, and walked the
last two hundred yards to a large stand of reeds that hid the lagoon. A song of some hidden bird welcomed me, and
there, close of a large water pump, was a man dressed in a long camel hair
robe, standing next to a tent. He pressed a button, and the pump kicked on with a
puff of diesel smoke, shattering the silence.
The Oasis
May 9
My time here has come to an end, and what
wonders I have seen are swimming in my mind. It is a perfect spring day of 99
degrees Fahrenheit, and calm. I know I am safe, as I can see to the shimmering
horizon in any direction, and yet, in my heart there is something akin to dread. I have seen the
way of it here, and now I realize myself and the world a bit differently.
What have I found among the Arabs, and my
Russian workers? What can one learn from a sun-dried date given by sun-dried
hands? What can one learn from a drop of water that spills from the corner of
your mouth, when the humidity is 6? What of the slow and methodical cart and
donkey that blocks your car on a narrow street, filled to capacity with a
family that could wave and smile at a stranger in blue jeans?
I have tasted their sweet dates and bitter
green olives in the same meal. I have sat on colorful carpets and conversed
into the night with men who would silence me for prayer. I have mirrored their
open smiles while children laughed and played in the dusty streets, and have
sat in the shade and watched them all for hours, with only the purple smoke of
apple tobacco as company. I have huddled with them in dust storms, waiting for
the dawn, and the sun that turns onyx into gold. I've crawled with them into
crystal mines... I have tried to understand them with honest curiosity, and
have been rewarded by candid thought, and insight hard won, from faces that
will not betray a thought.
The Mirage, taken from the Rig Floor.
But what of my Western sensibilities? What
good are they as the sun bakes this sand to silver and white? One would think
that so much blood would surely make the desert bloom? I suppose my greatest
revelations have come in late night conversations, while tasting heavy sweet
teas and spiced cookies. They have let me look a bit into their hearts as they
explained their convictions with open hands and honest eyes; men who have
covered their faces to the sun, the wind, the sand, and my ignorance too… yes,
covering their smiles so as not to offend me. It was a respect, a mutual
respect hard to deny...
There have been questions that could only be
answered with another question. Questions that were found to have no logical
answer by my puritanical standards. They were men of convicted honor, pulled
by the memory of the past by ropes woven of pain, death, loss, struggle, and the
joy of hope too. Yes, hope, our saving grace for a viable future.
Strength of purpose is what these men have
found to survive repeated occupation, domination, subjugation, and
enslavement, and it is written like a map on every face. Their eyes glitter,
hawk noses flair and tilt, and I savor what North Africa lays before me as
bitter sweet.
It is quiet now, and the sun is a bright
yellow orb that calibrates across a perfect blue sky. The pool of water, so
precious to this land, is deep and clear, reflecting the sky in an aqua blue,
reminiscent of a Caribbean tidal pool. But the Caribbean is many miles from
here, and I am displaced from my land and loved ones over the Mediterranean,
the Atlantic, and the Gulf of Mexico. Soon a jet will whisk me away… to America
in all its grand splendor. I will be able to freely drink a beer, read anything
I want, change channels to whichever perversity my diverse heart desires, as
there are few stops for us there. Few stops, and but little precious truth. And
yet, as I watch the caravan of camels and men travel in single file on tracks
laid out for thousands of years, I feel at a loss. What can link us?
Could it be that we are all just people, you
know, underneath it all? That we have the same needs, the same desires, and
hopes too? …but that we go about finding them in different ways? Could the
concept be as simple as that? ..and yet, can the gravity of each reality be truth,
us as we move among each other? What if this small point was understood by men
who found themselves sitting together on this small orb we call earth? What if?
What if we actually realized ourselves to be nothing more than variations on
the same theme. Oh God, the loss we could have stopped, the pain and suffering
we could have prevented, if only we could see that we are all brothers, and one
in spirit.
Well, it has all been said before… pitiful,
isn’t it? I remember the death of Sadat, right after my Vietnam, and his
attempt to bring peace. Several machine guns and a grenade silenced him, but
his words have echoed on, past these dunes, to Saudi Arabia, Egypt, Palestine,
and Israel. Unforgiving, malice, and mistrust remains, yes, hate remains, and
it blinds us from seeing our similarities. I pray it isn’t too late, that a
word will reach and light up our souls to the wonders of what could be... what
could be in all of us. Is it possible to even consider what loss there is when
ignorance and hate takes hold, and find solace in Love? Is it possible to walk
to this light together, with hope, our salvation?
I guess there are some who may find these
thoughts empty, utopian, and childlike, in the broader spectrum, as I sit here
by this little pool of water, in so great a space as the Sahara. It is a wonder
that this tiny bit of cool water could make any difference at all… but from
where I sit I can see many well-worn paths that converge here from far beyond,
and the desert is alive because of it. Yes, even in this desolation, something
of value can be found.
Stanley, the Bedouin who manned the pump at the Oasis. I fed him every day.
Our rig, lined up with true North.
This is Geo, the smartest of all camels, and with a great sense of humor.
At the Crystal mine, about ten miles from the rig. My Coalition friends and I having lunch with Mipore, owner of the crystal mine. His blind wife served us...
Sunset on the Salt flat.
Riding to the Oasis on a borrowed Camel.
A song I heard on my six hour train ride from Tunis.
