Remembering Tunisia
This picture was taken in a café just outside the Medina in Tunis. Fate played a hand in connecting us, and we made a good team, with Badie’s Arabic, Anna’s knowledge of the country and my limited French.
When the early morning flight from Gatwick to Tunis was delayed, we were advised to watch the departure board. The first update announced another delay.
Disgruntled travellers converged on the British Airways counter, where a distracted employee distributed food and drink vouchers. A Tunisian businessman suggested we might be able to transfer to a Tunis Air flight from Heathrow. My fellow conference-goers soon began to find one another. I chatted with some American and British women; informally we formed the “Gatwick group.” More drink vouchers, more waiting.
As morning turned to afternoon, we pleaded with the airline agent. “Can’t you put us on another flight? We need to get to Tunis today; we have hotel reservations, and a tour first thing in the morning.” Academic women all, we’d duly scheduled ourselves into local tours arranged by the Humanities conference organizers.
A tanned Australian woman in a sleeveless dress and heels bustled up to the counter. “Never mind getting them to the conference,” said Ariana, tongue firmly in cheek as she winked at us, “You have to get me to Tunis so I can run the conference.” Within minutes we were all following her down a long ramp to pass the wrong way through a set of one-way doors. At another BA counter, a helpful woman explained our options and volunteered to re-book us onto the 5 pm Tunis Air flight from Heathrow.
As Anna passed the clerk her large backpack, her only luggage, we introduced ourselves. A soft-spoken woman, she was the only one in the group I hadn’t met.
In a short time, the airline agent successfully rearranged all seven bookings and set about locating our luggage to transfer it to Heathrow. Then came an announcement about the original flight, and a new update on the departure board. Our flight was finally boarding. Thanking the helpful clerk who was already cancelling our alternative arrangements, we raced upstairs to get on the plane.
When the pilot welcomed us to Tunisia, he said the local time was five pm. Strange, I thought, that’s London time. “Isn’t it an hour later here?” I asked my British seat mates. They weren’t sure. Deciding to trust the pilot, I left my watch unchanged.
After passing through customs, the Gatwick group reconstituted itself in the Tunis-Carthage airport. Hearing a familiar language, a young English couple attached themselves to us. We agreed to share a group taxi to our two hotels, and we all piled in. The young couple, knowing no single word of French or Arabic, got in with us. Booked into a hotel in the nearby town of Sousse, they had wrongly assumed our taxi was going there.
We were already on the road when, with Angela translating, the woman discovered that the taxi was not going to her hotel. Tired and stressed after the long wait in the airport that had cut their holiday weekend in Tunisia in half, she became semi-hysterical. In a tone that suggested she was being kidnapped, she yelled, “Stop the car! Let me out! I want to go to Sousse!” Ignoring her doomed hope that voice volume alone would bridge the language barrier, her husband remained impassive. So did the driver. Angela spoke quietly to the woman to calm her.
When we got to the Hotel Diplomat, unflappable Angela also brought the couple into the lobby and asked the doorman to call them another taxi to take them to Sousse. We learned later that Tunis taxis are licensed for certain areas only; the first cabbie could not have taken them to Sousse even if he had wanted to.
The only one among us carrying Tunisian dinars, I paid the driver an exorbitant tip on top of the agreed-on fare, out of a misplaced sense of embarrassment that he had been yelled at in an incomprehensible language about something that was not his fault.
It had been a long day. Having risen at 4 am in London, only to stand around on the marble floors of Gatwick airport for several hours, I wanted desperately to bathe and sleep. Escaping to my room, I enjoyed a wonderfully vigorous shower and was already dozing when I realized that I had neither re-checked the local time nor asked for a wake-up call. Sleepily I told myself, Oh well, I’ll probably wake up in time for the tour.
I didn’t. When I went down in the morning, I learned that my watch was an hour behind. Since there was still no conference schedule posted in the lobby, I also did not learn there had been a last-minute change in the departure point of the tour.
After rushing off by taxi to the other conference hotel, the Abou Nawas, I found the lobby disappointingly empty. Then to my relief I saw Anna. She introduced me to a man who had also missed the tour. “We’re in luck,” she said, “Badie speaks some Arabic.”
Bowing to the hand of fate, we began to plan our own itinerary. Within a few minutes, we were in a taxi heading up the hill to the ruins of ancient Carthage. Immediately a guide approached us, offering to give her tour in English, French, Italian or German. A summer college student, she wore a long muslin skirt, a long-sleeved muslin blouse, a baseball cap and runners. Talking non-stop as she guided us over the ruins, she spiced up her litany of facts with her own commentary. Her fast rendition of the history of Carthage captivated us, especially as she rhapsodized over Hannibal the man, a totally different character from Hannibal the military genius. She’s in love with him, we decided quietly among ourselves, and I remembered Doris Lessing’s novel where a man falls in love with a dead woman in a portrait.
So there we sit, Badie, Anna and I, imbibing cold drinks and resting. We are looking towards the old Carthage Gate, still solid and impressive, though the wall is no longer there. When that picture was taken, our tours of El Jem and Kairouan were still ahead. We had not yet found or been driven by our kind and patient driver Adil to Utica, where we drank from a Roman well. Our refreshing swim in the green Mediterranean at Bizerte were still ahead of us too. But don’t we look just like old friends?
Blurred grey afternoon. Winter in Surrey. Savouring a sweet dried fig beneath the skylight, I recall the sunshine and heat of Tunisia.
Three tourists – our hired driver is ready to take us wherever we want to go. Climbing into the front seat, Badie addresses him in rusty Arabic, then turns to Anna and me, in the back. “His name is Adil.” Then Badie translates a request to us from Adil. “On the shelf, behind you. Could you give him the book?” Anna reaches back and passes the Koran forward. Adil tucks it securely beside him. We drive first to the Bardo Museum, a maze of Punic and Roman mosaics. Later, south to seaside Sousse.
As we travel the road to El Jem, oleander blooms white and pink, flashing by in the highway median. Olive groves flank the road, separated by prickly pear fences. The hot dusty wind blows the smell of ripe olives through the open windows. At occasional Berber encampments, sheep and goats shelter in the shade of makeshift corrugated iron shelters.
In a gas station shop, I buy chocolate covered biscuits, and we each enjoy one or two. Then Adil puts them in the trunk. When we take them out later, the chocolate has melted and run, coating the inside of the bag.
At El Jem, we explore the world’s best-preserved colosseum. Its walls still stand and we explore the recesses where the gladiators and animals stayed before entering the arena to provide their violent entertainment. Tonight the Vienna Symphony will play here, but we cannot wait for the concert.
At Khairouan, Anna and I drape ourselves in borrowed plaid shawls and tour the mosque with its mismatched columns, recycled from older buildings. Then we wander through the Medina. With Badie bargaining for me, I buy my daughter a necklace made by the Tuareg people. The unusual-looking pendant is elaborately crafted in silver, set off with jet beads. The charming young seller wants me to understand the value of this unique piece of jewelry. Lighting a match, he holds it against the black beads to demonstrate that they are not plastic. “You are Canadian? I can see you are not a capitalist.” He smiles. “For you, I give a special price.”
Driving back to Tunis in the early evening, we are hungry. Our driver recommends a roadside restaurant. Sitting outside near the highway, we catch occasional whiffs of diesel as we devour smoky barbecued lamb and hot peppers drizzled with olive oil. Coke seems to be the only drink option. We three chip in to treat Adil, and after dinner, we ride like old friends. Now the Holy Book pnce more rests on the window ledge behind us.
Driving to Bizerte, Anna points out the side road that leads to a place she wants us to see. Once a thriving port, Roman Utica is virtually deserted. Adil sits down to wait in the shade with the museum’s gatekeeper while we explore.
Speaking in French, an eager guide follows us to show and explain all. Like a magician producing a rabbit from a hat, he draws up a bucket of sweet water from a Roman well, and gives us each a drink. He shows us the incredibly preserved Roman floor mosaics. Just a few feet away and about twelve inches lower, he points out their pristine Punic predecessors.
We continue northwards to view Cap Blanc, the northernmost tip of Africa. We cannot get too close, as the military controls that place. Later, at Bizerte, Anna and I pad across scorching apricot sand, braving the breakers to swim in the translucent green Mediterranean. Badie and the driver wait for us near the car.
In the early evening, cool and refreshed after swimming, we stroll on the seafront and buy figs. From the minaret just above our heads, the recorded muezzin, the call to prayer begins, sudden and tinny. Below, business continues undisturbed. In the market, people bargain with the vendors, and wasps buzz around the ripe peaches, grapes and figs.
On the ride back to Tunis, Anna dozes beside me. At the rest stop, black on gold, the gas station logo shows a running Arabian horse, graceful mane and tail flying. Emerging from the toilet, I look around for the others. Our driver spots me and winks solemnly. I follow him to the dark green Renault and get in.