27, July 1997

Little Pig Syndrome

Zhenia was a good little boy except for the fact that he had very poor table manners. I’ll spare you all the awful details. They would only upset you. Suffice it to say that right after every meal mama had to change his clothes, she had to change her own clothes and she had to wash the whole floor. You can imagine the mess!

Well, one day mama decided she’d had enough. It was a Friday morning, they were sitting at the breakfast table and she said to Zhenia in an angry voice:

“Now, why is it you are such a little pig?!”

Zhenia wanted to say something funny in reply but instead his mouth let out a grunt. He was so stunned he dropped his spoon.

“Ikes!” shrieked his mother, staring at Zhenia. “What’s happened?!” Zhenia wanted to say, “I don’t know” but could only grunt in response. Mama clutched her head in despair:

“I don’t believe it! You’re turning into a real live pig! What’ll we do?! Quick, we’ve got to get to a hospital!”

Mama grabbed Zhenia, dressed him up good and warm and off they ran to the hospital. Or rather to the corner where they hopped to a trolleybus.

The trolleybus was full of people. Zhenia wanted to sit near the window but there was already an old woman there with three bags. Zhenia squeezed his way closer to her. The old woman looked up at Zhenia, grabbed her bags and walked as fast as she could to the exit, saying over and over:

“Lordy! Pigs in a trolleybus!”

By this time the whole trolleybus was looking at Zhenia who was staring out the window and thinking:

“How am I going to get through life like this?! How am I ever going to get into kindergarten looking like this?!”

The doctor admitted them ahead of the others. After taking one look at his patient, the doctor turned to Zhenia’s mother and asked: “Why did you bring it here?”

“Well, I, um—why? I had to do something,” said mama, thoroughly flustered.

“I don’t treat pigs, I’m afraid. I suggest you take it to a vet.” “But... but you don’t understand. Up until this morning he was a normal little boy!”

“Well, you should have brought him then,” the doctor replied and asked to see the next patient.

At the veterinary clinic they had to wait. Ahead of them was a fellow with a German Shepherd, a little old man with a cat and a girl with a sparrow. When Zhenia’s and his mother’s turn came the stern-looking nurse said: “Okay, you with the pig, come on in.”

“The nerve of her,” mama thought, and taking her son by the hoof walked briskly into the doctor’s office.

Zhenia took an immediate liking to the tall grey-haired doctor. As soon as mama opened her mouth to explain the whole situation she burst into tears.

“Now, now. I understand perfectly. He’s really a little boy that turned into a pig. Another case of LPS—Little Pig Syndrome. The fifteenth this week.”

“Good gracious, an epidemic?!” mama gasped.

“No, just a lot of kids with bad table manners. Surely you must have noticed the initial symptoms: spilling soup on one’s shirt, slurping and slobbering, sticking one’s fingers in the potatoes, even spreading sauces over the table and licking them up. In short, acting like, well... a pig.”

Mama nodded sadly. And Zhenia lowered his pig head lower and lower.

“So you see, the disease didn’t just appear today!” the doctor said knowingly. “There’s only one thing that will help your son.”

“What?!” mama asked, leaping o

ut of the chair.

“Write this down,” said the doctor, handing her a pen and paper. “No. 1: a starched white tablecloth must be laid out three to four times every day. No. 2: a spoon, fork, knife....”

“Knife?!” mama exclaimed. “Why, he might cut himself!”

“Don’t interrupt me,” the doctor said in a severe tone. “That’s one spoon, fork and knife three times a day. No. 3: the nicest dish and cup you have.”

“But what if he bre...”

“Please, don’t interrupt me! Do you want your son to remain a pig all his life? All right, then. Tear up the prescription right now!”

“Never!” cried mama, hiding the paper behind her back. “Forgive me, doctor. I’ll do whatever you say on.”

“That should probably do,” said the doctor. “Now remember. Let him do everything himself, just make sure he’s neat and tidy! Is that clear?”

Mama nodded. Then the doctor went over to Zhenia, looked him in the eyes and said: “Is that clear, young man?”

Zhenia wanted to reply but was afraid he’d only grunt. The doctor patted the boy on the head and called the nurse:

“Would you send in the man with the poodle, please.”

“Is it a real poodle,” mama asked. “Or another altered child?”

“Oh, it’s as real as can be,” the doctor laughed. “For your information, the poodle is one of the cleanest dogs there are. Well, best of luck. Go right home and get started on that treatment!”

Zhenia began to do everything the doctor had prescribed. Do you think it was easy? No, of course it wasn’t. But only a few days later he managed to get through an entire day without making one stain on the tablecloth. He learned to use his knife carefully, no longer dropped anything off his fork onto the floor and didn’t break a single cup. Mama said to Zhenia: “I’m proud of you!”

And suddenly her eyes widened in amazement. Without saying a word she brought Zhenia to the mirror so he could see for himself. He was his old self again, a little boy!

“I’m cured,” he cried. “I’m not a little pig any more. Hurray!”

And that’s the story of Zhenia’s bout with LPS. But don’t ever remind him of it, for the only good thing about it is the happy ending.

A journey through the forgotten desert

Breathtakingly beautiful but at the same time menacing and untamed, Libya’s Fezzan desert has everything any adventure hungry explorer could possibly desire.

Its vast expanse of ochre-coloured sands, the azure-blue waters of the occasional oasis and weirdly sculptured rock formations are almost exclusive to this northern part of Africa.

It is the home of the timid but hospitable Tuarges. It’s also where the Dawadas - a mysterious tribe known as “the worm eaters” - live. Here you’ll find the deadly horned viper, the ubiquitous camel, homes fashioned from mud bricks and one of the finest collection of primitive cave paintings in the world.

But perhaps what makes the desert of Fezzan so different from other areas of the Sahara is its extra ordinary history which dates back several millennia.

The Greeks knew of its existence as early as the 5th century BC, and the Romans conquered the region in 19 BC. From 666 AD on it was ruled by a succession of Arab and native dynasties right up until 1842, when it became part of the Ottoman Empire before eventually becoming part of Libya in 1951.

When the Greek historian Herodotus first described the area which today is roughly three times the size of France, he spoke of the Garamantes, a tribe of warriors who drove chariots and fearlessly governed the desert trails.

Herodotus, who travelled widely in north Africa around 430 BD, said the Garamantes used the vehicles in their skirmishes against Ethiopian troglodytes who lived further south.

Their skill in driving across the desert is documented in a series of extraordinary cave paintings which were first discovered in Fezzan in the 1930s.

Hundreds of these paintings can be see on the walls of caves in the wadis and valleys of the Tadrart and Akakus mountains. Palaeontologists consider them to be among the richest and most remarkable ‘collections’ of cave paintings in the world.

In one such cave, considered to be the oldest in the region, paintings of giraffes, elephants, buffaloes, ostriches and crodoiles are painted in haphazard profusion by some ancient, long-dead artist or artists.

Little is known of the fate of the proud Garamantes following the Roman occupation, but other tribes like the Dawadas, manage to survive down through the centuries in the far-from-benign clime of the desert, where the temperature has been known to climb to 580C (1360F).

The Dawadas extracted their protein from white grubs which they culled from the bottom of certain oases, like the picture postcard Gabraoun oasis situated in the north of the region.

The high-salt content of this oasis, while making it impossible to drink from, provided the Dawadas with an exceptional food source on which the tribe managed to survive until only a decade ago, when they sought more comfortable lifestyles in Fezzan’s bigger settlements.

Today, most of Fezzan’s 80,000 in habitants live in towns surrounding the oases in the south of this unique region, which is still deeply rooted in its past and seems reluctant to embrace the future.

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