('On-line' text of)
'VIA RISHIKESH - A HITCH-HIKER'S TALE'
An account of hitch-hiking from England to Europe,
North Africa, Turkey, Iran, Afghanistan, Pakistan & India in 1970
by Paul Mason
© Paul Mason 2006
Chapter 8
GETTING TO KNOW THE CUSTOMS
The worst symptoms of my cold pass, though the headache persists, as does the extreme congestion. We take to the road though a handkerchief is never far from my face and over the next two days, we move gradually across Algeria. People here are friendly enough, giving lifts, sharing their food and sometimes showing us what lies off the beaten track. We accept a lift from someone driving a Morris Minor in a poor state of repair with door handles so broken that the driver is forced to tie the doors closed after we are inside. As we bounce our way up a rock-strewn incline I witness the sort of abuse this old machine gets subjected to.
Generous and hospitable; an Algerian couple invite us to sleep in their home. They are very sweet to us, constantly watching our every move and reaction (especially whilst they are showing us their photograph albums). When the time comes to sleep they give us a double bed made up with crisp fresh white sheets.
When morning comes we decide to make an early start and strike out for the main road by foot. The walls of the buildings here appear to be made with mud, but all look relatively comfortable, even luxurious. As we pass through their village, small children peep out from darkened windows or doorways, curiosity painted over their intense little faces.
On the sides of the roads grow cactus bushes covered. Yolanda shows great interest in these odd specimens bristling with lethal looking spikes. A local demonstrates the art of picking and skinning these fruits known as figs d'Indes (figs of India). But I keep my distance reckoning that one false move and I would be a hospital case. Give me apples or bananas anytime!
Virtually everywhere we have travelled so far, the people seem to have black hair but here in Algeria I encounter the 'Ginger Heads'. It is a matter of stark surprise to see the bright orange frizzy hair of some of the native folk. It certainly has me puzzled.
On the outskirts of a major town we witness teams of tall muscular young chaps fearlessly kicking a football about in their bare feet. Football seems to be the favoured sport of the youth of Algeria; the game seems to be played everywhere.
Though rural shops do not usually have any printed or painted signs identification of butcher’s shops is simplicity itself. The owners hoist the head of a bull or cow and affix it over their shop. Macabre and gruesome the sight saddens and nauseates us. It's only defense being it's brutal honesty. The pieces of meat hanging outside attract vast swarms of flies and according to our driver some of this is horsemeat, a normal component of their diet. For the remainder of our stay in Algeria we decide to avoid all meat.
It must be admitted that on the whole we haven't formed a very favourable impression of Algeria and we yearn to move on. Eventually, we reach the very last town before the border with Tunisia and there we spend the last of our local currency on some oranges and cigarettes before walking quite a distance to the border control post.
Once formalities on the Algerian side are finished with, we have to cross a seemingly endless tract of uninhabited scrubland, which leaves us thoroughly exhausted. The walk itself is more than enough to put a dent in our humour but the sores inflicted by the continued chaffing of the straps of our luggage causes even further misery. Our spirits are raised greatly improved as we sight the customs house.
Dumping our bags on the floor, we settle down to the laborious chore of filling out the required forms. Gradually though, I am beginning to memorise all the require information which makes the paperwork that much easier to deal with.
'How are you travelling?' the official asks.
'Autostop! We are hitchhiking.'
'So. How did you get here?' he continues.
'We walked from the last town. It's a long way.'
'Yes it is, and it's also a long way to the next,' he informs us.
In truth, the idea of wandering off into the wilderness has no appeal at all, so after discussion, we decide to wait for a lift before attempting to go any further. We ready ourselves for a long wait. The official has two companions staying here; the young men offer us to share an evening meal with them and are really very hospitable to us. They even offer us some wine, which we politely refuse. This friendliness is a welcome change from the heaviness we have encountered on some borders.
As darkness sets in the lights attract the insects of the night. It is time for preparations to be made for sleeping. As we unroll our sleeping bags the official appears and offers Yolanda to sleep on a camp bed inside the office. As it turns out, only the one bed is available so I willingly give over to Yolanda and settle down to getting comfortable on the floor.
I lie there thinking for quite a time, unable to sleep and I become aware of the shapes of several people slinking into the room. Silently they pad there way about, there way lit by a torch beam subdued within a wrap of cloth. For all they know I am fast asleep. They appear pretty shaken when I sit up and demand an explanation for their intrusion.
Startled at first they give no reply and then in a nervous voice one of them mumbles something unintelligible and then they all leave.
Yolanda is now awake and takes news of the intrusion uneasily.
'It's okay,' I say, 'You sleep here, I will close the door and sleep across it.'
When this is accomplished I gently drift asleep comforted by the thought that any attempt to enter the room will automatically rouse my attention.
'Why are you here?' a voice storms.
It is now well into the night and the border guard stands menacingly, staring down at me with a dark scowl spread across his dark features.
Since the reason was self-evident, I don't trouble myself to answer; instead I ask him what he wants.
'Get out of the doorway,' he orders.
'No,' I reply firmly.
Three more times that night am I am awoken by the footsteps of one or the other of the young men here and by the time dawn breaks I have clocked up precious little sleep.
Again the official appears and this time I knock on the double doors and call to my girlfriend telling that someone wants to come into the room. A frosty sort of politeness between the border guard and us becomes the order of the day.
We used the time spent waiting on the border, as constructively as possible. Locating a nearby stream we settle down to washing our hair and a few of our clothes that we then leave out to dry in the sun. Hours drift by and with no sign of a lift, we become increasingly apprehensive, uncomfortable at the prospect of another night on the border. In back it is already dark before the sounds of an approaching vehicle brings everyone to their feet. All at once I can see it is a family car, jam packed full, even the roof is laden with the weight of suitcases and bundles.
We have changed, we are no longer so casual and carefree, and right now we are utterly desperate to get away from this place. However, I reckon that even if these people wanted to give us a lift they would be unable to find room for us. But fate is on our side, in the unlikely form of the pushy customs official who proceeds to try and persuade them to take us on to the next town. Perhaps they are intimidated by the official or maybe they are just naturally friendly (I prefer to think it is the latter) but whatever the reason is the driver gives his approval.
Though the driver appears amiable enough he is a touch too polite. I sense that he is a little wary of us, maybe even frightened perhaps? The trip away from the border post becomes unexpectedly jolly as sweets and snacks are passed around. We hold on to our seats to stop being thrown about as we bounce about thrown by the rough uneven road.
By the time we are quite clear of the border zone and into Tunisia, the sky is starting to get light. I call out to the driver.
'This will do. Thanks, merci!'
We have a long wait here, but we console ourselves that at least we have gotten away from the stress of being on the border. And eventually we are repaid for all the hanging about as our next lift offers us an express trip to Tunis in a gleaming Lamborghini! I notice Yolanda seemed particularly at ease on this journey.
It seems the driver has recently returned from a visit to Italy, Yolanda's home country. He had gone there to arrange the car's routine maintenance. Clearly, we are now hob-nobbing with the jet set and I lean back comfortably, thoroughly determined to enjoy it.
On hearing of our plans to continue across North Africa, our driver offers us some advice. He tells us that when we get to Tunis we should go to the Libyan embassy, for he is sure we will need visas. He warns us the visas might be costly.
All good lifts have to end sometime and after we part company with our driver I notice a far away look in my girlfriend's eyes.
'He's your sort of guy isn't he?' I ask gently. Yolanda face now flushes - she focuses her eyes on me and answers angrily.
'What do you mean? What a lot of rubbish, I'm not impressed by wealth!'
I don't believe a word she says, but I keep silent.
We have no reason to delay, so we trek off to the Libyan embassy only to discover that he correct about us needing visas, and about them being expensive, mine alone will cost over two pounds. Relative to the amount of funds we have this is a very large sum and this really worries me. And we have to wait a couple of days whilst our visas are processed so we have time to get to know Tunis. Finding ourselves in the main street, the Avenue de France, we quickly realise how expensive the restaurants are here and we set our minds to fretting over our financial situation.
'We could always take to begging,' I suggest in all seriousness. 'There seems a lot of very wealthy people in this part of town.'
Sitting ourselves down in a doorway we throw ourselves into the part, after all a job worth doing is worth doing well. It seems necessary for us to stop looking happy and we should also appear uncomfortably hungry. Yolanda's sombrero is soon tinkling to the sound large and small coins being thrown into it. I figure this is conscience money, that these people are loaded and are only ridding themselves of loose change. As such I feel no real gratitude towards our benefactors. Mind you, this does take away any of the guilt and embarrassment. Twenty minutes of begging and we are done with it!
'Never again. I pity those who don't have a choice,' said my accomplice.
We begin exploring the alleyways of the city and come across a stall selling freshly squeezed fruit juice. I watch as the vendor crushes the lemons to extract the juice, then adds sugar and ice before setting them whirling in a blender. The resultant frothy liquid is deliciously cool, and 'moreish'. We must have another juice; we try orange this time. As I sip my drink I convince myself it tastes all the better for being paid for by our begging exercise. We are now in search of food and to this end we wander into the Arab Quarter. There is not a white face to be seen and here everyone seems to wear long gowns and sport funny little hats. But the atmosphere feels tense; I sense that we are looked upon as intruders, so we should be careful. Down the narrow rambling lanes we wander until that sign of signs grabs my attention, the red and white one advertising a popular drink that 'things go better with'.
The dark eyes of the owner look at me, challenging and fierce. 'What shall we have?' I ask Yolanda, but she just looks vacant.
'Egg chips and two Cokes,' I order, embarrassed that I know nothing of the local dishes. The waiter looks at me confused, so I repeat myself loudly and slowly.
'Eggs, potatoes in oil,' I explain.
The waiter disappears, returning briefly with our drinks.
'Do you think he understands?' Yolanda says uncertainly.
'We'll probably get a plate of sheep's eyes or roasted horse.' I retort.
Actually, when I see the result of my rather foolish request I can't help being slightly amused. Two frying pans are placed on our table, each containing one raw egg and some slices of partly cooked potato swimming in warm oil. Beside the pans is placed some sliced French bread spread with chilli paste.
What can I do?
I resort to my indignant English gentleman routine; the staff gaze at me uncomprehending as I rant and rave. Although we have consumed no more than a few gulps of Coca-Cola and a bite of bread, I still felt acutely embarrassed as we get up and leave without paying. Luck, fate, or whatever, seems today to be running in our favour - no threats are made, no knife is produced. We scurry back as fast as our legs will carry us to the relative safety of the westernised part of town where we find something to eat.
The problem of accommodation is a daily dose of worry and today this is sorted out in a most unusual way. Having explained our circumstance to a stranger who stopped to talk with us, he kindly offers us to camp in his van that is parked nearby. So, tonight we lay ourselves down in the back on the rusty slatted floor, but the light of the streetlamps long delay us from sleeping.
* * *
We have to stay in Tunis until our visas have been processed. So we try to make the most of our stay which is not that difficult, since the city is very geared to tourism. Young people are forever coming up to us and chatting. Even at a distance, from across the street or from a motor car comes the familiar cry of 'Ça va?’
'Friendly lot,' I comment.
'I suppose so,' replies Yolanda sniffily.
Above us is what appears to be an overhead railway. But appears very ancient.
'Far out,' I blurt, 'That's an aqueduct.'
Yolanda agrees; she appears impressed too.
'They must be almost two thousand years old maybe. Imagine that,' I add enthusiastically.
I suppose some people would buy a guidebook and explore the sights properly, however, we spend our time just wandering around and occasionally refreshing ourselves at yet another fresh fruit juice stall. In the evening some 'Frenchy' type Tunisians invite us to go to their flat for a party.
Two teetotalers watching two dozen students get pissed is an experience I might have cheerfully missed. By the early hours when we settle down to sleep, I really get the message loud and clear. These students are pests! I find myself having to spend the entire night hunched in the corner and fighting off sleep in order to keep a watchful eye over my sleeping girlfriend. A voice in my head tells me these students could not be trusted. Carrying bottles of wine clutched tight in their hands they keep coming back into the room to check whether I am asleep yet.
'Çava?' they ask.
'Çava pas,' I retort disdainfully.
With the new light of day we decamp; it is strangely comforting to be back on the streets again. We traipse around, as ever we carry with us our luggage. The new day brings with it a variety of opportunities to meet people. A Tunisian lad took us home for a meal, to the third floor, of a ramshackle terraced house where he lives with his folks. When lunch is served, frying pans are placed on the table! From the pans are served eggs, tomatoes and undercooked vegetables. It all goes down well and does a great job in satisfying our hunger. More food is brought to us, the salad stuffs are very welcome but I give the dark meat the go by, not daring to ask which animal has provided it.
Later in the day, an English lad befriends us and proposes that we should spend this our last night in Tunis where he is staying.
'Cheap. Only five dinars,' he declares proudly.
I recall from my coin collecting days that the Roman for penny is dinarius. The French having so recently governed Tunisia and also having been a part of the Roman Empire, maybe that is why there is so little evidence here of Arab culture here
The five dinar accommodation is safe, nothing more. All of us 'guests' sleep in the yard in front of someone's house. The yard is also the home to some chickens and a beautifully coloured cockerel. Immediately overhead is another portion of the aqueduct we have already noticed. Our English friend spends much of his time explaining to us the ancient history of the area, of Carthage and other places. Soon, Yolanda and I find it preferable to keep our distance from this well-informed person for the truth is, that we just aren't that interested in so much history.