“ So I heard. Tell me, what you are doing here?” The question need be asked only once. Bertrand spoke like a doctor, at first horrified and then inadvertently fascinated by a lethal diagnosis he had made. “ You have heard of khammessat, ‘the 5th part’ ?” I confessed I had not. “ This wine you wish to try, it comes from the palm trees, yes? 300,000 in Nefta. Twenty-five varieties of the best dates are grown here. But you must understand most of the landowners, they are in the north. Most of them never come here. The people of Nefta, they are the farmers. Under khammessat they get to keep one-fifth of the dates harvested. For supplying land, water and tools the landowner gets four-fifths.” Bertrand shrugged. “ It is a regressive, divisive system that keeps workers apart and landowners in power, I think. You were in Tozeur?” “ Briefly.” “You left quickly, that is good I think because over half the people in Tozeur are in the tourist business. Here, only 10 percent, at the most. Why? The dates, the palms, the oasis, the springs.” Bertrand stopped abruptly but I could tell he would go on if I was quiet. It seemed he was suddenly drowning in his own moist eyes. “ This is terrible, you know. These towns are dying. I study them for several years and I see it every time I come. This time, though, I have seen something else, something very frightening, I think. It is a report of the Ministry of Tourism. Perhaps 2,000 people a year come here now. They want to bring jumbo jets into Tozeur—a million people a year—and triple the number of large hotels in both towns.” “ How can they do that? Do the townspeople know?” “ No, how can they? They own no land, have no say, but will pay the price when it comes.” ‘‘Khammessat.’’ ‘‘Khammessat and more. There is a family I stay with here. Today I talked to the grandfather and he said: ‘It was just a few years ago I rode my ass through the oasis, carrying pails in my hands, filling them as I went.’ Now you see all the irrigation; the oasis is only calf-deep and the Nefta waterfall in the tourbooks—” “ It’s in my book—” “—is gone.” In effect, Bertrand said, the Tunisian government was planning to kill the very people and environment which they were counting on to bring in those tourists to save the economy. A perfect negative feedback loop of unregulated growth; a cultural tumor. At this point in our gloomy conversation a tall white apparition glided across the rough-hewn rock floor to the bar. He hung there, holding a long clay pipe and sending helices of smoke decorously into the heat. He was a remarkably tall, blond Westerner in a caftan and skullcap. Gold wire-rim glasses and a wispy blond beard playing about his cheeks and lips completed the studious appearance. He began to chat with the bartender in Arabic when Bertrand excused himself and approached him. They were speaking in German but I couldn’t make out the words. Momentarily Bertrand returned to my table. “You still wanted to taste palm wine?” He pointed with his chin. “Tonight he will take you into the oasis.” ii\*T 1 / 1 / ater is a thing of the past,” V V came the raspy whisper in a wreath of smoke through his parted lips. It was the first time he had spoken in my presence. Bertrand said I could call him Helmut, but that was not his real name. We were standing on a barren rise looking down at the oasis, speckled here and there with the first fall of pale moonlight. Beyond, in a sharp line that defined the horizon, the border of life, was the great salt lake, the Chott Jerid. Helmut tapped his pipe, tipped his head, and we followed him down the slope. Walking toward the lush thickening at desert’s edge just after sunset, watching the sky go ochre and violet above the sharp fingers of the trees, the distant barking of dogs grew ominous in our ears. As the darkness enveloped us, learning to trust our feet, not our eyes, we left the road to walk atop the low irrigation dikes criss-crossing the palm grove like scars. Having no flashlight, we followed the " Y o u SEE THE PILES OF WHITE STONE? IT'S AN ANCIENT CUSTOM. THE PEOPLE COLLECTED ENOUGH MONEY BETWEEN THEM TO BUY A COW, PERHAPS ONE A YEAR. AND THEY BROUGHT IT TO THESE ANCIENT PLACES, THEY SACRIFICED IT, THEY DIVIDED THE MEAT. THESE ARE PLACES LEFT FROM PRE-ISLAMIC TIMES." sound o f ou r g u id e ’s q u ic ken ed footsteps. Helmut’s caftan was as luminescent as the Chott Jerid, drifting ahead of us through the foliage like a phantom. Bertrand shuffled behind him in his pastel Arabic motley, tailored by friends in Nefta that afternoon. “ Does he always wear white?” I whispered to Bertrand. “ It is the Moslem color of mourning,” he said quietly. “ He came here from Germany seven years ago. He lived here five years, then converted to Islam. Two years ago he left to fight with the PLO in Lebanon.” Bertrand paused as if allowing me to transform this blond young man in the immaculate white dress into a nervous, frenzied commando who knew that at any moment he could be facing people he would kill without mercy. “ He was at Sabra and Shatila when the massacres happened. Hundreds of women and children slaughtered,” said Bertrand in a near whisper, as if the mention of it was enough to deflect us from our course. There was another long pause. We were still walking very quickly in the dark. “When he left Beirut, the PLO sent him here for some time to. . . rest.” The dogs sounded our approach to the workers’ thatched hut and when we reached the small circle of men hunkered down at their evening meal, it was pitch black. The ancient was with us this April evening, as the moonlight was shattered and broken by the trees. I felt as though we might be the first humans to strike a spark or to work our grunts and hand signals into a rude language. We shook outstretched hands and Helmut briefly introduced us in Arabic. Ragged, half-toothless smiles flickered around the circle. We squatted down, sitting back on our heels, and the workers offered us bread and tajine, the spicy stew of potatoes, peas, carrots and whatever else was at hand. There was no fire; fea tures were shrouded, but soon Helmut threw some palm fronds into the center of the circle and lit them. The flames danced up and threw shadowgiants on the walls of the forest around us. After the tajine, one of the workers reached behind him and brought out an unfired clay jug, stoppered with coarse palm leaves. The way the weight of the bottle swung his hand told me he’d already indulged. The jar was tipped on its side and liquid trickled out. An amber substance, fermented in the tree itself and tapped like maple syrup. As fleeting as the lives of the workers who drank it were traditional. Best at mid-day ADVERTISE IN CSQ 8 Clinton St. Quarterly GREAT GIFT SOLUTIONS Aveda Sebastian KMS Paul Mitchell Framesi La Coupe Mastey GIFT CERTIFICATES FOR SERVICES & PRODUCTS I UI ( 724 MW 21st AVE 228-5000 SIX DAYS A WEEK & EVEMIMGS BY APPOirtTMEMT
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