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The imposing Bab Bhar marks the start of the medina. The squat stone archway is home to street hawkers, marauding taxi drivers (trying to secure fare from people leaving the busy market beyond) and a set of touts. One man sidled up to me while I took a photo. His modus operandi was the tried and tested method of saying hello, asking where I was from and then explaining a little about the monument in front of me. People like him operate all over the world, pouncing on unsuspecting visitors, bombarding them with information before asking for a little something in return. Before the thin man with a blackened tooth had time to fire off his spiel, I shook my head and waved him away. “Non merci, monsieur.”
The man tutted and walked away, slinking back to whichever shadow he’d emerged. But then I felt a little sorry for him; after all, tourists were thin on the ground in Tunis. In fact, I was surprised that touts were even operating. Perhaps he’d been a chancer or, more likely, the brother of a carpet seller. Either way, he was gone now and so I entered the labyrinth of lanes before me.
Leather stalls, carpenters, glassware emporiums, carpet sellers and silk peddlers lined the maze beyond the archway. I was wandering along the Rue de la Kasbah, a name to conjure the sights I was actually seeing. It reminded me of the main souq in Marrakech, except without the tourist hordes. A waft of perfume her, a hint of spice, there, the medina was awash with noise and activity. A teenage boy carting a barrow filled with vats of cooking oil trundled through. I walked unhindered by the shop front touts. As a single man, they knew I would not be interested in silks, leather handbags or women’s clothes, but should I let my eyes wander at an arrangement for a second too long, then an invite would follow. Best price, best price! Finest silverware for you, my friend!
I ambled aimlessly, the best thing to do in a rabbit warren. Away from the main strips of shops, the crowds thinned, with only blacksmiths and painters toiling away inside tiny darkened alcoves. I stopped at a beautiful door. It was bright blue, patterned with black nails and ornate knockers. Set inside an archway, it was perhaps the most
beautiful doorway I’d ever seen, and even the cracked pavements and discarded cigarette ends could not diminish its beauty. Where the portal led, I had no idea, the same as the alleyway I began to follow. From somewhere came the muezzin’s call to prayer. Without the dangling electrical cables, I could have been wandering through Medieval Tunisia.
No Photo! I emerged from a tight lane and stepped into an open area. The high walls of the Al-Zaytuna Mosque, Tunis’s oldest, stood before me. Due to the tight alleys around it, the almost two century-old place of worship was difficult to see. A tall wall, some steps leading to a balcony, and a stout rectangular minaret topped with a golden crescent. I decided to investigate.
At the top of the steps was an entrance with a large sign: prayers in progress. I looked over the balcony instead. The view wasn’t particularly good – just the top of the medina and some tall buildings opposite – but a man below me started bellowing and flapping his arms. When ·I raised my camera to take a photo of the scene, he yelled Arabic at me. Used to this type of
behaviour from the visit to Djibouti City, I simply ignored the man. I took another photo and the man switched to French and then English.
“No photo!” he screeched. “Forbidden!”
I lowered my camera and nodded. Then thought what the hell and took another photo just to annoy him. It wasn’t as if I was taking a photo of people at prayer, or even of the mosque itself: my snaps had been of the market below. But then I thought about where I was: I was in Tunis: a city under siege. I was supposed to be keeping a low profile; not annoying the locals. I put my camera away and headed back for the steps. The angry man was already climbing them, red in the face, a wild look in his eyes. I mumbled and apology which unleashed a fresh tirade. Before he chance to do anything further, I stepped past him and darted into a busy alleyway.
Dingy Bar I was getting hot and decided to find somewhere to get a drink. I chose the El Hana International Hotel simply because it was on my route back to my own hotel. It was a
massive thing, towering above Avenue de Paris, and when I walked inside its spacious lobby, I headed straight for the elevator. Before getting something to drink, I wanted to go to the top floor in order to take a photo.
At the top, the doors pinged open and a line of rooms greeted me. I stepped into the empty corridor and saw only more doors. In the hope that a window might be around the corner, I traipsed past the locked rooms but found only more doors. Mentally tutting, I turned tail just as a maid came out of one room. She looked as surprised to see me, as I was to see her. Then she smiled and said bonjour. I noticing the room she had emerged from had a large window. Perhaps if I were nice, she would allow me to take a quick photo. I smiled and showed the middle-aged woman my camera. I then pointed at the window behind her. She nodded and gestured that I could go through. I noticed she’d just mopped the floor and so decided not to bother. I didn’t want my dusty footprints to ruin her hard work, but she ushered
she in, nonetheless, even opening the balcony windows so I could see outside.
The view was fantastic, offering a panorama of downtown Tunis that looked all the way along Avenue Habib Bourguiba, which ran perpendicular to Avenue de Paris. From my eagle’s nest, I see how tree-lined the avenue was, and how relatively flat Tunis was beyond it. Opposite was the theatre, a century-old building, and then, over on my far left was the blue of the Lac de Tunis, an inlet of the Mediterranean. I fired off a series of quick photos, sidestepped the glistening floor as best I could, and then thanked the maid for her help and generosity. When I offered her a ten-dinar note (about $5) she waved it away. I insisted, but she shook her head. I dropped the banknote on her trolley and headed for the elevator.
Back down at the lobby level I found a dingy and smoke-filled bar hidden in a secluded corner. Despite the lack of ambient lighting, the bar was busy, full of men with cigarettes and alcohol. Women, it appeared, did not frequent Tunisian bars. I found an empty stool at the bar and ordered a bottle
of local beer, Celtia, which had a font that made it look German. I took a sip and looked around at my fellow patrons. All of them looked like local men – some on a lunch break, others having business meetings and some, like me, sitting alone. The thick set man next to me was nursing a glass of whisky. He noticed me looking and scowled. I turned back to the bar and caught up on emails from the Wifi.
Mr Whisky “You American?” Mr Whisky asked.
I turned and saw him staring. He was wearing a chequered-blue T-shirt and baggy pants. The man’s waist was spilling over his belt.
“No, British.”
“British? Like Wayne Rooney?”
I smiled. “Yes, just like him.”
The man didn’t smile back. “Why you in Tunis?”
I decided to keep my answer short and deliberately vague. “Business.”
The man nodded. “Same as me. Dealing with Tunisians is as difficult as doing business with my fellow Egyptians. Too much corruption. Too much stealing. And there’s not much I can do from my office in Cairo. That’s why I’m here.”
I nodded and downed a healthy gulp
of my beer. My new friend took a sip of his drink too, then looked at the barman. He wanted a refill. I took this as my cue to leave. I downed my drink and headed back into the blazing sunshine outside.
Back in the Medina After lunch in the hotel (where another round of Deal or No Deal was playing) I made my way back to the medina. A rib-thin cat scuttled in front of me, a chicken bone in its mouth. The hubbub of bartering and of tinny radio music filled the alleyways. But at least the crowds were lighter due to the eating hour, but still busy enough to hide me in the alleyways. A rib I stopped at a stall selling sunglasses. Since breaking mine in Djibouti, I’d done without, but with the sun outside, combined with the chance encounter of a stall selling them, I decided to buy some. None of the glasses had prices.
The shop owner, a young man in his early twenties, was upon me in a second. “Very good price, sir. Premium quality merchandise. Please come inside and see the best ones. Special deal for you!”
I
seriously doubted that. I pointed at a pair of fake Adidas shades. “How much?”
“Ah for these, the price is…” The man sized me up. “…One hundred dinar. Special price.”
I laughed. One hundred dinar was about $50. “I’ll give you five dinar.”
It was the young man’s turn to laugh. “Five dinar! Please give fair price. Five dinar is not fair price and you know it, sir.”
“I picked up the sunglasses. An Adidas logo had been stuck on. They looked cheap, just the type I liked since I kept breaking them. “Ten Dinar, final price,” I said.
The man smiled and shook his head, performing his part in the dance to perfection. My next step shocked him though. Instead of the foxtrot, I did a jig and made a move to walk away. The man recovered quickly and lowered his price dramatically. “Thirty dinar.”
I turned around. “Ten. That is my final price.” I meant it too.
The asked for twenty, then fifteen, but we finally settled on twelve, about six dollars. I handed over the cash and walked away happy.
Ceremonial Square I left the covered souq and
found myself walking past a beautiful white building decorated in arches and columns. The arches were painted black and white, and behind them, mostly hidden, was a government building. That explained the troops hanging around. Beyond the great building was something even better.
It looked like a ceremonial square, which it may well have been. In the middle was a white monument surrounded by Tunisian flags. Separate segments made up the piece, all curving upwards towards the centre. I presumed it to be the Independence Monument, which I knew was around here somewhere. Behind it was a large white building that looked governmental. Sheets of blue glass reflected the North African sun. Leading to it was clean white marble paving blocks. I wondered whether I should be in the square, especially since I was the only person. The answer came from a loud shout to my left. A policeman was coming my way, at speed.
His eyes appraised me. Then he sprouted a whole mouthful of French, none of which I understood. Finally, he switched to English. “Why you here? Go to hotel. Not safe! Not safe for tourist.”
I wondered whether there was going to be
some sort of demonstration, or if I was simply too visible out in this open square. Whatever the reason, I raised my hands in acquiescence and headed back towards the medina, mingling with the late afternoon crowds.
So my time in Africa was coming to an end. The next day I flying back to Qatar before heading east to Asia. Part One was almost over.
As I sat in my hotel room, the streets below me were clearing for the curfew. I opened my laptop and looked through some of the photos I’d taken: Lake Assal in Djibouti, the beautiful beaches of Mauritius, the lemurs of Madagascar and the wildlife of Namibia, and realised how lucky I was to traverse Africa in such a timely and efficient manner. I had dipped my feet into Africa, and they had come out warm and clean.
It was time to go to Asia.
http://www.theredquest.com
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Keep Smiling
Mike Fossey
Puzzled
Jason, I'm a bit puzzled about the location on your Tunisia blogs. It's showing as Borj Cédria (to the south of Tunis) but the blogs are all about Tunis itself; one of them also mentions your hotel being in Avenue Mohammed V, Tunis. Oh, and how come you didn't get to Carthage and Sidi Bou Said? Are they closed to tourists at the moment? If, so, that's a shame because they are well worth a visit.