à écrire [View Full Entry]

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Travelling: Johanna, Reetta and me. Route: Nancy-Paris Est, Paris CDG-Monastir, Monastir-Sousse. A semi-serious idea made with friends on New Year's Eve became reality, and so I found myself once again from CDG looking forward to a warm African sun. My friends were supposed to join me from Finland after one and half days in Sousse. Before landing to Monastir, the weather got suddenly really bad. The massive dark clouds seemed never to end, but I really couldn't expect that kind of strong wind and rain I faced when got myself out from the plane. Anyw [View Full Entry]

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In my final days, as if in some spasm of recrimination, Tunisia’s decided to send a chorus line of hustlers and vagrants my way. Something about this face, I suspect, suggests a guarded tolerance toward mischief. “You’re not likely to wheedle a single dinar out of me,” my eyes hint, “but please, don’t let that stop you from making a colorful pitch.” And they do, around Ave. Habib Bourguiba and Mohammed V, in broad daylight and in the dark midnight hours, when every last person on the street seems up to no good. A man in a long, belted overcoat [View Full Entry]

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One of the sad, hopeless inevitabilities of tourism around a place like Tozeur - where the SUV caravans, improbably white for all the dirt they churn up, wear grooves into the road between the most popular sights - is that everyone leaves with more or less the exact same pictures as the last guy. We dutifully plod from one “panoramic view” to the next, the very word “panorama” having apparently trumped “Coca-Cola” as the Arab world’s favorite English syllables. There are viewing stands conveniently set up beside the gorges and mud-brick medinas, overl [View Full Entry]

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Tozeur’s been dubbed Tunisia’s “gateway to the Sahara,” a description that doesn’t entirely square with the fact that the town’s on the desert’s doorstep in the same way that the Pussycat Girls are on my lap. In truth, Tozeur’s claim-to-fame - apart from the lovely, leafy sprawl of its palmeraie - is that it anchors tourism in this corner of the country. You’d have to drive an awfully long way before some honest-to-goodness sand dunes come into view, but if you’re looking for the quad bike or tour guide to get you there, you n [View Full Entry]

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In as much as I’ve acquainted myself with four city blocks and a small slice of the medina, Sfax is the sort of town I can get used to. In fact, I already have, picking out the café, the sandwich shop, the reliable Publinet with DSL, that will constitute my daily routine. Strange to be making myself at home in this city; by day two, I’m all but soaking my underthings in the marina and padding around in a bathrobe and slippers on the Avenue Habib Bourguiba. Here I am, reading beneath the medina’s ancient, crenellated walls; here I greet [View Full Entry]

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I’m a week into my time in Tunisia and haven’t strayed more than an hour from the capital. It’s a tiny country, true, but still: this is a bit ridiculous. I head south, bypassing some of the country’s most popular tourist resorts - Hammamet, Sousse - and arrive in Kairouan: home of the Great Mosque, pillar of Islam, spiritual heart of Tunisia. In the coastal cities, you can see why this country is among the Islamic world’s most progressive: Western culture pulls at the heartstrings of the young, the sexes freely mingle at the cafés, the women squeeze into jea [View Full Entry]

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Before sending me off from Tunis, Vinh takes me to his local hammam - a welcome gesture, given the icy water that pumps from his rusted showerhead. In spite of my month in Morocco, it’s my first visit to one of the region’s ubiquitous bathhouses - the prospect of sitting in a sauna with a bunch of sweaty men having strangely taken some time to grow on me. The guy at the door hardly gives me a warm welcome, treating my fumbling stabs at French like they might leave a stain on his shirt. He hands me a grungy strip [View Full Entry]

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I’ve made plans to stay with Vinh, a Vietnam-born, American-raised CouchSurfer who’s managed - in just a few short months - to find a job, an apartment, and a passing acquaintance with four letters of the Arabic alphabet - each circle, squiggle and swooping arc a testament to his maniacal perseverance. We’d met earlier in the week, over coffee at a gruff, male-only café in the medina - a world apart from the Western-style places I’d been visiting. He gave me tips on places to visit and people to look up, good-naturedly brushing off the cries of “Jackie Chan!&rdqu [View Full Entry]

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I’ve spent about two hours walking through the Tunis medina - the white-washed walls, the blue-paneled doors, the men listlessly selling stuffed camels - and most of my time sitting in the cafés of the Ville Nouvelle. It’s about the only thing I have in common with the men of Tunisia. Along Ave. Habib Bourguiba - named for the former president and national hero who was unceremoniously nudged from power in 1987 - you practically have to fight for a table on the broad sidewalks. The men are there day and night, hair carefully groomed, fingernails trimmed, pressed slacks tapering [View Full Entry]

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