Rotting Figs

“What the hell is that stench?”

The clerk from the cheapest hotel in town had just opened the door to my room and that is when I first noticed the smell. I wondered if it was him and in a defensive measure, I shuffled a few steps away. As he took his desert turban and wrapped it around his face, covering his nose, I knew that he could smell it too. I smiled politely at the clerk and with a quick bow and nod of the head I mumbled thank you in some bastardized form of Arabic.

I shut the door and dropped my 40-pound pack. I was relieved to get that damn thing off my back and happy that it landed with a thud. I gave it a kick just to reciprocate the pain it was causing me. I was beginning to loathe it—not for the weight of it; no, that was my fault—but I hated the way I could feel sweat trickle drop by drop and pool at the base of my back getting trapped between my skin and the nylon hip strap.

The smell still hung in the room and without anyone looking I lifted my arms and gave a quick pit-sniff just to make sure it wasn’t me. I stunk, but I wasn’t the culprit of that horrid stench.

All I wanted was a shower. I craved it in fact. It was the only thing on my mind for the past 8 hours while I was crammed in that stuffy bus with too many passengers and their livestock. The dust stuck to my moist skin and I felt grainy.

But it was that putrid odor that seemed to push aside any thought of rinsing away the grime from the bustling city of Tunis, the salty grit from the dried salt marsh near Kebili and now the dust from the Sahara.

I debated opening the window but wondered how the fragrances from the Souke wafting in and mixing with the stagnant hotel air might throw off my senses and therefore any hope of identifying where this mystery smell was coming from.

And so the search began. First was the washroom – the dodgiest of all places. I cringed as I flicked the light on. A quaint little porcelain hole in the floor was hugged by broken tiles and to my amazement was quite clean. The rusty spigot dripped and I sniffed a full breath through my nose. It wasn’t the most appealing scent as it was forced into my nasal cavity and computed by my brain, but that wasn’t the smell. The garbage was empty and slight overtones of bleach left me clueless to where this stench was coming from.

I rummaged through the drawers of a dusty bureau – empty. Under the bed – nothing. In the closet – bare. I felt as if I was going mad. I sniffed my pits again; just to be sure I didn’t have to blame myself.

This stench was stringing me along, almost as cleverly as the ex had done. The deception pissed me off once again.

I desperately pulled back the polyester drapes, which exposed a wonderful view overlooking the Souke. I finally ceded to the stench – I could no longer take it. I strained to lift the bulky pane of glass and wedged it up as far as I could push it. Slowly the aroma of cloves and spices drifted into my room. The sounds of a language I did not know floated up and I could only imagine the conversations taking place. Fresh bread was being baked and that sweet smell of the best baguettes outside of France made me hungry.

The town was going through its paces and I sat alone, perched on the window sill watching the commotion. A group of men squatted outside a carpet store, sucking back mint tea between long hauls on their sheesha. I grabbed a smoke and joined them from a far. With each breath, I drew in the tobacco along with the sights and smells around me, including the lingering stench.

I hovered over the city from my ledge watching the frenetic buzz lessen as people began to scatter and prepare for their evening prayers. The temperature seemed to drop to a manageable degree for exploration but I still wanted my shower and to find that smell. I shuffled through my pack for clothes and the scented candle I had purchased in Tunis for this particular reason.

I sorted my clothes into three piles; the clean, not so clean and really dirty. Somehow I managed to piece together some semblance of an outfit. I detached my day pack and zipped it open. The caustic stink jumped out and instantaneously molested my nose and churned my gut. I staggered back and as fast as my hands could move, jerked the flap closed.

I didn’t know if I was going to vomit or not. My stomach felt weak and I ran for the window, gulping in any fresh air I could. And somewhere between reeling for air and the anticipation of dry heaves I remembered the figs. The figs that Moez, my guide in Tunis, gave me before the bone-breaking bus ride from hell. Truthfully, I am not keen on figs. I don’t like the taste and hate how the little bead-like seed things get stuck in your teeth. But I couldn’t tell that to Moez and I couldn’t refuse his sweet gesture. When we said our good-byes and he had melted into the sea of people on the street, I stuffed the bag of figs carelessly in my pack and forgot all about them… until now.

There they were, those damn figs cooking and rotting away for those 8 hours buried in my bag on the roof of the bus in the insane heat of the day.

I inhaled, held my breath, grabbed the bag of rotting figs (held at arms length away), and made the dash out of my room and down the stairs—I didn’t look back. I thought I could make it in one breath, but my lungs started to squeeze. I exhaled quickly and turned my head to stuff my nose into the sleeve of my t-shirt to act as some sort of filter as I inhaled and held my breath once more. I could see the clerk standing behind the desk. I didn’t know if he saw me coming or if he could smell my arrival, but again, he pulled the loose end of this turban around his nose.

A few more steps and I raised my voice through my held breath, “Ou est la garbage?”

He pointed me outside and I ran. The bag of rotting figs was flung into the bin, the lid slammed shut and I exhaled. I walked away panting for fresh air. The stench and the figs were gone—gone from my pack, gone forever. Into the hotel and a few more gasps of air. The clerk pulled away the extra cloth from his face.

“You like figs, no?”

I laughed and I pointed to the garbage bin outside, “Those figs—NON,” shaking my head and wrinkling my nose.

He laughed with me and made gestures of grabbing his nose and fanning away the rotten air to remind me just how horrible that smell was.

The clerk began to shuffle behind his counter and I took it as my cue to leave.

“Madame, please one moment,” he said as he lifted up a mysterious package wrapped in newspaper and handed it to me across his grubby counter.

“OK, Madame, please…you try again – try these figs.”

“Thank you,” I said with a smile and reminded myself that we all need to start again somewhere and sometimes a gentle push is necessary.