The kids of Carthage have a game they like to play when they ride the TGM, a suburban train line that links Tunis to its extended suburbs. When the train starts to leave, two friends hold the doors open, whilst the third runs along beside it, and, at the last moment, as the train starts going too fast for them and they almost run out of platform, they jump on. So I didn’t think anything of it when some teenagers started doing it as I caught the train back towards town after a day filming on the ancient sites.
I don’t think either when instead of jumping on, the kid grabs my bag: I just jump off after him. The doors catch my shoulder as they close, and I hop along as best I can as the train accelerates. With a final pull I’m free, but I’m spinning round, and trying to run as fast as I can backwards to stop myself falling over. For the briefest moment there’s an illusion of control, and then my feet go over the end of the platform and I’m pedalling like a cartoon character as I plummet the five feet or so to the tarmac. I’m not thinking when I roll away from the vast metal wheels that grind past my elbow. I’m not thinking when I jump up and run back into the station – adrenalin is a hell of a thing – pushing screaming bystanders out of the way, gradually becoming aware I’m only wearing one shoe, and that the fact everything’s blurry means I’ve lost my glasses. The boys are gone. My bag is gone. My camera, all my photographic equipment, my brand new kindle, it’s all gone. It’s all gone.
I don’t think either when instead of jumping on, the kid grabs my bag: I just jump off after him. The doors catch my shoulder as they close, and I hop along as best I can as the train accelerates. With a final pull I’m free, but I’m spinning round, and trying to run as fast as I can backwards to stop myself falling over. For the briefest moment there’s an illusion of control, and then my feet go over the end of the platform and I’m pedalling like a cartoon character as I plummet the five feet or so to the tarmac. I’m not thinking when I roll away from the vast metal wheels that grind past my elbow. I’m not thinking when I jump up and run back into the station – adrenalin is a hell of a thing – pushing screaming bystanders out of the way, gradually becoming aware I’m only wearing one shoe, and that the fact everything’s blurry means I’ve lost my glasses. The boys are gone. My bag is gone. My camera, all my photographic equipment, my brand new kindle, it’s all gone. It’s all gone.
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