First stopping-place: Bou sââda. We didn’t take the same road as the bus you and I went in, but we too followed a very pretty route, along the coast and through the mountains. We even climbed to a winter-sports resort — third-rate as such, but with a fantastic view over the mountains and desert. It was strange coming into contact with snow above those reddish landscapes already redolent of the Sahara. We arrived at Bou sââda after dark. At the St Georges (of which this hotel is a kind of branch), we’d been approached by a fellow I’ve told you about — because I heard Olga talk a lot about him — a certain Alain (who’d screwed A., and caused a scene with N., and run off with Brunbach’s wife — does that ring a bell?). He’d approached me very nicely, in fact, not saying ‘you’re S. de B.’ or anything of that sort, but simply ‘I’m a friend of Pardo’s’; and then he’d mentioned Bost, and eventually I’d asked him his name. He’d been on his way to Bou sââda, so we met him there yesterday evening. Actually, he’d caused quite a scandal at the St Georges, by leaving a message in my name fixing where and when to meet — but I’d registered in the name of Lanzmann, while there was a Mme de Beauvoir there who was handed the billet doux under her husband’s vengeful eye. Well, it was all explained eventually.
Anyway, we met up with this Alain here yesterday evening. Something sensational was going on: forty American sailors — the guys from the aircraft carrier — on leave here. The Ouled Nails had been brought along to the hotel for them. You just should have seen it — the Ouled dancing and the sailors watching! The girls danced fully dressed — festooned with the gold coins that apparently constitute their dowries — not looking at anyone and their bellies writhing prodigiously. The Americans were clapping their hands and staring at them wide-eyed. Yet one more example, where the presence of so-called civilized man in nature (or folklore, which is the same thing in this case), far from impairing its truth, emphasizes and recreates it. Those dancing girls were far more real as a result of that paying American presence, since they dance precisely in order to be paid. However, not content with this incomplete spectacle, we went off to the street of the Ouled Nails and saw them dance again, first dressed and then naked, but always with that utterly non-commercial, distracted air which (according to Alain) they retain even when they’re screwing. He knows two of them very well (he’s doing his military service in the area, and lives most of the time at Bou sââda — out of love for Bou sââda). They’re sisters, living there with their mother. They invited us to drink mint tea after their dance — an invitation with a price-tag, of course, but they were very charming and quite chatty. The eldest — she’s 17 — had a big love affair with the hotel boss, a Russian married to a rather beautiful half-Jewish woman. They’re the most amazing creatures seen close up, and not the least bit trashy. But the most interesting thing was seeing them with someone who knew them well
Today we walked round Bou sââda and the dunes. You know, even after having seen the real Sahara it’s very appealing. It made a powerful impression on me to see sand and palm trees again, with that African sky and African aroma — there’s honestly no other kind of landscape that I prefer. We took the car and went to see a holy town nearby that you’d really have liked, and also some mirages and another little oasis. It’s very, very beautiful everywhere.
Tomorrow we’re leaving for Laghouat. And the next day on to GardhaÏa, where we’ll stay for a while. After that, our plans diverge. But I’ll write and tell you, or even wire an address as soon as we’ve decided. It will depend on the condition of the tracks. Perhaps it will be El Golea, or else Ouargla. At any rate, I’m in seventh heaven finding myself back in the Sahara. I’ve lots of memories, which makes our own trip seem very close — and I really long to go on a long journey with you again one day. My sweet little one, I’m gripped by the most violent longing for news of you. Tell me honestly how your blood pressure and all that is.507 It gave my heart quite a wrench to leave you in that semi-run-down condition — it’s so essential for me to think of you as completely well all along the line, both health and the rest. I’m hoping for a letter from you the day after tomorrow. I’ll write again at once. How I wish I could send you a bit of salt, if that’s what you lack! I kiss you with all my soul.
Your Beaver
Hôtel du Hoggar, Touggourt
Algeria
30 January 1954508
Dearest little yourself
I just received your wire at Ouargla. I did think it was all the fault of the mails, but even so I was a bit distressed when yesterday, yet again, I found no letter at GhardaÏa. The stupid thing is, I won’t get hold of yours before Algiers. It’s impossible to have it forwarded, because we’re following tracks linking places that aren’t officially linked. Well, I’m hoping for news at Tozeur.
I’m really enjoying myself. It’s rather cold — very cold at night — and the days are rather short: at 5.30 they’re over. But anyway, this Sahara’s an utter delight. I wrote to you on Sunday evening from Bou sââda. The next morning we took the road you know, to Djelfa — it’s really very lovely. We carried on to Laghouat, which you also know, but we didn’t go to that hotel where we ate flambéed dates; there’s another nicer one now, so we had lunch there. From there to GhardaÏa. Surprising arrival at 6 in the evening: an exhibition of modern painting in the hotel (reproductions) and thirty-odd people vigorously discussing: Tainting has to be understood’ — ‘Yes, but you can understand with your gut, too’, and so on. The manager commented: ‘It’s a secular sect.’ They were mainly people who were acquiring culture in order to go and impart culture to others, and who were travelling around to that end in a big coach. There was also a four-person ‘expedition’, consisting of three men (one with a beard) and a woman and two lorries covered with (printed) inscriptions: ‘Demeyer Electric Cookers, Lille, Nord’, ‘30,000 km. through Black Africa’, and a map of Africa with names and arrows. A news item from L’Écho d’Alger announced that the aim of the expedition was to study ‘the possibilities for installing electric cookers in Black Africa’, and also ‘African parasitology’ — or the parasites of Africa. Meanwhile, the bearded man was interviewing the branch manager. We saw the two lorries again next day on the marketplace at GhardaÏa: they never went a hundred metres without the two lorries. The hotel has expanded since our day, but you still eat just as badly there — and there’s still camel on the menu. GhardaÏa’s really miraculous, and Lanzmann was as captivated by it as we were. Thanks to the car we were able to visit some of the towns and oases round about — Mozabite towns, like the ones in the valley, and very lovely too: Berriane, Metlili, and especially Guerrara, which is 100 km. away and quite astonishing, all on its own in a red amphitheatre with strange, wild inhabitants. We stayed only two and a half days — which was a bit short — to see all that M’zab region, but after all I already knew it and found it quite familiar. Its beauty is really extraordinary, which strikes one as oddly outrageous in view of the fact that the Mozabites are so unappealing.
Those two days at GhardaÏa were enlivened by a dispute that had been brewing ever since Algiers: should we go to El Golea in the Aronde or not? The Algiers Touring Club had given the reply: ‘It’s humanly possible.’ But after Bou sââda people told us: ‘It’s possible, provided you buy another car afterwards.’ The hotel-keeper said: ‘It’s impossible.’ But you know how mendacious, mythomaniac and generally unreliable everybody is in this country! All the same, for my part — as I knew the road a bit — I refused to make the experiment. L., who didn’t yet realize the extent to which a road can be ‘impossible’, was hopping mad at the abstract obstacle. We argued pretty fiercely for two days (intermittently, of course). And then, luckily, there was a crushing consensus of evidence against the route. The only cars that took it were jeeps, etc., made expressly for the purpose. Above all, the Guerrara road began to convince Lanzmann. And the next day — that was yesterday — after we’d decided to drop El Golea and go to Ouargla, he was utterly convinced. The way things worked was as follows. T
he road surface is corrugated, so you have to maintain a speed of 80 km. per hour. But it’s also crossed by gutters, which jolt the car to pieces if you don’t take them slowly. So what’s to be done? (that’s the road). Even if you’re not transporting nitroglycerine, it’s a problem. In addition, every so often you cross a thick sandbank, in which you get stuck. Yesterday we got quite seriously stuck, 100 km. from anywhere. Luckily, after an hour of fruitless effort, a lorry went by and helped us out.
So yesterday evening it was Ouargla, where I’ve been before.509 A crazy homosexual colonel built a European town there in pseudo-Sudanese style which really makes one’s eyes pop out. The native town isn’t particularly beautiful, but its inhabitants are black and the Negro women stroll about with their faces uncovered, which is a pleasure to see after all those white ladies. The landscape’s sensational, nothing but sand dunes, and this morning there was a terrifying sandstorm: we climbed on to high, faraway dunes and it felt rather like being in a big storm on the open sea. We got stuck once on the way to the dunes, but we’re gaining experience — we’ve bought a spade and some boards — so we managed to extract ourselves all on our own. This afternoon on our way to Touggourt — on a quite good and very beautiful road through dunes — we got stuck twice: once we freed ourselves on our own, the other time a gang of roadworkers lifted the car out. We came across a lorry stuck fast, which often happens when there are big sandstorms. The car’s holding up well. After each run we have it checked and all the nuts tightened, because it takes a dreadful shaking, poor little thing. Apart from that, you know the kind of landscapes — there are honestly none in the world more beautiful. You know the climate, too. And the hotels, where all people talk about is the roads. And the roads themselves, with all those countless people working on them. And the Saharans, and the myths — it’s all just like what we saw on our big journey.
Now we’re going to go to El Oued, Tozeur, the Tunisian south, and back via Tunis. I think I’ll be home on Monday week. But nothing’s certain yet, I’ll wire you another address from Tozeur. I’m hoping to find a letter — yes, I’m sure it’ll have had time to get there. I do so miss it when I have no news of you. My head’s stuffed with memories, and I’m consumed by yearning for another long period when I can be with you from morning to evening. Goodbye, my sweet little one. I’d so like to be sure everything’s going really, really well for you. I kiss you with all my soul.
Your Beaver
Envelope:
M. Sartre
42 Rue Bonaparte
Paris 6
[Gabes, Tunisia]
Wednesday morning — Gabes
[early February 1954]
Dearest little yourself. I’ve no luck with your letters and it makes me so unhappy. Either there’s a strike in France, or the mail’s being sabotaged here. The Tozeur letter wasn’t there either, though I’d had to make heroic efforts to go and collect it. I’ve had everything forwarded to Tunis, where I’ll be the day after tomorrow; but in the meantime, for the past fortnight I’ve had nothing from you but a cable — and that rather distresses me. I’m going to wire you to write once more to Tunis. I’m coming back on Monday evening. Send me a note to Rue de la Bûcherie, to tell me when I’ll see you on Tuesday. Make it as early as possible, as I’ll be longing to be with you again.
If I hadn’t this nagging fear in my heart, I’d be utterly content. We’re having a truly fantastic trip — albeit not easy. The most difficult and most beautiful parts began at Touggourt. I wrote to you from there, one evening. The next morning we decided to leave for El Oued, that city in the dunes where the gardens are at the bottom of big sand funnels — I’ve already told you about it and was absolutely determined to see it again. There was a bit of a wind, and the people at Touggourt wrinkled up their noses when we said we were leaving — but without giving any explanation. The women from the hotel simply said they’d telephone to El Oued to find out whether we’d arrived — and if not have a breakdown truck sent out to us. After 3 km. we began to understand: sandstorms are worse than fog, a real white shroud, the full horror of whiteness that Melville and Poe talk about. And since the road was corrugated, you had to speed along at 70 per hour in that pitch darkness. Luckily, we’re assured we won’t meet anyone on the road in places like that — though that’s not quite true, since one car with front-wheel drive did overtake us, saying: ‘Follow me!’ It was an Arab chauffeur driving a chieftain, and he really knew his stuff. We followed him — unable to see anything but the tail of his car — at top speed, with sand beneath our wheels and all around us. After 50 km. he left us on our own. Eventually the wind dropped a bit and we managed to cover half the distance without too much trouble. We ate our sandwiches, then set off again. But there the road was covered with thick sandbars: three times we got stuck. Luckily, once there was a crew of workers on the tiny railway running from El Oued to Biskra; the second time a train was passing and I stopped it (you can just imagine the kind of train: four Arabs on tip-trucks); and the third time we got out on our own, with spade and boards. We drove a bit further on a ‘hard’ surface, then got stuck definitively in a dune. We were getting ready to spend the night there — darkness was just falling — when, by some miracle, a Dodge came by: the station-master, his wife and two drivers. They took an hour to get us going again. We drove on ahead of them — but 20 km. further on we were stuck again. Impossible to extract us this time. So we locked up the car and stowed the luggage and ourselves into the Dodge. Arrival after dark, for dinner in a fine, deserted and rather sinister hotel — but we were really glad to be there. Next day we spent the morning in the dunes, walking around full of admiration (you know how beautiful sand is, and this was the most beautiful sandy desert in the whole Sahara). But we were in some perplexity, having tumbled into the middle of an obscure intrigue pitting the station-master (two trains a week, just freight — 120 km. in 10 hours — and threat of imminent abolition of the service) against the Hôtel Transat, with a coach service. The station-master wanted us to have our car got going again by a certain Salem, then put on a wagon as far as Biskra. The hotel-keeper wanted us to take the coach as far as our car, and for the coach to get us going again then escort us to Biskra, giving us assistance if the need arose. As for us, we wanted to go to Tozeur — but that was certainly out of the question, since the track was blocked by sand dunes as big as houses. The station-master warned us against the coach (’He won’t do any repairs for you’) and the hotel-keeper against the station-master. Thereupon, the driver Salem declared: ‘I’ll take you to Tozeur in the Aronde.’ The station-master’s clan said: ‘If he says so, he’ll do it.’ The other clan: ‘You’ll take a week to get to Tozeur.’ Perplexity. We lean towards the more prudent option: returning to Biskra. Then we meet Salem in a jeep in the dunes, and he suggests: ‘Come for a drive.’ And he begins a series of demented manoeuvres, climbing vertically up dunes and so on. He swears: ‘With an Aronde, it’ll be better still’ The fact that I wanted your letter at Tozeur decided the matter. We went that afternoon to fetch the car with a breakdown truck, and Salem took it to El Oued — crossing the sandbars without the least hesitation. And next morning we left for Tozeur. The whole of El Oued swore we wouldn’t get through. A truck was holding itself in readiness to come and look for us if we hadn’t telephoned by 5. And we stuck in the sand for the first time only 4 km. from El Oued — which we didn’t like the look of. But it was merely a minor accident, and that driver was a true genius. He crossed immense sand dunes for kilometres without once getting stuck, without putting a strain on the car, finding a way every time. Every so often I thought we were going to overturn, but he always righted himself. Lanzmann, who’d tackled the sand a bit the previous evening — from necessity, and without success — was round-eyed with admiration. We eventually arrived at Tozeur for lunch, where people looked at us admiringly since it never happens — a tourist car getting through on that road — just Dodges and things of that kind. It was into the bargain the most amazing jaunt ‘f
rom the scenic point of view’: we were lost in an infinity of sand.
At all events, we were very pleased and the driver filled with pride. We walked round the Tozeur oasis. Yesterday morning we went to see the one at Nefta, which is the prettiest of all. But the days of Les Nourritures Terrestres510 are, in fact, long gone. In these oases, the men work bare-footed and in rags and misery; the people have all the illnesses in the world; and on top of that you feel yourself hated. It’s perfectly plain that there’s an enormous difference between Tunisia and Algeria, In Algeria, there’s a patriarchal atmosphere. Here, there’s a sub-proletariat sunk in black poverty and hatred. We drove off to Gabes. We’ll see this whole Tunisian south in two days anyway, then go back up to Tunis, from where we’ll leave on Monday evening by air. The car will travel to Marseilles by boat, and we’ll pick it up later. Yesterday afternoon there were more sandstorms, and cold: such a violent storm that we turned back, after trying to go beyond Gabes — it was as bad as that. But it’s lovely seeing this southern region in a fury of sand and wind. The landlord here recognized me — after 8 years — and asked me to give a lecture!511
Good. I’m off to post this letter and wire you. In two days, I’ll surely have news of you. Till Tuesday, my dear little yourself. I kiss you with all my Beaver’s heart.
Your Beaver
[Lac des Settons, Morvan]
Friday morning [late May 1954]
Dearest little yourself. Well, on Wednesday we read long extracts of your speech against the bomb in L’Huma and Libération512 — extracts approved by the pilots. You spoke last — did you prepare your speech during the first part of the meeting? And yesterday morning the papers were announcing your arrival in Moscow,513 which provoked the comment from Lanzmann that: ‘Russian air transport’s truly admirable.’ Eventually your mother gave me your address yesterday on the telephone. It’s strange to think I’m going to send this letter to Moscow, I can’t really believe it’ll get there. But I’m hoping for one myself when I get back to Paris on Sunday evening, or on Monday. I’m longing for details. Hour by hour since Tuesday morning we’ve been keeping track of you: ‘He’s in Berlin — He’s leaving Berlin — He’s in Russian airspace — He’s in Moscow.’ Last night I thought about your teeth, and as I had insomnia I imagined your whole trip ruined by horrible sufferings. I do hope it’s not true.
Letters to Sartre Page 66
