Pickup Chicken Stew Tuareg Style

Author Bio:

“Micha”, born May ’66 in Stuttgart. Infected with dirt bike virus since ’79 during a holiday in Italy. Legally on road since ’84. Travelled most of Europe, Near East, East Africa and North Africa on my RD04 270KTM. Since late 90’s Hard Enduro on Suzuki and KTM in the Alps, Carpathian Mountains and Sahara till 2018. Retired old man gravel rider since then. Hobby mechanic and random guide for lost guys from the Island.

The Adventures of a Short Trip to the Sahara

It happened at the time when Ben Ali was still the governor of the southern provinces… ????
Hmmm, no, too much biblical drama, at least for the beginning!
So, let’s start again!
It was early December 2010 when we, a close-knit group of enduro riders, including my ex-girlfriend (now my wife), decided that we needed to spice up the winter with some sun, warmth, and adventure. And where better to do that than in the world’s largest sandbox?!
The transport of the bikes to Tunisia was quickly organised by Werner and his large trailer attached to his MAN truck, our desert-savvy transport operator, whom we would meet several times during the trip. Flights to Djerba were booked, and on the weekend after Epiphany, we headed south from Nuremberg. A short taxi ride took us from the airport to the hotel, where our enduros were already waiting. A lively evening with much anticipation for the upcoming tour rounded off the day.
The next day, in perfect weather, we took the ferry from Djerba to the mainland and then rode along small, winding backroads towards Matmata. Just the right way to get back into the swing of things after weeks without bikes. On the unpaved tracks, we played around vigorously, the drift angles got bigger, and our feel for the dirt bikes was restored. In Matmata, we stayed at the Hotel Sidi Driss, with accommodations in cave rooms, a fascinating place where parts of Star Wars had been filmed.
We had dinner in the hotel’s large dining hall, with its tiled floor, bare walls, and cold neon lighting, it had the charm of a university canteen and the acoustics of a swimming pool. The temperature was around 16°C, after all, it was mid-January, with pleasant 20°C during the day, but the clear nights were bitterly cold, dropping below freezing. No wonder the Sahara is called “Cold Land under a Hot Sun” by the Bedouin people. Wisely anticipating the precarious supply situation in Tunisia, we had brought along a few bottles of high-proof spirits. Strictly for medicinal purposes, of course, to prevent bacterial digestive issues. With this in mind, we brought a few of these medicinal liquids to dinner, poured into neutral glass bottles. The aperitif consisted of well-measured amounts of Laphroaig, and during the meal, we were treated, willingly or not, to a local musical performance.
Generally, the sound of North African folklore is not easily digestible for the untrained Central European ear. Amplified by the acoustics of the dining hall, mixed with the clatter of dishes and the international chatter, the crescendo approached the pain threshold. When one of the musicians, armed with a wind instrument that sounded like a tortured donkey going through puberty, tried to drown out the noise near our eardrums, it was too much! A red line had been crossed, the physical pain outweighed the desire to thrift! Our Czech friends resorted to the ultimate solution and pulled out their trusted defence instruments: homemade slivovitz. Clear liquid with at least 55 octane, err, percent, poured into glasses and down our throats. A warm glow spread through our bodies, making both the cold in the dining hall and the acoustic torture much more bearable.
One of our waiters must have caught a whiff of our medicinal application and cautiously asked what it was. When we explained, that it was medicine for stomach upset and colds, he asked if he could have some too. He was terribly cold and had been battling a cold for days. When we asked how Allah would feel about this kind of medicine, he said that Allah had absolutely no reservations about taking medicine when sick!
Full of sympathy for our poor waiter’s suffering, we filled a glass with about 50ml of the Czech medicine. The waiter looked around the dining hall twice, then knelt down in front of our table, took the glass with a muttered “Shokran!” and downed it in one go…
After his eyeballs returned to their rightful place and he was able to take his first life-giving breath, he croaked several “Shokran; Shokran!” and disappeared with a blissful smile from behind our table, loaded with dirty dishes, heading towards the kitchen.
Unfortunately, the symptoms of our poor waiter’s cold were so persistent, that he had to be treated by the Czech medical staff three more times in the next 20 minutes. After about 200ml of medicine, it seemed that all the cold viruses had been eradicated. Unfortunately, as a regrettable side effect, his sense of balance and ability to articulate coherently were also lost. Somehow, he still managed to make his way to the kitchen, albeit after covering three times the normal distance. And he was never seen again. Hamdulilah! Somehow understandable, after all, we motorcyclists also prefer winding, curvy roads over boring, straight ones! The journey is the destination.
The next morning greeted us with sunshine and temperatures around 0°C. The day’s destination was Ksar Ghilane, the most famous oasis in Tunisia, with its adjacent dune fields and the ruins of the old Roman fort. The first part of the route was on the boring, straight pipeline track, not exactly enjoyable on enduros. A few kilometres before the destination, we turned onto a track through the dunes.
Here, disaster struck. We rode at some distance from each other due to the dust clouds. The condition of the track allowed for brisk riding, 80, 90 km/h was the speed at which the washboard was most bearable. Suddenly, however, a section of Fesh Fesh, the fine, non-supportive sand/dust mixture, appeared on the track. Only about 50m long. For the desert-savvy among us, no problem, butt back, handlebars firm but not tense, and hard on the throttle. The first riders made it through and stopped shortly after, to warn the others about the obstacle.
And then came my wife. She was riding her DR350 standing up, speeding along the track. Her off-road experience from many kilometres in the Romanian Carpathians paid off, but she had no desert experience! When she saw the Fesh Fesh section, she somehow forgot that the throttle was her friend. Instead of giving it full throttle, she reduced her speed. The front wheel of the DR dug deep into the soft sand at about 50 km/h, the handlebars turned sideways, and she flew over them in a high arc, landing hard on her head and right shoulder, practically right at my feet.
My breath caught! A sight I will never forget! And one I never want to experience again! There lay my favourite person in the dirt, not moving! Oh God! All sorts of panic scenarios raced through my mind! She had landed on her head, what if… I didn’t dare finish the thought! After a few seconds of shock, I rushed the few steps to her, all the learned precautions for possible spinal injuries flashed through my mind in fast forward. As I knelt before her, she began to move and groaned in pain. Not nice, but at least the worst fears were dispelled.
She slowly started to sit up, and I supported her. All our friends were immediately around us. Very carefully, we began to check for more serious injuries. She was responsive, could take off her helmet, and apparently, all her guardian angels had been with her. Apart from pain in her shoulder and a headache, nothing worse seemed to have happened. Upon closer inspection, we noticed clear marks on her Alpinestars neck brace where the chin part of her helmet had impacted. I had bought this for her just before the trip, the sand and the expected high speeds had prompted me to do so. Apparently, it had saved her life. Thank you, fate, thank you, ancestors, for planting this thought in my mind and for insisting that she wear it!
After half an hour and a few sips of water, she was well enough for us to consider riding the remaining few kilometres to the oasis. Our friends had straightened the handlebars and forks of her DR and made the bike rideable again, while I had taken care of getting her back on her feet. Peter, a long-time friend, partner in crime on many off-road adventures and, on this trip our guide and chef, took her backpack. Remember his name, he will play a crucial role later! The little bastard!
With his backpack on his back and hers on his chest, he looked like a mirrored dromedary. We successfully navigated the last few kilometres of track to the oasis. There, Werner, our transporter, was already waiting with his yellow, RV-converted 4×4 MAN truck. After a greeting, a brief report on the breathtaking events and a round of well-chilled beer from the supplies, we unloaded our luggage and camping gear and set up camp. The tent fortress was up, the campfire was burning, dinner was sizzling in the field kitchen, and we looked forward to our first night under the open sky in the oasis.
As quickly as the sun set, the temperatures dropped. Bundled up in all available warm layers, we sat around the campfire for a while, processing the day’s events, making plans for the next day and depleting the beer supplies. A few sips of high-proof antifreeze also made their way down our throats. Strictly for medicinal purposes, of course, perhaps some Tunisian bacteria had found their way into our digestive tracts and needed to be eradicated, purely prophylactically. Thus protected, we went into the tent and the warm sleeping bag. Anja struggled with the pain in her shoulder, which was beginning to show interesting shades of colour.
The night was cold! Very cold! The sleeping bag was warm! The urge to release one of the evening’s beers into the wild was ignored for as long as possible. But eventually, it couldn’t be ignored any longer, nature demanded its due! So out of the sleeping bag, into clothes and shoes, headlamp on, and out of the tent. Brrrrrr…. To the official toilets, a good 150m. To the hedge by the irrigation ditch, less than 15m. As I reached the hedge, countless pairs of eyes suddenly reflected the light of my headlamp. From the ground up to eye level. In various unfriendly colours. SPOOKY! Whatever! I gave them a warm shower, surely pleasant in the cold, and hurried back to the sleeping bag.
The next morning, the tents and the motorbike seats were covered in frost. Quick, a hot coffee! Peter had already been busy. The fire was burning and spreading some warmth. Anja had had a rather restless night, due to her painful shoulder. Any thought of riding a motorbike in the sand was firmly dismissed. Understandable! Stefan also spent a very restless night, studying the graffiti on the inside of the doors in the ceramic halls. Something had upset his digestive tract. Well, it happens, despite all prophylactic measures, when travelling to exotic places. We blamed it on the unfamiliar cuisine. That the reason was completely different; we’ll come to later!
Note: An overnight-abused sphincter fears contact with the hard seat of an enduro!
After breakfast, the sun was already providing pleasant warmth, everyone, some more, some less motivated, got ready to put on their motorbike gear. The plan was to refresh or acquire new skills for riding in the sand. First, some play in the light sand field in front of the oasis, and then we would ride through the somewhat larger dunes to the old Roman fort. The practice session was very entertaining, with various soil samples being taken, of course. Anja acted as the camerawoman and took some shots. Back to the campsite, she rode pillion with me. Without pillion pegs, at the speed necessary in the sand, with her painful shoulder…. No, her decision was final! She had chosen her new nemesis! His name was Sand! She would not be joining us on our excursion deeper into the desert but would stay at the oasis with Werner. Guarding the tent and the fire. Licking her wounds. Trying to find relief in the warm thermal pool of the oasis.
In the afternoon, a trip to the old fort was on the agenda. Through the quite impressive dunes behind the oasis. Here, everyone could put their refreshed or newly acquired sand-riding skills to use. The more cautious tried to stick to the tracked path, but this turned out to be not so easy, as the churned-up, deep sand was sometimes more difficult to ride than the direct route through the dunes. Here, it was all about finding the right track, where the sand was firm and supportive. The soft spots had to be avoided. Well, that worked more or less well. This way, you could also practice digging out and getting the bike going again. Everyone who had thought, that a tyre with a lot of aggressive tread would be an advantage in soft sand, was taught otherwise. Especially by the locals, who came towards us on old French Motobecanes with completely worn-out tyres. Low tyre pressure and the right riding technique, those are the decisive factors! After a while, everyone made it to the fort, more or less elegantly and with more or less mutual support, but unharmed and in high spirits.
From the fort, we rode a bit further west along the track, where we would head towards Tembaine the next day. That impressive table mountain rising from the dunes, which millions of years ago was a coral reef when an ocean stretched here. Our final destination in the desert.
Back at camp, properly sweaty from the efforts in the sand, we got out of our enduro gear and headed to the thermal pool of the oasis to wash off the dust and sand. Then dinner from Peter’s field kitchen, a few beers by the campfire, and soon we crawled back into our warm sleeping bags.
Anja’s shoulder was painful and fascinated with a play of colours from dark blue to green to light yellow. Even if she had wanted to, riding into the desert would have been impossible with that. Stefan’s guts were still in turmoil. Even on our short excursion into the dunes, he had repeatedly, with a pained expression and an even more pained step, quickly disappeared behind a dune to torment his rear end. He was unsure whether he wanted to join us to Tembaine.
The night was damn cold again, Anja enjoyed the pain, Stefan studied the graffiti. Next morning, breakfast. Stefan’s decision not to join us into the desert was final, he had finally succumbed to the fascination of the graffiti. Our local guides arrived in their pickup. Something Japanese. Equipped with worn-out road tyres. Definitely not a vehicle any of us would have taken through the dunes; whatever!
Our camping gear, supplies, and fuel found their way onto the pickup and were expertly and securely tied down by our guides. With something resembling a discarded fishing net and remnants of old ropes; whatever!
A short time later, our group was ready to set off. Alesch and Roman, our two Czech friends on EXC525 and WR450, Ralf on EXC530, Peter on EXC520, Werner on X450, and me on 640LC4. Since Anja stayed at the oasis, Werner and I had decided to share a tent to save on luggage. Since we both shared the hobby of nocturnal woodworking in a similar way, it would work out somehow; we hoped. The meeting points with our guides were agreed upon, and with just a few snacks and filled hydration bladders in our backpacks, we set off on the track towards the dune fields that lay between us and Tembaine. The adventure began! First, there were just a few light sand drifts over the track. Ridiculous! Then the drifts got bigger. Nice! And no real challenge for anyone. After 10km, the first break. At the edge of the first real dune field. Soon, our guides arrived in their pickup.
We left the official route here, as we had decided to find our own way to Tembaine. Anyone can do the easy way! So, into the dunes. 2, 3m high crescent dunes, not uniformly aligned but zigzagging. The task was to find a path, to read the sand, where it was rideable and supportive. It worked quite well. However, on my 640, the heaviest bike in the group, I always had to ride quite briskly to have any chance of staying stable and with enough momentum to climb the next dune ridge. I always waited when I found a suitable spot in a dune valley, where I could get going again, for the rest of the group. They usually arrived slowly after about 5 minutes. But then, 5 minutes, 10 minutes, 15 minutes… Nothing! Hmmm, something must be wrong. It’s incredible how quickly you lose sight of each other in these dune fields. So, I turned around, rode back on my track to look for the others. After a few hundred metres, I found them. Together with our guides, they were standing around Ralf, who was sitting on the ground. And looking quite unhappy. With his new, second-hand EXC530, which he had only bought two weeks ago and was still unfamiliar with, he had taken a tumble. The good 60 HP of the only 112kg sport enduro had been quite a challenge for him from the start. Or too much of a challenge. Just like its previous owner, who had sold the brand-new bike with only 3 hours on the clock because he couldn’t handle its power. And with the concept of “The throttle is your friend!” in the sand, Ralf hadn’t really been able to make friends either. In short, he had been too slow and had simply laid the bike down. And in the process, he had probably bruised or even broken a few ribs. It hurt a lot, anyway. Continuing to ride the motorbike was out of the question for Ralf. But he didn’t want to give up the trip and force us to turn back either. The only option: put the motorbike on the pickup and Ralf into the cab with our guides and continue.
Hmmm, since I was already struggling quite a bit in the sand with my relatively heavy 640 and the real dunes were still to come, I had an idea. I asked Ralf if it would be OK for him, if we put my 640 on the pickup and I continued riding his 40kg lighter 530. He looked at me and said, without much thought: “Sure! And if you want, you can buy it right away! It’s too powerful for me!” Oh boy, now the devil was sitting on my shoulder! What an opportunity.
Quickly, we cleared the pickup’s loading area, heaved the 640 onto it, tied it down, loaded all the gear, and off we went. Man, what a beast! The same power as my 640 but much lighter, more agile, and with much better suspension. I felt like I was on an MTB on steroids that had just snorted a line. Insane, this was how playing in the big sandbox was really fun!
Around 4 p.m., we reached a spot that was perfect for our night camp. The tents were quickly set up, the campfire was lit, and the field kitchen was fired up. Delicious canned food, fresh sand-baked bread prepared by our guides, and a few beers (warm, but still!), a nice, fun evening around the campfire got underway. Ralf cursed us every time our silly jokes forced him to laugh. His ribs were hurting like hell. The night was very cold! The sleeping bag was cosily warm! In the morning, it was -8°C. Brrrrrr. Just before sunrise, everyone crawled out of their tents, lured by the smell of fresh coffee and sand-baked bread from the embers of the fire. Along with a few dates, tuna, olive oil, and harissa. A real Tunisian Bedouin-style breakfast. I loved it.
After breakfast, the call of nature came. A loud, unmistakable call that urgently needed to be answered! Grab the roll of toilet paper, which was always within reach on one of the aluminium boxes by the fire, quickly hop on the moped, and head behind the next big dune. Dig a small hole in the sand with your boot and Ahhhhhhh…. Now, you could confidently and relaxed face the challenges that the new day had in store. The sun was now providing pleasant warmth, so we broke camp, packed everything onto the pickup, hopped on the bikes, and off we went! The Tembaine was calling! The dunes grew larger, 10, 15 metres high. With the 530, it was pure joy to surf up and down their ridges. Damn! I was hooked! That beast had got me addicted, and I was hopelessly hooked. Oh well, another bike for the home fleet. You couldn’t let an opportunity like that pass you by!
On the horizon, you could already make out the Tembaine. But first, it was time for a lunch break. We had delicious canned chilli con carne. After that, we continued through the dunes, our goal in sight, getting closer and closer with every dune ridge we climbed. Finally, we reached it, parked the bikes at its base, treated ourselves to a tea at the café at its foot, climbed it, and enjoyed the view. After the descent, we rode a bit further and quickly set up camp in a beautiful dune basin.
The evening routine of cooking over the campfire began. Peter cooked our meal, with the rest of the crew sitting around him, using the aluminium boxes as seats. And the beans from the midday chilli con carne started to take effect. The acoustic accompaniment, amplified by the resonance of the empty aluminium boxes, was impressive! Not to mention the olfactory aspect, simply breathtaking!
A few metres away, our guides were preparing their dinner. A pot simmered over the fire. A stew with noodles and chicken. Quite red in colour and very spicy, with an oriental aroma. During the lunch break, I had given them one of my old travel knives as a thank you for reliably transporting my 640 on their overloaded pickup through the dunes. In return, they now invited me to sit with them and offered me some of their food. Of course, why not?! I sat down with them and tried it. It tasted just as it smelled, very oriental. With my few words of French, we chatted a bit, I thanked them again, and then went back to the other guys, with a half-full bowl of the stew. Werner wanted to try it too. I gave him the rest, and he polished it off completely. I had only eaten the soup and noodles, Werner, on the other hand, also devoured the meat.
When there was nothing left, Peter came over and said, “Pretty brave, guys!” “Brave? Why brave?” I asked. “Well, that chicken in there had been lying on the pickup bed for the last 2 days, without refrigeration!
“You arsehole!” was my reaction. “Why did you wait until we’d eaten it all?!” “Oh, I didn’t want to spoil your appetite!” he said, grinning broadly and slyly.
Great, this was going to be fun! After a few beers by the fire, accompanied by the percussion performances on the aluminium crates, thanks to the chilli beans, we soon retreated to our tents and the warming sleeping bags, as the cold of the night was stronger than the warming rays of the fire.
At some point in the middle of the night, I woke up. Werner next to me was producing the soundscape of a chainsaw trimming felled trees. But there was something else. Greenish glowing vapours seemed to be wafting through the tent, like will-o’-the-wisps in a marsh. Was I hallucinating? Had there been some spicy herbs with mind-expanding effects in our guides’ evening meal? Or were they the desert djinns having a rendezvous?
I felt a dizziness and increasing breathlessness. WTF? Just at that moment, Werner complemented his chainsaw crescendo with heavy bass accents emanating from the depths of his sleeping bag. Seconds later, my tortured olfactory nerves screamed: Alarm! OMG! Shortly after, a terrible burning sensation set in my lungs. Poison gas! shot through my head. Gripped by increasing panic and progressing dizziness, I crawled to the tent entrance, fumbled in the complete darkness with trembling fingers for the zip, found it, yanked it open, and tried to make my way outside. But instead of finding the way to freedom, I only half tore down the tent, I had only opened the zip of the mosquito net!
Almost completely unconscious and with the last of my strength, I managed to find and open the other zip. Done! Headfirst, I crawled into the sand, still trapped in my thick down sleeping bag, I must have looked like an oversized maggot. Ice-cold, clear desert air flowed into my battered lungs. Wonderful! Immediately, the veils of dizziness cleared from my head.
Fully conscious again, I analysed the situation. There could be no doubt! Werner, that sneaky rascal, had it in for my life! A subtle, insidious murder attempt! Probably due to the fact that I had only mildly smiled and shaken my head during his frequent attempts to get his X450, deeply buried in the desert sand, going again by senselessly yanking at the innocent throttle. And had only continued to watch as he had to dig it out under curses. Just you wait! He would regret this! He would pay for this!
I tied the tent entrance flap up. With the loops provided for that purpose. Tight, very tight! Then I crawled back onto my sleeping mat, accompanied by the still undiminished soundscape produced by my perfidious tent neighbour. In the dark, I felt for my headlamp, switched on the red night LED, and carefully set out to find the zip on Werner’s sleeping bag. There it was!
Admittedly, I was scared. Yes, almost panicky fear! Fear of what awaited me if I opened that zip! No matter! It had to be done! Holding my breath, summoning all my courage, I carefully opened Werner’s sleeping bag and exposed the body of the deeply sleeping assassin to the icy cold of the desert. If he wanted to suffocate me, he should suffer death by cold! An eye for an eye…
It was already light when I woke up. In addition to the morning urge, caused by the beers from the previous evening seeking freedom, I felt something strange in the stomach area. And especially in the regions of my body below that. Gurgling sounds. And an increasing pressure on the backside. The thought of relieving this pressure in the same quick, extremely relieving way as on the aluminium crate the previous evening, I dismissed immediately. The material felt different. More solid. Or rather liquid. The pressure and the need increased, far too quickly! In a flash, I was fully awake, slipped into my cross pants, out of the tent, and into my cross boots.
Peter was already busy at the fire making coffee. Next to him on the aluminium crate stood the white roll. I grabbed it, caught a glimpse of Peter’s nasty grin out of the corner of my eye, muttered a few curses in his direction, and moved quickly but carefully towards the next dune. No thought of the usual procedure of riding the motorbike behind the next big dune. Summoning maximum body control, the rear pressure was already in the red zone, I climbed the small dune slope behind the tents. This small dune would have to do! It was just high enough to hide the following drama from the prying eyes of my colleagues.
I pushed the textiles covering my body down. All the way to the tops of the high cross boots. All textile material was now concentrated between my knees. Squatting down, I directed my bareness towards the dune slope. Digging a hollow in the sand was out of the question due to the overpressure. The effects of the chilli along with the chicken stew pickup style forced their way out with raw violence, liquid, excessive relief.
But what was this? The desert sand refused to absorb the liquid! Instead, a brown Tsunami moved down the dune slope towards my boots! I couldn’t allow their contamination! The humiliation of having to face my colleagues with such soiled footwear would have been unbearable. In a crouching position, the textiles between my knees, I fled from my own leavings. Down the dune slope. To a safe distance from the brown flood. Phew, that was close!
Relieved of the worst pressure, I scraped a hole in the sand with my hands, one does learn! And released as much as possible of what had caused the terror in my lower abdomen into the open. Relief spread! Pure relief! However, the absence of pressure now made room for other feelings. Hmmm, there were clear signs of stomach cramps and nausea. The assumption that the ingredients of the Chicken Bedu Style à la Pickup probably included a few salmonella and other single-celled creatures was obvious. My Central European digestive tract was clearly overwhelmed by this unfamiliar fauna. And now highly offended.
After completing the task and removing the traces with desert sand, I dragged myself back to the fire. Then Werner came hurrying towards me, snatched the white roll from me, and disappeared behind the dune ridge. The soundscape that immediately followed gave me some satisfaction. Retching sounds! Very clear, violent, and prolonged! Well, karma is a bitch, you wretched assassin!
The grinning and snickering of the colleagues at the fire was intense. And reached its peak when I quickly sought distance at the sight of solid food. Despite all the schadenfreude, Roman supplied me with Czech medication. No idea what kind of chemical cocktail was in those little pills, but they worked extremely well. Just one hour and another trip behind the dune later, this time with a pit from the start!, the stomach cramps were gone, the excessive peristalsis was calmed, and the thought of solid food no longer caused nausea.
Werner wasn’t so lucky. On the way back to the oasis, this time via the easier track route, he had to stop several times to relieve himself. Top and bottom. His complexion had a greenish shimmer, stomach cramps and chills plagued him. Had he caught a chill in the cold of the night? Well, assassin! Karma is a…
In the early afternoon, we reached the oasis again, much earlier than expected. Anja crawled out of her tent and the joy of reunion was great. Her shoulder shimmered in new, interesting colours. In the fire pit, the remains of an expensive merino underpants were smouldering. It turned out that Stefan had not been so lucky in controlling the overpressure. And the fire had not burned enough to ensure the concealment of the traces of the embarrassing incident.
Back home, investigative reconstructions of the events revealed, by the way, that Stefan’s physical impairments were by no means due to the consumption of Tunisian cuisine. Rather, it was likely his hydration bladder. He had last used it half a year earlier with an energy drink while mountain biking. And had not cleaned it afterwards. Just before Tunisia, while packing, he had noticed this oversight. And had simply rinsed it with hot water. His symptoms in Tunisia had occurred every time after using the hydration bladder. At any rate, he now knew all the graffiti on the inside of the sanitary cabins in Ksar Ghilane by heart.
What do we learn from all this?
Well, apparently, single-celled organisms that have nasty effects on the digestive tracts of Central Europeans feel very much at home not only on well-aged, archaic pickup chicken. But also in the environment of rotten, modern energy drinks! Hot water, even prolonged boiling, can do nothing against them and the toxins they produce! Furthermore, the absorbency of dune sand is obviously very low, and even a small hollow in the sand protects against being pursued by superfluous leavings. Attempts to flee from the latter in cross boots and hindering textiles between the knees are hard to surpass in embarrassment. Demonstrations of the incident coram publico lead to excessive fits of laughter. The latter, in turn, cause severe pain in injured ribs.
After arriving at Nuremberg Airport, Werner promptly sought out the ceramic halls.
Karma…
PS: The EXC530 changed owners and provided me with much more fun during further adventures in the sands of the Sahara!