2001 February Trip - Tunisia

Arriving in Tunis (10 Feb)

I arrived at the Tunis airport around 9 o'clock in the evening. It was a quick walk through customs, and then into the main terminal. I needed to get some local currency.

A smartly-dressed man was standing around, watching new arrivals.

"Taxi?" he asked me. I did need a taxi, but I needed cash first.

"Is there an ATM around here?" It didn't register.

"Distributeur de billets?" I asked again.

"Ah, oui," he replied, pointing me down the terminal. He followed me at a distance while I withdrew some cash. Then it was my turn to follow him, this time to his taxi.

"Hotel Carlton," I said.

"Oui."

He didn't have a yellow-colored taxi, like everyone else. He had a beaten-up old white Mercedes-Benz, with a removable Taxi sign on the top. He took it off and put it in the trunk. There was a long taxi queue, and other taxi drivers shot him nasty looks as he had obviously poached a fare by running into the airport. One of them approached, and spoke quickly. My taxi driver shrugged his shoulders, and replied back, then asked me: "Your hotel?".

"Hotel Carlton," I replied. This seemed to satisfy the other driver. All I can guess is that my driver justified queue-jumping by claiming some sort of affiliation with the hotel.

Anyway, it was a bit unusual. We pulled away.

Leaving the airport, a white van drove up next to us, honked, and then pulled off to the side of the road in front of us. We pulled over and stopped behind it.

"My father," explained my driver.

Sure enough, an elderly Tunisian man stepped out of the van and walked back towards us with a wide grin on his face. It appeared to be the driver's father. They spoke rapidly, I think in Arabic, if it was French I didn't catch a single word. After a minute, a woman who I assume was his mother stepped out of the van and joined the father, standing by the driver door of the cab, talking to my driver. At one point the driver gestured at me. The parents waved.

"Bonjour," I said, and waved back. What could I do but laugh?

After a minute of more (to me) unintelligible conversation, the father punched his son pretty hard on the shoulder, they both laughed, and the mother and father got back into the van. We drove off again.

On the way to the hotel, the driver and I fired brief snippets of conversation at each other. My French and his English were about the same, so we would ask and reply in either language.

Once again, I was entering the city while it was dark, and so it was hard to get a feel for how the place really looked. The road from the airport skirted Lake Tunis on one side, and high-rises on the other.

Entering central Tunis was interesting. It had a far different character than Istanbul. There were a number of abandoned buildings. Architecture was predominantly very ugly 1960's style concrete buildings, with chunky, awkward balconies and crumbling facades. A lot of sidewalks and streets were in disrepair. There were a number of guards, stationed seemingly at random, with intimidating automatic rifles (although I've never met an automatic rifle that made me feel warm and fuzzy).

We finally pulled onto Avenue Habib Bourguiba, which looked like a war zone. A construction crew was ripping up the road, meaning there were piles of dirt and temporary barriers everywhere. A man threw up violently on the sidewalk as we slowed near the hotel.

"Il a bu," chuckled the driver.

We pulled up in front of the Hotel Carlton. There were large holes in the sidewalk, where the paving stones had broken or simply disappeared. There was very little trash, but a lot of dirt. I pulled my bags out, and asked the driver how much I owed him.

"Cinq dinars," he said, or at least I'm pretty sure that's what he said. That was the guidebook's estimate for a fare from the airport. I gave him a ten, since that was all I had. He shook his head. We exchanged a few words, but were unable to communicate. I was under the impression he couldn't make change. He followed me into the hotel.

The reception area was pleasant, although not as nice as the Blue House in Istanbul. There was a young man behind the counter. He and the driver spoke briefly. The driver changed the ten for two fives. Then he held out his hand again.

"Dix dinars."

"I already gave you ten."

"Quinze. Fifteen."

"What? Five."

"No, fifteen."

"It is fifteen," said the receptionist. "It's a larger taxi."

Larger taxi? Maybe if you measured in centimeters. Both men looked slightly insulted, but I couldn't tell if they really believed that fifteen was a reasonable fare, or if they just thought it was natural for foreigners to pay extortionate taxi fares. But it was late (at least for my internal clock), and I didn't think it was worth arguing any further. I handed over another ten and received a five in return. The taxi driver left, and I checked in. The Hotel Carlton was far less than half the Blue House's published rate, and a good deal less than what I had actually paid. I followed a bored-looking Tunisian bellhop to my room.

The room was a disappointment. The hotel was listed in the guidebook as a top- end hotel, and supposedly rated three stars. The twin beds and bedspreads looked older than I was, as did the furniture. The tile floor was clean, but heavily scuffed and scraped. The view out the window was a dark, forbidding alleyway of cement buildings.

I unpacked and went to bed feeling slightly uneasy. Had the taxi driver and receptionist worked in collusion to cheat me? If so, how much did I really trust the staff here? Would it be safe to leave my laptop in the room (even buried in my packpack) while I was out for the day?

The Tunis Medina (11 Feb)

I slept like a log, and woke up feeling much better. The furniture was old, but functional and comfortable. The view out of the window was far less forbidding. And the hotel breakfast, while again not as nice as the Blue House, was filling and served in a large, airy room filled with morning light.

Best of all, there were many other tourists here. Knowing that there were other people in my situation calmed me even more. I decided not to switch hotels.

Pretty much all of my clothes, except for what I was wearing, were dirty. So I handed them over to the hotel for cleaning.

I walked down the Avenue Habib Bourguiba. A man asked if I wanted a shoeshine, and I declined. I was wearing my cross-trainers anyway.

Another man walking near me laughed, and pointed to his own shoes. He was wearing tennis shoes as well.

"Not much use for a shoeshine, eh?" he said with a smile.

"Where are you from?" he asked as we walked. We talked for a bit, he was heading to the medina as well.

"Today is special exhibition."

"Oh really?" That was good luck. Everything in town was closed, it sounded like the medina at least would have something going on.

"Yes, a Berber handicrafts fair."

"Sounds good." Not as interesting as, say, sword swallowers or a cheerleading exhibition, but at least it was something.

"Many things. Carpets, kilims, jewelry."

"Ah." For the first time, I got suspicious.

"But we must hurry. Closes very soon."

I almost stopped. This was *exactly* the same pitch that had pulled Paul Theroux into a carpet shop in his book "The Pillars of Hercules." I mean, didn't these people know that particular ruse had been exposed years ago? I refused to follow the man, obviously a carpet tout, into the medina. When he realized I was going to go my own way, he left for other prey.

Bab Bhar, heading into the Tunis medina.

I stood at Bab Bhar, the massive gate leading into the Tunis medina. The gatehouse stood on its own, years ago the nearby medina walls had been ripped down so some streets could be built, fortunately that wasn't done often and most of the medina walls are still standing.

The touts in the medina were far more agressive than in Istanbul. I was glad I hadn't visited Tunis first. I had several people walk up to me with various phony introductions. I made the mistake of telling one where I was staying, which was useless information to him but another tout (who must have been nearby but invisible) later introduced himself as working at the hotel. Another man tried to get me to visit a nearby terrace for "panoramic views" (Theroux also encountered this one: to get to the terrace you have to go through a shop). He combined the two tactics: it was a great view, *and* it was closing soon. His claim to legitimacy was that he supposedly worked at the mosque I was visiting. He spoke only in French, although he knew one or two words of English.

"C'est gratuis, non? No charge!"

"Non, merci."

"You have no confidence in me? You think there are no gentlemen in Tunisia?" he asked in French.

"Je ne vous comprend pas," I replied. Sometimes ignorance is the best diplomacy.

The touts seemed more desperate here, compared to Istanbul. They were rarely rude, but they usually made it obvious that they felt you'd insulted them if you didn't fall prety to their pitch. And I suppose that after the tenth or twentieth person walked up to me and said: "Where you from? America?" I started to become less and less civil myself. It starts to erode your faith and trust in other people. Actually, by around 11 I wouldn't have trusted my own mother.

Tunisian birdcages. I'd have gotten one if I thought I could ship it home.

Looking back at a minaret.

The first of many colorful doors.

A large door, and a mini-me door for mail.

I walked through the medina. Tight streets weaved through a maze of cracked walls and beautiful doorways. Once in a while a young Tunisian on a motorbike would zip by at insane speeds. Cars were much rarer, and much slower, since they had to be careful about scraping the walls on either side (and from the looks of both cars and walls, many drivers weren't careful enough). I spent several hours walking, trying to follow the guidebook's suggested walking tour but getting lost quite often, detours which were often as interesting as the official walk anyway.

Squeezing a truck through the narrow walls. You can see marks where other drivers didn't quite make it.

In the Tourbet el-Bey mausoleum.

A grave marker.

The medina's "attractions" (mosques, mausoleums, museums, shops) weren't terribly exciting to me, certainly nothing compared to the Aya Sofya or Kopali Sarayi. The main attraction was the architecture of the medina itself. If you ignored the desparate touts and the shops full of tourist junk, you could start to sense what it must have been like, living here where nothing changed from the fall of Rome to the invasion of Europeans. Off the main tourist souks, you would find real Tunisians engaged in real commerce or even relaxation. I felt notably less welcome here than in Istanbul, although nothing close to resentment. I suppose that's natural, given that the per-capita GDP and standard of living is lower in Tunisia.

The door to the Dar Ben Abdallah museum.

After several hours, I stopped in one of the cafes. It was in the Turkish section, and was supposedly an authentic Turkish cafe. Instead of seats, there were woven reed mats placed on top of large stone benches. The patrons would sit with their backs against the walls, feet straight out in front of them on the bench. Everyone smoked like it was required. Blue smoke wafted towards the high, arched ceiling. I had a thick, sweet Turkish coffee and wrote some postcards.

After that, I wandered back towards the hotel. Many shops were still closed, but Tunis was far more alive now. More people were on the streets, more cars were driving around. I grabbed some lunch, and decided to visit the Bardo Museum.

The Bardo Museum (11 Feb)

On arrival, I paid the entrance fee (including the universal 1 dinar surcharge for taking pictures). There are two reasons for going to the Bardo: the mosaics, and the building itself. Or so said the guidebook, and I agreed.

Entering the Bardo.

More mosaics. Check out the ceiling.

A mosaic of many animals.

Same mosaic, detail of a leopard (I think).

I'm not really much of a museum person. But I enjoy architecture, and this introduction to mosaics was a novelty for me. I'm not competent to judge the artistic or technical merits of mosaics, but there were many of them, and they never ceased to amaze me. The same can be said for exploring the building.

Virgil, flanked by the muses of literature and drama.

Parts of the Bardo were very Escher-like.

We've all been there.

At one point, I ventured down a short stairwell to view a small balcony with mosaics. The balcony was closed for repairs. As I turned to leave, however, a guard ran up to me.

"I let you in."

I wasn't sure what he meant. But he started to unlock the large padlock. Just then a large group came through, the tour guide talking in rapid French. The guide motioned for me to wait. We stood there until the group left. Then he unlocked the padlock, and opened the small gate. I walked around some scaffolding, and looked down.

We were in a room I'd visited before. It had two balconies, both of which were closed. It was nice to have access to this particular vantage point. The ceiling was beautifully textured and painted. I took some pictures of the room.

"Mosaic," said the guard, pointing at the wall. There was a good-sized mosaic there, but it didn't strike me as noticeably better than any other mosaics in the museum. But the guard was very persistent, so I obligingly took a few pictures.

Afterwards, he locked up the balcony again, and motioned for some sort of payment. I asked him how much. "Ten dinars," he said with a shrug. Yeah. I gave him three dinars (around three dollars) and pretended I didn't have any more. He seemed satisfied.

I thanked him and started walking away. He asked: "Sir, do you have pen?" I did, and offered him two. I thought he needed to write something down. He chose one (the nicer one), pocketed it, and said thank you. Apparently it was part of the payment.

This picture cost me three dinars and a pen.

I noticed many guards being especially helpful towards museum guests, and I assume that none of it was free. By Western standards, it's annoyingly corrupt. But I'm sure the pay for these jobs is very low, and these men need some way of supplementing their income.

But I brushed off the guards after that.

A large atrium.

One of those fish-lobster basket-carrying men that are so familiar from Roman mythology.

On the tram back to the center of town, I fell into conversation with a Ghanan with the improbable (first) name of "Smith." He'd been working in Tunisia for 6 months, and didn't enjoy it much. Although his French was far better than mine (Ghanians speak English, so French was a second language for him as well), he still found it hard to communicate.

We talked on the tram, and he said if I was in town tomorrow, he had the day off and would like to accompany me in sightseeing. This is just the sort of proposal I'd been programmed to decline, but I felt inclined to trust Smith. So I agreed, although the next day (Monday) already had the makings of a very busy day. A part of me worried that he'd end up being another tout with something to hawk.

Once back from the Bardo, I rested at the hotel for a while. Then it was off to a restaurant. By this time, it was dark.

Dinner (and Running the Tout Gauntlet - 11 Feb)

When you go to look for a restaurant in an unfamiliar city with suspicious (or aggressively intrusive) inhabitants, what you most desire is that you spend a lot of time walking down dark streets, looking lost as you fumble with a map.

Fortunately, Tunis makes that easy. Following the European model, streets are inconsistently and sporadically labelled. I made many wrong turns before finding my address, even though I was only going a few blocks. And then the first restaurant I had chosen was closed ("tout les dimanches" il a dit). The second restaurant was in a hotel that was completely shuttered. This gave me plenty of opportunities to get lost in the dark alleyways off of Avenue Habib Bourgiba.

In the short three-block walk to the first restaurant, I was accosted three times. Always a friendly gentleman that wants to know the time, oh you're American, let's have a drink...

The "let's have a drink" scenario can have far less happy endings than just ending up in a carpet shop. I'd been subjected to these approaches in Istanbul, but they seemed more sinister here (and they were definitely more numerous).

Of all the outstanding problems in Engineering still facing mankind, the one that comes to my mind most often is that of avoiding touts and other similar undesirables.

In Istanbul, polite but firm denials were sufficient. Here, the persistence of touts makes such an approach tedious, and the sheer density means that by the time you have rebuffed one, two more are waiting in line.

I could just be very rude right away. That does run the risk of insulting genuinely friendly people (however rare they may be). Even worse, being rude may provoke much more negative responses from the tout that are better avoided. And in any case, I don't want to provide them with any justifiable sense of moral indignation.

Rather than an active repellant, some sort of passive defensive system is called for. I'm reminded of the urban legend of the man who puts a sign saying "Caution: contaminated infectious blood transfer vehicle" on his car so it never gets towed or ticketed, no matter where he parks.

Perhaps that would do it? Wrap some "biohazard" tape around myself to scare people away? Wear a glowing green radiation symbol? A "Pat Buchanan for President" button?

I've also thought of reverse psychology.

"Are you American?"

"Yes, I'm flattered and impressed that you figured that out."

"Would you like to see some carpets?"

"Yes, I would *love* to see some carpets. I'd go anywhere with you. Would you have a drink with me too? Will we make it before your store closes?"

The problem, of course, is that if they call your bluff then you've really screwed yourself. And if you go too far over the top, you become rude, and we've already dismissed that as an option.

I can't pretend that I don't speak English or French, because the only language I could pretend to know instead would be German, and many of the touts here are bound to know some German.

I could also tout them right back.

"You American?"

"Yes."

"You visit Tunisia?"

"No, I work here. I've got a small shop. This way, hurry, closes soon. I give you special price."

"No, you don't--"

"No, no," as I pull at their sleeve, "you like. Come with me."

I had dinner at the Restaurant Baghdad, which feels very un-American but damn it, I was running out of options. By some coincidence, after all of my wandering around in the dark streets, the restaurant was the next door up from my hotel.

The food, like everywhere else on the trip so far, was anti-vegetarian. The waiter managed to find something I could eat.

A band played vaguely electro-Persian music. As far as music you can eat to goes, it was pretty good. Judging by an older woman sitting by the keyboard player, heckling is an international profession. Well, that's why you're in a band anyway: to meet women.

I asked for coffee with dessert three times. It wasn't until the third time that I realized that he was saying that coffee came with the dessert. Stupid American. The coffee was more of that thick, sweet Turkish coffee that I've come to enjoy.

Every two minutes, someone's cell phone went off. Some things you just can't escape (unless you head off into the wilderness, which is too much like work to count as a vacation).

I walked the five steps back into my hotel, and crashed for the night.

Exploring Tunis (12 Feb)

In the morning I had breakfast, then met Smith as planned. I had only an hour or so before I had to check out. Smith took me back into the suburbs of Tunis.

We walked by the church he attends, apparently the only English church in Tunisia. Only around 40 people attend services, including the French and American ambassadors.

The only Anglican church in Tunisia.

Then we walked back through the markets. Not the tourist stalls in the medina, but the places where real Tunisians shopped. Nestled at the base of the narrow canyons of the Ville Nouvelle, there were rows of used clothes, purses, shoes. There were streets lined with stalls selling fruits, vegetables, fish, chicken, beef. I didn't see a single tourist.

Smith kept laughing at me. To him this was terribly mundane, as if a friend came into town to sightsee and I took them grocery shopping.

But that was exactly why I enjoyed it. After the surreal experience of Avenue Habib Bourgiba with its seedy touts, these suburban markets grounded the city in reality. Even better, not a single person pestered us (at least, not once we were away from Avenue Habib Bourgiba).

After that, we walked back to my hotel. I checked out, and had them hold my bags while I went out to look for a rental car. Smith came with me--he said he had the day off anyway. I suspect that he had few occasions to meet other foreigners, and he was in a position (staying in the country only for a short while) where it was difficult to meet peers. I knew how he felt.

The rental office was a tiny, smoky room in a street off of Avenue Habib Bourgiba. The French family in front of me was arguing back and forth about renting a car for the day, worrying about breakdowns and needing assurances on many points that my French was inadequate to discern.

When it was my turn, my choices were simple because they only had one car left: a Peugot Saxo, which I'd never heard of or seen before. I quickly rented it (I didn't even try to haggle, but the rate was below what the guidebook had quoted) and Smith and I drove off, back to the hotel. We collected my bags again, and headed off for Carthage.

I knew that driving in Tunis would be challenging, and I was not disappointed. Pedestrians walked in front of us. Young Tunisians on motorbikes would quite often head obliviously against the flow of traffic. Impatient taxi drivers would honk at you if you didn't move quickly enough, or if you left too much room between you and the car in front. If you were at the front of the line, waiting at a stoplight, it was expected that you slowly inch into the cross traffic, until you were halfway across the road when the light turned green. Drivers behind you would honk to let you know when the light turned green (because by this time, it was behind you and you couldn't see it), so you could move forward and cross the last half of the intersection.

On the other hand, at least the driving was on the right hand side of the road. I'd have been in real trouble if in addition to the traffic hazards, I had to deal with a stick shift with my left hand, and sit on the right side of the car.

I started to see why people tended to drift, keeping their cars in two lanes at once. You could never tell from which side a pedestrian or motorbike or anxious taxi driver might materialize. Driving in the center (straddling the lane markings) seemed safer. Taxi drivers also liked having the option of moving into either lane as openings in traffic appeared.

Fortunately (and with only a few unintended detours) we quickly made our way out of the city, and the traffic thinned out. I was able to drive faster again, and any doubts I had about renting a car melted away. Instead of dirty and decaying buildings, we passed long rows of tall trees, shepherds with flocks of sheep (often grazing beneath powerlines, between vacant and abandoned building lots).

The tachometer confused me greatly, until I realized it was a clock.

Sidi Bou Said (12 Feb)

I had decided to visit Sidi Bou Said first, and then Carthage if there was time. The guidebook mentioned that so little remained of Carthage that there just wasn't much to see. Sidi Bou Said, however, was mentioned prominently as a must-see attraction (and indeed, the cover of my guidebook featured a doorway from there).

An alleyway in Sidi Bou Said.

A famous doorway.

Sidi Bou Said is a small community of whitewashed houses, and the only other allowed colors are black (for trim only) and sky blue (for windows and doors). The result is a very consistent and distinctive look, much like a Greek village (as the guidebook said). Only you would bump into mosques instead of churches.

We walked through the few square blocks, admiring the houses. Many of them were beautiful summer homes, I'm guessing for either very rich Tunisians or foreigners. Though open doors and windows we would get hints of the rustic (and very stylish) interiors. Expensive cars were safely stowed behind large gates and whitewashed walls.

We came to a promintory, overlooking the Mediterranean. It was the first time on my trip that I'd actually seen the Mediterranean. The waters were a bluish- green, with bits of white on the waves, whipped up by a fairly strong Eastern breeze.

The Mediterranean (actually the Gulf of Tunis).

We found a small cafe and sat in the sun (and quickly moved to the shade--it was a hot day). The single waiter seemed overwhelmed, so we left without being served. But the point was just to relax and enjoy the view anyway.

The cafe.

I found the door featured on my guidebook (and also on many postcards). I of course had to take a picture of it.

Orange trees.

We walked down out of Sidi Bou Said just after two o'clock. I decided that we had enough time to take a quick look at the ruins of Carthage, so off we went.

Carthage (12 Feb)

It took us some time to find the National Museum, but find it we did. It was on a large hill (Byrsa Hill), overlooking the city. A Roman Catholic church stood on the top. Next to the church was the museum, featuring the ruins of Carthage.

I read a book on Hannibal over the summer, and so was eager to see the ruins. As I remember, Hannibal himself was raised in the Carthaginian colonies in Spain, led an army across Spain, the Pyrrennes, and (of course) the Alps, and terrorized Italy (then under the control of a Roman Republic) for seven years. But the Romans seized control of the sea while Hannibal wandered Italy, and threatened to invade Carthage. Hannibal was recalled to defend his homeland, and I believe that the first time he ever saw his home city was on the eve of battle. He was hopelessly outnumbered, for Roman manipulation of his North African allies and a few twists of fate conspired against him, and the battle was lost. He fled and eventually committed suicide to avoid capture.

Carthage, the Bay of Tunis beyond.

Later, in the second Punic war, Carthage was completely sacked and then razed by Rome. Hence all that remains are a few bits of columns. In fact, I think the museum curators realized that they were faced with a shortage of real ruins, and so as we walked through the grounds we were constantly presented with detailed maps and renderings of historic Carthage, as if these would make up for the lack of anything more tangible. But the price of admission was worth it, just to stand on the ground.

More Carthage.

There was an indoor section of the museum, housing relics and mosaics (although many of the most beautiful mosaics had been carted off to the Bardo). After a day of walking, my tolerance for museums was pretty low, and I started to fall asleep on my feet. So we walked quickly through, stopping only occasionally, and eventually left the grounds.

The museum at Carthage (one room, anyway).

One of the most memorable parts of the museum was a large map of the Roman roads in Tunisia. I couldn't help but notice that the modern highway system looked identical--the highways were built on top of the Roman roads.

I dropped Smith off at the tram station in Carthage. I didn't want to drive back into Tunis, and in any case it was getting late and I wanted to arrive in Tebourksouk (the town with a hotel near Dugga, my next stop) before it was dark. We shook hands and exchanged addresses. I had been considering heading off to Dugga earlier in the day, and catching Carthage only briefly on my return to Tunis days later. Spending the day with Smith was much better: he had shown me a more human side to Tunis in the more common suburbs, and had saved me time by knowing the way around the streets of Tunis and Sidi Bou Said.

The Drive to Teboursouk (12 Feb)

So I drove off to Teboursouk. The outskirts of Tunis were fairly crowded. I had to overtake beat-up old cars that were barely moving, and get out of the way of impatient BMWs and Mercedes. Two cars ahead of me, the hood of a dilapitated Fiat popped open at around 30 mph, luckily the driver made it to the side of the road without killing anyone (or getting killed himself). Behind me, riding my bumper, was a battered truck with a large wooden boat roped on top.

Once I was well away from Tunis, and into the countryside, the ride was very pleasant. The hillsides were covered with small, dry, leafy trees in neat rows, and the fields were freshly cut. I passed many flocks of sheep with shepherds eyeing me warily. In the smaller towns, I passed people riding donkeys, pulling carts piled high with foodstuffs.

One weird aspect of Tunisia is that even in the small country towns, everyone dresses as if they were in downtown Tunis. Fashions are very consistent. I suppose that's not a huge surprise: even given wide disparity in incomes, the per-capita GDP of Tunisia is well over $2000 (US). Tunisia is a third-world country in political terms (never closely aligned with the Soviet Union or the US), but it doesn't fit the poor stereotype of what people normally refer to as a "third world country."

But the unemployment rate is a real problem. Smith quoted me a figure of 60%, the guidebook (a few years out-of-date, I'm sure) quotes something more like 20%. I'm guessing the real value is in-between. But it means that many young Tunisians have no jobs, and nothing to do but loiter. Hence the number (and persistence) of the touts here.

I don't know the answer to the problem, which is rooted in the somewhat closed and overly bureaucratic political system. Just before my trip, I read Kissinger's "Years of Upheaval," the second volume of his memoirs. He mentions the same problem which he saw in other countries. How does a country, steeped in its own culture of (typically) autocratic and rigid hierarchical social bonds, disentangle the political from the cultural? Kissinger believed that Westerners had a long cultural heritage of understanding the difference between country and political party, between cultural identity and political causes. He stated that such distinctions are rare, and that without them true democracy is impossible. In most countries, the idea of the nation state is inseparable from the concept of the ruling party, therefore opposition parties are typically viewed as anti- nationalist. Hence the typical pattern of Western democracies supporting and promoting democratic freedoms in developing countries, which typically led to bloody internal conflict followed by regimes just as repressive as the ones they replaced. This was Kissinger's (implicit) defense of supporting dictators when necessary in the cause of national (or international) security.

I suppose there's some truth to that. But that's not the feeling I get, talking to Tunisians. There are pictures of Ben Ali (the current president) everywhere, I assume it's some kind of law. The expression on his face is difficult to pin down. I think he was aiming for a look that said "I have the vision to lead you" but to my eyes it looks like he's saying "I can get the chicks." The rulers of countries have a range of pick-up lines that aren't available to mere mortals. But in any case, most Tunisians don't have a god-like respect for their political leadership. Cynicism is probably a better word.

Sorry for the tangent. The undeniable fact is that Tunisia's unemployment rate is very high by any standard, and so there are a lot of young Tunisians loitering on the streets.

"They have no jobs, so all they do is sit in the cafes and drink and smoke," Smith observed as we walked through the suburbs of Tunisia. Smith, by the way, was one of the very few people I'd met who didn't smoke. The absence of blue smoke (or a hacking cough) was welcome.

"Sitting and smoking is better than rebelling," I replied. Smith laughed and nodded.

That and more went through my mind as I drove. The car didn't have a radio, so I was left to my own entertainments. I would have conversations with invisible friends, or practice the vocal calisthenics of a muezzin's call to prayer.

So I basically acted like I always do when I drive, radio or no.

It started getting dark. I had made a large detour to avoid Tunis, which in retrospect probably wasn't worth it. Instead of being on the well-maintained major highways, I was stuck with another hundred kilometers or so of secondary roads, which were very unpredictable. At times they were wide and smoothly paved, other times entire chunks were ripped out for maintenance (I hope), and we few travellers would have to carefully steer our cars through potholes and mud. Many of the cars on these back roads disdained the use of headlights, often I was unaware of their presence until they beeped at me in annoyance, approaching at high speed from the opposite direction, both of us hugging the center of the road. I quickly got used to veering off to the shoulder at the last minute.

Most of the major roads were well-marked, but occasionally an important sign was left missing, or only indicated in Arabic. Again, this was a problem only on the secondary roads. My trip lengthened as I spent as much as a half an hour at some points, driving back and forth through a small, dusty Tunisian town in search of a left turn that I knew had to be there somewhere.

I finally reached Teboursouk, the town outside of Dugga where I intended to stay the night. The Hotel Dugga was my object, and I drove up and down the main streets of Teboursouk in a fruitless attempt to find the place. My guidebook listed no address or even a street, just saying it was "by the Tunis-Le Kef road," which applied to most of the town. I spent the better part of an hour looking for the hotel, becoming more and more frustrated.

In desperation, I decided to just call a taxi, and then follow it to the hotel. I stopped at a place I'd passed many times, a "Taxiphone" station. The guidebook mentioned these as being ubiquitous, and it was right. I saw them everywhere. Now I really needed one.

I went inside. There was a bank of phones, and an attendant who was maybe 15 years old. I looked around on the walls. There were many numbers listed, but the descriptions were all in Arabic. I asked the attendant: "Taxi?" He looked at me blankly, or rather, with the expression "Why are you asking me?"

"Number for taxi?" I asked in halting French. Another blank look. "Number?" He walked into the booth, and pointed at the number one. "One" He pointed at the number two. "Two." You get the idea. All the way to nine and then zero.

Did he think I was so stupid that I couldn't read the numerals? I dismissed that as ludicrous, rather I thought that some enterprising taxi company had grabbed the phone number of 123-456-7890. So I dialed it. And, as you might expect, I was greeted with a recording telling me I had dialed a ridiculously incorrect number. I assume that's what the recording said, it was all in Arabic. Sigh.

So I tried calling the hotel. I hadn't done this earlier, because I was pretty sure that I wouldn't be able to handle complex street directions in French. But again I was greeted with a recorded message in Arabic--the call hadn't gone through. I groaned and went back to the attendant, who by now was getting very tired of me.

I pointed to a number on the wall. "Taxi?"

"Hospital."

Another. "Taxi?"

"Police."

One more. "Taxi?"

"No," he didn't know the word for what it was, but it wasn't a taxi. I had hoped that he would get tired of my pointing and asking and just point to the number of a taxi company, but he didn't. He just kept looking at me as if wondering how to get me back to the asylum.

"Look," I said. He followed me outside, where I pointed to the brightly lit sign. "Taxiphone," I read.

"Yes."

"Taxi?"

"No." He looked at me like I had asked the stupidest question in the world.

I experienced a minor epiphany, one of those subtle realizations where you ask yourself: "what else have I missed?" Of course, "Taxiphone" didn't mean that it was a place to call taxis, it just meant you could hire a phone. The attendant obviously didn't know the number to a taxi company, and the only phone books I could find were in Arabic, I was wasting my time here.

It was getting late (after nine o'clock), it was pitch black outside of the few street lights, and I was getting drowsy.

I went back to the guidebook. "By the main Tunis-Le Kef road." Did it mean the hotel was *on* the Tunis-Le Kef road? I went back, out of town, to the highway, and drove back a couple of kilometers towards Tunis. No luck. I turned around, and tried the other direction. Bingo. Just past the Teboursouk turn-off, there it was. Hotel Dugga was brightly lit, with a massive tacky replica of Ionic columns in front. After all those missed turns, why had I found Teboursouk so easily? If only I had missed that turn-off, I would have been in bed already.

With a curse for my technically correct but nonetheless misleading guidebook, I pulled in and acquired a room. The hotel was all on its own on the highway, so it had its own restaurant. I dined alone in a massive dining hall. There were around thirty tables set up, and just I was there, served by three people. It reminded me of "The Shining."

I stumbled back to my room. The room was freezing, lit by indirect blue florescent lights that distorted all of the colors. The bed was old, and somewhat lumpy. I slept for over ten hours.

The Ruins at Dugga (13 Feb)

I checked out of the Hotel Thugga in the morning. I drove up to the Roman ruins at Dugga. I realized only when I was well on the way to Le Kef, after leaving Dugga later, that I had taken the longest possible route to get to and from the ruins.

It was a scenic drive. Here, away from the city, people (children especially) would stop and stare as I went past. Old men and women in traditional Islamic garb would shuffle along on the side of the road. Young men in Western clothes rode on donkeys.

I assume the locals treated me with shock, laughter, and/or silent bemusement (depending on the local) because I was a foreigner. It may just have been a bad hair day.

On the map, it wasn't clear to me exactly where the ruins were. As I approached it was obvious: tall stone columns were silhouetted against the morning sun.

I got there around 9:30. The guidebook recommended arriving as early as possible to avoid the worst of the crowds. In my three hours there I saw only two other couples.

As I got out of my car, a man stood from where he'd been reading his paper in the sun. It was the classic tout aproach, but far less sinister this time. For one thing, the guidebook had mentioned that it was common for guides to approach you here, and they were usually worth it. For another, this was not a young man casting furtive glances as he tried to hustle me. This was a middle-aged gentleman who moved with a sense of ease.

Even so, there was haggling to be done. He quoted his prices, basically ten dinars an hour, which was higher than the book quoted, and during low season I expected the prices to be less. He quoted a rate for an hour, but said that an hour and a half was a better tour.

"Hour and a half, fifteen dinar," he said.

"Ten."

"No." That was his final answer.

He started walking away. I started walking towards the ruins, debating with myself. The ruins were huge, and my guidebook's narrative was (of necessity) short. I needed a guide. I was about to call out to him and acquiesce, but he called out first.

"Hour and a half, twelve dinars."

"Okay," I agreed.

Later, I felt guilty for even haggling. I haggled down the price by 3 dinars for a pleasant guide who wasn't likely to have any other tourists that day, while I hadn't even challenged the sleazy rental car agency? Life isn't fair...

Mohammed (as his name turned out to be) led me through the ruins. We walked through the theater first.

The theater at Dugga.

"Actors here." Duh.

"Prompters here." Prompters? I didn't know they had--

"Audience. Three thousand five-hundred," he said, pointing at the stands.

"Rich up there," he indicated the seats at the top. "Poor here," the seats at the bottom. So the Bill Gates of Dugga didn't have courtside seats. Human nature hasn't changed, only the seat assignments.

Then it was on to the capitol building. By the capitol was a small court with a compass for the winds. The hot desert winds, the cool sea winds. Today they were cold.

The capitol building. The Square of the Winds is to the right.

Dugga was impressive. It's not a collection of buildings, it's a city. It's the sort of experience that spoils you for future archeological exhibits.

The Arch of Alexander Severus.

Mohommed led me out of the city, through the western gate, where a temple stood in the fields. Once a Punic temple, where they sacrificed small children, it was later converted by the Romans for one of their gods (Caelestis), and the sacrifices stopped.

The (former) Punic temple, converted to the Temple of Caelestis, and now converted to ruins.

It's no surprise that Christianity won the battle of religions around the Mediterranean. "Join us or burn in Hell" versus "Join us and sacrifice your children." The sheer horror of the Punic sacrifices was awesome (in the old sense of the word). As far as psychic impact goes, it's hard to top sacrificing your own children. It reminded me of the Mayan rulers' ritual of drawing blood from their genitals. You just can't go any further than that.

The Mayans simply abandoned their cities when the rituals stopped working. Again, it's not clear how to appease the gods if blood from your privates won't do it. The Punic culture was taken over by the Romans, I suppose they would have graduated to adult sacrifice otherwise.

Looking from Dugga out to the countryside. The tower is the Lybico-Punic mausoleum.

After looking at the (formerly) Punic temple, we moved on back to the city. There were two aspects of the ruins that seemed eerie. One was the roads. They weren't terribly wide, but they were one of the most prominent artefacts still visible. They wound from the Arch Alexander Severus to the Arch Septimus Severus, and at points you could see ruts from the wheels of the chariots.

"Just like 520!" I exclaimed.

Mohammed ignored me.

The roads were eerie because they were such a connection with the past. The decay of the buildings made it hard to picture people living or worshipping in them. But roads are timeless.

The road to Carthage.

The mosaics were the second aspect of the city that really hit me, much more so than the roads. The stone walls of the houses were only partly standing, and what few stones were standing had been heavily eroded. It was impossible to really get a feel for how people lived by looking at them.

But the mosaics were still there. Many of the most impressive had already been carted off to the Bardo in Tunis, and I'd seen them there. But there were still some mosaics here from Roman times. In the corner of one small house, Mohammed pointed out a small basin with a mosaic. He splashed some water on it, and the colors brightened up immediately, as fresh as it looked 2500 years ago. The sad, wise face of Neptune peered out at us, as fish swam around him. That was when I started feeling like I was walking in someone's house, rather than a pile of rocks. In other houses we saw bits of mosaics from atriums, bedrooms, dining rooms.

Neptune in the sink.

We walked towards the main baths of the town.

"Good mosaics," said Mohammed.

I saw a well-preserved mosaic, and started to take a picture. Mohammed waved his hands impatiently. This wasn't a good one.

We came to a better one. I started to take a picture. Mohammed waved me on. This happened a few more times until we stepped down into the baths.

"Now," said Mohammed, "mosaic."

There were mosaics on all the floors. Some were huge. All of them were in great condition. I suppose it's just a matter of time before they get carted off to the Bardo. Sad, but if it has to be done to protect them then so be it.

The mosaic on the bath floor.

Yours truly in the ruins of the slave market.

Mohammed led me down through houses and temples to another set of baths. Here there were passages beneath where fires were lit to heat the baths.

Mohammed running under the baths.

My hour and a half was almost up, and there was still more to be seen. Mohammed made a catalog of the most important sites left to be seen: the brothel, the Punic mausoleum, the Cyclops baths.

"I show you all for 15 dinar," he said. Only three more dinar, that suited me. And in any case I didn't have the change for 12.

So we walked down to the brothel. On the way, we passed a smaller, emergency back-up theater. A shepherd led some sheep through the ruins in front of us.

The smaller, emergency backup theater.

We came to a sign showing the direction to the brothel. A penis pointing at a pair of breasts. No one ever accused the Romans of being subtle.

This way to the brothel.

I was excited to take a look at the Punic mausoleum. Mohammed said it was built in the 3rd century BC, well before the town (and he was right). What he tried to tell me in broken English, and what I didn't realize until after reading my guidebook much later, is that the English consulate removed the inscription stone in 1842, and the entire tower collapsed. The English rebuilt the tower, but kept the stone. Now you know where Jihads come from (not that Americans can point any fingers).

The Lybico-Punic mausoleum.

At this point I said farewell to Mohammed. He was tired (his chain-smoking probably didn't help), and he had seen some friends and/or family that he wanted to get back to. For my part, I was ready to relax a bit.

After looking around the mausoleum, I wandered back towards the main entrance. Mohammed suggested just walking straight back up towards the theater, but I swung around in a wide arc so I could take a closer look at the Arch Septimus Severus.

On the way, I caught a glimpse down an air shaft as I walked by a block of ruined homes. It looked as if there was a large room down there. So I poked around the ruins a bit, and found the entrance. There were several large chambers within, some of them accessible only through small openings in the walls of other chambers. I was surprised Mohammed hadn't taken me here--perhaps he was claustrophobic.

Entering the catacombs.

Deeper into the darkness.

The bright room at the end.

From the Arch I walked back up, around the main hill, to the Temple of Saturn. Again I saw openings to large underground chamber, but I saw no way in. The only other visitor here was a bored donkey, grazing below the temple.

Looking down at the Temple of Saturn.

Looking up at the donkey.

I walked back to the parking lot. A French couple was just leaving, and a German couple had arrived a couple of minutes earlier. I got something to eat (all they had was cookies and Coca-Cola, fortunately I had brought water with me), wrote some postcards, ignored a bellicose cat nearby, enjoyed the view, and then drove on to Le Kef.

Driving to Le Kef (13 Feb)

Driving doesn't usually warrant much of an entry in travel journals. I spent as much time driving as I did looking at museums and ruins (probably), but it doesn't get the same coverage. Mostly, of course, because it can be tedious to recount. But driving was definitely one of the big pleasures of the trip. The scenery was relentlessly beautiful, and changed in character from north to south, east to west. On the open road, I was either treated to the pleasure of a long flat stretch of road with nothing to stop me from pinning the spedometer of my hardy Peugot, or hairy moments when I had to dodge potholes or inattentive semi trucks. In the small dusty towns, I would slow down. Across Tunisia, it was common for there to be intricately tiled sidewalks which were ignored. There were pedestrians everywhere, and they would always walk on the street. People would stop and watch me drive by.

I saw many people asking for a lift. I didn't stop--I never do in the States, and after my experiences in Tunis I was worried that people viewed foreigners as rich targets.

At one point, I was about to overtake a small van, but as I moved into the opposite lane I saw that two policemen were in the road ahead. I slowed down and got behind the van again. One of the policeman waved me to the side of the road as we passed. I pulled over.

"Hello sir," he said (in French).

"Hello."

"Do you see the solid white line?" And indeed there was a solid white line down the middle of the road.

"Yes."

"Where there is a solid white line, overtaking is forbidden." The word for 'overtake' was unknown to me, it sounded like he said 'oublie', or forget. But his gestures made it clear.

"Ah, I see now. Sorry."

"No problem," he said, waving me on. "Welcome to Tunisia. Have a nice trip."

Le Kef (13 Feb)

And so I arrived in Le Kef. This time, I managed to arrive in the early afternoon. Even so, getting to the hotel was tricky: Le Kef is a small town on the slopes of a steep hill (topped by a kasbah), and it seemed all of the streets were one way, pointing away from the hotel. But I finally found the one street that fed uphill, and after threading my way through lounging young men and loud schoolchildren, I pulled in front of the hotel.

A view of Le Kef.

After checking in (and snapping a few pictures from the rooftop terrace of the hotel), I walked up to the kasbah. It was an old fortress, built in its current form in the 16th and 17th centuries. As I approached the main gates, a young man said hello to me.

"Entrance is free," he said.

"Okay," I said. I was a bit suspicious to his motives, but after giving me that piece of information he walked away.

Indeed, entrance was free. Again, an older gentleman approached me and offered to show me around. As in Dougga, my guidebook's description was short, so I agreed. He didn't speak any English at all, but I was able to understand his French most of the time. There is a lot of context in a fortress. When a guide points to a room and says something, odds are he's describing what the room was used for, and not digressing into a discussion of 18th century German philosophy or horticulture.

He showed me around the stables, the prisons, the Bey's quarters, the main court and the guard houses. The view from the top of the kasbah around the surrounding countryside was spectacular.

A pseudo-kiosk built by the Bey in his quarters.

The guide was most animated about the prisons. Apparently Habib Bourgiba and many of his ministers were imprisoned here (for a few days) during the war for independence with France.

After the tour (around a half an hour long, there wasn't a whole lot to see), I paid him 5 dinars and thanked him. Then I wandered around the fortress some more to take pictures. I saw the same young man as had spoken to me at the gate. He was watching me out of the corner of his eye as he also walked around the fortress. I ran into him again at the top of the tallest tower. There was a small stone shack up there, and a tall metal tower covered in antennae.

"What did the man at the gate tell you?" he asked me in French. He didn't speak any English. As with all conversations, there was usually an initial phase where we sorted out what language to use. Usually the language was French. But even when someone spoke to me in English, it was quite often so broken that I would unconsciously reply in French anyway.

"What?"

"Did he charge you anything?"

"No." In fact, I hadn't been charged any entrance fee, and I had paid the guide without his asking.

"But he showed you around?"

"Yes."

"You paid him for that?"

"Yes."

"How much?"

"Five dinars."

The young main looked incensed. "You should ask for it back. This is supposed to be free. He stole your money."

I made some lame comment about asking for my money when I left. But I wasn't going to make a scene for 5 dinars, especially when I had given it to the man on my own initiative.

The whole time, of course, I was trying to discern the motives of this person. What kind of scam could he be pulling? After Istanbul and Tunis, having strangers walk up to me professing a concern for my welfare made me extremely suspicious.

He asked me to stay and talk for a while, but I declined, saying I was hungry and had to get something to eat. In fact, that was an understatement: I was starving. I hadn't eaten since breakfast. But this also sounded suspiciously like the "let's have a drink" lines.

I made a comment about the tower above us.

"Television, radio, and telecommunications." He motioned towards the shack. "You want to see?"

"Sure."

He unlocked the shack. Here, in a stone shack on top of a deserted 17th century fortress, racks and racks of high-tech electronics hummed quietly to themselves. There was an array of power converters and switches for the telecommunications antennae. The radio and television antennae had their own stacks of equipment. Thick cables dominated the ceiling. There was a bank of batteries for the telecommunication equipment in case the power was out.

He invited me to stay a bit more (I'm a geek, the gear was pretty cool) but I declined. I said goodbye and walked around the fortress for a few more minutes before leaving for something to eat.

I looked for a cafe, but there were only two I could find, overflowing with young Tunisians smoking heavily. So I finally found a small store where I was able to buy some food, and hiked back up to the hotel.

In retrospect, I should have taken food with me into the fortress. The young man at the radio tower was just an engineer assigned to that station, probably one of Tunisia's brighter and well-trained residents, bored out of his skull at the top of a tower where very few people came by. Talking to him would have been more interesting than walking through the rest of Le Kef, which I found somewhat mundane. The view was great, the fortress was inspiring, but on the whole I was ready to move on.

After walking around a bit more, I had dinner at a restaurant. It was run by the same people as my hotel, although the restaurant was several blocks away. Once again I had an omelet for dinner, which is embarrassing because a) it's something I make myself for dinner quite often, and b) in spite of my omelet expertise I could never make them this well myself.

The appetizer is common (so far) in Tunisia: green olives in a red sauce and olive oil. The red sauce is exceedingly pleasant until it burns through your sinuses.

I've had wine on a couple of occasions here. Each time, I've had to buy at least a half-bottle (no such thing as wine by-the-glass). It's been the same wine each time: red wine by the name of Magon, from Tebourba (I drove through Tebourba in the dark). So far I haven't gotten myself embarrassingly drunk.

"Il a bu."

I had dinner at the restaurant, and afterwards I started walking back to the hotel. On a whim, I changed course halfway and hiked back up to the kasbah. It was closed for the evening, but I was able to scramble up some rocks to a point high above the city, just below the kasbah's sheer walls. I could see every light in the valley. I was hoping for a clear look at the stars, but there was too much ambient light, so the view wasn't much better than from my house in Seattle. I hiked back to the hotel.

Dawn over the casbah in Le Kef.

Dawn over the mosque in Le Kef.

Jugurtha's Table (14 Feb)

In the morning, I had breakfast and checked out. I wanted to make an early start, and make a side trip to near the Algerian border. There, in the mountains along the border, was a large flat mesa called Jugurtha's Table. To get to it, I had to drive part of the way to Kassarine pass, and then take some minor roads to a small village. From there you could walk up to the top.

Along the way, I stopped to pick up my first hitch-hiker. It was a little boy, maybe 7 years old, hitchhiking to get to school. I figured I'd be able to handle him if he tried to rob me or anything. He didn't speak any French, and he would look at me with a kind of bewilderment whenever I wasn't looking at him. He motioned and spoke excitedly in Arabic when we approached his school so I knew to stop and let him out, a kilometer or so from where I'd picked him up.

I continued on to the small town of Kalaat es Sinan, still several kilometers from the Table, although from here the mesa dominated the southern horizon. The guidebook said that you were supposed to check in with the national guard here before climbing, and check out again when you left. I drove up and down the main street of the town, but couldn't see the national guard office (they were usually quite easy to spot, with green and white signs in Arabic and French).

I finally pulled over at the most official-looking building I could find. It was somewhat palatial, situated at the main crossroads. I think it was the municipal headquarters or something.

Several older Tunisians were in the lobby, and they looked at me quizzically when I walked in. One nearby asked if he could help me. I asked for the National Guard office, and everyone looked very confused. It could easily be that my French was incomprehensible. There were a few more minutes of awkward conversation where I tried to explain that I was looking for the National Guard office, and they tried to figure out what I was saying, asking me clarifying questions in turn that I couldn't understand.

Finally I said I was going to Jugurtha's Table, and everyone laughed. They couldn't understand why I needed to see the National Guard office for that. One of them, and older gentleman, took me by the arm, and gestured that we go to my car.

He climbed into the passenger seat, and directed me through the town. It's good that he came with me, the crucial intersection wasn't marked. On top of that, the street was used as a market. I didn't even know it was a street, but he gestured me on impatiently, ahead into a throng of people. I slowly make my way through the crowd, schoolchildren were walking around, people were shopping, vendors were calling out. This was the main road to Ain Senan, the village near the Table.

Once past the market, the man asked for pen and paper (I was nervous: this was my last pen). He drew me a rough map of the village of Ain Senan, showing me where to turn to get to the Table. I thanked him, and he climbed out (returning my pen). With a wave, I continued on.

I finally reached the Table, and started walking around the sheer cliffs at the base. It took me some time to find the stairway up to the top, the book's description was somewhat vague ("Walk around the northern side, and once you reach the eastern side the stairs will appear."). I regretted not bringing a compass. After a while, the book's description took on biblical proportions: "Walk ye to the east, and to the righteous the stairs shall appear." I started to think I wasn't righteous.

But the stairs did appear, and I climbed them. It was eerie: for the entire walk, I hadn't seen anybody, other than a few shepherds where I parked the car. Perhaps this was a busy tourist attraction in the summer, but today it was deserted.

The stairs up Jugurtha's Table.

Jugurtha was a Numidian king who had used this mesa as a base while he raided the Romans around 100 BC. I had heard of the Numidians: it was their light cavalry that Hannibal had used to devastating effect in his campaigns against Rome (particularly his famous battle at Cannae) around 200 BC. The Romans had defeated Hannibal at Carthage partly because they had convinced the Numidians to switch sides. Now (100 BC) it seems the Numidians had switched sides again.

As I climbed up myself, I was easily convinced that the place was impregnable to assault. The best you could do was besiege it, and hope the defenders gave up in starvation. I did wonder how the Numidian king sheltered his cavalry: there's no way you could get a horse up those steps.

At the top, I found (as promised) a small shrine. It was apparently deserted, the gate was closed with twists of wire. I untwisted them, and walked in. The inside was far less pretty than the outside, and in fact it looked as if it was being used as someone's home. So I left.

I was surprised to come across a number of ponies. I counted five in all, eyeing me with a combination of suspicion and hope. There wasn't much grazing up here, I could see their ribs showing through their hides. Were they led up the stairs? Were they carried when they were young? I couldn't figure it out.

Further along the top of the table, I saw a small flock of sheep (but no shepherd was visible). Sheep were dumb enough (and to be fair, small enough) that I could imagine them getting up and down the stairs--but barely. It'd be a lot of work for the shepherd, I don't know why he'd bother.

I walked up to the highest point of the table. As I approached, the rock was laced with fissures. Some were only just visible, others were several feet across and I had to detour to get around them. I looked down into them, and was unable to see the bottom. I kept thinking of Wiley E. Coyote cartoons.

At the edge of the table.

Straddling a fissure.

The view was worth the hike. You could see to the horizon in all directions. To the west, the hills of Algeria were within spitting distance. I hoped no bands of foreigner-killing terrorists were roaming on this side of the border today. But that wasn't a real worry.

I climbed down again. At the base of the Table, I saw a Tunisian couple walking up, either tourists or shepherds. I waved.

Sheep coming up the path.

Walking around the base of the Table, back to my car, I kept running into flocks of sheep. They were quite alert and would stop and look at me carefully before deciding I wasn't a threat. A pair of sheepdogs decided I *was* a threat, fortunately the shepherd nearby called them off.

I made my way back to the car, and headed off again. My destination now was Sbeitla, home to the ruined Roman city of Sufetula.

Driving to Sbeitla (14 Feb)

On the way through a small town, another policeman waved to me. I pulled over.

I saw that in fact the policeman was wearing a casual coat--he just needed a ride to work. I figured that was pretty safe, if not safer than travelling alone.

His name was Mahoud, and he was going to Sbeitla as well, which was convenient. We talked quite a while (it was close to an hour and a half journey), and he gave me some lessons in French. He (like Smith, the Ghanan in Tunis) had a pretty good grasp of the US political scene. He asked for my opinions on Bush and Gore and the elections. He even made a Monica Lewinsky joke. Having a Tunisian policeman make a joke in French about Monica Lewinsky as we drove through the dusty plains north of Kassarine struck me as so improbable that I laughed far harder than the joke deserved.

At one point, we were stuck behind a truck piled high with sheep. And they were literally piled, one on top of the other, stuck together uncomfortably like a scene from Wallace and Gromit. I made a comment to Mahoud.

"Yes, there is a festival coming up." I nodded, I had read about that, it coincided with the mass pilgrimage to Mecca, the Hajj. "On that day, the sheep..." he made a slitting motion with a finger across his throat.

Sure enough, the idea is that everyone grabs a sheep and sacrifices it at the same time. Kind of like that Far Side cartoon where the professor realizes he's the only one at the seminar without a duck.

The book mentioned that the "streets of towns and cities seem to run with the blood of slaughtered sheep." That seemed like a melodramatic exaggeration, but having seen the vast amounts of sheep around, now I'm starting to believe it. I'll be out of the country by then in any case.

Still, if you're in the country around the end of February, that's something to look forward to. Although now that I think about it, the festival probably isn't tied to the Gregorian calendar.

The Ruins at Sbeitla (Sufetula - 14 Feb)

Once in Sbeitla, I dropped Mahoud off at the side of the road. I needed no directions to the ruins: the three central temples stood quite clearly in the afternoon sun.

As on the day before, I was starving. Mahoud had pointed me down a side road where he claimed a shop lay in wait. Sure enough, I found one. The owner expressed a split-second of shock when I entered, then was all business. It was a common reaction in the small towns.

I was a good customer. Bread, water, cheese, yoghurt, chocolate. I stuffed everything in my travel bag, and walked into the ruins.

Had I never seen Dougga, I would have been blown away. Even having seen Dougga, I was impressed. There were wider streets here-either Sufetla was bigger, or it was easier to build wide roads on plains than hills.

All roads lead to Sufetula.

Walking among Roman houses, you are struck by how small everything is. Small rooms. Small atriums. Narrow roads. Even the main roads are narrow by today's standards. But you walk into modern (i.e., inhabited) medinas, and you see the same thing.

The graceful columns, the straight roads, the temples, the baths, the arches-- they inspired awe, humility, and respect.

I took a wiz behind a tree, and ate lunch sitting among the ruins of a bath house. To my left was an almost completely intact mosaic, the floor of the main hall of the baths.

Looking across the Forum at the Temples. From left to right: temples for Minerva, Jupiter, and Juno.

After eating and relaxing in the sun, I walked to the north end of the complex. I passed houses, temples, more baths. In one house I saw a mosaic in a kitchen, the floor covered by centuries of dust. I was relieved to know that in all the world there was at least one kitchen floor dirtier than mine.

Myself in front of the temples.

I walked back to the three temples at the heart of the ruins. Temples to Jupiter, Minerva, and Juno stood shoulder to shoulder above the Forum. The guidebook mentioned that the temples looked best at dawn, here they looked quite dignified in the long shadows of sunset.

There was a theater by the river. It had been restored recently, new concrete and stone mixed with the ancient rock. I was going to ask a guard if they used the theater now, but he had disappeared. So if you ever find yourself in Sbeitla after 5, you can probably get into the ruins for free.

The arch at the southern end was fully intact, the best-preserved artefact I'd seen on my trip.

The Arch of Diocletian.

I had a passing gopher take my picture.

Driving to Sfax (14 Feb)

Then it was on to Sfax. I was hoping to make it before nightfall, but as I left I realized that was hopelessly optimistic.

At the south end of Sbeitla, the road swarmed with soldiers. Apparently they were done for the day, soldiers had dispersed and were looking for a lift home.

I stopped for one, and he indicated he had a friend going the same way. So both piled into my car. The one in front (the first one I'd stopped for) was Jemel, I didn't catch the name of the other. We all spoke a bit of French. We had the standard conversation: Where are you from, how long in Tunisia--only a week? You should visit here, here, here...

Jemel said he had worked with Americans in Bizerte only a few months before. I don't know in what capacity, but he said the Americans were "bon, tres bon."

I dropped off Jemel and his friend at various points, and continued on alone.

The road was in the best condition of any I'd seen. It was a real pleasure, flying through the Tunisian countryside at twilight. I passed miles and miles of olive trees.

As it got darker, pedestrians became a real hazard. Schoolchildren would walk in the road. At one point, a bus was letting people out by the side of the road, and young men were crossing the road oblivious to the traffic, obscured by the dust. Drivers honked and flashed their high beams, but to no avail.

I had a realization--the vast majority of Tunisians (particularly in the countryside) didn't drive. They had no idea of what it was like behind the wheel, or what danger they were putting themselves in. A revelation, but it didn't make the driving any easier.

I arrived in Sfax, and now had to deal with an unfamiliar Tunisian city in the dark. As in all Tunisian towns and cities, there was a chaotic grid of streets, most of which were one way. I drove around for a while to get my bearings. I finally found my hotel, recommended by the guidebook. It was built by the French in 1923. Even now, almost eighty years later, it was supposed to be luxurious and dignified, though faded somewhat from its former glory.

The building was indeed magnificent, taking up an entire city block. Palm trees stood silently in the courtyard.

Sadly, it was completely gutted. It must have closed since my guidebook was printed, and was in the process of being torn down (or was simply being abandoned, which seems to happen a lot in Tunisian cities).

So I drove to my second choice, a far less fashionable but still comfortable hotel near the medina. The guidebook was wrong here as well, but in my favor-- the rates were half of what I was expecting.

A Day in Sfax (15 Feb)

I went to bed early, and slept late. I had breakfast just past 9, and was the only one eating in the large restaurant. I think there were many other guests, but they had eaten at a more respectable hour.

I was shocked to realize that it was my last full day in Tunisia. I had mentally prepared for two days in Sfax, but the earlier trip to Carthage and Sidi Bou Said had cost me a day. In retrospect, that was time well spent.

I debated driving up to El Jem, but decided not to. This was a day to relax. The medina at Sfax was picturesque--"The English Patient" was filmed here. I spent several hours walking through town.

I found an Internet cafe, the first I'd seen in Tunisia (although I'm sure there are some in Tunis). I checked in with friends and family, and followed up on some job leads.

When I left, the young man at the desk asked me what languages I spoke. He was delighted that I spoke English, he wanted to practice. It was the same conversation: Where are you from, how long in Tunisia...

Still, this was a far cry from the dubious hustlers in Tunis. Since I had left Tunis, I had encountered nothing but friendly, sincere people. I can return to Tunis with the knowledge that the inhospitable environs of Avenue Habib Bourgiba are not representative of the country as a whole.

I was pestered by one hustler in Sfax, in the new town. I walked through the medina several times without being pestered at all. I can see why the guidebook recommends Sfax. I had to walk across town to find the restaurant, I never felt uncomfortable.

Sfax is not someplace I'd want to spend a lot of time. The waterfront is remote from the city, and when I walked for an hour in an attempt to reach the Mediterranean, I was greeted by an intimidating fence and a sign with a maniacal soldier holding a gun. The sign was hilarious, I would have taken a picture but there was another sign saying no pictures, which I chose to obey given the maniacal soldiers.

I did find a stretch of waterfront, next to the guardhouse (with the fence). It was next to a dump, fortunately a fresh breeze blew in from the sea. I put my hand in the water, so at least on this trip I managed to touch the Mediterranean.

I had lunch in the cool shadows just inside the gate to the medina.

Inside the Sfax medina.

I walked back to the hotel and crashed. I'd been fighting a cold since I left Istanbul, today it was threatening to take the upper hand.

After a few hours sleep, I wrote for a few more hours, then went out for dinner. The hotel restaurant was alive with tourists, but I wanted to see the city again, even if only at night. I walked across town to a small French place.

The restaurant had simple fare (luckily it had something besides omelettes for vegetarians), but was the best meal I'd had in Tunisia.

I walked back from the restaurant, and took some pictures of the medina walls. A policeman approached me with a look of annoyance.

"This area is very dangerous."

"Really?" I was genuinely shocked.

"Where is your hotel?"

I told him. He grunted, indicating that it was close enough that I would probably make it back in one piece. He wished me a good night and walked on. I saw more policemen as I walked back to the hotel. Perhaps it was a slightly dangerous area. I walked back to the hotel, and went to sleep. I had to get up very early the next day if I was going to see El-Jem and still return the car by noon.

The Sfax medina at night.

The medina's South Gate.

There is only one thing worse that sharing a hotel floor with a group of excitable French teenagers: sharing a hotel floor with a group of excitable French teenagers that play the bongos. Oddly enough, that's exactly what I was doing. The previous night had been rather quiet, but tonight they kept running up and down the halls, knocking on doors, and (surreal, I know) playing the bongos. They finally quieted down around 4am, so I had around an hour of solid sleep.

The Colisseum at El Jem, and Tunis (16 Feb)

When I checked out the next morning, the receptionist recoiled in fear from the Visa card I profferred.

"Cash only, sir," he said.

So I had to drive out and find a cash machine (there were none near the hotel). I was on the road to Sousse just before 8 o'clock, about an hour later than I wanted. I kept the spedometer pinned until I reached El-Jem.

I came over a hill, and the colisseum of El-Jem was laid out before me. The road ran straight towards it: as with most of Tunisia's highways, it was built on top of the old Roman road.

From the top of the colisseum of El-Jem.

Looking down at the arena floor.

I spent longer than I intended at the colisseum. I think it was smaller than the colisseum at Rome but even so it was impressive, and much of it was still standing. Much of the underground complex was still intact. The place was also quite busy with tourists, which after everywhere else I'd been in Tunisia, was a novelty.

Beneath the arena. Just after I took this picture, I was attacked by a lion.

Lurking in the shadows.

After the Colisseum, I sped north to Tunis. The last 200-250 km were over a two-lane highway, one of the few in Tunisia. The speed limit was 100 km/h, but I (and most of the other traffic) drove closer to 140.

I stopped at a petrol station just inside Tunis, and asked them to fill the tank. It had cost around 20 dinars before, I figured it would again. Instead, it was almost 30. I didn't have enough cash, and again credit cards weren't accepted. But he agreed to take US dollars. So the tank (around 10 gallons) cost me $30.

Then I was back in the crowded streets of Tunis. I had made it into the city before 11:30--plenty of time to return the car by 12.

Hah.

The chaotic, jammed, randomly one-way streets were impossible to navigate. I had three different maps of the city, none of them had street directions marked. The main arterial, Avenue Habib Bourgiba, was closed off at various points for construction. Twice I found myself only a hundred yards or so from the rental office, but traffic flow and one-way streets conspired against me, carying me helplessly away again. I screamed loudly on several occasions. I imagined hideous punishments for whoever designed the Tunis road system, the kind of torture I've been reserving for the inventor of compact parking spaces in the States.

Finally, a few minutes after 12, I arrived at the rental office. I had to park the car halfway on the sidewalk. In the four days I'd been gone, the road had been ripped up, a gaping hole in the center.

The rental office was closed, as it was everyday from 12 until 3. I wasn't going to wait until 3--my flight left at 4. There was another rental agency down the street, I thought I'd see if they'd let me drop the key off there.

The man inside looked at me like I was an idiot.

"Sir, why not just return the car at the airport?"

I *was* an idiot. That was far more convenient anyway. Thank God I was late.

After another tortuous ordeal through the Tunis streets, this time less stressful as I had time to kill, I arrived at the crowded + smoky Tunis airport. I discovered only too late that had I walked into the departures lounge earlier, I would have found open airy spaces with tables. Next time.

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