Sauci Bosner

Sipping a cup of freshly brewed mint tea while agonizing behind the computer screen, I am recalling the sites and sounds of Djerba, a tiny desert island on the coast of Tunesia. We went to visit with friends who had fallen in love with the dry sandy winds and pungent aromas of paprika’s, curries, peppers, and mint spices blending with the sweet smells of cinnamon and ginger in the marketplace. The unforgettable sounds flowing from the minarets, calling her believers to prayer. Most of whom continue to carry on with their daily routine, drinking mint teas or sweet, thick coffees in tiny cups and glasses, swatting flies with their colorful shishas, water pipes, and making their livelihood in the most unusual and precarious ways…

One sunny afternoon, dressed in jellayba and made in Pakistan gold ridden orange scarf draped around my freshly cut Cleopatra style hair, I was sitting at the terrace drinking freshly squeezed orange juice while enjoying the interactions unfolding before me. A man drove in his tricycle four meters away from me. He was wrapped in red and white cloths, a tattered gray slipper dangling from his foot. Upon further inspection I realized that he only had one foot and that his stump was neatly tucked under the cloths. This man drove with his bike, which was a mixture between wheelchair and rickshaw, and stopped within inches of my recently purchased H&M blue rimmed sunglasses. I don’t know who looked stranger to tell you the truth. He looked me straight in the eyes and whispered, “Islammah, labez,” to which I replied, “labez, shoechran.” He winked at me, unless he was blinking from his reflection in my glasses, started peddling with one foot and a stump, and disappeared in no time from sight. Two days later I saw him again at the fish auction, selling plastic bags while sitting like a lotus in between the piles of crevettes and flounder…We both laughed, sharing a secret moment in quasi time…

With the setting of the sun came the cool desert breezes. The windchime we had given our friends in Amsterdam now hangs in a knotted old olive tree and plays a different tune with each subtle movement. That mixture of chimes, stalking wild dogs searching for food at night, barking donkeys, and crazy roosters crowing when ever they felt like it kept me up most nights. I was relieved when order was returned to this nightly chaos, and sought solace in the callings of the mosque and the sun rising quickly , in anticipation of yet another day.

My stay in Djerba helped me to remember how happy I can feel when I listen to my memories of just being in the moment, living my life. In one week I had forgotten what it is like to live in a city where eye contact is rare and the joy of hugging infrequent. I slept in my own bed last night and didn’t wake up until my alarm went off at 6 a.m. I already miss the roosters. The sun was rising and the mist was lifting from the lakesite Life is back to normal. Shopping at the supermarket, running for the trams that are almost always on time, waiting at a bus stop while no one says a word to/with each other.

In case I begin to forget what it is like to be in contact, listening to the inner and outer voices, one thing is certain. I’ll book another trip to that little taste of paradise. In the meantime I have enough mint tea, halvah, and true life stories to keep me going for a while….