We were told that we would get up early, and by golly we did. At five we wake up, at half five we eat breakfast, at six we’re in the bus. It’s really cold, and we cannot fathom why the hell we are freezing in a bus when we have snug beds back at the hotel thank you very much.
The reason would become obvious: We have a good bit to go and a few places to see before Detour is comfortable enough in the knowledge that we’ve really been shown the country.
Of course we are the elitist group in the back of the bus that is snickering and being charmingly non-conformist, but every trip has a few of those, and in this company you don’t have to try much. I imagine that everyone on the bus was feeling original, although only we actually were.
The first stop was the salt desert. With mountains in the far distance, the devils bathtub used to be flooded by the Mediterranian sea, and is covered by salt. We all shuffled out of the bus to take pictures and hopefully find some coffee at the small store.
The sun rises and of course it’s postcard-like; a pretty view with nothing but salty sand and an empty road. We are impressed, but it’s hard to vocalise when your teeth are chattering. I think this was the moment that I cursed my “pack light” philosophy the most, considering that “pack light” in my mind implied “forgoe a jacket in favour of a thin scarf.”
Someone buys olive soap, someone drinks more hot tea, we get back into the bus ten minutes later, herded like the pack of sheep that we are.
Next stop is an oasis in the Atlas mountains. The views are rather stunning – it’s very Indiana Jones (which we find out was filmed nearby) and we walk past hot springs where Russian tourists are bathing. We pass a guy who has gone nutty and is screaming “pasta! macaroni!” at an Italian tour group, and then it’s time for us to make it down to the bus again, Anna in her high heels braving stepping stones over springs.
The social highlight of the trip, except Sine befriending a lively Norwegian kid, was when a under-age couple in front of Anna started fondling each other in a rather severe way. It cheered us up when Sine told us about it (she being the one spotting them, and they saw that she saw, and she saw that they saw that she saw, etc) and the rest of the trip I keep an eye out across the isle in case they would get up to any shananigans that I could pretend reminded me of similar stuff I’d never done when in their age.
An early dinner is had at a posh hotel. The guides boyfriend works here, so we’re in slightly less of a hurry and allowed a short respit. Coffee at the poolside and then it’s off to a Mosque two hours further up north. It’s one of the oldest Mosques in North Africa, but we hardly notice because our guide dissapears into a carpet factory to pick up a rug she’s pre-ordered. Christoffer and Anna buy cigarettes from a guy outside the bus. Too bad we’re not allowed to smoke in transit.
Soon we’re back on track, and after a couple of hours we’re back in Sousse. The woman who was cleaning our rooms had taken a shine to Anna and folded her night-gown into the shape of a butterfly.
Drinking wine and discussing the nature of the tourist we arrive at the conclusion that there’s no escaping ones role, and every effort you make to distance yourself from the herd of foreigners only furthers the penetration of tourism – you’re the forerunner of global capital wherever you go. There is no escape, embrace your involantary imperialism, just don’t forget to pack proper clothes.
