The last day of our trip was spent climbing up and down various elements of nature. We started (late – grumpy driver. The usual.) at a mountainous area that is part of the Atlas range. Our driver strongly suggested that we hire a guide for the mountain paths and was displeased when we declined. But since the way to the waterfall was clearly marked and even paved, and since the way up to the mountains was delineated with stairs (and made all the more obvious by the near omnipresence of trinket sellers), I think we made the right choice. The views were spectacular and the exercise was a nice respite from all the endless car sitting.

But we wandered for a bit too long over the mountain passes and, by the time we returned to the parking lot, the driver had started the engine and was ready to edge away. We further frustrated him by purchasing baskets from a local man, thus adding five more minutes to our tardiness tally.

As punishment, the driver informed us that we couldn’t go to the next stop on our schedule because the roads were dangerous. He even pointed out a “danger” sign which he said was a new addition and meant that, were we to insist that he drive us to see this particular waterfall, we might perish on account of the giant rocks that would fall onto our heads. We didn’t feel like fighting so we agreed to skip that stop and headed onto the Mides gorge. I later found out that the danger sign was permanent and the road was most likely safe. Oh well.

Along the way to the next (driver-approved) stop, we passed within 100 meters of the border with Algeria and made the driver highly nervous by insisting upon photographing one of the military fortresses.

The gorge was, if you can excuse slight puniness, gorgeous. Our driver dropped us at a view point and instructed us to return in half an hour. This spot was, unfortunately (although perhaps intentionally), on the opposite side of the rest stop from the point of descent into the gorge. So of course we had to walk over to the correct place, then climb down, and then of course we were compelled to walk for ten minutes or so into the stretch of the gorge. We hopped over the tiny remnant of the river that carved the gorge and muddied our shoes as best we could. As a result, we got back to the car twenty minutes over the instructed time. Big problem.

I tried to find a bathroom before we took off, which resulted in further delay. While I was looking, unsuccessfully I might add, the driver had an agitated argument with my friends. He had never seen tourists such as us, he claimed. So disrespectful! How could we make him wait like that? He was not our dog but a professional guide and he didn’t want to get home at midnight!

The atmosphere in the car was chilly after that. We tried to save time by, once again, skipping a sit-down lunch, but he was little appeased. Still, the consummate professional that he was, he delivered us to Kairouan and brought us home, right on schedule, at 7 pm. I’m not sure how much lollygagging the naughty tourists would have had to commit to make us the predicted 5 hours late, but we fell short of that goal. Next time I will have my own car and will spend as long as I want at every site. And I will eat lunch too. Because all of my complaining about the driver aside, the trip was great fun and the places we visited merit much much more exploring.

Desert Here, Desert There, and so on

The morning felt nearly as cold as the night had at our campsite, but at least in the sun we could see. What we did not see, however, were the oasis nor the dunes which we later discovered were adjacent to the campsite. We learned this by reading a guidebook, and thus began many more hours of discord between the driver and us passengers. Why didn't he tell us that there were interesting things to do nearby? It's a mystery I imagine I will never understand. Nor do I understand why, we had paid for what we understood to be an all-inclusive tour, the driver presented us with three options which each came with an additional cost. We were invited to a camel to the top of some dunes to watch the sunset, have a tour of some (more) Star Wars sites, and best of all we were encouraged pay for a dinner-show: snake charmers and men dancing with scorpions! It was very difficult to come to consensus, primarily because we passengers didn’t understand why we were offered these options at all and therefore had great difficulty in judging their worth.

Once again, on the second morning we were scolded for starting late – although we had been instructed to be ready at 7 am, we got into the car around 7.15, whereupon the driver brought us five minutes from the campsite and stopped to lecture for what felt like half an hour about camel penises.

Yes, camel penises. Apparently they point in a direction opposite that of the sexual members enjoyed by other male mammals. I am not sure why the driver decided that this was important information, important enough to keep us in one place when we were already (according to his schedule) behind. Once we had been duly informed, we continued toward Tozeur. Along the way, we stopped by a palmarium (where date palms are grown and harvested).

Many of the dates in the palmarium were covered by bags to protect them from the rain. One of my companions proved to have an excellent eye for ripe fruit as she selected and plucked tasty morsels for all to taste. We went unmolested despite the fact that several men were busy at work in that same garden.

Frustration with our driver grew as he continued to dominate the timekeeping of our trip with his own peculiar sensibility. He felt insulted, it seemed, that we found the information in the guidebook more valuable and reliable than that which he provided us (and this despite the fact that his information was obviously unreliable and often bizarre), and he was obviously annoyed when we asked him to stop various times for pictures. We ignored this, however, and sauntered off into the desert several times. The first time was to explore a grassy area wherein we festooned ourselves with plant life.

Later, we stopped the driver again so that we could leap about in the bed of the great salt lake. There are many art-looking objects on display there, including a broken boat which was highly entertaining to those with pirate fantasies. The ground is littered with salt, as might be expected, and piles of the stuff washed up alongside the small amounts of water still flushing through the lake bed.

By the time we had reached Tozeur, we decided that we did not, in fact, want to partake of any of the options presented us by the driver. In fact, we were greatly looking forward to some time without his grumpy countenance peeking at us through the rear-view window. For this reason, we rented quads, which are like motorbikes but with four wheels. . . which I suppose makes them not much like motorbikes at all. So outfitted we followed our local guide on a two-hour tour of the desert during which we visited a lake, an oasis, a Bedouin home and a hot spring. The guide gave us a half-hour extra on our tour without complaint, laughed and joked around with us. Obviously, we adored him and promised to bring all our friends to his shop so as to further trample the environment and to once again don rental helmets.

While we took in the lake we met two local gentleman who had taken their horse-drawn carriage into the desert to hunt. After some pressing they agreed to show us their kill – tiny desert rats, all with their heads severed by the air gun. Perhaps killing such creatures requires impressive shooting, but it doesn’t sound that tasty to me.

The tour ended with a lovely sunset and nary a camel in sight, thank goodness. If there ever were an animal more evil than the fiendish goat, it is the camel. Wait until you have encountered one at 4 am on a narrow mountain pass. You will never consider that particular beast of burden to be innocent and complacent again!

Djerba, Darkness, Danger, Dorkiness

We traveled south from Tunis in a chauffeured car. I met the driver at the company’s office at five am and we picked up the three other passengers in Sidi Bou Said before heading south, to Djerba. At one point along the way, the driver recited a poem he had written a few days before, then set about explicating it for me for quite some time. He was delighted that I could speak Arabic and suggested that I stay in Tunis forever, marry a Tunisian man and teach English. His good mood, however, did not last beyond that first day.

Dj is an island on which lives the majority of Tunisia’s Jewish population. It is also the site of a synagogue to which Talmudic scholars are purported to make pilgrimages and boasts beautiful beaches and famed architecture.

We saw none of these things because our trip began on Eid al-Adha (it was during this exact holiday last year that Number Six and I came to Tunisia for the first time). Everything was closed.

For instance, on the way to Jerba we paused in the town adjacent to El-Jem, a well-preserved Roman coliseum. The coliseum was closed but its exterior is impressive. We were then shuttled to Djerba by ferry, where we passed through streets jam packed with closed shops and silent restaurants before being delivered in our hotel.

The hotel was one among many resorts that abut and surround the beach, all of which looked spookily empty. There were other guests our hotel, mostly from Eastern Europe, but the area seemed rather deserted.

The next morning, our driver had instructed us to be ready to leave at 8 am. It was about 8.20 when he found us in the hotel’s restaurant, finishing up our breakfast. He scolded us for our tardiness and then, perhaps as punishment, drove like a complete maniac to our next site. Because of our late start, we skipped the synagogue and were instructed to spend only ten minutes in Medinine.

This was the first of several historic sites we visited under duress, for the driver was convinced that only those locations sanctioned by the tour agency’s itinerary and his personal wisdom were worth our time. This particular place was once a storage place for grains and the like and now houses small curio shops. The best part was that we were able to climb onto the roof. Things are always more fun when you can climb them.

Next we headed over winding mountain roads and continued at a punishing pace toward our next scheduled stop. The driver increasingly agitated because he was convinced we would not arrive at our final destination, a desert campsite, in time. The roads out there are treacherous at night, he informed us, and he did not want to have to drive them after dark. Therefore after we dawdled atop the mountain, snapping photos and greeting sheep, we were forced to argue with him for at least half an hour about whether we would skip the next sites and go straight to the campsite or see them and risk arriving at 9 pm. We even were forced to turn around several times as we argued this, which did not improve our timing. In the end, we insisted upon seeing the scheduled places, chance the consequences.

An immediate consequence was the driver’s grumpiness. He drove at top speed down the mountain and some of the more susceptible members of our party began to feel sick to our stomachs. The troglodyte houses were a welcome respite from the punishment of the road.

Troglodyte houses are built into rock faces. To enter the house we went through a cave-like hallway, at the other side of which was a small courtyard. Our tour here was extensive – the driver insisted upon explaining every room’s purpose for a very long time, to the point that I went outside to get some fresh air and commune with the resident kitty. He told us, for instance, that the people here have sex only on Thursday and Sunday so that any possible conception will be made at an auspicious time. As it turns out, he was quite the fan of this sort of information.

The residents of the home gave us a snack of home-made bread. We dipped it into honey mixed with olive oil. Most delicious. One woman demonstrated how the bread was made, or at least the beginning of what is certainly a laborious process through which she ground grains into flour. I turned the grinder for only a few moments before exhaustion set in.

On we went, zooming over the terrain once again until we reached Tattouine, a site famous these days for its connection to the Star Wars film series. The director of those films took inspiration from the site, and even named a city or a planet or something after it. I have to admit that I haven’t seen that movie, although I am, of course, a colossal dork. That dorkiness is better expressed in my love for mustaches and goofy accents than in an appreciation for sci fi movies; luckily for me there were plent of the former to be found on the trip.

On the road again, we visited yet another storage place, this atop a lovely hill. Afterwards we entered the dangerous portion of the evening where the driver felt it necessary for us to hide our passports in the glove box lest we be kidnapped by marauders. He informed us that two Europeans had been snatched by Al-Qaeda while driving on that very road four years ago. They were held for eight months. Perhaps it speaks to the seriousness with which I reacted to his warnings by this point that my first reaction was - think how good my Arabic would be after that!

The only living beings we encountered, however, were the two lovely kitties who greeted us at our last pit stop before the desert. For despite our driver’s fears, we arrived at our campsite at 6 pm and in plenty of time both to avoid danger and to eat dinner. The two D’s of travel, you might say. We did not avoid the cold, however. Instead we shivered through as many layers of clothing as we could accumulate as we awaited the dawn.

Local Delicacies and Patriotic Cakes

I often go to a patisserie across the street from my Arabic school during our morning break. I do this because boredom makes me hungry and because I am very curious about the various delicacies on sale there. Besides the standard chocolate croissants and tuna-filled snack items, they sell a contraption I can describe only as a small plastic cup filled with crushed nuts and dreams. The other day I was examining said desert item and noticed that a Tunisian woman was standing next to me eating one. I asked her what on earth it was and she explained to me that it was something something something with honey. Since her response was in French, I only caught the last word, but I thanked her politely and walked away. And then she ran after me, caught me by the door and insisted I taste the sweet, with her very own fork no less! Thus can I report that it tasted nutty, honey-ey, and like kindness.

Yesterday I traveled south to Kairouan. This city is the 2009 capital of Islamic Civilization (a moving honor like the capital of the European Union) and boasts the fourth most holy mosque in Islam. In fact, some claim that seven trips to this mosque one pilgrimage to Mecca. The mosque is also the architectural inspiration of some of my favorite mosques in Cairo, although this is much older since this city was founded in the 7th century.



I tried my darndest to convince the guard to let my friend and I climb the minaret but was unsuccessful. Although I could see laborers working on the roof of the mosque, they did not answer when I knocked on the minaret's door (at the guard's suggestion, of course. He said that, had he the key, he would have let me in since I am "like his daughter.")

The columns of this mosque were all relocated from Roman buildings, mostly from Carthage if the tour guide information I overheard is to be believed. I hesitate to put much credence in what the guide was saying, however, since she explained the fact that one of the two Latin inscriptions on the minaret is upside-down by insisting that the Arabs could not read the text so they put the words both ways. This explanation makes it sound like the builders wanted to cover all their bases and figured one way must be correct - but this also means that one is automatically wrong. Who purposefully puts an upside-down inscription on their holy building?





The same guide also claimed that the stairs inside the minaret are made of Christian gravestones to symbolize Islam's conquest of Christianity. Since I was unable to sneak inside I cannot rubbish her statement with any photographic evidence, so you will have to take my word for it when I say that this idea is completely preposterous. I don't care how firmly you believe in the enmity between Christians and Muslims, nobody wants to rob graveyards and then walk on gravestones unless, perhaps, he is a vampire.



After touring the mosque, we headed what is called the "medina," or the bazaar area. This bazaar sells much of the same products to be found in Tunis, in Cairo, and everywhere for that matter, with a few glorious exceptions.



The tastiest exception was to be found in this lovely sweet shop where we sampled makhroud. Makhroud, in its most basic form, consists of dates breaded in semonlina and soaked in honey. The varieties get much more complicated and colorful that that basic description, with orange or chocolate flavoring and complicated swirls of color. I tasted one of the fancier types but settled on the standard sort since I am, above all, a purist.



The trip was a great success - I purchased a lovely carpet and my friend and I were asked by two, completely independent inquirers whether we are Syrian. Score!

That evening I went to the Ball. More specifically, this was a party celebrating the 234th anniversary of the founding of the Marines, if you believe what was written on the ticket, the "United Sates Marine Corps." (If you believe what was written on the ticket you would also be two hours early - in reality the party started at 7.30, not 17.30.)


The party took place in a tent erected outside a fancy hotel in Gammarth, near the coast and next to the city of Carthage. There was a full dinner, an open bar and an illuminated dance floor.

Before we took advantage of those amenities, we were treated to an hour-long ceremony during which the US Ambassador spoke, the Marines marched, various patriotic songs were played and the cake was cut. The emcee explained that the ceremonial cake is cut with a sword to emphasize that Marines are always warriors, even at birthday parties.


After dinner we were treated to the musical stylings of a phantom violinist. His electric violin had been stripped of its guts, and he wore a sparkly silver hat with his gold mask. I cannot blame a man for enjoying the finer points of metallics, however, since I was wearing my finest, shiny gold dress. We then took in a performance by a belly dancer and toasted America with imported beer.



Many revelers retired to the dance floor and a mysterious smokiness appeared out of nowhere, obscuring many of my photographs.



After taking in what some of the other guests were wearing, I felt positively under dressed. Women were in full ball gowns with enormously pointy stilettos. A few had styled their hair into remarkably complicated updos that seemed to defy gravity. Men had tuxedos and the members of the Armed Forces donned full dress uniform. Clearly the only remedy to my under-accessorized situation was to borrow a hat.

Before:


And after:



I think that the white compliments my outfit nicey, and the emblem (Eagle, Globe, Anchor) matches my dress.

Art, Sand and Sun

I went to an art show last weekend in La Marsa. It was at a place called Palais al Abdalliya, but I do not know its address, nor could I find it again. My friend and I were led there by our in-the-know host and it took him fifteen minutes of wrong turns and three sets of directions to find the place. I doubt the rest of the guests had the same problems, but perhaps there were another hundred people wandering the streets of La Marsa, never to find their way out again. It's too bad for them, really. The palace was lovely, with a vast inner courtyard encircled by interconnected rooms and intricate tilework in the entryway.



The exhibition was co-sponsored by the French Ambassador and as a result was packed with Francophone and actual French guests who seemed to greatly enjoy the provided wine and chicken nuggets. The art was only of peripheral interest to most although much of it was quite nice. The French artist, Jean-Yves Pennec, makes multi-dimensional pictures out of old Spanish fruit crates. He was a jolly sort in a bright turquoise shirt - I met him when my companion tried to determine the price of such artworks. The answer: very high.


The next morning I hopped on a bus to Hammamet, a beach resort that's an hour's drive from Tunis. The day was clear and lovely, which inspired me to spend about an hour staring into the Mediterranean sea before I explored the sea-side bazaar.


The bazaar is built within fortress-like walls and is comprised of seemingly endless twists and turns on tiny, shop-lined alleyways. Somewhere in there is a mosque and a museum. I found both but entered neither, the first because it was closed and the second because it was too expensive.


I took a shared taxi home, which meant I had to wait half an hour for the car to fill up. This lead to an interesting experience in which, for the first time, I was addressed completely in Arabic rather than in the customary foreigner-friendly French. As a result, I understood marginally more than usual and was even able to inform an elderly gentleman of the time, all thanks to my excellent dialect class. He then asked me whether he could use my cell phone and our conversation ended when I declined, but I felt triumphant nonetheless - time telling is very complicated in Tunisian dialect. Rather than give the minutes by reporting the actual number of minutes, people here use something called "degrees" (but in Arabic, of course) with which they refer to five-minute groups, i.e. the numbers on the watch. Thus is 4.20"the fourth hour and four degrees." And that is only the beginning.

I was lucky that it was 2 pm precisely when I was asked the time.



The transportation for the entire trip to and from Hammamet was 14 Dinar. By contast, the taxi rides to and from La Marsa came to about 18 Dinar (I could have taken a train for a fraction of the price, but that trip is three times as long). Aren't price structures strange?

Music, Costumes, Parties - perhaps I am a rock star?

I went to a concert last week at which an Iraqi oud player collaborated with a Tunisian violinist, an Algerian pianist, an Egyptian percussionist, and various other musicians. The performance took place in Carthage's Acropolium, which was once a church but was requisitioned for cultural usage after the end of colonialism dramatically reduced its flock. A friend of mine has been to a rave at this same location.


The first problem of the night occurred when our taxi driver decided to take us to the Acropolium Hotel in Berges du Lac, a neighborhood quite distance from the correct one (Berges du Lac is where the American Embassy is located, and is quite far from everything else). When we communicated that we wanted to be in Carthage (the area in which, coincidentally, we had caught the cab), the driver proceeded to take us to two different churches and various back alleys before we arrived at our ultimate destination. And then we discovered that there were no tickets available and the ticket window showed no sign of opening. All sorts of fancy looking people in fur and shiny shoes began to pour into the hall. A gentleman in a tuxedo was identified to me as a famous Tunisian movie star. He was smoking a cigarette and looking disdainful, as movie stars are wont to do.

One of my group had a pass which allowed for her and a guest to go into the concert hall, so the rest of us waited to see whether anything would change after the ticket-holding audience had entered. Finally I tired of waiting and decided to see whether I could just walk in. So I climbed the steps, gave the two guards my haughtiest look, and strolled right into the venue. Unfortunately my two companions were not so lucky when they attempted the same a few moments later. Maybe the guards are only impressed by very tall people?

The concert was alternatively excellent and so-so. To be accurate, the oud player was excellent and his posse so-so. He was very emotive and, at one point, moved himself to tears when performing a song about Baghdad.


After the program the audience was invited to linger and sample the extensive buffet. The food included large fish, caviar and meaty looking shrimp. Not bad for the price. We lingered long enough to speak to the oud player and take a photo with him while he told us about his various schools, the largest of which is in Cairo. The rest of the fancy-dress audience seemed more interested in the shrimp than the musician; once we were finished talking to him, he stood alone for a moment before wandering away.


This weekend was, of course, Halloween, and like all God-fearing Americans I shopped in the used clothing markets until my feet ached to assemble two fabulous costumes. I wore the first to my friends' party and wowed the assembled masses with the appearance of what was either a Furby or a Gremlin on my person. Technically, I think that this strange face and ears belong to one of those previously popular toys, but I prefer to stick to the theory that I was portraying a pre-evil character from the 1980s film, if only because I remain somewhat confused as to what, exactly, a Furby is. I have a vague recollection that they could talk and were rather creepy.



The next night, the marines hosted a party at the US Embassy and I donned my finest digs and make-up to dress up as a Stereotype. The costume created quite a stir as my friends and I waited on the side of the road for a taxi. Two men pulled their car over to giggle at us but drove away when I spoke sharply to them (dialect class is coming quite in handy!). The taxi driver was even more dismayed, especially since I couldn't fit myself and my headdress in the car at the same time. We tried to explain that we were celebrating an American holiday in which people wear strange clothing and eat candy, but he remained unconvinced. Nevertheless, he complimented my outfit, claiming that I looked beautiful. Perhaps I should wear lipstick on my cheeks more often?

Kosher meat and Black Power

This weekend I visited a classmate and his fiancé who live in the resort town Sidi Bou Said. Although this suburb is a mere half-hour train metro ride from Tunis proper, it claims its own identity, beach and municipal board. Were I to write some sort of standardized test on the subject, I would use the analogy: Sidi Bou Said is to Tunis as Santa Monica is to Los Angeles. We walked over to the nearby area La Marsa, peered at the