Lasaad's dreams, and precious Tunis crystals

The Croatian rig hands asked if I would like to take an afternoon trip with them to Lasaad’s desert rose mine. Sounded unusual enough to be fun, so we all piled into the Pathfinder with bottles of coke and water for barter, and headed east toward the border of Algeria.

We saw nothing but desert along the 35 or so clicks to Lassad’s place, and not one car passed in the opposite direction. Southwest Tunisia is a desolate place, and most uncongenial. Still, there are a few who make their home here.

It was a radiantly clear day, still cool in the middle afternoon. Winter is the best time to visit Tunisia, and all of North Africa. Soon the temperature will began to rise, soaring in early July to late August to well above 130 mercury, and very little humidity too, perhaps only a single digit. By that time only the locals and oilfield workers remain.

It was a good road, brand new in fact, and it stretched in a straight line through sparse brush and white powder dunes for hundreds of kilometers. Sometimes a ridge of sand would start to march over the embankment, to be pushed back again by man and machine. Even the desert changes…

Finally, in the molten mirage that hides the horizon, several brown and white camel haired tents materialized on the left side of the road. As we slowed down they became sharper through the heat waves, nestled between two huge mounds of gray-white sand.

The full Pathfinder turned sharply off the blacktop and stopped in a cloud of dust. We all jumped out into the beaming sun and the broad beaming smiles of Lasaad and his family.

Three adults and two children came out from the tents to greet us, dressed in both European and traditional Arab dress. An older man of about 35 extended his hand in a typical European handshake. This was Mr. Lasaad Friga, the desert rose miner. Next came his brother-in-law, Mr. Maatoug, who helped with the work, and Lasaad’s two children, a young three year old girl with large curious eyes, and a well behaved young boy of 10 with a nasty scrape on the tip of his nose. He got this scrape while helping his dad mine these crystals, as sharp as glass.

This was the third time these rig hands had visited, and there were welcoming smiles and strong handshakes from all. Lasaad, who was fluent in Arab and French, spoke to me in broken English, asking if I would like to see his mines. “Yes!” I said, “Very much!”

As we walked toward the tents, I scanned the area. Hill after hill of fill and little black dots that marked entrances were everywhere. It was amazing to think that these two men, and a young boy, had moved all of this dirt. But so they had.

I was then introduced to Lasaad’s wife, Frea (pronounced, Fee-ah), who, by the way, was 100% blind. She smiled and extended her hand to shake. It was hard and strong. Smiling she went directly to the open-air kitchen in the back of the tent and began cooking us lunch. In a short time the air was filled with the wonderful smell flat unleavened bread called “pizza” cooked on a flat iron plate, and the main staple of this land, “couscous,” which is made of cracked wheat. Both are high-energy carbohydrate, flavored with a hint of goat cheese, garlic, olive oil and salted goat meat.

Leaving our shoes outside, we entered the cool darkened tent and sat on large pillows around a short table. The uncle poured a steaming amber colored tea into small demitasse cups, and handed them to us one at a time. He held it with both hands, and smiled broadly. It turned out to be his own family recipe, and he was very proud to serve it to us. It tasted slightly bitter and very sweet. Almost instantly I could feel the energy of concentrated caffeine, with a sugar fix.

A cool breeze came in from the entryway and swirled light dust on the multicolored carpets, laid directly on the sand. They were made of thick wool, red, blue and rusty browns.

A short-haired dog sat in the entrance shade and looked at us curiously. The little girl knelt next to it on a small rug, and watched us with what seemed to be intelligent observation. It was so evident that both she and the boy were well loved, and that they had been firmly taught the courtesies and ceremony of company. The boy, who his father called Little-Maa, caught my eye several times with a smile. It seemed that he knew the strangeness this gathering had for me, for all of us, but was far too perceptive to show it. His amusement was evident however, but controlled.

Just on the other side of the thin tent’s weave, gently undulating in the desert’s wind, was the child-like sound of several ewes. When I turned to the sound Little-Maa put his hand before his mouth to hide a smile.

The couscous and pizza tasted a bit of alien spice, but quite good, and the more I ate the more satisfied and happy they became. We lounged and talked in broken English, but when French was spoken it flowed well. Arabic remained silent, as it is believed that to speak it in the presences of those who do not understand is a sign of disrespect. In the conversation it came out that Maatog and his sister were raised Bedouins, desert nomads, but had settled here to mine.

Lasaad was a small man in stature, especially next to these Nordic visitors, but a soft word from him to any one in his family got an immediate response. He was the obvious head of his household, but it was evident that his hand was guided more by love than any overbearing strength.

When his wife came in holding the tray of neatly folded bread, he took it from her in a cheerful and tender way. I never found out how she lost her sight, or if in fact it was congenital. Her smile and measured steps did not in any way seem strained, but gave the practiced normality that only time can give. My heart went out for her, thinking that perhaps our advances in medicine may have helped, but she gave no indication that she needed either my pity or concern, moving from one task to another by a sharp awareness of sound and feel.

One thing I have learned living among the Arab, and Islam. Most seem to live entirely for the moment, and I realize that this might be one of our biggest differences. Two cultures, …with two entirely differing ways of dealing with the same basic needs of life. So different, that even the Croatians and I seemed similar.

In a moment we were up, driven by some cue I completely missed. In single file we walked along a well worn trail in the dazzling sun to the mounds and holes. French rolled off their tongue like music, and laughter was a poem. Maatong showed us a glass bottle of what he called seeds of the desert flower, and they glinted like diamonds in the sun.

On every side, evenly spaced on the sand, were clusters of crystals, twinkling and sparkling. They waited to be carefully culled into a sellable product, so wanted by tourists in the city.

The entrance to the mines were small dark holes in the sand, just big enough for a man. I looked cautiously down one in amazement. Foot and handholds were dug into the sides, and they led to a sand floor about twenty or so feet down. From there, in several directions, exploratory tunnels were dug by small pick axes, and the debris lifted to the surface by buckets.

“Would you like to go down?” Lasaad said to everyone at once. The question lingered in the air unanswered, but for a suppressed chuckle and couple of sidelong glances.

“Sure, I’ll go!” I said. I couldn’t pass up this opportunity. It looked structurally sound. What seemed to be frightening my friends was the sand that kept falling into the hole from the surface. Below that foot or so seemed perfectly solid, and the chances of being buried alive minimal.

I put my camera inside of my shirt, and followed Lasaad down. He had a battered old flashlight that gave off an anemic glow when compared to the desert’s glare, but as my eyes adjusted I could see several tunnels just large enough to crawl. They radiated out in two directions perpendicular to each other. One, the larger of the two, curved into a wider room just big enough to sit down, and this was the direction we crawled. On all sides, tiny facets of crystal caught the light. It reminded me of a children’s book I had once where the seven dwarves were mining for jewels. The dwarves would have fit in perfectly down here.

As we got to the bend we had enough room to hunker down together in a seating position, and he pointed the light into the narrow tunnel beyond, and another small room. A pool of clear water reflected the surface to the ceiling and lit up the large clusters of crystals that had been growing and doing their thing since this desert was an inland sea millions of years before.

I took my camera out and snapped off several pictures, but knew even then that it wouldn’t do justice. It was a magical place, much more than the shimmering clusters. It was the crystal sparkles that lit up Lasaad’s jet black hair like a halo, his excited voice as he explained how this particular tunnel had taken more than a month of work to accomplish, and the reflection of the flashlight in his proud and excited eyes. To Lasaad, these crystals were indeed precious jewels, and the effort to mine them his life’s work.

Upon reaching the surface, my friends asked me what I had seen. “Well, they’re down there!” …was all I could say. I knew that the experience may have seemed simple, and probably not worth much of an explanation. Besides, as with any encounter in life, your reaction to it is proportional to what amount of importance you put on it. For that brief moment, a man shared his vision with me, and showed me the way he was able to etch out an existence in one of the most inhospitable lands on earth. And then, how can one attempt to explain a feeling of the heart?

I had sat on the edge of the pool with Lasaad as he chipped crystals from the wall and ceiling, handing them to me to wash in the pool. I have carried these samples home with me as a reminder, and have come to realize that we are far more alike than we suppose.

The Gold of Arab Sahara