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So, word has gone out... the Tunisians are coming to Yarmouth.
- An invasion?
- Oh, just half a dozen of them, but all the way from Tunisia, huh?
- Okay.
- Where the hell is Tunisia?
- North Africa, you say.
- Okay. And you want us to find places for them to billet for the summer, along with their Canada World Youth counterparts? And you want us to find something for them to do around the drop-in center and to help them fit in? Okay.
- Let’s make sure we have this right... They:
- come from Africa
- speak very little English but are fluent in French and their Arabic is superb
- all have names like Mohammed, Khalil, Fawsi and Shadia
- believe that they have been transplanted to the land of the Infidel for some past nameless transgression
- believe that lamb's testicles and couscous is a delicacy
All right, then... piece of cake!
It really was not nearly as bad as we thought it might be. In many ways, in fact, I am sure that it was much worse for our guests. At least we were all young, and we shared many things, like bellbottoms, wide belts, sandals and a profound attraction to the opposite sex. And everyone loved Alice, but none more so than Mohammed. He soon became a master of the English phrase, “Where is Alice?”
And all the Canadian boys were enamoured with Shadia, who just happened to be the only foreign chic around that summer. She was sweet, smiled all the time, hardly said a word, cooked up a great lamb stew (over couscous, of course), and wore nothing but mini skirts, which can be convincingly argued to be better than wearing nothing.
The biggest difference between the Tunisians and the drop-in center crew was not so much in terms of culture so much as in affluence (or lack of it)—they had it, we didn’t. Poor Mohammed... I’ll never forget the look on his face when arrived at Dave’s rustic digs and he realized that he was actually expected to stay there for the summer. Hell, a cottage at the Cape, close to the beach and the lighthouse... man, a place to go after work, unwind from a hard day of unwinding, kicking back with friends and watching the sun come up to start all over again... we thought this was heaven and our coworker had it made in the shade.
Mohammed saw things slightly differently. For one thing, where he came from he was accustomed to and had grown rather fond of certain niceties like running water and indoor plumbing. The outhouse was not that far from the back door and the porch light at night illumined the path most of the way. We thought the old well on the front lawn was perfectly fine.
The water was cold, drinkable and plentiful. Every empty bucket we hauled up came back full.
And the quaint beach stones it was made of provided a perfect backdrop for the next great album cover photo shoot. Of course, he was also probably used to having regular meals and also food that did not only come from cans—although cereal did come in boxes—and hot dogs should have counted for something. The straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back however, seemed to be the incredible fact that we did not have wheels. The journey to and from the town to the Cape had to be made every day on foot or by thumb. And although I cannot remember any of us ever having to walk the entire five miles of road, because someone always inevitably came along and gave us a ride, just the idea of it seemed to be utterly appalling to him. Each morning as he stepped out upon the pavement that led to the town, he looked like a man who was condemned to die. Mohammed had died and gone to hell, for all we knew. I am sure that it also did not ease his burden that we were utterly unsympathetic to his complaints, usually leaving him far behind and dubbing him “Mohammed Turtle” at some point. At any rate, his ordeal barely lasted more than a week before he was delivered by some archangel and relocated to another home and civilization.
Stay tuned... more to come!
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