Dromedary

Leaving Ghardia going south you start to get into a mixed rock and sand desert, driving along side of the Grand Erg Occidental (Ergs are the sandy dune-y parts of the Sahara). The sand is very fine and almost soft. This sand also blows all the way to the Canary Islands.



We stopped in El Goléa (also known as El Meniaa) to see the sights. The sights include a museum containing artifacts from archaeological digs around the area and a bunch of fossils from when the Sahara was a big lake. It is kind of a surprising museum, just in the fact that it exists at all. They play a one-minute loop of Beethoven’s Ninth all day long. No one goes in. In the lobby I did get a look at a coffee table book of all the different varieties of date palms, one variety per page. It was 400 some pages long.



We then drove to a shanty-town (almost) on the outskirts of the city. After plowing our way through the sand-dirt streets between the mudbrick buildings we finally made it to the abandoned (mostly) church and graveyard where Charles de Foucauld is buried.



(Briefly, de Foucauld was a French army officer turned missionary who was one of the first whities to go live out in the Sahara. He set up hermitages in Beni Abbès and in the mountains outside Tamanrasset, from where he studied languages and customs of the natives while making the occasional conversion. He also set all kinds of information about the defensive capabilities of the indigenous populations to the French military, had weapons storehouses and generally acted like an advanced scout for the armed colonization of the Sahara. He was killed in Tamanrasset by a group who wanted to steal his massive cache of weapons. Frère Charles de Foucauld de Jesus, indeed.)



He has a pretty nice grave, too, in a churchyard where everyone else gets a cement rectangle filled with rocks, and sometimes a bush of some kind.



We stopped off at the Soeurs Blanches for the catholics amongst us to have mass, and to look in the garden. Jean was surprised and disappointed that they didn’t offer us any lunch.



Cruising along nicely – Marek finally wrested controls from Jean and we topped 100km/h – when a funny (but not ha ha funny) noise comes from the engine. As we pull to the side of the road the car quits. Here we are, then, stuck on the side of some crappy road in the desert 1700km from Algiers, and 70km from Timimoun, the nearest town. The engine coolant container sprung a leak, we overheated and then the engine seized up in some way we can’t fix. So, like anyone out in the desert, we flagged down the first truck that came lumbering down the road. Jean had a tow-rope in the back of the car and we tied it off.



Jean stayed in the car to steer and press the brake, while Marek and myself rode up in the truck with the drivers. The two guys generally thought it was a riot that a Pole, an American, and an old Frenchie were out in the desert, just for fun.



It was tough making conversation, because one guy didn’t speak any French, one guy kind-of spoke it and neither Marek nor myself know Algerian Arabic. But here are some statements: the road here is very dangerous, due to, for lack of a better word, the Mafia. There is no law out here (he chuckled when I asked about the police and gendarmerie). Algeria is “shit,” as there is no work and no money to be had. He repeated this twice. If we want fun for tourism, we shouldn’t go to Beni Abbès or these little towns out here, but to the cities like Tamanrasset or Oran. Dude loved Oran. Tourists just end up “eating money.” People get killed out here on the road, really, its dangerous, just like the gas in the tanker behind us, “Pchwewww!!” (or some other exploding noise).

We had to stop a few times to readjust the rope, but the two guys took us all the way to Timimoun. We had to stop in the outskirts of town, because it is illegal for big trucks to enter the city itself. The guys didn’t accept any money as payment.

Jean had the phone number of the Soeurs Blanches in Timimoun, and while we waited he worked on the car, complete with help from nearly every Algerian who walked by. It was very important during this period that Marek and I “watch the car!” Even though there are only two doors and we were standing right there. So I stood against the back of the car and watched a full-scale football match in an empty lot. Played on sand/dirt and with a flat ball, the guys were good.

Jean got the car to run, although just barely, and we cruised down into the centre-ville. Keep in mind, centre ville is only a name, as this is a pretty little town. We got to see some of the sights (odd architecture down here, as Jean said “this is the Mali part of Algeria. The country is too big to have just one Algeria.”) Also learned that the people in this part of the desert long ago perfected underground water piping and water towers.



The Soeur Blanche showed up and we walked back to the house, as the mechanic was closed for the evening. There were three “sisters” living in the house, and they fed us and made us feel at home, which was nice because we could have still been pushing the car on the road somewhere. Marek wanted me to quote him: “We have no idea where we’ll be sleeping tomorrow, but hey, at least we’re still alive.” Now say that again in a thick Polish accent, its way funnier that way.



One last note: the good sisters in Timimoun have the best soap-holder I’ve seen. There is a circular magnet that one jams into the bar, which allows one to suspend the soap from a little magnetic gallows that protrudes from the wall. No wet mushy soap! No fumbling for the bar!