Laurie McAndish King - An Elephant Ate My Arm: More true stories from a curious traveler

About the Author

Laurie McAndish King grew up in rural Iowa, studied science, art, and philosophy at Cornell College, and has traveled in forty countries. She observes with an eye for natural science, and writes with the heart of a philosopher.

Lauries award-winning travel essays and photography have appeared in many publications, including Smithsonian magazine, Travelers Tales The Best Womens Travel Writing and more than a dozen literary anthologies. Her writing won a Lowell Thomas gold award and her mobile app about the San Francisco Waterfront earned a 5-star rating on iTunes.

Laurie also wrote An Erotic Alphabet (for which she was dubbed The Shel Silverstein of Erotica) and co-edited two volumes in the Hot Flashes: Sexy little stories & poems series. She is an avid photographerone of her photos was displayed for six months at the Smithsonianand enjoys gardening, taxidermy, and, on occasion, visiting the Uncanny Valley.

Connect at LaurieMcAndishKing.com.

A Sneak Peek from

Lost, Kidnapped, Eaten Alive!

True stories from a curious traveler

At a Crossroads

SOMEWHERE IN TUNISIA

I didnt know whether I was being kidnapped or rescuedthat was what made my one big decision so difficult. That and the fact that I was young and foolish, and more than a little anxious about being stranded in the North African desert.

It all began quite innocently. Our bus had deposited Alan, my affable traveling companion, and myself at the door of a small, clean hotel in a dusty Tunisian village. The buildings were two stories high at most, covered with plaster, and whitewashed against the powdery red dust that enveloped the town and seemed to stretch forever. In the desperate heat of late afternoon, the place appeared to be completely deserted. Not a single shop was open and the dirt streets were empty: no vehicles, no pedestrians, not even a stray dog.

Inside, the 1940s-era hotel was as empty as the street. There were no brochures advertising nearby attractions (I suspected there were no nearby attractions); there was no We accept VISA, MasterCard, and American Express sign. There was no bouquet of silk flowers, no table, no couch on which weary travelers could rest. A lone white straight-backed chair stood sentry on the floor of exquisitely patterned blue and red ceramic tiles. The reception desk held a silver tray filled with mints.

I had only just met Alan, a wandering college student like myself, that morning. But I quickly decided hed be great to travel with: he seemed friendly, calm and reasonablenot the type to freak out if a bus schedule changed or a train was delayed. Plus he spoke a little French, which I did not. Alan had a quick, cryptic conversation with the hotel clerk, and then translated for me. The clerk had pointed out that there were no taxis in the small town, and suggested that Alan hitch a ride to the local bar/restaurantsix miles out of townfor a beer and a bite to eat. It didnt occur to either of us that a woman shouldnt also venture out, and I was eager to see some sights, meet the locals, and have dinner. Of course I went along.

In retrospect, I realize I should have known better. We were in Tunisia, a country where women stay indoors and cover up like caterpillars in cocoons. The guidebooks had warned me to cover my shoulders and legs, and I felt quite modest and accommodating in a button-up shirt and baggy jeans.

When we arrived, I found that the place was more bar than restaurant, and that I was the only female present. Even the waiters were all men. But these details didnt seem important. After all, I had dressed conservatively, and decided to take the precautionagain, recommended by my guidebookof avoiding direct eye contact with men. What could possibly go wrong?

Since I spoke neither French nor Arabicand was assiduously avoiding eye contactit was quite impossible for me to converse with anyone but Alan, who was busy putting his first-year college language skills to dubious use. I was bored. This was a plain-as-bread sort of establishment; there was no big screen TV soccer game, no video arcade, not even a friendly game of cards or a lively bar fight for me to watch. Just a lot of dark men in white robes, sitting in mismatched wooden chairs, speaking softly in a language I could not understand and drinking tiny cups of strong coffee. The bitter, familiar aroma was a meager comfort.

Then the music began; it sounded off-key and was startlingly loud and foreigna little frightening, even. Next the belly dancers appeared: twelve gorgeous women, one after another, with long, dark hair, burnished skin, flowing diaphanous skirts in brilliant vermillion and aqua and emerald, gold necklaces, belts, bracelets, anklets. Gold everywhere: tangled cords jangling against long brown necks; fine, weightless strands decorating the swirling fabrics; heavy gold chains slapping in a satisfying way against ample abdominal flesh. They were a remarkable contrast to the stark room and simple furnishings, and I began to realize that things in Tunisia were not entirely as they first appeared.

The music quickened, and the dancers floated across the barwhich had somehow been converted into a stageand around the room, weaving in and out among tables, lingering occasionally for a long glance at a pleased patron. Soon they were at our table, looking not at Alan but at me, urging me, with their universal body language, to join them.

Did I dare? My stomach clenched momentarily. I knew my dancing would be clumsy and ugly next to theirs, my short-cropped hair and lack of makeup un-attractively boyish, my clothing shapeless and without style or significant color. I wore no jewelryas the guidebook suggestedjust my glasses, which were not particularly flattering that year.

Of course I am relatively unattractive and clumsy in this foreign environment, I thought, but there is no need to be priggish as well. And the women were by now insistent, actually taking me by both hands and pulling me up to dance with them. Flushed with embarrassment, I did my best to follow their swaying hips and graceful arm movements as we made our way around the room once again. Even with the aid of the two beers, I was not foolish enough to attempt to duplicate their astonishing abdominal undulations.

As soon as I thought these exotic, insistent beauties would allow it, I broke the line and resumed my placeplain, awkward, very white, and completely out of my elementnext to Alan. Thereafter, it was excruciatingly embarrassing for me to watch the dancers, and Alan agreed to accompany me back to the hotel. He, too, had had enough excitement for the evening and was ready to retire, so he asked the bartender to call us a cab. A fellow bar patron overheard the conversation and was kind enough to offer us a lift. The man wore Western-style clothing, understood Alans French, and seemed safe enough; we felt fortunate to have arranged the ride in spite of our limited linguistic abilities and the fact that the night was still young.

But thats when the evening turned ugly. Two well-dressed, middle-aged men left the bar immediately after we did. We saw them get into a black Mercedes, and we watched in the rear-view mirror as they trailed us, just our car and theirs, bumping along a sandy road in the empty desert. There were no buildings, street lights or pedestrians, and we saw no other vehicles.

I looked out the window, enjoying the vast, black night sky and trying to ignore my growing sense of anxiety. When we came to an unmarked Y intersection, our driver, in a bizarrely ineffective attempt at deception, headed steadily towards the road on the right, then veered off at the last second to take the road on the left. Neither Alan nor I could remember which direction wed come from hours earlier, when it was still light out and we were not under the spell of Tunisian music and belly dancers and beer. The strange feigning and last-second careening alarmed us both.