Figuig Redux

Most days I knowingly and willingly reenact the myth of Sisyphus. Some days and this week I simply do not want to partake- these are the times when I have to walk down back the hill and restart the pushing.

2 years back, I became ill with Figuig fever- a desire to go somewhere I would never go. While I would compile my code- or between any two delayed clicks of a mouse , a sigh followed by "Figuig" would escape my lips. I would be washing the dishes and I'd find myself mouthing "Figuig, Figuig". Any activity with a pause was filled by chants of "Figuig". Before long I was a useless Figuig zombie. For awhile, before falling sleep, I would drink plenty of water and a few almonds in case I ended up in Figuig.

Figuig is a scrappy border town between the Algerian-Moroccan border. Old postcards show the typical oasis village with few date trees, crumbling buildings, but mostly sand. Immediately after the WTC attacks, the luxury of remote possibility downgraded to never. (I sincerely apologize for leading the reader on a 9/11 story.) This never was because I wouldn't go without C and C would be nothing more than kidnap bait. Because of this never I demanded that C procure for me a worthy Moroccan rug to directly transport me. Due to a weak Anthrax scare- spores could be carried on wool items such as imported rugs- C did not indulge me with a carpet. The Anthrax scare was probably pretext. Who wants to see their wife chanting Figuig Figuig nonstop on a rowdy rug.

My sister J and I share geographic fixations because we both sprung from a man who loves maps. I think it was she that dislodged Figuig with a simple solution. We would take turns finding the most remote locations on the atlas. She would call me at night as she lives three thousand miles away, and we would agree to meet at a fixed location. So before falling asleep, I would repeat "Tuvalu, Tuvalu" over and over again to make sure I wouldn't forget to meet her. But then I became very busy and forgot to call her; in this absence I developed another terrible fever. I don't know if she was still looking for me in the last place in the Pacific islands we met, but I was secretly paddling up the Irawaddi. Why such a muddy stretch of water would become a place of imagination I finally knew. Say out loud Irawaddi enough times and you taste the tranquility.