Journey to Atlantis (13 page)

THE CAMELS HATED Hollie. On top of that, they were terrified of him. It was the strangest of meetings — four large, bad-tempered camels and one little dog. Hollie dominated them and intimidated them from the start. I wondered if it were partly because they never really got a good look at him. But I had to hide him from them or we would never have gotten him onto their backs and on our way. I had to wrap him up in a scarf and lift him onto the camel’s back in a woven bag. And that’s where he remained most of the time, making his little belly-growl on and off for the first couple of hours, which the camels couldn’t hear, fortunately, although they seemed to suspect he was there because they
would occasionally look back nervously. But the camel drivers — Omar, his father and uncle — were strict with the desert beasts. They made it very clear from the beginning: the camels were not pets.

Omar didn’t look anything like his father or uncle. I even wondered if he might have been adopted. Either that or the desert sun had aged the older men before their time, because they were as wrinkled as dried-out potatoes, like my grandfather, whereas Omar’s skin was as smooth as an apple.

The men greeted me loudly with words, which I was pretty certain were blessings, took my hands in theirs and hugged me. Then, when they saw the sack of tools I was carrying, they nodded their heads respectfully. I had to admit I was feeling pretty important.

That feeling of importance diminished quite a bit the first time I fell off the camel. It was just the irregular movement of the beast; I failed to get into rhythm with it. The second time I fell, my feeling of importance left entirely. It was a long way to the ground and it really hurt. It wasn’t going to happen a third time. Hollie, fortunately, had better balance than I did. I tried to make myself feel better by telling Omar that I had spent so much time at sea, my land balance was rusty. He smiled and nodded his head sympathetically, which was kind because I knew he didn’t have a clue what I was talking about.

The camels were pretty stinky and definitely bad tempered but it was still fun riding them. I was surprised how
slow it was, but it might only have appeared slow because of the extreme wide-open spaces. When we left the beach and crossed a small rise in the land, the desert opened up endlessly and just sort of vanished into a haze on the horizon. Once we were away from the water, the temperature rose at least ten degrees, very suddenly. Omar gave me a white
dishdasha
(a long gown) to wear over my t-shirt and shorts, and helped me wrap a blue cloth around my head, leaving only a slit open for my nose and eyes. This protected me from the hot sun and kept me cooler. I wished I had brought a mirror and camera.

Two hours into the trek I was already terribly sleepy. The movement of the camel, bobbing and weaving like a poorly built dory, had such a slow steadiness to it, which, combined with the intense heat and absolute stillness, was like a sleeping potion. The barren landscape, that was fascinating to look at for the first hour or so, gradually began to remind me of the sea, except that the sea would keep me awake because it was always moving.

We reached Chott el Fedjaj, one of the salt lakes. It was a salt lake all right; there wasn’t even any water! Only salt! I thought they should have called it a salt
field.
But they could have called it a crystal lake too, because in places it sparkled like crystals. It did something else. After an hour moving across the lake I spotted a very long camel caravan on the far horizon, passing in the opposite direction. I called out to Omar to look at it, but he didn’t see it. “Look!” I shouted.
“Look at all the camels!” There must have been hundreds of them in a straight line, loaded up with all kinds of strange packages. Then, when I looked again, they were gone. They were never there. That was my first, and best, mirage.

By the afternoon, Seaweed, who had been following in the sky mostly, after an unsuccessful attempt to get comfortable on a camel’s back, headed back to the sea. I watched him spiral upwards, slowly, until he reached the highest level I had ever seen him reach. I knew he was looking for the sea. When he saw it he straightened out and sailed towards it. I had mixed feelings watching him go. Probably it was for the best. He would find the rusty old ship and the submarine, and would hang out there until I returned. But now I was more aware of the time. I would work on the engine as soon as we arrived, and wouldn’t stop until I was done.

We spent one night in the desert, which was unbelievably cold! Maybe it was the contrast with the day, I didn’t know, but the desert sand didn’t retain heat at night the way beach sand did. I slept with my clothes on, wrapped up in my sleeping bag, Hollie on my feet. The nice part of it was that, once we had set up the tent, which was a long, sloping, black cloth tent, and made a fire, and eaten, Omar’s father and uncle started playing music. They brought out a stringed instrument, something like a small round guitar, and a wooden flute set in a stone-like gourd. When they started to play, I recognized the sound instantly. I had heard this kind of music on the radio. Omar and I kept the beat by hitting
sticks together. But I couldn’t keep my eyes open for long and was the first one to crawl into the tent. I didn’t even remember falling asleep. Crossing a desert by camel was completely exhausting. The heat just sucked all the energy out of you.

On the morning of the second day we could already see the mountain we were aiming towards. Under the burning sun the mountain sometimes looked twice its height, and sometimes disappeared altogether! It was unbelievable. We tossed and pitched in a straight line towards it like ants crossing a beach. As morning passed into afternoon, and afternoon dragged into evening, I fell into a kind of hypnotic state, a bit like sleepwalking. The desert wasn’t a place to be alone with your thoughts; it was a place to lose your thoughts and just listen to your breath. I thought Sheba would have liked it; it reminded me of how she described her yoga exercises. Personally, I would be happy to get back to my submarine.

It was dark when we got in. I couldn’t even remember the last couple of hours on the camel. I plopped down on my sleeping bag as soon as the tent was set up and fell asleep instantly. When I got up in the morning, I saw that we had reached the foot of the mountain. Strangely, the mountain started as abruptly as if someone had simply drawn a line in the sand and said, “Okay, here’s where we’ll put the mountain.”

There was a small wooden shack with pipes running out
of it. The pipes snaked up the sides of the mountain. The mountain itself looked too dry for growing anything, but Omar insisted that it did. Inside the shack I found the engine. It was indeed an ancient two-cylinder diesel. Someone had hooked it up rather cleverly to a pump to drive water up the mountain from a deep well. As I looked around the interior of the shack, I saw thin slits of golden light pushing in through cracks between the wooden boards. If the sun was coming in, then so was the fine desert sand that floated on the air with the slightest breeze and found its way inside everything. Sealing those cracks was something they would have to do. Sand was the enemy of an engine.

I carried in my tools and set to work. Hollie dropped into a corner with his ball. He was happy to be out of the sun and off the back of the camel.

First, I sprayed anti-rust fluid on the engine bolts that hadn’t been removed in ages, and let it sit to loosen them up. Then I removed the bolts with a wrench, following the reverse of the pattern that had been stamped onto the head of the engine, many years before I was born. Although the engine itself wasn’t all that big — about half as big as a desk — I needed Omar’s help to lift off the head. Inside, I found the pistons covered with a very thin layer of fine, clay-like muck, which must have been a mixture of desert powder and engine oil. Whatever it was, it was
not
good for an engine. The muck was everywhere.

But the real shock came when I drained the engine oil. I
knew it hadn’t been changed for a very long time because the drain cap was so hard to get off. I had to spray it, let it sit and pry it with vice-grips. Ziegfried was right, whoever had been looking after the engine had merely added new oil. My grandfather was a bit like that too. Oil was oil, he used to say, it turns black the second it goes into an engine, why waste money on new oil? My grandfather thought that when his boat engine coughed and hiccuped, it was supposed to sound like that.

I watched the filthy oil drain into an old can I found in the shack. As the flow lessened, it thickened. Eventually it stopped trickling out and fell in clumps, like when milk goes sour and turns into glue. I squeezed the oil between my fingers and felt the fine powder of the desert. It was amazing this engine had been able to run at all. Well, I would follow Ziegfried’s directions. Then we would see.

I spent the whole day inside the shed, not coming out even once. Omar spent most of the day with me, which was a mixed blessing. At first, he stared over my shoulder with a kind of awe that reminded me of my watching Ziegfried, although Ziegfried was a master, I was just an apprentice. Eventually Omar got bored and kept trying to coax me outside to show me the mountainside, which I would have loved to see. But the thought of Seaweed sitting all alone beside the submarine made me work without stop. Then, unfortunately, Omar brought in his father’s flute. How I wished he hadn’t, because he couldn’t play at all. He kept blowing into
it, making the strangest, annoying sounds, and never seemed to tire of it. Half a dozen times I opened my mouth to ask him to stop, but couldn’t quite get the words out. I didn’t want to insult him. Maybe it was really important to him, I didn’t know. I just thought he should stick to sponge diving; he was really good at that.

It was evening when I poured brand new, crystal-green oil into the old engine. I filled it up to the top and let it sit. I had cleaned out the filters, washed them with diesel fuel and let them evaporate dry. I had replaced the fuel line because the old one had looked like a cheap garden hose that someone had left outside for about twenty years. I cut a section from a longer hose that I brought, fit it and clamped it tight. Pumping fuel from the tank, I spun the flywheel and flicked the switch. There was a sound like a vacuum cleaner when the hose is plugged. “Rrrrrrrrrrrrrr …” and then it died. Nothing. Then began my series of checks that would have made Ziegfried proud. I went over every part that could have possibly prevented the fuel from reaching its destination. I couldn’t find anything. I tried to start it again — the same sound, then nothing. Omar’s father and uncle came in and stared over my shoulder and nodded respectfully. As evening passed into night they asked if I would like to return to the tent to sleep. I thanked them and shook my head. I wouldn’t have been able to sleep anyway. They brought me tea, went out, and a little while later I heard music.

I went over my checks again and again, with no success.
It was discouraging. How I wished I could have called Ziegfried. He would know right away what was wrong. I was tired. It was getting late. It was bothering me that I had left Seaweed alone for so long. In a fit of frustration, I yanked on the fuel line. Was it possible there was a hole inside of it and it was sucking air and preventing the diesel from passing through? It was just a wild guess. I unclamped the hose, let it drain, held it up to the light and looked through it. No, it was solid. I sat back down. I wasn’t able to fix this engine. They had taken me into the desert for nothing.

I had to put the engine back the way it was and go outside and explain. It was not a very nice feeling. As I was re-clamping the fuel line I was also remembering the many times that Ziegfried had taught me something by intentionally creating a problem in the sub, so that it wouldn’t work until I had found the problem and fixed it. It had been a very frustrating way to learn, for sure, but had taught me some invaluable lessons, in particular, to keep searching persistently. I decided to take one more look at the fuel injection system before going out to the men and admitting my failure.

Between the injector pump and the engine was the fuel injection line, but it was made of metal, not rubber. There were no holes in it and it was not leaking anywhere. The whole system was very simple, which was surely why it had lasted so long in the first place. At the very end of the injection line was a nozzle. I was surprised to discover this time that I could remove it. As I raised it up to the light, I couldn’t believe what I saw. The hole in the nozzle, through which
the fuel was supposed to pass, was almost sealed! In the way that a clam builds its shell — spinning coarse sand into smooth enamel — the fine powder of the desert, over many, many years, had closed in around the opening of the nozzle until it was virtually sealed shut. The fuel couldn’t pass through!

I reached for my files, picked up the smallest one and scraped across the top of the opening, just until there was a hole big enough to pass the file through. Then I filed the hole carefully until it was brought back to its original size. I blew the powder away, wiped the nozzle with my shirt and reattached it to the line. I pumped the line with fuel, spun the flywheel and flicked the engine switch. “Rrrrrrrrrrrrr … rrrrrrrrrrrr … Rrrrrooooooaaaarrrrrrrr!” The diesel kicked into life. It was running! I was so happy! My grandfather’s boat probably sounded better, but the engine was running. The men came rushing into the shed, yelling and saying blessings and hugging me. I heaved a heavy sigh of relief. In my heart, I thanked Ziegfried.