April 21, 2006
The Great Mosque of Kairouan
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Video montage of the Great Mosque of Kairouan, Tunisia, one of the holiest sites in Islam. Music by Solace, courtesy of |
Posted by acarvin at 1:56 PM
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December 1, 2005
Police Hassles Leave a Ksour Taste in my Mouth
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View from the ruined Berber village of Duiret |
Having not brought proper winter clothes with me (I thought winters in Tunisia were like "winters" in India - warm instead of hot), I layered up with three t-shirts, a long-sleeve shirt and my thin windbreaker. It would keep me relatively dry, but hardly comfortable. Belghasem, Marouen and our driver were much better prepared, sporting layers of sweatshirts and thick jackets.
Our plan today was to make a clockwise circuit to the west of Tataouine, focusing on the Berber villages of Duiret and Chenini, as well as Ksar Hadada. If we had time, we might go further west to the desert oasis of Ksar Ghilane, where parts of The English Patient were filmed.
Driving southwest, we soon reached a hillside sporting what appeared to be a ruined ksar with a statue of an enormous eagle, reminiscent of the eagle on Budapest's Castle Hill. "This is Ksar Ouled Debab," Marouen said. "We can stop here for a little while if you'd like."
"Why not?" I said. "We should have plenty of time."
We drove up the hillside until reaching the summit. In front of me stood a gargantuan statue of a stegosaurus, of all things.
"What's up with the dinosaur?" I asked.
"It is some kind of museum now, I believe," Marouen said.
We walked to the entrance and discovered that the ksar had been renovated to its original condition and was now hosting a historical museum, covering everything from the region's fossils to Berber traditions. Peeking inside, I saw the courtyard was full of additional dinosaur statues. T-Rex was just up and to the left, while triceratops could be found to the right. No sign of the brontosaurus, though.
"It will cost nine dinars if we want to go in," Marouen said.
"Nine dinars?" I replied incredulously. "Is this really necessary? I'm much more interested in visiting actual villages than replicas of one."
"Can we stay for coffee, though? Belghasem knows some of the people here."
Coffee sounded excellent, as the hotel's coffee was the worst in North Africa. I ordered a café Turc while the others got espresso drinks. The bartender explained that the museum had just opened, and would soon sport a luxury hotel. Though most of the ksour were publicly controlled, this particular ksar was a private venture.
Polishing off our coffees, we scurried through the raindrops back into the taxi. The clouds appeared to thin in the northwest, which was a good sign as we were heading in that general direction. The scenery here was very barren and sparsely populated, with crags and mesas reminiscent of the American West.
In the distance, we spotted a white minaret perched on a mountainside. "Duiret," Belghasem said.
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The Berber village of Duiret |
The driver parked the car at the bottom of the hill. My first step out of the car caused me to sink several inches in mud. Unfortunately, I was wearing my dress shoes - the only other footwear I brought on the trip was a pair of sandals that were useless in this weather. No doubt these shoes would have to be replaced back home.
We walked uphill towards the ksar. There were several shops inside some of the lower buildings, but they hadn't opened for the day yet; we had the entire village to ourselves. I shot some video while Marouen and Belghasem went ahead, climbing inside one of the crumbling vaulted rooms. I caught up with them a few minutes later.
"Feel the temperature," Marouen said. "It is warm."
"You're right," I replied." It's much more comfortable inside than it is outside."
Further up the hillside, we climbed some stone stairs to another level of ksour. Some of the buildings were for storage, but others had been residential; you could see which ones had once been used as kitchens because of the soot stains on the walls and ceilings. Many of the buildings had red handprints on the entrance, while others had crude sketches of fish.
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The Khomsa, or hand of Fatima, and other Berber symbols. |
"You have seen the Hand of Fatima symbol in Tunisia?" Marouen asked, describing the downward pointing hand you often see as charms or artwork.
"Yes, of course," I replied.
"It is the same thing here," Marouen continued. "The fingers of the hand represent the five pillars of Islam. That's why it's called a khomsa - it's the same as the Arabic word for five."
"Khamsa," I said.
"Yes, khamsa. The fish is also a good luck charm. Both symbols are used to ward off the devil from their homes."
We continued to explore the various courtyards of the village. It was a haunting place, with no one around and the wind howling in the valley. Thankfully the rain had stopped but that didn't prevent me from feeling chilled to the bone.
After climbing around the ruins for about 90 minutes, we returned to the car and continued onward to Chenini, about 30 minutes north of Duiret. The hills in this region became more common; the road snacked in a large S-shaped path for much of the journey. A few kilometres outside the village, we could see it high on a hillside; its white mosque gave it away quite easily. I could also make out what appeared to be tour buses. I guess our peace and quiet would soon run out.
We pulled into a parking area and left the taxi. Marouen, Belghasem and I walked towards the main road leading up to the old village but were soon stopped by two men standing inside a shop. They started speaking Arabic, talking to us for several minutes. Marouen motioned for me to walk up with him to the village while Belghasem stayed behind.
"They are police," Marouen said. "They do not want Belghasem to come with us because they worry he is acting as our guide, taking away business from licensed guides."
"But he's not our guide."
"They don't care," he said. "They are just making trouble for him."
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Chenini |
There were other tourists exploring the village, mostly Japanese, but they were in small groups. A much larger group of European tourists could be seen climbing the far end of the village, following a tour guide holding a closed umbrella.
Chenini had a strange vibe to it. While much of it appeared abandoned like Duiret, it was still a functioning village. Women in bright shawls carried water to donkeys and camels, while dressed in bernouses (cloaks) and qashibiyas (Ben Kanobi-like hooded coats) sat along the wall of a café, discussing the day's business. They didn't seem to be particularly thrilled about having tourists traipsing around their village; the men would give us polite nods but not let us take pictures while the women avoided us altogether.
Marouen and I snaked up the hillside, occasionally slipping on damp rocks and mud, as roosters and donkeys called out across the valley. The view from the top of the village was stunning, as you could see the valleys in front of it as well as behind it. No matter how far you looked, you couldn't see any human settlements in any direction. We were truly in the middle of nowhere.
We followed the upper path just below the mosque to the far side of the village, where a camel and a couple of donkeys hung out in someone's yard. The camel swayed back and forth while the donkeys barked every few minutes. I nearly slid halfway down the hillside when a wet rock gave way below my left foot; thankfully the only harm caused by the incident was a startled cat darting back into its owner's house.
Near the bottom of the hill, we found the driver standing in a parking lot, talking with one of the men we'd met earlier. Belghasem was leaning against a wall, looking rather dejected. As soon as we approached they started engaging Marouen in Arabic. It went on for several minutes.
"We have a problem," Marouen said. "They have taken their IDs and are threatening to take away the driver's license and throw Belghasem in jail."
"What the hell for?" I asked.
"Because they are traveling with you and don't understand why. They think they must be either your paid guides or something else."
"Like what?"
"Who is to say."
I asked if I could do anything to help the situation, but Marouen said no. "They don't want to talk to you," he explained. "They just want to make trouble for Belghasem."
"But why him and not me or you?"
"They knew we were in Tataouine because they stopped us in the louage yesterday. But then they lost track of you, and now they find you here in Chenini with two other men."
"Well of course they're bound to find me here," I said, frustrated. "Why on earth would anyone bother to come to Tataouine if they weren't going to visit the Berber villages and ksour?"
"I know that, but they are suspicious that these men are now traveling with you."
"Can't I explain why I am here and that Belghasem isn't my guide."
"Like I said, they don't want to talk with you. They just want to make trouble for Belghasem."
I felt terrible about the situation, but there was nothing I could do. We stood around for 20 minutes waiting for something to happen; the men continued to argue in Arabic, ignoring my presence. Marouen suggested I go wait in the car since it was warmer there; at first I refused but after a while it seemed we'd be stuck there for a while, so I might as way stay dry and out of the way.
Perhaps another 15 minutes passed before the three of them got back into the car.
"Is everything okay now?"
"I think so," Marouen said. "They are giving back their IDs and said we could leave."
"Are they making us go back to Tataouine,"
"No, no.... We can go to Ksar Hadada, no problem."
"But will anything happen to them?"
"Everything is okay with the driver. But they want Belghasem to come into the police station tomorrow and talk to them.
"About what?"
"About you."
"Oh."
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We drove silently for the next 30 minutes on the road to Ksar Hadada. Marouen and the driver seemed lost in thought, but it was clear that Belghasem was very stressed. What could I do? I tried apologizing to him in French but didn't have the words to convey how I felt. It probably wouldn't have mattered anyway.
Soon we arrived in the village of Ksar Hadada; the entrance to the ksar was in the heart of town, across from the mosque and several cafes. A sign outside welcomed visitors to the famous ksar used by Mr. George Lucas "in his tremendously successful film, The Phantom Menace." From what I knew about Ksar Hadada, it was supposed to be one of the most picturesque ksour, painted white with brown and blue accents. It had been used as a hotel for many years, including the time the Star Wars team shot here in 1997; now it was being renovated into a new hotel.
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Ksar Hadada. This spot used to be one of the most famous parts of the ksar, but now it's spoiled by a new tool shed, the wall of which you can see along the left of the picture. |
The Star Wars section of the ksar was being repainted; white cans of acrylic littered the courtyard, along with rollers, scraps of cloth and the occasional bucket. The location seemed familiar, certainly, but I was struck by how I wasn't experiencing one of those moments of absolute recognition.
"So this is the place?" I said. Belghasem replied in Arabic.
"He said that the hotel is doing renovation work here," Marouen explained. "And in the process they have changed it."
"What do you mean?"
"Do you see this?" Marouen continued, pointing to a new tool shed that had just been installed. "This used to be where people took the photo of the ksar, but now it is gone."
For a moment I didn't understand, but then it all came together. I looked at the cover of my old Rough Guide book and saw the same location, photographed from where I was standing. But the beautiful image of the ksar's steps coming down the building was destroyed when the steps were removed and replaced with the tool shed for the hotel. The renovators had wiped out one of the most enduring and evocative images of southern Tunisia all in the name of progress. I was thoroughly disgusted.
The realization that the renovation work had utterly transformed the ksar ruined the experience for me. Even though the ksar itself - what remained of it, at least - was a fascinating place, I couldn't help but think about what they were sacrificing here. The destruction had happened in the name of tourism - renovating the ksar hotel - but by doing so they'd taken away one of the primary reasons for visiting this very spot. It simply defied logic.
We spent another 30 minutes or so exploring the endless rows of granaries at the ksar, but I couldn't stop thinking about the foolishness of their renovation work. I started wondering if the same was in store for Ksar Ouled Soltane. Hopefully not, since it's still a living, breathing village, while other ksour are largely abandoned. Still, there's got to be a better way of striking a balance between development, responsible tourism and cultural heritage. They certainly weren't striking it here at Ksar Hadada. Maybe I'd feel differently once the renovation work was completed, but who's to say if I'll ever have the chance to come back here.
Leaving the ksar, we stopped at a café across the street, where our driver had just bought a piece of cake and some tea. We stood around at the bar drinking tea and noshing on our own snacks, including a dessert called sweet harissa - a syrupy sponge cake that had nothing in common with the harissa pepper sauce served throughout Tunisia. I asked if they knew why they shared the same name. Everyone shrugged.
Back in the car, we returned to Tataouine. It was only mid-afternoon at this point, but the day had been draining. Belghasem appeared to be in a better mood, but he still wouldn't really talk to me. I felt terrible. I was still furious with the police in Chenini for putting him through hell just so they could find out about who I was and what I was doing there. Hadn't it occurred to them that they could have simply asked me?
We spent much of the afternoon at the cybercafe, catching up on emails and writing our blogs. I also went by a shop to buy myself a qashibiya, the hooded brown coats worn by men in southern Tunisia and made most famous by the Jawas in Star Wars. One shop in the tourist area had quoted an absurd 70 dinars for the qashibiya, but a second shop owner asked a more reasonable 20 dinars. He also had a fine collection of bernouses; I tried own a dark brown bernous, its cape stretching down all the way to my feet. Marouen and the shop owner showed me the various ways of wearing it while an elderly man wandered into the shop and looked on approvingly. He and Marouen chatted in Arabic while I worked out my purchase; I decided to get both the qashibiya and the bernous, while Marouen got a blue bernous, in the style of those worn in the village of Ghomrassen.
"The old man asked me if you were Christian or Muslim," Marouen said as we left the shop.
"What did you tell him?" I asked.
"I thought it was best to change the subject."
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At some point late in the day I realized it was Thanksgiving back home in the US. I figured we wouldn't have much of a chance of finding a proper turkey here in Tataouine, but I suggested that we at least go a little bit more upmarket for dinner - upmarket being anything more than the usual three-dollars-a-person we'd often spend on a meal here.
Next to our hotel, we found La Gazelle, a restaurant and hotel that seemed a few steps classier than our current accommodations. The restaurant's decorations were more French than Tunisian, as were the prices.
"Too expensive," Marouen said dismissively as we looked at the menu.
"More expensive, yes," I agreed. "But it's Thanksgiving. Dinner's on me."
We skimmed the menu, trying to figure out what would be most appropriate for a Tunisian Thanksgiving. "This is your turkey, is it not?" Marouen said, pointing at something on the menu.
"Dinde escalope?" I said, reading it outloud. "I'm not sure what Dinde is in French. It might be turkey, but it's been a while since I've studied French menus."
"Yes, I am sure of it," Marouen continued. "Dinde is your turkey."
"What does it say in Arabic?" I asked, pointing to the opposite side of the menu.
"Dinde escalope," he replied.
The Tunisian waiter, speaking in an exaggerated French accent, confirmed for us that dinde was turkey. Images of a proper Thanksgiving turkey swirled in my head as we feasted on a sloppy order of briq (egg pastry) for an appetizer. Of course, I shouldn't have been surprised when the turkey arrived as a plain, unseasoned piece of breast meat with a garnish of wilted lettuce. Not exactly the Thanksgiving meal I was used to, but at least I'd managed to find perhaps the only restaurant in southern Tunisia serving turkey. Bonne Thanksgiving.... -andy
Posted by acarvin at 4:59 PM
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November 28, 2005
The Road to Tataouine and My First Ksar
To my complete surprise, I had one of my best nights' sleep of the trip in my cave at the Sidi Driss Hotel. The room never got below 66 degrees, and I had plenty of blankets to keep me cozy. While I wouldn't advocate staying there longer than a night or two, it was comfortable enough to get plenty of rest.
Tom and Marouen were still asleep when I got up around 7:45am; Chris, meanwhile, had been up for a while, taking advantage of first light with his beautiful digital camera. I stumbled into the dining room in the Star Wars courtyard, eager to dig into a bottomless bowl of French bread and similar quantities of strong coffee, joining a middle-aged Australian backpacker and a young Japanese trekker. Soon enough everyone at the hotel was in the dining room, talking either Star Wars or WSIS - both subjects applied to everyone in the room as far as I could tell. Unfortunately, the guys who had been working at the hotel the previous evening had gone home, so I wasn't in a position to introduce them to my Star Wars CD. Oh well, maybe next time.
We'd be parting ways this morning: Tom was keen on visiting the oasis of Douz and parts of the Sahara; I, on the other hand, really didn't have time to visit both Douz and the Berber villages around Tataouine, so Marouen and I made the decision to go our own way that day. Tom caught the 9am bus to Douz while Marouen and I lingered at the hotel a little longer. We went outside and climbed the hill that served as the outer rim to the pit courtyards. I soon found myself in the same spot where Luke's aunt called out to him in the first movie. "Luke! Lu-uke!" I yelled, doing a rather poor imitation of her; the hotel worker coming out of the kitchen next to the courtyard looked up at me perplexed, clearly not getting the reference.
By 9:30 or so, Marouen and I had checked out of the hotel and walked over to the bus station. The bus hadn't arrived yet, so we crossed the street and had a coffee at a local café. Nearby, I heard a horrible screeching noise, like an animal in pain; a butcher walked across the courtyard with two chickens in his hands, heading into his shop. The screeching soon stopped. It's haunted me ever since; I found myself becoming a vegetarian again in an instant, not unlike the trip Susanne and I took to Greece in 2001.
With caffeine in my veins and the cries of chickens in my head, we boarded the bus a couple minutes past 10am. It was a local bus, so we made a lot of stops on the way to Gabes, picking up women going to markets and soldiers going wherever it is soldiers go in this part of Tunisia. The bus driver played traditional Tunisian Berber music on the stereo system; it reminded me of Moroccan Berber music but with simpler drum arrangements.
We touched down at the Gabes bus station just before 11:30am; across the plaza, we found a louage headed to Tataouine, about three hours' south. Tataouine holds two major claims to fame. Historically, it's been a base for people wanting to explore the ksour of southern Tunisia. Ksour (singular ksar) are fortified adobe structures built by the Berbers to store their grain. There are around 75 ksour in the region around Tataouine, some nearly 1000 years old. They're a unique style of architecture that's emblematic of southern Tunisia, as well as Tataouine's second claim to fame: Star Wars. Tataouine served as a base of operations during the filming of many of the Star Wars movies - so much so, that the city itself gave its name to Luke Skywalker's home planet, Tatooine. Several of the local ksour were used in the movies, in particular the dreadful Phantom Menace. In that film, when Obi-Wan Kanobi and friends go to Tatooine, they find the young, obnoxious Anakin Skywalker residing in the local slave quarters. Many of those scenes were film in the local ksour.
Our louage headed south past the towns of Medenine and Mareth, the latter probably best known as being the focal point of major tank battles between Rommel's panzer divisions and the US army. We were following the main road to Tripoli, Libya; the border was just a couple of hours away from here. The road was lined with kiosks selling plastic jugs of cheap Libyan gasoline, while others had freshly slaughtered sheep for sale, hanging on ceiling hooks.
Further south, we reached a police checkpoint, where we were asked to pull over. Everything seemed to be going fine until they asked to see our papers and noticed I was carrying a US passport. One of the police leaned into the window and said something in Arabic. All the men around me sighed and muttered. We were being asked to get out of the minivan.
We spent the next 10 minutes or so as police went back and forth from one office to another, carrying my passport around as if it were the most unusual thing they'd seen in weeks. (I can't be the only post-WSIS American touring Tunisia at the moment, can I?) One of the policemen then began talking to Marouen, who explained in Arabic that we were friends from the WSIS summit, that I worked for a US NGO that works in education technology, and that we were here as tourists. His sincere response must have done the job, because they eventually returned with all of our IDs and asked us to get on our way. Most of the other men in the louage stared at me a while as we departed.
"What was that all about?" I asked Marouen.
"It is nothing," Marouen said. "They wanted to know who you were, why you were here.... It's not like you have done anything wrong - they are more concerned about your safety than anything else."
"They have an odd way of expressing it," I replied.
We arrived in Tataouine early in the afternoon. It's a rather nondescript place, built as a French garrison town in the late 1800s, with little historic or cultural significance. I somewhat felt like I was visiting a small town in the rural US - just enough goods and services available to keep things running, but otherwise, not much to write home about. Marouen and I walked a couple blocks from the louage station to the Residence Hamza, which had been recommended by the Lonely Planet. Apart from the friendly service, I'm not totally sure why - the beds were terrible, the halls noisy and the bathroom too ripe for its own good. But at around $13 a night, it was nice and cheap. I might regret the lack of heating, though - clearly I hadn't packed well for this trip.
Across the street, we got some omelets for lunch and called a friend of Marouen's father, Belghasem, who ran a small grocery shop on the main street. Marouen thought that Belghasem might have some ideas for arranging transport around the ksour for tomorrow. A few minutes after calling him, Belghasem arrived at the restaurant and offered to join us that afternoon to visit Ksar Ouled Soltane, 20 minutes' south of Tataouine. He suggested we take a cannionette - a louage pickup truck - then arrange a louage to charter the next day.
We started by talking a walk through the local souk, which was quite small compared to the ones we'd seen in Kairouan and Tunis. Part of the souk was an old synagogue, back from the time of the French; most, if not all of the local Jews had moved to Djerba or immigrated to Israel. Belghasem also had us stop at one of the many pastry shops in town to try a gazelle's horn, a horn-shaped pastry filled with honey and nuts. Delicious.
We then grabbed a cannionette and drove south, sitting on the padded benches installed in the pickup's cab. As we drove to the ksar, Belghasem pointed out several ksour along the way, none of which were listed in our guidebooks. They looked like ruined forts on the sides of hills and mountains; in many ways, that's exactly what they were, since the Berbers built the ksour around former strongholds known as ka'ala, which they used to protect themselves and their foodstuffs from marauders.
We arrived in the village of Ouled Soltane, named after the local Berber tribe. Several old men wearing fezzes and bernouses sat along a bench; they all smiled and gave a warm "Salaam alekum" to us as we climbed out of the cannionette.
"W'alekum salaam," I replied, waving back.
Belghasem led us around the corner down an alleyway; suddenly we found ourselves in a remarkable adobe courtyard. To the left and right were vaulted ghorfas - grain storage areas - usually stacked two or three on top of each other. Adobe stairs suspended in mid-air led up to each ghorfa, while wood beams jutted out at the highest levels, allowing villagers to bring up goods on pulleys. This was the very image of a ksar that I had in my head; it was great to finally see some of them in person.
Marouen and I scurried up the stairs on different ghorfas, trying to get a better view of the ones across from us. Behind me there was a beautiful view of the rough, barren countryside. The ksar was located on a hillside, so you could see anyone approaching the granary from miles around.
Belghasem had gone off through a passageway into another courtyard behind a small group of Italian tourists; Marouen and I soon followed. Inside was another plaza of ghorfas, but much more spectacular. They were stacked four levels high, dozens of them, with each side of the plaza at least 100 feet long. It was quite a sight. The Italian tourists were having tea at a small café, as a thin young man sold drawings of the ksar.
I followed the perimeter of the ksar, admiring the workmanship of the ghorfas and their accompanying stairs. This particular ksar was over 500 years old; despite being abandoned, it was in remarkable condition.
Eventually, we struck up a conversation with the young man selling tea and drawings. His name was Bashir; his brother was the artist who'd done the pictures. He didn't speak any English, so Marouen translated for him. He was from the village, but wasn't allowed in the ksar when he was a child, because the ksar was reserved as a meeting space for adult members of the tribe. They gather in the ksar once a week to discuss community members and socialize. Once he was older, he was allowed to set up a small shop inside the ksar, selling snacks, trinkets and his brother's artwork.
"Do you get many Star Wars tourists?" I asked.
"Some," he replied through Marouen. "But not as many as Ksar Hadada."
"Do you remember when they came here to film Star Wars?"
"Yes, but they were very fast," he said. "They came in and out; I was studying that day and missed the excitement."
"Have you seen Star Wars?" I asked.
"He hasn't seen movies," Marouen said, translating Bashir's reply.
"The Star Wars movies?"
"No," Marouen continued. "Any movies."
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I bought a small drawing of the ksar from Bashir before we said goodbye. Outside the ksar, we quickly found another cannionette heading back to Tataouine. We again sat in the back; the front was taken up by a man with several dozen loaves of French bread.
We split off from Belghasem to rest at the hotel for a bit and visit the cybercafe. Later, Marouen said we should go to his shop to discuss our plans for tomorrow. He was interested in taking the day off and touring the ksour with us. He wasn't a guide or anything - he just enjoyed the company, as did we.
Marouen and I walked over to his shop on the outskirts of town, where we found him and his partner inside their kiosk, selling handfuls of roasted sunflower seeds to local children. They offered us tea and some seeds, which were still piping hot, freshly scooped from the roasting pan. I sat passively while the three of them debated in Arabic about our strategy for the next day. The general agreement was to try to hire a louage for the next day. The driver could not be our guide; he could only chauffer us around, because of local rules about all guides being licensed. That was fine; our books would serve the role of our guide, or we could hire someone on the spot as we needed it.
Leaving the shop, Marouen and I caught a late dinner at the Restaurant de la Medina. The restaurant only had a few of the items listed on the menu. Marouen suggested the chicken; I kept thinking about the chickens from that morning. I ordered a salad and some baked beans for dinner.
Posted by acarvin at 9:27 AM
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November 26, 2005
Another Day in Djerba
My last day in Djerba: nice weather, friendly people, strong tea. still cant type on an Arabic keyboard to save my life, so hopeully I can plug in my laptop for a while when I get back to Tunis. Stay tuned for some new videos once I have enough bandwidth to upload them: the El Ghriba Synagogue in Djerba; how to make lablabi - bread and chickpea stew; getting shaved by a master barber; helping a camel mow the lawn; and spending the night in luke skywalker's house. More later.... -andy
Posted by acarvin at 7:25 PM
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November 25, 2005
Medinas, Coliseums and Too Many Taxis
Tom snored like hell last night; it drove me so crazy I ended up getting my own room down the hall. It turns out single rooms were just two dinars more than each of our share of the quad, so we probably should have done that anyway. I managed to sleep just fine after that, and woke up around 7am to rouse the others out of bed for a quick breakfast at the hotel.
Today our plan was to work our way to the Berber village of Matmata, perhaps most famous for its underground homes, used most famously as Luke Skywalker's house in the original Star Wars. Luke's home was actually a one-star hotel, so we made plans to spend the night there. In the meantime, we'd walk around Mahdia for a bit, visit the nearby Roman coliseum of el Jem, then work our way south to Matmata.
Compared to Tunis or Kairouan, Mahdia isn't much more than a village in its own right, but that's much of its charm. An ancient city with a medina located on a long, thin peninsula, it's a wonderful place to relax when the weather is nice. Unfortunately, we weren't blessed with stellar weather, but that didn't dampen our spirits too much. We walked clockwise around the peninsula, watching the waves lap against the remains of Fatimid-era fortifications that were knocked down more than 500 years ago by the Spanish. Legendary pirate Dragut, a protégé of the Barbarossa brothers, had used Mahdia as a base while his corsairs harassed Spanish shipping lanes; the Spanish responded by blowing up the local mosque and knocking down the walls.
As we rounded the end of the peninsula, we reached a large Muslim graveyard. Sheep wandered around the headstones as several cats stood watching, as if they were herding the sheep. One of the cats was very friendly and immediately trotted over to say hello to us; another one came near us but remained somewhat suspicious of our intentions. The sheep even expressed interest in us, but I have a feeling they were just looking for some handouts.
We strolled a short way through the medina but eventually decided to return to the hotel to grab our things and hail a taxi; we'd have a long day ahead of us. The taxi brought us back to the local louage station, where we joined a shared taxi for the 45-minute drive to el Jem. Jem is home to the best preserved coliseums in the world, built in the third century by the local Roman governor. A medium-size city has now grown up around the ruins, but you could still make out the old stone structure from many blocks away as we approached the louage station.
Our first goal was to figure out when the train passed through el Jem, so we could continue to Gabes before catching a short-haul louage to Matmata. At the train station, we discovered the next train wasn't for another four hours, and we'd only have about 90 minutes of things to do in el Jem, even if we walked at a snail's pace. So it seemed we'd have to talk louages all the way - at least 90 minutes to Sfax, and probably another three hours to Matmata if we could arrange direct transport. Worse case scenario, we'd have to change taxis in Sfax, Gabes and Matmata Nouvelle before reaching Matmata - a frightening thought.
Even though the coliseum is the largest building for miles around, somehow we managed to get lost trying to find it, winding through residential neighborhoods with all of our luggage in tow. I truly hoped we'd be able to find a safe place to stow our bags; otherwise our time at the coliseum would be quite short. Rounding a corner, I spotted a bit of the ruins the next block away. You could also see a distinct up-tick in the number of souvenir vendors in the street, not to mention restaurateurs calling out to tourists in half a dozen languages. One of them called out to us, inviting us in for lunch; we promised him we'd come back for lunch if he watched our bags; a deal was struck.
We left our bags with the restaurant owner (except my laptop - that's not leaving my side) while we went into the coliseum. It seemed to be as large as the one in Rome, if not larger, and better preserved. Marouen and I followed the first row of stairs upwards so we could get a high view of the inner ring. Walking underneath countless vaults, we reached the inner part of the coliseum, with a fine view of a group of tourists standing around like martyrs getting ready to be thrown to the lions. You could easily imagine the crowds here - el Jem held 30,000 people, much more than the population of the local community.
Marouen and I then climbed to the highest level, only to find Tom there; somehow he'd managed to get ahead of us. Tom jumped around from one stone beam to another, exclaiming how they'd never let him do this in Rome. With good reason. Winding through the coliseum's many passageways, we soon found ourselves at ground zero, in the center of the ring. I saw Tom spin around in awe, looking at imaginary crowds.
"Having a Russell Crowe moment?" I asked.
"Actually, yes, I was," he replied, almost instinctively gripping an imaginary short sword.
Marouen and I then found a flight of stairs to the underground passageway below the center ring. It suddenly got quite dark, with just enough light to prevent us from splitting our heads open on a wall of cracked marble. Further ahead, we could see more light, so we followed it; we were now in the main passageway running the length of the ring. Shafts of light came through the grating above us; we passed unnoticed below several Italian tourists. To our left and right, dark niches held memories of the wild beasts once kept there, or perhaps the criminals or Christians as they collected their thoughts before being sacrificed for the thrill of the crowd.
Tom entered the underground chamber just as we exited; we met him at the center point of the ring, peering down at him through the metal grating. Along the edges of the ring you could see a few fragments of marble left; at one point marble covered the entire faćade. What a sight it must have been at its peak, 1700 years ago. Leaving the coliseum, we returned to the restaurant as promised and ordered lunch. Tom and I got to have our first briq - a folded, crispy crepe with a lightly cooked egg inside. Tunisians try to eat a briq without dripping any of the egg on themselves, so it often requires a lot of slurping. Fortunately, mine was cooked well enough that this never became an issue for me. Meanwhile, we watched the restaurateur trying to lure in customers by calling out the names of various politicians from their respective countries. He managed to get a Greek couple to sit down, but otherwise most people were going next door.
After lunch we caught a louage to Sfax, getting there around 2pm. We had hoped to take a louage all the way to Matmata from there, but people told us that we'd have to talk the more roundabout route of going to Gabes and Matmata Nouvelle first. A louage driver approached us and offered to let us charter his taxi for 60 dinars, which seemed excessive. We bartered back and forth for a while, eventually getting him down to 45 dinars. It would be a bit more than going the usual way, but would probably save us at least 90 minutes along the way. The rest of the afternoon was spent driving through rainy coastal Tunisia. Marouen slept much of the time while Tom and I continued to talk politics.
By 4:30pm, the terrain became very barren and hilly - lots of sand and clay and scrub brush, with the occasional date palm in the distance. A few miles before Matmata, we passed our first camel, nibbling on some bushes beyond a Berber tent. We were definitely no longer in urban Tunisia.
A few minutes before 5pm we arrived in Matmata. We pulled up in front of the Hotel Sidi Driss, aka Luke Skywalker's house. From the outside, it looked like nothing special; just a squat building with some souvenir vendors out front. But as we entered, it instantly transformed into another galaxy, far, far away. Carved into the countryside, the hotel is entirely under ground. The reception area was basically a cave with somewhat claustrophobic ceilings and countless Star Wars stickers along the wall. To our right, an enormous Darth Vader tapestry hung on the wall, while to our left was a passageway to a courtyard.
We followed one of the hotel staff into the courtyard. It was like we were entering the center ring of a coliseum again, but in miniature. The walls of the courtyard shot up at least 20 feet upward, with arched passageways leading to more caves and corridors. For a moment, I forgot I was underground; the very top of those soaring walls were actually ground level, meaning that we were literally standing in an enormous pit. I immediately recognized the location. This may or may not have been the pit used in all the Star Wars shots of Luke's house; either way it was certainly in the same style. I didn't see any props along the walls, though, so this was probably just a run-of-the-mill troglodyte pit rather than a George Lucas set.
I was then shown to my room - a cave with seven beds crammed into it with a single bare lightbulb and no lock on the door. Charming. I guess I'd be carrying around my laptop again tonight. We dropped off most of our belongings then went upstairs to go for a walk.
In the reception area, we went passed the Darth Vader picture and found another courtyard. This one was decorated with large plastic facades covered in weird knobs and metallic objects. The palm tree in one corner of the courtyard was hidden under a long plastic tube designed to look like some space-age duct. There was no doubt about it; this courtyard was the main pit used in the first Star Wars movie. The three of us went around inspecting every corner of the courtyard. The plastic set pieces were very flimsy, clearly designed to be filmed and not touched. It was quite astonishing that so much of it was still in place; I would have figured most of it would have been boosted and sold on eBay by now.
Stepping out of the hotel, I was then surprised to see Tracey Naughton of the WSIS media caucus standing by her car with her partner Chris. I suppose I shouldn't be too surprised to bump into WSIS colleagues here, but it was still one of those "What the hell are you doing here?" moments. Tracey and Chris checked into the hotel while Tom, Marouen and I went in search of the Hotel Marhala, another Matmata pit house. The Rough Guide claimed that the hotel was used for "the Star Wars disco scene," which I assumed meant the Mos Eisely cantina with all the funny aliens in it, where we first encounter Han Solo. I was under the impression that this scene was filmed on a London sound stage rather than here in Tunisia, but in case I was wrong, I'd hate to miss out on seeing the famous cantina.
We hiked our way up and down the hills that make up the village, past a few cafes and souvenir stalls. There were very few people around; clearly this wasn't a busy time of year for tourists to be traipsing through. Many of the local men, young and old alike, were wearing what I could have sworn were Star Wars Jawa outfits - those little creatures in the brown cloaks that go around saying "ooh tee dee" a lot. The more I saw them, the more I realized they were also the same cloak worn by Obi Wan Kanobi himself. I'd always figured those outfits were just a figment of the mind of George Lucas or his costume designer. I had no idea they were traditional Berber cloaks. It would take me a while to stop thinking about Jawas each time I saw someone wearing one of them.
It was just before 6pm, and it was pitch black outside. Somehow, we managed to find our way to the Marhala Hotel. We planned to get a drink at the bar, but it wasn't open yet. We stuck around long enough to ask the hotel workers if any scenes from Star Wars were shot there. Marouen expected them to say yes no matter what, since that would be good for business. "Leh, leh, leh," they replied, shaking their heads. Nope. No Star Wars scenes filmed here. Cleared up that myth, I guess.
We walked a little further to another hotel with an open bar; Marouen drank coffee while I add some Muscat wine and Tom had a Celtia beer. The local restaurants didn't open until 7pm, so we then decided to return to the hotel and see if Tracey and Chris would like to join us. They'd already ordered dinner at our hotel; once we heard that was possible, we decided to eat in as well.
Matmata wasn't the type of town that had much of anything going on after sunset, so I suggested that we all watch Star Wars. I had the DVD with me, and the Sidi Driss seemed like the best place in the world to watch it. By the time we sat down for dinner, we'd found a group of around eight people wanting to watch the movie.
Dinner at the Sidi Driss was surprisingly good, certainly better than the run-down accommodations. They served briq as an appetizer, with copious amounts of fiery harissa sauce and French bread, then lamb couscous with bowls of extra tomato sauce. The sauce in particular made the meal memorable; sometimes the couscous here can be a little starchy, so the sauce makes it a lot more enjoyable to eat.
After dinner, we tried to plug in my laptop in the dining hall, which would have been perfect since it was actually used as Luke's dining room in the movie. Unfortunately the one power outlet in the room was high on the wall, and every time I plugged in my laptop, the plug fell out of the wall. So we searched around and found another room, just above and to the left of the dining room. It was still in the main Star Wars courtyard with all the set pieces, so that's all that mattered.
I set up my laptop on a long table, with everyone spread around the other side of the room. It wasn't easy to watch, and the sound wasn't great, but it was still better than nothing. I imagine the movie has been played here before, but who knows. Every now and then the staff came by to take a quick peak, but they never lingered. Afterwards we asked them about it; they said they'd never seen the movie. I wish we'd known that; we would have insisted on showing it to them. I then offered to play the Matmata-related scenes the next morning if they were around the hotel.
I headed for bed around 11pm. The room was surprisingly comfortable; even though it was in the 50s outside, the room was closer to 70 degrees. That's cave living for you. It even attracted some guests, including a large dung beetle that crawled along the floor. I gave it a gentle lift with a small plastic bag and tossed him out of the room so I wouldn't step on him at night, then climbed into one of my seven beds before calling it a night. I just wonder if this was the bed that Luke used. With my luck, it was probably his Aunt Veru's bed instead.
Posted by acarvin at 6:09 PM
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Next Stop: Mahdia
I slept in later than normal today, getting up around 9am for a nice breakfast at the Kasbah buffet. I really didn't have much planned for today since Marouen Mraihi and Tom Dawkins were coming down around lunchtime to join me during my travels around southern Tunisia. After breakfast, I took another walk through the market, where I managed to get a few more photos of people. One woman insisted I pay here one dinar after I took her picture; so far she's the only person that's requested money here in Tunisia.
Around noon I went back to the hotel to give Marouen a call and see if he was on the bus yet. He said they were at the bus station waiting to depart Tunis, which meant I wouldn't see them for at least another two hours. Knowing that I'd have a draining week ahead of me, I decided to chill out by the hotel pool, reading my newly acquired French travel guide to Tunisia. I managed to make out a lot of it, probably because I already knew much of the Lonely Planet Tunisia guide by heart.
Marouen and Tom arrived just after 2:30pm. They asked if it would be alright to walk around the Medina before leaving Kairouan; I said I didn't mind, since at this rate we probably wouldn't reach our next destination until sunset anyway. Marouen suggested we stay in Sousse, but Tom and I recommended Mahdia, since it was smaller and more laid-back. Marouen seemed okay with that.
Tom had expressed interest in buying a carpet; he was certainly in the right place. We walked around the medina passing various carpet shops, but decided to grab a quick bite to eat at a restaurant first. We ordered omelets, which came with beans, French bread and a Tunisian salad - quite delicious.
The three of us then backtracked to one of the carpet shops, where we first asked to climb up to the terrace first. Unfortunately, the terrace wasn't that spectacular, but we were still obliged to shop around for a few minutes. Tom didn't want to spend more than 150 dinars on a carpet, which pretty much meant he'd be looking at ones that were two square meters. The owners of the shop pulled out carpets that were tagged at well over 300 dinars, but that was just a negotiating tactic. With some language assistance from Marouen and a healthy dose of haggler's skepticism, Tom eventually got the carpet at less than 150 dinars.
By the time we got to the louage station, it was around 4pm; we'd be lucky if we arrived in Mahdia by 7pm, since we had to catch a taxi first to Sousse and then change for another taxi to Mahdia. The process was simple enough; we'd go to the station, call out where we wanted to go, and would be directed to the right minibus. We'd then wait until the bus filled and then hit the road. Pretty straightforward.
Marouen slept most of the time while Tom and I talked US politics; for an Australian he knew a hell of a lot about what was going on in US policymaking. We reached the Mahdia louage station around 7pm, then caught a taxi the last few kilometres to the medina. He charged us three dinars -we definitely got ripped off, but were too tired to do much about it. We found ourselves on a chilly, quiet peninsula jutting out in the Mediterranean, standing at the edge of a medina alleyway. Ahead of us we found the Hotel Al Jazira, our home for the next night. Two song birds greeted us as we went inside; the owner gave us a quad room for ourselves.
After dropping our bags, we walked through the peaceful medina past a few cats and not much else to the Restaurant de la Medina, where we ordered their fish couscous special. The fish (mullet) was okay but the sauce on the couscous was excellent. Meanwhile, the local cat parked himself between Marouen and me, waiting to be fed. I didn't know the local protocol for feeding cats, so I resisted giving him any fish. Clearly, this wasn't the right thing to do, because the cat kept trying to claw his way into my lap. The restaurant owner seemed to get a kick out of my predicament. Just another night in Tunisia, I guess.
Posted by acarvin at 5:57 PM
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Losing Myself & My Guidebook in Kairouan
After a quick breakfast at the Diplomat, I hailed a taxi and went straight to the southern bus station. It was 8:40am, and I was hoping to get the 9am bus to Kairouan, assuming that's when the next bus left the station. Fortunately, I arrived with just enough time to buy my ticket for nine dinars and get on the bus, which left three minutes later. There were less than 10 of us on the bus, so we had plenty of room to spread out. Interestingly, the bus was one of the WSIS delegate buses - it still had the WSIS hotel route sign on it. The driver went around the bus and asked everyone's destination. No one said they were going to Nabeul, usually the first stop on the bus, so we made a direct line to Kairouan, arriving in just over two hours rather than the usual three.
The Kairouan bus station was a swirl of dust, with nary a taxi in sight. I grabbed my bags and hiked a few meters outside of the station, hoping to hail a passing taxi. It didn't take too long; within five minutes I had a ride to my hotel. Soon we pulled up to what appeared to be a medieval sandstone fortress; indeed, it was the Hotel La Kasbah, my home for the next night. The Kasbah was the medina's former military stronghold, but it had been converted beautifully into Kairouan's classiest hotel. Normally a room during the high season could easily fetch well over $100 a night, but I managed to get a room for closer to $50.
After tossing my belongings into my room, I grabbed my daypack, camera and Lonely Planet guidebook so I could explore the city. I'd been waiting for years to do this, ever since becoming interested in genealogy. You see my name, Carvin, was originally spelled Karawan, a name associated with a family of Tunisian rabbis who lived in medieval Kairouan. Even though there are few, if any, Jews left in Kairouan today, it was once an intellectual powerhouse for Talmudic studies, rivaling the colleges of Babylon back in the 10th and 11th centuries. According to legend, a group of four rabbis left Babylon on a mission to the Mediterranean; at some point in their voyage, their ship was attacked by pirates, and the four rabbis were initially taken as hostages, sent to four different cities, including Kairouan. Eventually, they were allowed to settle in those cities, becoming the basis for what would be a thriving Jewish community. Who knows if there's any truth to the story, let alone my actual genealogical connection to Kairouan. Either way, it's still a possibility, so my visit here would give me a chance to reconnect with my supposed heritage.
Leaving the hotel, I walked across the road to the local market. It was jammed with vendors and shoppers haggling mostly over produce, particularly peppers, oranges and pomegranates. Other vendors sold dates, fennel, chickpeas, dried fruits and nuts. The vendors would call out their produce and the price associated with it, hoping to attract new customers, so the market had the sound of an agricultural stock exchange.
No one seemed to mind I was there; as far as I could tell I was the only non-Tunisian in the market. People occasionally said bonjour or marhaba to me, but otherwise they went around their business, as did I, taking photos along the way. I asked several people if they minded having their pictures taken, and fortunately no one objected. Further along the market towards the southwest gate of the medina, I passed along a series of vendors selling shoes and clothing. This area was particularly crowded, with women in hejabs and jeans alike looking for bargains.
Beyond the market, I reached the old stone gate to the medina. Numerous vendors had set up shop for tourists, selling souvenirs and postcards, while others sold mobile phone accessories and music CDs. I walked along Avenue 7th de November, the main road through this part of the medina. You could tell that this was a major destination for tourists given the number of carpet shops along the strip; Kairouan is famous throughout Tunisia for its carpets. I wasn't in the market for a rug, though, so I declined the numerous requests to come inside and have a look. I'd read that carpet vendors were extremely persistent here, but generally I didn't find that to be the case. Frankly, the souvenir vendors in the Tunis medina made a harder sell than the carpet guys along the street here. The medina had an odd familiarity to it; I'd been told that some of the scenes from Raiders of the Lost Ark had been filmed here, so I'd have to take some pics and compare them with the movie when I got home. Most of the buildings were whitewashed with light blue accents; once you headed north away from the main drag, you could really appreciate the brightness of the place.
I wandered upward through the medina, in the general direction of the Great Mosque, the holiest Islamic site in North Africa. There wasn't a direct route to the mosque, per se; instead, you had to weave through the alleyways, using your inner compass and your map as a guide. The neighborhoods were residential, with people coming and going from place to place on bicycles and motor scooters, boys kicking soccer balls against the walls. Still no signs of other tourists, amazingly; it was as if I had the entire medina to myself. Soon I reached the southern wall of the mosque. I followed it west another block or two, reaching a dense spot of souvenir vendors; this must be the main entrance. Walking through a large wooden door, I paid the 5.2 dinar entrance fee, including a camera fee. Inside, I found a group of two dozen Spanish tourists and their guide, standing in the enormous courtyard. Far to my left, the mosque's ancient minaret soared upward, while to the right, the domed prayer hall. The mosque was first constructed in the late 7th century, though most of what's scene today dates from a couple hundred years later; either way, it's one of the oldest mosques in the world and an important pilgrimage site.
I strolled along the courtyard as the sun bore down on me. It was only in the low 70s, but the light colors of the stonework made the light reflect from the ground. Even with sun glasses on I had to squint much of the time. The perimeter of the courtyard was lined with hundreds of columns, all much older than the mosque itself. They were taken from Roman and Punic sites across north Tunisia, including Carthage. Because of this, no two columns were alike.
I walked over to the prayer hall, waiting a little while for the Spanish tourists to get out of the way so I could have a look for myself. Non-Muslims aren't allowed inside, but you could stand at the doorway and appreciate the view. The interior was decorated by elaborate chandeliers and columns, the floor covered in carpets from wall to wall. A small number of men prayed inside, but otherwise the prayer hall was almost empty. From there, I crossed the full length of the courtyard, which sloped gradually to a central point, allowing rainwater to drain into a cistern.
I stood below the massive sandstone minaret, peering upward. The lowest levels of the minaret date from some of the earliest constructions of the mosque; in fact, several of the stones used in the construction featured Latin script from the Roman era. The people who built it probably must not have spoken Latin; one block had the words appearing upside down. I sat along the edge of the courtyard, basking in the sun and reading my guidebook. I shot some video as well, hoping to make a brief video blog about my visit to the mosque. After a while it got too hot sitting there, so I departed the mosque and started to retrace my path through the medina, intent on having a late lunch somewhere near Ave de 7th Novembre. Along the way I stopped at a snack shop to grab a bottle of water - man was I parched - and continued through the covered souk, where I was invited to climb to the terrace of a carpet shop to enjoy their view of the medina. From the roof, I could see minarets in every direction, the blue sky and puffy white clouds perfectly complimenting the blue and white colors of the medina.
Leaving the shop, I continued through the souk, where I was briefly stopped by a man who spoke in French for a couple of minutes about the beauty of Islam. I couldn't understand most of what he said, so I smiled a lot and nodded my head politely.
A few minutes later, I was back along the main avenue. I knew my Lonely Planet guide had several local restaurant suggestions, so I pulled out my daypack to take a look. The outer pocket was open; the book was missing. I paused for a moment , somewhat confused; I rummaged through the other pockets but couldn't find it. Had I been pickpocketed, perhaps while being lectured by the man in the souk? That didn't seem likely, because nothing else was missing.
Retracing my steps northward through the souk, I stopped at both the carpet shop and the snack shop; no sign of the book. I continued all the way to the mosque, which was closing its doors to tourists for the rest of the day. I went inside and met an old man who said the mosque was closed, so I struggled to explain in French that my book was missing. The fact that I was flummoxed by my book disappearing made it harder to get my words right.
"J'etait ici a une heure," I struggled. "Avec une libre touriste Tunisienne. Mais maintenant Je ne trouver pas cette livre. Peutetre j'oublie ici?"
The man replied to me slowly, but I couldn't make out much of what he was saying. It sounded like he was telling me to go to the tourism office to buy a book.
"Non, non, monsieur," I replied. "Je ne besoin pas couper un livre."
He continued to explain to me what he was trying to say, leading me out of the mosque while walking my bike. I started to get the sense that he had actually found my book and sent it to the tourism office. He told me the office closed at 3pm, and gave me directions to walk there. I just hoped I understood what the hell he was saying.
I walked for about 30 minutes towards the office; why I didn't hail a taxi is beyond me. I then reached a large building that appeared to be the right place; inside I found two women who spoke a little English.
"Is this the tourism office?"
"No, this is a ticket office," one of them replied. "The tourism office is closed today."
"Closed?" I said. "That doesn't make sense."
"Why not?"
"I lost my guide book today when I was at the mosque. A man at the mosque said he had found my book and brought it to the tourism office, and gave me directions that led me here."
"This is not the tourism office, but it is close by," she continued. "But still, the office is locked today, so it is not possible he could have brought your book."
It seemed quite clear that my Lonely Planet guide had become a casualty of my trip to Tunisia, at the worst possible time since I hadn't really gone anywhere yet. There wasn't much I could really do except give the women my contact information in case the book turned up; they wrote down my hotel and room number but the look on their face said quite clearly they thought the whole exercise was pointless.
So here I was on the first day of a week-long excursion in Tunisia, without a guide book. Needing some time to think, I went to the city's one Internet café, a Publinet centre at a local hotel. A young teenage girl set me up on a PC, charging me about a dollar for an hour of Internet access. They had DSL, so the connection wasn't too bad. I also checked to see if my WSISBlogs.org website was blocked, as had been rumored at WSIS; it wasn't. I also updated my blog with some journals I'd written on my laptop as saved on my USB key; this was a lot easier than struggling to type on an Arabic keyboard, with multiple keys in all the wrong places (wrong to me, at least).
I stopped at the hotel and asked if there was a bookstore in town; the receptionist told me that I could find a couple of books near the far end of Avenue 7th de Novembre. By now, it was late in the afternoon, the sun getting low in the sky. I strolled the shops, looking to see if I could find a bookstore; eventually I reached the eastern gate of the medina, not having passed a single one. I then tried to find one in the newer part of the city, outside the medina walls. I had no problem finding an ATM and a dozen places to buy shoes, but still no bookstore.
It was just after 6pm; the sun had set and several planets flickered in the sky. Feeling somewhat dejected because of my failed book hunt, I decided to find a place to get some dinner. A few doors down passed the gate, though, I suddenly noticed a row of shops with hundreds of books in the window. They must have just opened for the evening. I went in one shop and asked about tour books; they had a couple English-language books about Tunisian history, but no English guides. However, I managed to find a French guidebook; skimming through it, I figured I could work out the details since my reading ability was a hell of a lot better than my speaking ability.
With my new book in hand, I stopped at the Restaurant de la jeunesse for dinner, where I had a fixed-price meal for eight dinars. The first course, a Tunisian tuna salad, was delicious, but the second course, a Tunisian tagine, was a bit much for me. I'd forgotten that tagines here were different than the stew-like tagines of Morocco, so I ended up with a fried square of quiche. I ate a few bites of it but otherwise filled up on bread and olives. They then brought over a small place of the local delicacy, honey-soaked pastries filled with minced dates. They looked almost exactly like Fig Newtons but were 10 times sweeter, so there was no way I could finish the five pieces on my plate.
Back at the hotel, I wrapped up my evening sitting in their café, an extraordinary place in a dark, vaulted part of the kasbah. I smoked a shisha and drank some mint tea while writing my blog; the evening call to prayer rang out in the distance as the Chemical Brothers' "Galvanize" played on the stereo system. Yet another instance of the old colliding with the new here in Tunisia.
Posted by acarvin at 5:32 PM
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November 24, 2005
Back from the Ksour
Marouen and I just spent the last day touring the ksour of southern Tunisia. A ksar (ksour plural) is a fortified Berber grainary, usually located on the side of a hill or mountain. They're extraordinary structures, distant cousins to the adobe dwellings of the southwest US. A couple of them were used as the slave quarters in the Star Wars movie, the Phantom Menace.
I've taken a lot of pictures and shot some video, though the audio in my camera doesn't sound great for some reason. Will have to figure out what's going on. Anyway, I'll write up some more details later when I've had a chance to sit down at my own keyboard... -andy
Posted by acarvin at 2:47 PM
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November 23, 2005
Hello from Tataouine
Right now I'm in a cyber cafe in Tataouine, southern Tunisia; I spent the last couple of days working my way here by way of Mahdia, el Jem and Matmata, where I stayed in the hotel that was used as the location of Luke Skywalker's home in Star Wars. Blogging is a bit difficult from here so I'm doing most of my writing on my laptop, which I will upload later as access improves. I've got a bit of a cold and just managed my first shower in a few days, but otherwise I'm doing well. I've taken lots of pics and video and am looking forward to converting some of it into video blogs. Stay tuned... ac
Posted by acarvin at 5:16 PM
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November 20, 2005
In Kairouan
A quick note from the one cybercafe in Kairouan Tunisia... I arrived here this morning after spending an extra day with friends in Tunis. Kairouan is very friendly and relaxed zith a beautiful Medina; am told some of the Cairo scenes in Raiders of the Lost Ark were filmed here and I can see why.
Since typing on an Arabic keyboard is hard I will write more on my laptop later and post when I can. And for what its worth wsisblogs.org is not blocked in public cybercafes; a pleasant surprise.... andy
Posted by acarvin at 3:07 PM
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June 22, 2004
Hammamet: Tunisia, Disney or Vegas?
For once, I managed to wake up before 8am; I must be finally adjusting to the time zone. After breakfast I finished packing my things and checked out of the hotel, ready to head to Hammamet for the rest of the week. I needed to catch a taxi to take me to the louage station - louages are shared minibus taxis that take people all over Tunisia. According to the woman at the front desk of the hotel, catching a louage would be faster than taking the bus, as long as I didn't find myself being the first passenger in a particular taxi - otherwise, I'd have to wait until the taxi would leave, and sometimes that longer than you'd like it to be.
I went outside to hail a taxi; the first one stopped and said he'd charge me 10 dinars for the ride to the louage station, which was absolutely ludicrous, since it shouldn't cost more than two dinars. I waved him off and grabbed the next one, who was decent enough to not try to rob me and turned on his meter as soon as I got inside the front seat next to him.
We weaved through Tunis to the south side of town until reaching the louage station. As soon as I stepped out on the curb an attendant asked where I was going.
"À Hammamet," I replied.
"Les billets sont là-bas," he said, pointing to the ticket agent.
When I got to the agent I noticed a sign posting the fares to various destinations. Just below Hammamet was Hammamet Sud - perfect, since I was actually going to a new resort and business complex called Yasmine Hammamet, about 10 miles south of Hammamet proper. I paid the four dinar fare and was immediately directed to a waiting louage that had only one seat available. As soon as my bags were in the trunk and I was in the seat, the louage was on its way, no waiting necessary.
The louage took the highway east out of Tunis towards Cap Bon, the peninsula that's home to Hammamet and a collection of popular beach resorts. As we sped down the highway, I began to wonder if I'd made a mistake about not going to Kairouan yesterday, The louage was faster than I expected, not making stops along the way, so maybe I could have gotten there in less than three hours. Perhaps there'd be time on Saturday after the meetings wrap up; we'd just have to wait and see.
We rode along for about 50 minutes, listening to Tunisian pop music without anyone saying a word, except to answer their mobile phones, which kept going off every five or 10 minutes. Soon enough, we arrived in Hammamet Sud, and before I could get my bags out of the trunk, they'd already hailed me a cab to take me the rest of the way to Yasmine Hammamet. The taxi ride was probably no more than 10 minutes, and cost three dinars. As we pulled into Yasmine, I felt like we were entering a gated community. Leaving the highway, we drove along a wide boulevard with fresh asphalt, lined with palm trees on each side. We passed one resort hotel after another.
Then, we arrived at my hotel, the Lella Baya. Quite literally a postmodern sandcastle, the Lella Baya is an enormous structure, designed to look like castles made out of brown and white sand. Inside, the décor was so over the top it probably would have made Walt Disney blush; an Aladdin fantasy come to life, with huge vaulted Moorish ceilings and columns, once again made to look like sand. It took a while for me to get checked in; it was well before noon and technically they weren't supposed to let you check until the afternoon. But after 15 minutes or so, my bags disappeared; a few minutes later I was whisked away to the third floor, where I found the bags waiting on my bed.
I had a little time before heading over to the conference center, so I took a quick walk down to the beach, right behind the hotel. The beach was jammed with Spanish and Italian tourists, lounging under thatched-roof umbrellas. I was caught somewhat off-guard when I realized some of the women were bathing topless; not a big surprise if this had been a beach in France or Spain, but it seemed both odd and awkward that they were doing it in an Arab country.
After my walk I went back into the hotel to find out where the conference center was. The man behind the front desk told me to go to the shop to get a map, and the shop keep was happy to charge my five dinars for the privilege to look at a map and find out. This was somewhat irritating because Yasmine Hammamet is so new, it's not given much attention in the guidebooks, so there was no other way for me to look at a map than to buy one from the hotel. It seems they could have at least had one I could glance at with the concierge or something.
As it turns out, the conference center was in the medina, five minutes' walk south from the hotel. I step outside onto the sweltering pavement - it was pushing 35 degrees Celsius today - and prayed I wouldn't be a sweaty mess by the time I got there. A few minutes past the hotel I discovered Carthage World, an amusement park with a variety of rides, none of which seemed to be running at the moment. The entrance of the park was marked by two life-sized mannequins of war elephants; a pair of security guards smoked their cigarettes below the tusks, relaxing in the pachyderm shade. Beyond the elephants were other mannequins, mostly of Arab sailors and pirates - though the pirates were sporting Caribbean pirate garb rather than North African corsair accoutrements. The strangest thing about the park was that its logo was the ancient Punic symbol for children I'd seen at the Sanctuary of Tophet - the same symbol used to mark the place of children that had apparently been sacrificed in the names of Baal Hammon and Tanit.
Soon, I arrived at the medina - not a medina in the traditional sense of the word, though. Yasmine's medina is brand-spanking new, a complex of restaurants, casinos, shops and conference space that would be my home for the next few days. The kitschiness of the place was breathtaking. It wasn't even parallel to Disney - this was Vegas, baby, no doubt about it. In fact, the architect who built the Yasmine medina appeared to have done a PhD dissertation in the transformation of Vegas in the 1980s and 1990s: the developers of Circus Circus and the Mirage would have been proud of the medina.
I entered the medina through the southern side, not sure if I was supposed to have gone through the northern entrance, since it was labeled CASINO in huge letters (as opposed to UN CONFERENCE, which would have caught my eye). I passed a swanky café full of beautiful Tunisians having a late morning shisha and coffee. Weaving through the complex, I eventually saw the first evidence that the UN was having a meeting here: a map showing where you could go to pick up your badges for the event. I followed the map but discovered that they weren't set up yet for accrediting people or handing out badges. In fact, most of the activity in the medina seemed to be geared towards putting on final coats of paint and sanding down any rough edges on doorways.
Along the way I stumbled upon a small post office. I'd be carrying around a batch of postcards that needed stamps, so I went inside to by some. The man working there spoke English, so I requested four stamps that would get my postcard to America.
"Where in USA are you from?" he asked.
"I live in Boston, but I grew up in Florida, near Disney World."
"Welcome to our Disney World," he said. "Hammamet is the best place in all of Tunisia. Have you been here before?"
"No, this is my first time, though I've traveled to other parts of North Africa and the Middle East."
"Please enjoy Tunisia," he said. "But maybe not Algerie, n'est ce pas?"
"Not this time," I said. "Some day, Algeria and Libya, but now just Tunisie."
Exploring the rest of the medina to get a feel for where the conference activities would be, I bumped into Renate Bloem and Rik Panganiban of CONGO, which promotes the interests of non-governmental organizations (NGOs) at the United Nations. Renate is one of the leaders of civil society's representation at the UN summit, so it was nice to finally meet her in person. Eventually, they had to leave for another appointment, but Rik pointed me in the direction of the cybercafe, where I was able to settle down for a while and catch up on some work.
Later in the afternoon, since there weren't any official events going on yet, I decided to catch a taxi to old Hammamet so I could visit its medina - a real medina, at least in comparison to Yasmine's medina. It was a 15-minute drive to Hammamet, following the coast in a clockwise curve along the peninsula. Stepping out of the taxi, I was greeted by another sand castle - this one, at least, had been first built in the ninth century, and served as a military and commercial stronghold for over a thousand years. The Hammamet medina was a beautiful sight - a sandstone fortress on the outside with whitewashed houses on the inside. Sure, this was tourist central, but at least it wasn't built for the tourists - it was one of the main reasons they came here in the first place.
The taxi had dropped me off at the northwest corner of the medina, right next to a wide, sandy beach. Rather than head directly to the medina, I crossed over the beach to enjoy the view of Hammamet Bay, filled with fishing boats and Tunisian kids swimming. Across the bay, I could see Hammamet Sud; further to the left, you could just make out Yasmine Hammamet, only because you could spot people parasailing along a small strip of waterfront.
Returning to the northwest corner of the medina, I discovered a charming café called the Sidi Bou Hsid. One of the best locations for an oceanfront café I'd ever seen, it had marvelous things to look at on three sides: the ocean, the walls of the medieval medina, and whitewashed, domed houses that looked like they were straight out of Star Wars (which they very well might have been since the Star Wars flicks were filmed all over Tunisia). Ordering a mint tea and a bottle of water, I sat down at the café under a tall umbrella, watching the fishing boats go by. This really was a charming place.
Leaving the café, I entered the medina from the northern side and went for a long walk, getting lost in its myriad alleyways and impasses. The medina was in marvelous condition, much more so than the Tunis medina, with everything freshly whitewashed; not a crumbling building in sight. Most of the medina on this end of the complex was jammed with souvenir shops, fairly similar to what I'd seen in Tunis. But within a few blocks you were able to reach its residential areas, where kids played football and happy cats snoozed on doorsteps. (The cats here also seemed healthier than the ones in Tunis; none of them were skinny, they were clean, and many wore collars.) The medina was also much less chaotic than Tunis; I'd actually enjoyed the chaos back in the capital, but the peacefulness of this place was very refreshing.
Eventually I came out of the medina on the southern side, then backtracked through part of the walled city until I found an exit on the eastern side. I went to look for a café in the newer part of town but couldn't find anything that struck a chord with me, so I returned to the oceanside café that I first visited an hour or so earlier, and settled in over a tall glass of Diet Coke and my Lonely Planet guide, whose Tunisian History section I reread for the fourth or fifth time. The sun was getting low in the sky, causing the light to dance on the water . Many of the day-tripping tourists began to leave as locals replaced them in the café. At one point I spotted a young girl who was selling sprigs of jasmine tied into miniature bouquets - Tunisian men traditionally tuck them behind one ear. I asked if I could take a picture, and she said yes, so I snapped a few shots of her before dutifully buying some jasmine for one dinar, which she showed me to tuck it behind my left ear.
By now it was after 6pm, and I was tempted to head back to the hotel. But given the dearth of choices for dinner there, I decided I'd take advantage of my time in Hammamet and get a bite to eat in the neighborhood. Crossing the road from the medina, I found an Italian café that was full of locals, so I settled in for a Boga (Tunisian ginger ale) and a small pizza. I thought I'd ordered a vegetarian pizza, but it came with meat on it - include what I'm pretty sure was ham, another Tunisian surprise. Fortunately, a cute little cat found his way below my table and began to nuzzle against my leg. He stayed with me for the next 45 minutes as I ate my pizza and not-so-discreetly passed him my ham, to the delight of the Tunisian children sitting at the tables around me.
After dinner, I figured it was time to go back to the hotel. Rather than take a taxi back, I took the Hammamet Toy Train, which is similar to the car-trains you see pulling people around at Disney's parking lot, or inside theme parks. Each car of the train was decorated like Thomas the Tank Engine and was painted pink. For two and a half dinars, I got to sit with a bunch of German tourists as we zoomed at 40 kilometers per hour down the highway in what was essentially a convoy of glorified golf carts.
And now it's 9pm back at the hotel. Most of the guests are crowded around giant-screened TVs in the atrium watching Euro 2004 football matches. I'm sitting outside by the pool with my laptop, while an Arabic-language version of The Chicken Dance plays in the background. Only in Yasmine Hammamet.
Posted by acarvin at 10:50 PM
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June 21, 2004
Lost in the Medina
I really, really intended to get up early this morning, but once again my jetlag got the better of me. Despite the fact I set my alarm for 6:30am, I had to drag myself out of bed just before 9am - not a good start. My plan had been to get up and catch a shared taxi to Kairouan, three hours to the self. According to genealogy research I've done, the name Carvin, originally spelled Karawan, descends from a family of rabbis who taught at Kairouan's Talmudic college in the 11th century.
Of course, I don't have any family tree written down to prove any of this, but I'd always wanted to visit Kairouan just to check out the place, in case my ancestors once called it home. But as I had breakfast and though about it, the whole idea of traveling three hours each way just to visit for only a couple of hours didn't seem worth it. Of course, I may end up regretting this decision, but I know I'll be back to Tunisia at least once or twice in the next couple of years because of the World Summit on the Information Society, So next time I'm here, I'll plan to go there at least on an overnight excursion rather than making a grueling day trip from Tunis.
With that decision settled, I decided I'd spend the day getting to know the Tunis medina a little better. There was a lot to see hidden in the souks and alleyways - I just needed the better part of a day to do it. Leaving the hotel around 10am, I walked west down Avenue Bourguiba and paid a brief visit to the Catholic cathedral of Tunis. The cathedral was constructed by the French in the late 1800s on the previous location of a much smaller church. Because the land was rather swampy at the time, they had to sink nearly 2400 Norwegian fir tree trunks to build a stable foundation. The interior of the church is rather modest by cathedral standards, but its use of Moorish arches in the vaulting gives it an exotic touch. High above the altar there's a mosaic of Abraham blessing representatives of Judaism, Christianity and Islam, appropriate given Tunisia's relatively good history of religious tolerance.
Continuing west through the French Gate, I entered the medina and visited several shops on my way to the Great Mosque. Almost every shop owner called out to me, trying to get me to come inside. Oddly enough, almost of none of them thought I spoke English - instead they called out to me in Italian. On several occasions I played along, saying I was either Mexican, Norwegian and Scottish, depending on my mood. Only when I said I was Scottish did I seem to get a reaction - "Ah, whisky!" they all seemed to reply with a huge grin on their faces.
Of all the shops, I particularly liked Hanout Arab, which specialized in traditional Berber crafts. Compared to most of the shops along the main drag, Hanout Arab offered fair fixed prices with no pressure from the owners, so I was free to browse at my leisure. Perhaps I'd come back later in the afternoon and do some shopping; better do it later rather than drag around a bag of souvenirs all day.
Soon I arrived at the eastern entrance of the Great Mosque. It's open for tourists a few hours each morning, so I wanted to visit before it closed for noon prayers. Coming upstairs to pay the entrance fee, a guide immediately latched on to me and offered to give me a tour of the place. I politely declined, but then he offered to take me on a quick visit to Koranic school and a terrace with a view of the Mosque. Since good views of the mosque were hard to come by, I decided to play along, even though it might cost a few dinars.
"Okay, but no shopping," I said to him.
"Okay, not shopping," he replied.
First, though, I spent a few minutes in the courtyard of the mosque, watching a group of men renovating the inner perimeter. Most of the courtyard was blocked off by the construction, which was disappointing, but I still had a nice view of the mosque's beautiful 19th century minaret. Since I wasn't able to explore any further, there wasn't much point staying any longer, so I told the guide I was ready to go to visit the terrace. We walked south along the edge of the mosque; I had to walk briskly to keep up with the guy. Eventually he arrived at a carpet shop and went inside. I stood outside.
"Wait," I said. "No shopping, remember?"
"Yes, yes, no shopping," he replied. "Up." He immediately bolted inside and up a staircase; I begrudgingly followed. Indeed, given the pace he was going, there was little chance I'd get to see any of the carpets inside, so I breathed a sigh of relief and went up several flights of stairs.
Soon I found myself looking at the Tunis medina from above, a forest of white buildings, sparse patches of green, with minarets in every direction. Immediately to my north, I could see the Great Mosque, making out its courtyard and interior prayer rooms based on the position of the minaret. Immediately I was glad I'd gone with this guy, since the view of the minaret from inside the courtyard simply hadn't done it justice. I wandered the terrace, split on three different levels with tiled arches in between, appreciating the 360-degree view. It's too bad the call to prayer was at least a couple of hours away; I couldn't imagine a better spot for appreciating it.
As we left the terrace, I made sure I led the way downstairs, in case the guide wanted to come up with an excuse to stop and see the carpets.
"You see carpets, yes?" he asked just as my foot reached the door.
"I would like to see the medressa now," I replied.
"Okay, okay, we go to medressa," he said, looking resigned to the fact he wouldn't be getting a commission this morning.
Soon he overtook my pace, and once again I had to struggle to keep up with him. Since he knew I didn't have the patience for carpet shopping, he probably wanted to get this gig over with as quickly as possible. Weaving through the souk, we soon reached the entrance to the Slimania medressa, constructed by the Ottoman governor Ali Pasha in the mid-1700s. Because the Koranic school was now owned by a local medical college, some of the rooms were open to the public.
"I like this medressa because it is named Slimania, and my name is Suleiman," he said as we entered.
Inside the courtyard, I had a flashback to the great mosque of Cordoba, with its series of bi-colored arches simulating a palm grove. The medressa was much smaller, much more sublime, but the courtyard arches were just as effective. We then visited the main room of the medressa, where Koranic scholars taught young students for over two centuries. Its interior was much more reminiscent of an Ottoman mosque, quite appropriate given its Turkish origins. The walls were covered with intricate Iznik tiles, while several small windows with colored glass created an illusion of a spectrum bouncing off the ceiling. A group of French tourists were inside, contemplating the room, while in the corner, an attendant sat reading the newspaper classifieds, smoking a tall shisha water pipe. Suleiman stood to the side while I explored the interior, attempting to take a few photos of the relatively dark room with my digital camera. I even managed to take a picture of the attendant, lost in his newspaper and water pipe; Suleiman gave me a devious smirk.
Back in the main courtyard, a cat had appeared, and was drinking from a puddle of water. Suleiman and I both made clicking noises with our tongues simultaneously, attempting to get the cat's attention. Briefly it looked up at me and gave me a look as if to say, "Can't you see I'm busy?"
Leaving the medressa, I made a pre-emptive strike and began thanking Suleiman for the brief tour. If I paused much longer, undoubtedly he would have asked me to go to a carpet shop. But my attempt didn't seem to make a difference.
"But my father, my old father, he has a very nice bizz-ee-ness," he said with a heartbroken expression, stretching out the word "business" for what felt like an eternity.
"I am sure it is a very nice business, but I am not interested," I replied.
"Then you pay me trente dinar" he said sternly.
"Thirty dinars? No way," I replied swiftly, struggling to suppress my laughter. "I'm not going to pay you 25 bucks for a 30-minute tour. In Sousse or Kairouan I could hire a guide all day for half that price."
"Vignt dinar," he replied tersely, lowering his offer by a third, but still within the realm of the absurd.
"Harem alek!" I replied to him in Arabic - shame on you! -- using one of the few phrases I knew by heart. I reached into my pocked and pulled out all the small change I had, amounting to around four or five dinars. He shook his head, clicked his tongue knowing the bargaining was over, and walked away. I guess I'd known it would have ended that way, but it could have been a lot worse. At least the carpet shop with the nice terrace wasn't the shop owned by his father - that would have certainly been a hell of a lot harder to escape with my wallet intact.
Now that Suleiman and I had gone our separate ways, I weaved through the souk until I found, Café Chaoechin, where I'd stopped for a mint tea, shisha and Whitey Bulger a couple of days ago. It wasn't too busy, so I had a better selection of seats this time, so I settled into a comfortable corner and took out my stack of postcards, ordering an espresso from the waiter. The coffee arrived as I started my second postcard; it was no more than a tablespoon of espresso, but it had enough coffee in it to power at least three cups of American coffee. It was a peaceful place to spend an hour, huddled over my postcards and feeling the caffeine coursing its way through my veins.
Soon it was the middle of lunchtime, and I decided to get a quick bite at el Madhaoui, an alleyway diner next to the Great Mosque. Even though it's located at what has to be primo real estate for a restaurant, the diner offered some of the best prices in the neighborhood. For four dinars, I had a rotisserie chicken platter with olives, salad, fries, French bread, most of it swimming in fiery red harissa sauce, and a large bottle of water. The chicken was nice and moist, though the fries were pretty much what you'd expect at any greasy spoon along a US interstate.
Following lunch, I set out on a long walking tour of the medina. Even though I'd hiked around the walled city numerous times in the last three days, I'd only managed to see a fraction of it, so I wanted to go off the beaten track and see some sights that most tourists miss. I started by heading south on Rue Tourbet el-Bey, the Street of the Governor's Tomb, in search of the mausoleum where the Ottoman rulers of Tunis were buried. The first several blocks of the street were typically touristy like much of the central medina, but the further I walked from the central area, the more residential it became. Soon there were no souvenir shops - only whitewashed homes, carpentry shops, kids on bicycles, and cats wandering around with their young kittens.
Cats seemed to be everywhere; look under a car and you were bound to find two or three of them napping in the shade. At one point I saw a cat cleaning itself near a door, so I crouched down and put out my hand to say hello. Suddenly three other cats came out of nowhere and started to mark a perimeter around me. They were scruffy little fellows, but they were very friendly. (In fact, as I write this, I'm sitting at a café near the center of the medina, and three kittens are playing in a shoe rack across the way in a souvenir shop. They sure look like they're having a good time.)
Eventually, I reached the entrance to the Tourbet el-Bay, the Ottoman mausoleum. It was very similar to the turbe in Istanbul, where many sultans and viziers are buried. This one, though, was dedicated to a dynasty of rulers and their advisors rather than just a single ruler and his family, so the mausoleum was quite large, spread out over four or five rooms. Each room was filled with a couple dozen marble sarcophagi, each marked by a tombstone and a marble post, topped with a rendition of the deceased's official hat. Some of them had turbans, others fezzes, and on many of them you could count off the tassels hanging from the fez to guess how important they were.
Leaving the tomb, I backtracked a couple of blocks and turned left on Rue de la Juges, following it towards the southwestern gate of the medina. This area was dedicated to the local blacksmiths, who were busy at work using arc welders to fuse metal rods together. When the medina was constructed, the mosque was put at its center, then various souks were laid out, each dedicated to a particular trade. The closer you were to the mosque, the more honorable your profession was. Given the fact that the blacksmiths were as far away from the mosque without being outside the gate, they must have not been held in the highest regard.
I now headed back to the center of the medina, following Rue de la Juges until it met Rue Tourbet el-Bey. Walking north, I soon reached house #33, where the famous historian Ibn Khaldun was born in 1332. Unfortunately the house wasn't open to the public, so I continued following the street until I reached the mosque, then kept heading north to a part of the medina I hadn't visited yet. Again, I reached a very residential neighborhood just blocks from where all the tourist action was. It was a quiet neighborhood, with mostly houses and a few shops. I tried stopping at a couple small museums along the route, but unfortunately they were all closed in the early afternoon. Near the Tunis City Museum, I heard some squeaky meows coming from a courtyard. In the center of the courtyard, two little kittens, probably no more than a couple of weeks old, were frolicking around, crawling over each other, matting their coat with the mud from their paws. I went over to say hello; at first they didn't know what to make of me, but eventually they started crawling over each other to get to my hand, meowing and squeaking contently.
I returned to the Great Mosque and headed east towards the French Gate. I stopped for a few minutes at Hanout Arab, the Berber crafts shop, and bought a wrought-iron kebab skewer rack to hang in my kitchen. I continued east until reaching the gate, where a mass of 50 or 60 elderly French tourists were being given a history lesson by their guide. I paused and shuttered for a moment, then maneuvered around them until reaching a shady café in Nouvelle Ville. Ordering a fresh lemonade and a bottle of water, I settled in to write some more postcards. The situation worked out quite well until 20 minutes later, a PA system near the French Gate started blasting The Macarena in Arabic. A little French toddler at the table next to me got up and started dancing, falling on his rear end a few times. I'm not absolutely positive, but I'm pretty sure I've heard The Macarena in the local language of almost every country I've visited since 1996, when I distinctly remember hearing it in Hindi at a restaurant in New Delhi's Connaught Place. Perhaps I didn't catch it on trips to Iceland or Cambodia, but otherwise The Macarena seems to be the glue that binds the universe of world music together.
"Pour le festival ce soir," the waiter said to me as I paid my bill.
"Comment?" I replied, not knowing what he was referring to.
"La musique, là-bas," he replied, pointing to the PA system across the plaza. Apparently there was going to be some kind of block party later this evening.
"Ah, un festival," I said. "Heyyyyyy, Macarena."
Venturing towards the hotel, I paused for a while at a crafts cooperative that supposedly had a good collection of Tunisian wares at reasonable prices. Indeed, they had a marvelous collection of ceramics and glass, but none of it seemed particularly easy to bring home without taking a bit of a gamble. So I returned to the hotel, where I took a quick shower, left behind my newly acquired skewer display, and grabbed my laptop, in search of a café. For the last couple of nights I'd found myself staying up later that I would have liked due to all the journaling I was doing, so I thought I'd get a head start rather than saving it all for after dinner.
Initially I planned to stop at a café along Avenue Bourguiba in Nouvelle Ville so I wouldn't have to venture to far with my laptop, but the sun was now low enough in the sky to render most of the café umbrellas useless, making it next to impossible to see my laptop's screen. Eventually, I found myself in the heart of the medina, just a few meters east of the Great Mosque, pounding away at my keyboard while drinking mint tea, occasionally puffing a shisha, and watching a gaggle of kittens playing in a shoe rack. Apart from a couple of locals who came over to find out if I was somehow connecting to the Internet (I wasn't - no Wi-Fi in the medina as far as I could tell), I managed to spent a few hours sipping my tea and getting a lot of writing done.
At one point, someone tapped me on my shoulder; I turned around to find a middle-aged man smoking a shisha with his friend. He started to speak to me in French, but he could see the blank look on my face, so he switched to broken English.
"Your machine… Your ordinateur… Is it connected by satellite?" he asked.
"To the Internet?" I replied. "No, I wish it were connected. Right now I am just writing."
"But if you wanted, it could connect by satellite?"
"Not by satellite," I said. "But it can be wireless - just not very far, about 50 meters."
"That is still very good," he continued, "but here in the souk, you cannot get your mobile to work because of the ceiling. Are you a journalist?"
"No, I am just writing for myself," I explained. "I do it as a souvenir, you could say, then I put the stories on the Internet."
"Oh, that is very nice," he replied. "Can you take photos with your machine?"
"No, I have to use a camera, but then I can put the photos on my computer, then on the Internet. " I then opened up a Web browser and showed him the photo gallery of Stockholm that I was designing.
"Very beautiful!" he said. "Are you Swedish?"
"No, I am from Boston, in the USA, but I was in Sweden recently."
"And you will put Tunisia photos on the Internet , yes?"
"I hope so, when I go back to America."
"Well you are most welcome," he said with a big smile on his face.
I chatted with him and his friend for another 10 minutes until they were joined by a third friend. Meanwhile, one of the waiters at the café became curious and wanted to see pictures of Tunis on my camera. I turned on the camera and started to browse through the pictures. The most recent batch were of those kittens I met while hiking around the north of the medina, and he seemed to think it was very funny that I came all the way to Tunisia and spent my time taking pictures of cats.
By 7pm my computer's battery was nearly dead, and the three kittens playing in the shoe rack had fallen asleep cuddled around their mother. I packed up my things and said goodbye to my neighbors at the café, then decided to walk over to Dar el-Jeld, one of the best restaurants in Tunis, to treat myself to a nice meal. I walked through the souk as many of the shops were shutting down for the evening. In one shop, the owner and his friends were putting on an impromptu concert, banging on doumbeks and tambourines.
I arrived a few minutes later at Dar el-Jeld and discovered a group of rather large men wearing suits and ear pieces standing in front of the front door. They did not seem interested in moving when I showed interest in going inside. It appeared that a Tunisian VIP must be eating inside, so I was tourista non grata for the time being. Not sure how long I'd have to wait to get inside, I decided it would be a lot easier if I just visited one of the many restaurants in Nouvelle Ville.
I backtracked through the souks until reaching the French Gate. I could hear fast-paced drumming emanating from the plaza, and a large crowd of several hundred people had formed. I remembered that there was going to be some kind of festival this evening, so I decided to check it out. The music was incredibly loud; it sounded like a dozen drummers were playing. I weaved through the crowd to take a look at the musicians, who were hidden by the crowd due to the fact the stage was at street level. When I got to the front, I saw a barricaded space with a lone DJ spinning his turntables. So much for experiencing traditional Tunisian drumming.
I walked along the avenue through enormous crowds that had assembled along its many cafes. Tunis had one of the most intense café cultures I've experienced. Mediterranean weather combined with an Arab love of coffee, tea and sweets made for a perfect combination for outdoor café life. Hundreds upon hundreds of chairs were set out front of the cafes, with barely a free seat available. The locals had found a comfortable spot and were settled in for the night.
Not far past the cathedral I took a left off the avenue to compare two restaurants, Le Carthage and L'Orient Tunis. The first restaurant was a well-known couscous place, while the other served a range of Tunisian dishes with an Andalusian twist. L'Orient appeared to have better atmosphere, so I decided to go there, even though I was leaning towards getting more couscous. The restaurant was decorated rather intensely, with ceramic plates and swords covering every inch of available wall space. As I sat down I discovered they had a TV on, which for a moment took away from the atmosphere, but then I realized they were getting ready to watch England play Croatia in the Euro 2004 football tournament.
Soon a small crowd formed, including most of the restaurant staff, staring upward at the TV, commenting on every kick and every penalty. I watched the first half of the game enjoying a bowl of lamb couscous; it was very tasty but not as good as the couscous I'd had the night before. I also got to try my first Tunisian beer - very cheap and very good.
After dinner, I walked back to the hotel, past many cafes in which the entire clientele were staring upward at a 45 degree angle, straining to watch the football match on TVs suspended from the ceiling. Meanwhile, the outdoor café crowds had gotten even thicker, with large groups of people lounging around waiting for a table to open. I stopped at a dessert shop to get a scoop of hazelnut ice cream and stroll along the avenue. It was a nice way to wrap up my stay in Tunis; I'll certainly look forward to returning here, hopefully soon….
Posted by acarvin at 9:30 PM
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June 20, 2004
Carthage and Sidi Bou Said
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.
Posted by acarvin at 10:20 PM
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June 19, 2004
Tunis: Mosaics and Medinas
"Je suis très désolé, mais il n'y a pas aucune salle maintenant." the woman behind the hotel desk said to me.
"Pardon?" I replied, knowing full well what she said but was too exhausted to construct more than a one-word reply.
"Your room, it is not available," she said, switching to English. "It is only half past10 o'clock - we cannot give you a room until 12 o'clock."
"Okay, that's fine," I answered, slowly dropping my backpack, suit bag and laptop bag from my sore shoulders. "May I store my luggage?"
"Naturellement," she replied, inexplicably returning to French.
My Air France flight from Paris had arrived in Tunis just before 10am, a few minutes ahead of schedule. I'd been eager to check into the Hotel Carlton in Tunis' Nouvelle Ville (New Town) so I could get the day started and explore as many sights as possible. I was dead tired, having not slept a wink on the flight from Boston to Paris, but a steady refueling of caffeine and a second wind of "you're in a new country" energy would hopefully give me the strength to get through the afternoon without collapsing. Fortunately, immigrations and customs at the Tunis airport were a cinch, and I was in a taxi within a matter of minutes, After shooing away several taxi drivers who were offering me exorbitant rates of 15 or 20 dinars (USD $12-$15), when the ride to downtown Tunis really shouldn't cost much more than five or six dinars (four or five bucks), I found a driver who didn't seem too intent on robbing me blind. So I threw my belongings into the trunk and made the 15-minute ride to central Tunis.
Now I was at my hotel with no place to freshen up and save my suits from permanent wrinkling - at least not for another 90 minutes. I managed to convince the hotel attendant to let me use a public bathroom to change into fresh clothes before handing over my luggage for storage. I actually hadn't planned on changing clothes upon my arrival, but I was rather surprised to see dozens of tourists walking down the streets wearing only t-shirts and shorts. It'd been my experience in other Islamic countries to always dress modestly, wearing long pants and a long-sleeved shirt. Here, though, it seems it was socially acceptable to bare a bit more skin than you'd see in the likes of Cairo or Amman. It probably helped that the vast majority of Tunisian women I saw on the streets were wearing hip-hugger bellbottom jeans and tight, leave-nothing-to-the-imagination babydoll t-shirts with slogans like "WEAR ONLY ONCE" or "I'M THE ONE IN CHARGE OF THIS PLACE." I'd actually never seen so many exposed midriffs in a Muslim country - it felt more like Athens or Rome, to be quite honest. Tunis was clearly more casual than many other Arab cities, and with the temperatures approaching 30 degrees Celsius by mid-morning, I wasn't going to suffer through a long pair of khakis if it wasn't absolutely necessary.
Sporting a pair of shorts and sandals, I was now ready to hit the streets of Tunis. At most, I figured I'd only have two and a half days here before having to get to work in Hammamet for the UN WSIS planning meeting I was attending, so I wanted to make the most out of the weekend. Somewhere a few blocks to the west of my hotel, just beyond the broad, tree-lined avenue that bisected Nouvelle Ville, was the Tunis medina, the tight maze of bazaars, cafes, mosques and Turkish baths that had successfully earned a spot on the prestigious UNESCO World Heritage list. A few kilometers beyond the medina was the suburb of Bardo, world renown for its unparalleled museum of Roman mosaics. Hopefully I'd have time to visit both today, but given the fact the heat of high noon would soon be on top of Tunis, I opted for a trip to the museum.
Walking several blocks west down Avenue Habib Bourguiba, I soon stumbled upon tram tracks crossing the street perpendicularly. I took out my Lonely Planet book to confirm this was the spot to catch a tram to Bardo. Turns out it wasn't - at this particular intersection, the tram apparently ran only south, whereas I needed to go north, so I'd have to walk another block or two to get to the right tram tracks.
Soon enough I found the correct tram line, and followed the tracks until I arrived at the station. I waited in line until it was my turn at the ticket counter, and handed the agent a one dinar coin, thinking I'd get back whatever was the appropriate amount of change. Instead, he looked at me for a moment, then shook his head and said "Ou?" Apparently the price was based on distance, not a flat rate.
"Musee Bardo, s'il vous plais," I replied.
"Bardo, Bardo," he said while grimacing; I imagined he got this from a lot of clueless tourists.
After getting my ticket I waited until the next tram arrived and jumped on board. It was swelteringly hot and crowded, but I managed to squeeze in to a spot where I could see the train map. I then noticed there were multiple trams running along the same track, and they'd diverge after a couple more stops. Was I on the right tram?
At the next stop I jumped off to see if I could figure out what tram line I was on, then would jump back on if necessary. As I scrambled off the tram I saw the number 5 posted on the front of the car. Wrong tram - I needed to be on #4 instead. So I took a break from the hammam-like heat of the tram, catching a breeze from the Mediterranean, just a few kilometers away. The relief didn't last for long, as train #4 soon arrived, so I got back into the steam bath and rode for the next 20 minutes until reaching the Bardo station.
Exiting the train, I had to walk another 10 minutes to get to the entrance of the museum, since the station was to the south of the museum, while the entrance was on the northern side. As I approached the entrance I saw a large parking lot. Most of the spots were taken by enormous, industrial-sized tour buses. So that's what it's going to be like in there, I thought to myself.
Paying the agent for my ticket and camera pass, I got in the queue and slowly weaved my way into the museum itself. At first I assumed the slow line was due to security precautions, but it turns out it was just an enormous bottleneck precipitated by the throngs of tourists wandering aimlessly in the first room, waiting to be corralled by their tour guide.
Inside, I was treated to one of the most fascinating, yet claustrophobic museums I've ever visited. The Bardo itself is a former palace, first constructed in the 12th century, with much of the current structure dating back to the 17th century. Being a palace, it was quite spacious, and all the floors and walls were covered choc-a-bloc with extraordinary Roman tiles that had been unearthed from across Tunisia. The dilemma, though, was that each room invariably had two competing tour groups in it, usually dueling in different languages. One tour guide would speak rapidly in French, while another guide would raise his voice in Russian. And all the while, most of the tourists, clad in tank tops and ripped shorts, were too busy chatting it up or making kissy-face with each other to notice what they were talking about it. I guess that's what was most frustrating about it: it's one thing to be surrounded by large groups who are absorbed by the sights around them; it's a whole other thing when you've got groups that would rather being lying on the beach instead of touring a museum.
Nonetheless, I did my best to block out the noise, the bodies, as I appreciated the vast collection of mosaics. Like the Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg, the Bardo itself is worthy of visiting, even if it didn't have a single piece of artwork in it. Going from room to room, I felt like I was given the keys to an Andalusian Moorish villa - or perhaps more accurate, a Turkish pasha's palace. It's just that they had a lot of copies of the keys made before moving out, so I had to appreciate the surroundings with about a thousand other neighbors.
Using my book's map of the museum, I worked my way through the ground floor of the exhibition. One room was dedicated to a collection of Punic deity statues, including the god Baal Hammon sitting on a throne. Around the corner, a courtyard was dedicated to an incredible collection of mosaics from the ruins of Bulla Regia, along with a massive statue of Apollo.
I climbed a stairwell leading to the first floor (the second floor for all my fellow Yanks out there), which was adorned with giant mosaics climbing 20 or 30 feet up the walls. Reaching the top of the staircase, I soon found myself with even more tour groups as the vied for space in the museum's most important exhibits. One floor mosaic from the city of Sousse was enormous, around 140 square meters, depicting the god Neptune surrounded by seahorses. Around the corner I spotted a small crowd of people admiring one of the few known likeness of the poet Virgil, flanked by the Muses Clio (history) and Melpomene (tragedy). Further along I found a striking wall-size mosaic of Orpheus charming the beasts. Orpheus himself hadn't weathered the ages quite well, but the animals looked like they'd just been put together by the artist. Another room, the garden room, featuring gigantic mosaics of sea nymphs on all four walls, with hundreds of ocean creatures swimming with them. If it weren't for the tacky plastic plants stuck in the center of the courtyard it might have been the most breathtaking room.
As I made my way up to the top floor, I was greeted by emptiness. No people, no noise - just beautiful rooms with walls full of dazzling mosaics. For whatever reason, the tour groups weren't venturing up to the top floor, which was strange, because there were some tremendous views of the wall mosaics on display in the open courtyards below. I wasn't going to question their judgment, of course - instead I reveled in it, slowly taking my time going from mosaic to mosaic, contemplating an ostrich here, a panther there. Most of the upstairs collection seemed to be dedicated to animal mosaics, save a statue of a drunken Hercules, urinating a la Brussels' Mannequin Pis.
After two hours at the Bardo, I'd had my fill of the tour groups, and probably needed a change of pace from the mosaics as well. I stopped briefly at the museum cafeteria for a Diet Coke - my caffeine supplies were dwindling and my second wind fading fast - then hailed a taxi outside. As luck would have it, I picked the most talkative cabby in Tunis, who didn't seem to care that I barely spoke French. He asked if I spoke English, clearly prepared to switch tongues to continue the one-sided conversation; I lied and said I was Norwegian. Fortunately he didn't seem to realize that most Norwegians speak English better than most Americans, so he returned to talking to himself in French, giving me a few minutes to wonder if I'd make it through the afternoon without collapsing from exhaustion.
The taxi dropped me at Place de la Kasbah, at the western entrance to the medina. The plaza was flanked with whitewashed government buildings and a large plaza where boys played a feverish game of football. A Moorish-style mosque and minaret marked the entrance to the medina itself. Soon I was lost in the medina's covered bazaars, or souks. The souks simultaneously reminded me of Old Jerusalem and Istanbul's covered market; the bazaars had the chaos of Jerusalem's Arab quarter combined with the vaulted architecture of Istanbul's market. Unlike Istanbul, though, the shops weren't well-lit or decorated in polished metal and glassed storefronts; this medina felt like a living, breathing place that kept things interesting even when the tourist buses weren't visiting.
Within a few minutes I lost all sense of time, space and direction. I had no early idea where I was or where I was going, and it was delicious. I felt like I could walk for miles in the medina, with sudden turns and dead ends, and never find my way back to the Nouvelle Ville again. Apart from the periodic tugs by touts trying to drag me into their shops, I was able to wander the back alleys of the medina and lose myself in its marvelous atmosphere, completely forgetting that 12 hours earlier I was heading to the airport in Boston.
Soon my growling stomach snapped me out of it; I needed to get some lunch before the restaurants closed for the afternoon. My guidebook had recommended Café M'Rabet for its good food and great second-floor view of one of the medina's mosques. By the time I arrived there, the lunch crowd had left and I had the restaurant to myself, save one French couple that was paying the bill as I settled at my table. The lone waiter informed me that there was only one item on the menu at the moment - couscous - and I could choose between chicken and lamb. I ordered the chicken. A few minutes later, huge slabs of French bread arrived at the table, along with an appetizer of canned tuna in olive oil, drizzled with harissa pepper sauce and a small collection of green and black olives. It occurred to me that I'd somehow managed to order a multi-course meal, which was perfectly fine given how hungry I was - I just wondered what the bill would be.
Eventually I received a large portion of couscous that could have fed a small dinner party, topped with half a chicken, a variety of beans and a cylinder-like steamed squash. I soon wished I hadn't noshed on the bread during the first course, because I could barely make a dent on the couscous and chicken. (The waiter looked quite disappointed in me.) Afterward, I was able to wash it all down with a delicious glass of mint tea with boiled pine nuts - a local specialty that gives the tea a buttery taste. When all was said in done, the meal cost me 14 dinars, or $11. It certainly could have been a lot worse.
After lunch, I strolled around the perimeter of Zitouna Masjid (the olive mosque), the Great Mosque of Tunis. The mosque is open to non-Muslims during morning hours only, so if I wanted to go inside I'd have to return another day. From there I walked east on Rue Jemaa Zitouna, the central souk that spanned from the mosque to the eastern gate of the medina. More so than anywhere else in the medina, this street was primed for tourists. Every square inch of storefront seemed to be dedicated to Tunisian chotchkes, from leather goods to shisha water pipes to stuffed toy camels imprinted with "Tunisia Souvenir" across the hump. To no surprise, the shops were crowded with tourists, though they didn't appear to be horded like lemmings as had been the case at the Bardo Museum.
At this point in the afternoon I figured it was probably a good idea to check into the hotel, if only to get my laptop out of the storage room and locked into my room. The sun shone brightly as I exited the medina, passing through the French Gate and walking east along Avenue Bourguiba. The avenue's cafes were jammed with locals, particularly young couples enjoying a shisha and coffee under large umbrellas. Not far from the hotel, I discovered a large bookstore with very friendly staff. Their selection of English books was limited, but I was impressed with their Tunisian coffee table book collection.
Back at the hotel, I checked into my room and surveyed my new digs. The room was somewhat small, but at least it was nonsmoking with a queen-size bed and a strong, hot shower. I took advantage of the shower, soaking away the last 24 hours of sleeplessness in a matter of minutes.
Returning to the medina around 4pm, I wandered the souks until I found the perfect teahouse to waste away the rest of the afternoon. Not far from the Great Mosque, hidden down a nondescript corridor, I spotted Café Chaoechin, a grotto-like place with enormous murals of medieval teahouses on each wall. Algerian rai music poured through the speakers while I settled in for a couple hours of mint tea and an apple-flavored shisha. During my stay at the teahouse, the demographics of the patrons shifted from older males to twentysomething couples in fashionable clothes. To my surprise there were actually more women than men in the teahouse by the time I left. It certainly made me feel a lot more welcome; for whatever reason I always worry about sticking out like a sore thumb when sitting in a teahouse with a bunch of elderly Arab gentlemen.
The tea kept flowing as I immersed myself in the climax of Black Mass, the true story of how Boston Irish mobster Whitey Bulger managed to wrap the local FBI office around his finger for two decades. There was something extraordinarily incongruous about drinking mint tea, smoking a water pipe and listening to rai while reading about Special Agent John Connolly's corrupt activities inside the Boston FBI, I found myself having to read the same paragraph over and over to absorb what was being said in the book, struggling to reconcile it with my definitely Tunisian surroundings.
Around 6pm I left the teahouse and started to walk east towards the main gate of the medina, the French Gate. I veered away from the main souk and found myself in a parallel souk that was packed with hundreds upon hundreds of Tunisians. Unlike elsewhere in the heart of the medina, the ratio of tourists to locals dropped dramatically; as I flowed like molasses through the throngs of shoppers, I think I spotted only one or two other tourists. The souk became so crowded that bottlenecks of window shoppers caused a logjam; I was pressed tightly within a group of several hundred Tunisians waiting relatively patiently for the multitude to surge forward. While the men joked with each other, dozens of women seemed to be muttering "imshee" (Go!) in unison, trying to break the bottleneck.
Exiting the medina, I noticed that it was extremely dark outside, much darker than it should have been for that time of the evening. Then the raindrops landed on my shirt. I realized that the darkness was caused by enormous thunderclouds that had settled over the city. I'd hoped to go for a long walk in search of a restaurant for dinner, but instead I had to high-tail it back to the hotel since I didn't have an umbrella with me, and the shops I passed were selling them for an extortionate 45 dinars ($36). In a land that's home to the Sahara, umbrellas apparently come at quite a premium.
Lightning flashed and thunder cracked as I arrived at the hotel. I was getting a little run-down at this point, so I decided to get dinner at the hotel restaurant. Unfortunately, it didn't open until 7:30pm, so I had to keep busy working on my journal while wondering if I'd be able to stay awake much longer. Fortunately, writing helped pass the time, so around 8pm I went to the restaurant and had a lackluster fixed-price meal of tomato harissa soup, fried chicken and chocolate cake (my French must be extremely rusty - I really thought I'd ordered something else). With the raindrops outside doing their best to mask the whirring sound of the restaurant refrigerator, I ate dinner while finishing Black Mass, wishing I'd brought a second book and an umbrella with me.
Posted by acarvin at 9:20 PM
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Waiting for Tunis
Early morning at terminal 2F, Paris Charles De Gaulle airport.
posted from Andy's mobile phone
Posted by acarvin at 1:00 AM
