I intended to get up bright an early this morning, setting my clock to 6:30am so I could get a fresh start exploring the ruins of Carthage before it got too hot outside. But jetlag got the better of me, and I find myself struggling to get out of bed at 8:15am. A long shower helped snap me out of my timezone-induced trance, so eventually I wandered down to the hotel restaurant for a breakfast of French bread, fig jam, honey, olives and eggs. I sat out on the hotel’s small balcony; the temperature was still pleasant, the sun warming my back.
After breakfast I grabbed my small backpack and walked half a kilometer east on Avenue Bourguiba until reaching the TGM commuter rail station. Buying the ticket from the gate agent, I boarded the train, which was filling up quickly. The train didn’t have air conditioning, and it felt like a steam room as we waited for it to leave the station. Fortunately, once the train departed, there was sufficient breeze coming through the windows to prevent me from melting prior to my arrival at Carthage.
“Try not to be too disappointed with Carthage,” several people had warned me over the years. Once the superpower of the southern Mediterranean, Carthage was a city-state of 300,000 people, and a constant thorn in the side of the Romans, as anyone who knows the story of Hannibal trouncing over the Alps with his army of war elephants will tell you. But as the Punic Wars piled up, the Romans eventually got the upper hand. “Carthage must be destroyed,” Cato the Elder used to say at the end of every speech he gave at the Roman senate. He eventually got his wish – during the last Punic War, the Romans laid waste to Carthage, burning much of it to the ground.
The Romans built a new city at Carthage, one that would soon become the regional capital of Africa Proconsularis (the name stuck, and was eventually applied to the entire continent). But as the centuries passed, Carthage and the surrounding area was torn back and forth between the Romans, Byzantine Greeks, Vandals, Arabs, Ottoman Turks and French, until the independent nation of Tunisia was born 50 years ago. The colonial tussling didn’t give Carthage much of a chance to age gracefully, so most of the city’s ancient buildings have vanished, leaving merely a hint of what use to be. Try not to be too disappointed, I thought to myself again. I mean, it’s Carthage for crying out loud….
The train headed northeast of Tunis, across Lake Tunis and through some of the capital’s wealthiest suburbs. I wasn’t exactly sure where to get off the train – the ruins of Carthage were spread out over several kilometers, and I didn’t know if I had to get off at the station closest to the centrally-located Carthage Museum to buy tickets, or if I could get them at one end of the site and work my way north from there. I decided to take my chances with the latter option, exiting the train at Carthage Salammbo station.
I had my handy guide book with me, a bookmark protecting the page with a map of Carthage in it, but at first I couldn’t reconcile what was in the book with what I was seeing around me. Essentially, I’d expected the area around Carthage to look like a typical ancient-world archeological site – an arid, open space with ruins of various quality scattered across the plain or hillside. Instead, I found myself plopped into a prosperous residential neighborhood. Whitewashed villas lined the streets, with kids riding bicycles and old men taking their dogs out for a walk. Carthage must be destroyed -- and replaced by suburbia.
Putting more faith in my map, I walked about 10 minutes until I reached a long white wall with a metal gate in the middle. I entered the gate and was relieved to find a man selling tickets that would be good at all of Carthage’s scattered sites for the rest of the day. My first stop was the Sanctuary of Tophet, a site whose modest collection of ruins are surpassed by their disturbing ancient purpose.
Back in classical times, the Greeks and Romans liked to paint their southern neighbors as barbarians; of the various stories they told about the Carthaginians, perhaps the one that cut to the bone the most was the idea that they practiced child sacrifice. Several writers in the ancient world made reference to the idea, but these folks were also pro-Roman or pro-Greek historians, so for centuries it was difficult to know how much credence to lend to the rumors.
Then about 80 years ago a group of amateur archeologists started to investigate where the local villagers were getting their hands on gravestone-like stellae that they were selling to tourists. After some digging around they discovered the Sanctuary of Tophet, a Carthaginian ceremonial site for worshipping the Phoenician gods Baal Hammon and Tanit. Tophet is ancient Hebrew for “place of burning” – the Torah even makes reference to an altar called Tophet, where people “burn to death their little sons and daughters.” Indeed, as the archeologists dug up the site, they found thousands more of those gravestone-like stellae, accompanied by little urns. In the end, they unearthed approximately 20,000 urns , each containing the ashes of a child. The discovery seemed to confirm the ancient stories of child sacrifice. But some experts still question whether the children were actually sacrificed, or if the site had some kind of holy significance for memorializing stillborn infants or children who died of natural causes . We may never know the answer, I suppose.
Entering the site, I felt like I was actually exploring the foundation of an old villa. The sanctuary was rather small, not much larger than a housing plot, and it was overgrown with trees and shrubs. In the center of the site were rows upon rows of stellae that had been dug up and planted back into the ground like a cemetery. Towards the left and right, steps led downward about 15 feet below the current street level to pits containing more stellae. As far as I could tell I was the only person there; it was just me and hundreds of these creepy little gravestones, each marked with a stick-figure symbol of a child.
I climbed out of one of the pits and began to explore the second one. To the far end of the pit, a young Frenchwoman was standing with a sketch pad, scratching out a quick drawing of one of the stellae. I didn’t want to disturb her so I went to the other side of the pit, sitting on a bench under a shade tree with a view of some of the stellae. They really did look like little gravestones, with simplistic images that seemed like kids got to design them themselves before, well…
Fortunately, there wasn’t much to do here for more than 10 minutes, and I was beginning to get a little spooked by the place. So I hit the road and started walking northwest through another residential neighborhood until reaching a pretty little lake that spilled out into the Gulf of Tunis, adjacent to a runoff pond. Amazingly, this water was once the lifeblood of Phoenicia’s Carthaginian empire – it was the ancient port of Carthage. More than two thousand years ago, this lake was a round harbor that supported the Carthaginian naval fleet, while the runoff pond was the merchant port. The naval harbor was actually built up as a coliseum-like fort: more than 200 ships could sail inside and dock along the perimeter for repairs or restocking. There was even dry-dock space above each mooring, so boats could be hauled out of the water for major repairs.
After the Romans sacked Carthage, Scipio turned the middle of the naval port into landfill and built a forum with two temples on it. Today the island in the middle of the lake is home to a small museum, but mostly it seems to be used by elderly fisherman. It’s amazing what a couple of millennia can do to a perfectly good port.
Leaving the Punic ports behind me, I soon reached the Paleo-Christian Museum, a small complex dedicated to Carthage’s early Christian history. As I walked inside I was greeted by the ticket agent, who looked as if he hadn’t seen a visitor all week. He immediately latched on to me and started talking excitedly in French, describing the various urns and amphorae and marble heads in the collection. I feebly tried to explain to him that I didn’t speak much French, but that didn’t seem to register with him, so I just listened politely while looking at the displays, occasionally picking up one out of every 10 or 15 words: basilica, horse, Greek, mosaic, wine. The collection wasn’t particularly impressive – all the best pieces were carted off to the Bardo Museum in Tunis – but outside you could still explore the foundations of the Byzantine-era Basilica of Carthagenna . The museum worker continued to explain the centuries of Christian history to me, but my French seemed to get worse as I understood less and less of what he said, occasionally distracted by wondering to myself if Cartagena in Colombia was named after Carthage.
After departing the museum, I walked about 20 minutes uphill to the top of Byrsa, the ancient acropolis of Carthage. Today, Bursa Hill is the Hollywood Hills of Tunis – a collection of ritzy villas and the occasional foreign ambassadors residence. Just a few blocks away, towards the Gulf of Tunis, was actually the residence of the Tunisian president. It was amazing to think that this swanky neighborhood was once the heart and soul of Carthage.
Reaching the top of the hill, I found myself standing before a giant French cathedral, an enormous sandstone consolation prize from Tunisia’s former colonial masters. Dedicated to a French king who was killed along the beach here during the Fourth Crusade, the cathedral is now L’Acropolium, a cultural center used for art shows and concerts. Just past the building I found the entrance to the Carthage Museum. I showed my ticket to an attendant who was playing with a dusty little kitten that looked like a miniature version of my tuxedo cat Dizzy, then crossed a giant plaza with an incredible view of the Gulf of Tunis and the capital city, 17 kilometers away. The plaza was marked by several shattered columns around the edges, but was otherwise barren. I soon realized I was standing in the middle of Carthage’s Forum. The entire summit of the acropolis was once covered in temples, libraries and government buildings. Today there is essentially nothing left, except the ghost-like shape of each building’s foundation.
Towards the center of the summit was the museum itself – two floors of mosaics, statues, jugs, jars and jewelry. The museum offered some useful reconstructions of what Carthage once looked like – I sure needed the help, because the remaining ruins just weren’t doing the civilization justice. There was also a foreign VIP being given a tour in English while a small security detail protected him from toppling statues or marauding sarcophagi. He looked somewhat familiar but I couldn’t place him; clearly a European government official. I would have taken a picture of him but his secret service-like guards kept giving me the evil eye. To make things even more awkward , his tour guide kept taking him to displays I was already looking at, and the security detail would nudge me out of the way so he could get a better look.
Leaving the acropolis behind me, I walked another 15 minutes to the north until reaching a site of Roman villas. As far as ruins go, these villas at least felt like ruins to me: you could make out actual buildings and colonnades, scattered across many acres. One villa remained in excellent condition; outside the house there was a large mosaic in a courtyard, with a pool of water adjacent to it.
By now it was approaching 1pm, and I was running low on water and energy. I’d applied sunscreen at least twice, but I felt as if my skin would soon peel off my forehead. Even though there were a few more sites to explore, the fact that I didn’t have a car made the idea of reaching them somewhat unappealing. Instead, I decided to wrap up my visit to Carthage and track down a taxi to take me a few miles north to the whitewashed city of Sidi Bou Said.
The same people who said I’d be disappointed in Carthage also told me that I wouldn’t be disappointed in Sidi Bou Said. They were absolutely right. As soon as the taxi reached the outskirts of town and started driving up the hillside, I realized I’d found a gem of a town. Reminiscent of the White Towns of Andalusian Spain, but with a spectacular ocean view, Sidi Bou Said was probably created in a conspiracy by the postcard industry. Everywhere you looked, you’d see charming old white houses perfectly trimmed with blue, fronted by cobblestone streets. I knew I’d enjoy my visit here. Each courtyard seemed to be overflowing with flowers and colorful plants, an explosion of magnolias, bougainvilleas, azaleas.
The taxi dropped me off at Place Sidi Bou Said, a quaint little plaza surrounded by souvenir shops and cafes. The main café, Café de Nattes, sat atop a steep white staircase, affording its patrons the best people watching spot in town. I thought about stopping there for a glass of tea, but it seemed like the type of place that served only drinks, and I was soon going to get desperate for lunch. I walked the length of the old town – really no more than 10 minutes in each direction, scouting out the various restaurants. All of them had their own particular charms, so it was largely a matter of what type of menu and price range I was seeking. Eventually I selected Le Chargui, sitting above its large courtyard on a small rooftop terrace. Below me, in the center of the courtyard, sat a group of Japanese tourists who were surrounded by a family of cats, each waiting for another morsel to fall to the ground.
I relaxed at the restaurant next to a Spanish family, drinking a 1.5 liter bottle of water and a ginger ale, just in case I still felt dehydrated. Strangely, my dehydration had given me false hunger pains, so after drinking all that water I didn’t see as hungry any more. Rather than getting a full lunch, I got a mixed Tunisian salad, which consisted of tuna, olives, diced onions and tomatoes, in a light oil and vinegar dressing.
After lunch, I stopped at a souvenir vendor to buy some postcards, then walked back to the main plaza and climbed the steps up to Café de Nattes. Ordering a glass of mint tea with pine nuts, I settled in to write my postcards, then realized I didn’t have any pens in my backpack. Normally I carried plenty of them in my backpack, but since I’d needed to shove the bag into my suitcase so I wouldn’t surpass the airline baggage allowance, I’d unpacked it of everything, including those pens. So there I sat at the café, tea and postcards in hand, unable to get the waiter’s attention to borrow a pen from him. I decided it must be fate: how could I possibly sit there huddled over my table writing postcards, when I had one of the best views in Tunisia below me?
Once I’d finished my tea, I backtracked across the square until reaching Dar el-Annabi, an 18th century mansion that was open to the public. For three dinars I was able to explore this charming home, built around an Andalusian-style courtyard. Several of the rooms were humorously decorated with wax figures sporting traditional Tunisian costumes. But otherwise the house was fascinating, with lavishly decorated guest rooms and parlors. In the back of the house I saw a sign pointing to stairs leading to the rooftop terrace. I climbed half way and found myself with a wonderful view of the Sidi Bou Said Mosque. On the opposite side of the mansion was yet another terrace, one floor above, jammed with at least 40 Italian tourists. The tour buses had arrived in Sidi Bou Said. I’d almost forgotten about them – quite a surprise considering how many I saw yesterday at the Bardo Museum. I got comfortable on the terrace, happily enjoying the view until the horde of tourists departed. I then crossed through an upper level of bedrooms to reach the stairway to the next terrace. The views of the surrounding area improved from this angle, giving me a better angle of Tunis in the distance.
Fortunately, I’d managed to take most of the pictures I’d wanted to from the terrace when I realized my camera’s batteries were now dead. I even had a batch of new batteries, but they were back at the hotel. First no pens, then no batteries: images of Tony Soprano’s high-school football coach started dancing in my head, screaming “You are not prepared! You are not prepared!” The problem was easily resolved when I walked back to the plaza and found a shop selling batteries for six dinars a batch – a little more than what I’d pay in the US, but it was one-third of what I got stuck paying in Iceland a few weeks ago.
I found a quiet place to sit and change my batteries – a cobblestone side street. I lost track of what was going on around me while I tried to put my batteries in the camera, until I realized a middle-aged Tunisian woman had just walked by and rubbed my head, messing up my hair. I looked up and she had a big smile on her face. “Bonjour!” she bellowed before walking away towards her house.
With my new camera batteries in place, I walked down the main road until reaching the top of the cliffs facing the Gulf of Tunis. Below me was an amazing view of the Mediterranean. Emerald water turned to azure blue as the water deepened in the distance. To the right was a distant hillside, topped with more villas and steep cliffs, while below I could see the marina and a crowded beach. Further afield was the Gulf of Tunis, with the Cap Bon peninsula jutting out towards the north.
I could have spent the rest of the afternoon sitting there, sketchpad in hand, but unfortunately I’d stumbled upon the Tunisian equivalent of Lovers’ Lane; there were probably a dozen young couples having an good time away from prying relatives’ eyes, and I felt like a third wheel (or perhaps a 25th wheel) sitting there in the middle of it. Not too far away, though, was a spot with an equally good view, but with drinks to boot – Café Sidi Chabaane. With a view that probably launched a thousand marriage proposals, the café was perhaps the most picturesque establishment in town. Finding a shady spot with an unobstructed view of the gulf and cliffs below, I ordered a mint tea and a shisha, then spent the next 90 minutes reading my guidebook and staring out at the sea. Apart from a few itinerant ants that managed to crawl up my leg and bite me, it was the perfect setting for a lazy afternoon.
After my extended tea break, I hiked around town for another 30 minutes before deciding it was time to head back to Tunis. I started walking southwest through the old town, saying goodbye to the cafes and shops I’d gotten to know during the afternoon. Just ahead of me, a young Russian woman was walking rather briskly. Invariably, every time she passed a shop, the owner would call out to her.
“You speak English?”
“Where you from, lady, Italia? Angleterre?”
“You know you are sexy – a sex machine!”
I felt terrible for her. She was clearly fed up with the situation, usually saying something tersely in English, sometimes muttering Russian curse words under her breath. Tunisia is an incredibly friendly place, but male visitors definitely have it easier here than female visitors, particularly when traveling independently.
Soon enough, I walked downhill to the commuter rail station, sitting on a bench along the platform waiting for the next train. About 10 minutes later I heard the sound of the local train tracks warning automobile traffic about an approaching train. A group of about 20 of us got up and walked to the edge of the platform, only to discover the arriving train was going in the wrong direction. We all let us a guttural laugh and returned to our spots on the benches. A few minutes later, the right train arrived, and we crammed on board. More and more people came on the train with each stop it made, making it quite hot. Several kids decided they’d had enough of the stifling temperatures, and began to force the doors back open following each stop. So we rushed southward to Tunis with an incredible breeze flying through the open doors, the kids laughing proudly while the adults shook their heads and tsk-tsked them with little result.
The bus was standing room only by the time we reached Tunis; I was more than eager to get away from the cattle car conditions. I walked back to my hotel and took a quick shower before heading outside just before 6pm. My first stop was a cybercafe; they didn’t have Internet access at the hotel, but fortunately public telecenters were plentiful in Tunis. On the downside, the Internet access was slow and several US news sites were mysteriously blocked. I managed to check email but struggled to respond to them; they Arabic keyboard layout was mind-numbingly frustrating, with many letters transposed or moved to weird corners of the keyboard. To make mattes worse, certain symbols like commas, periods and exclamation points were scattered all over the place, adding to my typing difficulties. By the time my hour was up, I’d probably written three emails. I’d probably have to wait until I got to my meetings in Hammamet, where I’d be able to plug in my own laptop.
Departing the cybercafe around a quarter to 7pm, I walked to the medina with a long list of recommended restaurants. One by one I visited them, and one by one I discovered they were all closed on Sunday. I suppose I should have taken the hint when I saw that nearly all the shops in the souks were closed as well, leaving me walking in dark, vaulted echo chambers with nothing but a few cats and elderly men keeping me company. After 30 minutes I gave up and decided to return to Nouvelle Ville, where I’d seen plenty of restaurants open on my way from the hotel.
As I exited the medina, I looked back and noticed the entrance of one restaurant, the Ali Pacha, that appeared to be open. I went upstairs and found a charming restaurant with Tunisian and Turkish decorations, and a couple groups of young women having dinner. I asked for a menu just to make sure the prices weren’t too outrageous, then found a spot on the balcony, where I could watch dusk turn to night as hundreds of swallows darted and swooped through the sky, reveling in an orgiastic aerial dance as they ate flying insects for dinner. As for me, I stuck with more traditional Tunisian fare: a mezze plate of olives, harissa, pickled vegetables and French bread, followed by a succulent portion of lamb couscous. It was a small feast for 15 dinars – about 12 bucks – and I enjoyed every bite of it.
As I finished dinner, the evening call to prayer began. First just a sole muezzin singing in the distance, several other muezzin joined in from other mosques. It reminded me of standing on a rooftop near the Blue Mosque in Istanbul, hearing a dozen calls to prayers from all directions. Prior to now, I hadn’t appreciated the Tunisian call to prayer; each time I’d heard it, it’d been drowned out by traffic noise or music. But now on the restaurant balcony, the only sounds competing with the muezzin were the chirping of those ecstatic swallows diving over the square. It was a magical moment.
I soon returned to the hotel to listen to some Mingus, write my journal and wonder what to do about tomorrow. I was supposed to transfer over to Hammamet for my first day of meetings, but the first meeting got cancelled, meaning I wouldn’t have to arrive until Tuesday. So tomorrow would be up in the air; I’ll just have to play it by ear and see what happens.