Tunisia Puns, Episode 5: Just Deserts

Hello once again, dear readers! Today is a sad day, to be sure, but this will be the last episode of Tunisia Puns, as my trip is coming to an end. Never fear, however, because there is a great deal of exciting happenings which I have been saving to tell you all week! Hurrah!

We shall pick up my travels long last Friday, when I was still in the southern town of Tataouine. It was our first full day in the hottest and most desolate desert in the world, which of course meant that it was cool and rainy on and off all day. This day we delved deep into the Berber lifestyle, visiting a great many sites. We visited Ksar Ouled Soltane, a fortified grainery, with tall clay steps which are most certainly not OSHA compliant. Next we visited Ghomrassen, a small Berber village where people still live in homes carved out into the mountain, and Chenini, an old abandon village on a steep rocky mountain. Unfortunately this last one we could not explore too much, as some of the structures had collapsed on the path, which blocked our way from the summit. Nevertheless, the pictures and even a short video will demonstrate this in better detail than any description. After our many explorations, we returned to Tataouine, where we stayed in our hotel for another night. 

Saturday morning began late and lazy, as there was no early sites to visit today. We had a lecture out under the cool shade of the picnic benches on the hotel patio, and prepared our things to depart. However, though we loaded up out heavy luggage onto the bus, we ourselves would not be riding in it. Instead, a small caravan of 4x4s was lined up outside of our hotel, for this evening we would be spending our evening in the Sahara! Me and some of the friends whom I've made on the trip loaded up into our vehicle, and we were off southward. Accompanying us were a pair of stern looking national guardsmen, our escort in the desert, who shadowed us in a cage-windowed pick up.

At once we tore down into the desert, quickly forsaking the few roads which went that far south and stirred up the dusty earth with our tires. Better still, our driver, who's name, alas escapes me was a merry fellow who was a veritable firebrand behind the wheel. He seemed to very much enjoy his occupation, taking every opportunity to swing across the side of dunes or chase away the wild camels with his rumbling off-roader. However, even for a 4x4, the desert sands are not forgiving, and after some time, far from anywhere recognizable we ground to a halt. A pair of our company had trapped themselves on some dunes, and we climbed out into the hot desert sun to inspect our plight. The first stuck, the rearguard, was simply wedged over the crest of a shallow dune, and a good shove was all that was needed to free it. The second, on the other hand, was much more troublesome. It had fallen into the valley of a dune, while its bumpers were wedged in either slope. No amount of shaking or shoving seemed to budge it, other than digging deeper ruts for the wheels. After some time, it was suggested that we attempt to tow it out with another car, but we only had a flimsy cloth cable to fasten it with. Nevertheless it was our only option. Another car raced up and they were attached. Both cars gunned their engines and SNAP, the cable broke. The drivers, still hopeful retied the fraying mess, and once again they pulled and once again it snapped. The cable could not stand much more repair, and so we tried it one last time. With the force of two engines and over half a dozen men heaving and hauling loosened the wedge and the car escaped!

However, our troubles were not over yet. As we crested a ridge overlooking the endless wastes, we came to a stop again, and our drivers began to bicker at one another in Arabic. As it turns out, their GPS failed and they were lost! Not to fear, however as the stalwart driver of our vehicle was not simply a skilled driver, but also a fantastic navigator. He charged down the ridge, taking lead of the caravan, traversing dangerous grounds and riverbeds with all the ease of driving an interstate. When we once found the road again, however, he was quite unwilling to give up his prime spot. While the other drivers stuck to the beaten path, our own driver plowed across the desolate terrain, racing against his compatriots for the pride of being first to the oasis. The dusty earth flew back under-wheel and our noble pilot won the day, neck and neck with his blue clad rival! As he did, the dry sandy plain suddenly gave way to a grove of green palms and we arrived in our Oasis.

We did not stay long, however because dusk was approaching and we had one stop to visit before we settled back down. We drove a bit further across the dunes, until the tiny island of green was wholly visible in a single glance and drove up a huge dune, to discover the old ruins of a forlorn Roman fortress. Here, at the southern edge of the Roman world, we played in the soft sand, rushing up and down dunes and exploring the crumbling castle. However, as the sun began to set, we gathered together on the western wall, and we watched in silence as the golden orb faded behind the sandy sea of orange.

Night had fallen, and we returned to our lush camp, where we awaited a warm welcome. Our dinner was served to us before a great bonfire of palm wood, and as we ate, a dancer and musicians performed for us, irrupting our dinner on multiple occasions to draw us up into the dance. Once the meal had been finished, the dining area fell into a huge dance, with our own company, our drivers, and whoever else decided to join along.

By the time dinner ended, the night had overtaken the sky entirely. In the darkness, we gathered together blankets and our belongings and made way into the desert once again, which was lit up brightly by starlight. We made our own small camp a stone's throw away from the oasis, and laid blankets under the starry sky. Here, our bottles of wine made their return and, music blasting out and wine flowing we made ourselves at home on the chilly sands. I myself gripped a bottle of cheap rose close by and made my way further into the black dunes, drinking and playing my own flute in a quiet distance. A few others eventually set up camp with me, and there we lay, singing songs and telling stories. By an incredibly fortunate coincidence, this night happened to be the very same night as that unexpected meteor shower, and so one side of our dark, speckled canvas was graced with shooting stars. I do not use this word liberally, by any stretch of the imagination, but the night was quite magical, however much I stumbled blindly across the dunes.

The morning, however, was less inviting. By the early predawn hours, the chill and dew made our camp inhospitable, and, sandy, wet and cold all but the most restless of sleep failed us. The unwelcome sun peaked overhead by five in the morning, and we, groggy, cold and hung over, trudged disparagingly back to camp. We slept for however little we could before being woken up once again, and ate a rather disappointing breakfast of stale bread and vanilla cake flavored dish sponges. By eight, we piled into our 4x4s once again and, fruitlessly nodded off as our divers took us to our hotel in Matmata.

Here, we found our rooms (which were styled in the troglodyte style of the region, with rooms shaped as if they were cut out of the mountain), vainly tried to clean the sand off (I swear I still have it in my hair) and rested, but only for a short while. We still even now had more business to attend to. We made our way into Matmata proper, an invisible city hidden beneath the mountains of southwestern Tunisia. Here I was extorted by some falconers, and crossing up and down over dry clay hills, we came across an old friend of our professors. An elderly Berber by the name of Mr. Mouloud. We found him farming out front of his house cut into the hills, and he greeted us, expecting of our massive group, but still happy to show us his home. He took us across his the small pen of goats and sheep which made his front garden, through a long dark clay tunnel, and into the round, dusty courtyard. We inspected the dwelling briefly, which contained rooms mostly for storing hay, alfalfa and olive pits for the animals. Eventually we crowded together into his sweltering kitchen, were he offered us some tea, even though he only had three cups to go around. After that, with our tour guide translating for the aged farmer, we discussed his own life and political experiences. They seemed quite simple to me, lacking in nuance, but very sincere. He loved Bourgiba, and hated Ben Ali. He lamented how the revolution failed to bring the economic change he had hoped for, saying "you can't eat freedom." Interestingly, he was very fond of Saddam Hussein, calling him "virile" and said that he acted as a sort of father figure to Arabs everywhere. Our tour guide too, though normally quite liberal, was quick to defend him, pointing out the massive instability since his demise and how unsavory and dishonorable his execution was, especially to execute a major regional leader. I think these sentiments are very enlightening as to the Arab distaste for the US' policies. Saddam Hussein, though a horrible despot to us was a strong, fatherly ruler to Arabs. For my own part I cannot speak on behalf of the dictator, but I will be the first to admit that the sledgehammer democratization of Iraq won us few friends abroad.

Monday, much more rested than the days prior, we made our way to the city of Douz. Here we stopped for perhaps one of the best advertised attractions of the trip, the Camel Ride. I have to say, I can't trust camels, chiefly on account them being shifty buggers who would sooner spit on you, buck you and leave you for dead than blink. Still, I got on, unwilling to give the camels the satisfaction. I hopped atop my noble steed, lovingly dubbed "You Bastard" and it turns out that camels are really goddamn tall and uncomfortable to sit on. Still, clad in a robe and turban provided by the camel owners, sitting upon a camel lazily loping its way across the dunes, I felt very... deserty. I decided that the only appropriate thing to do was to play the most deserteque song on my phone to make the experience complete. There was also a man with a desert fox out in the desert, which unlike camels are fluffly and adorable. Alas, I did not get a picture of it, but it was so goddamn cute.

After we concluded our camel trek, we made our way into the heart of the city of Douz, where we briefly loitered in its medina. We carried on to the city of Tozeur, and on route we came across the salt flats of Chott el-Jerid. We spent about a half hour there or so, the bright crystals reflecting the sun and heat uncomfortably right back into your eyes with every step. On one side of the road, there was a small stream of water, which was colored blood red, presumably on account of some salt-eating plankton.


When we arrived in Tozeur, we (once again) were left to mingle in the local markets, which had been all but abandoned on account of the afternoon heat. I for my own part was sick to death of all these wanderings in the markets, which had been a constant headache for me the entire trip. The medinas and souks I find are far too crowded for my own taste, and since I am not the sort to browse and make sudden purchases, (especially of the uniform trinkets which they seem to sell at these market places). Therefore, I took myself to the nearest cafe I could find, ordered a bitter mint tea and continued to read Game of Thrones in the bright desert heat. Obviously, since this was a simple hole-in-the wall cafe, a lone American seemed to cause somewhat of a stir, (our presence was extremely apparent wherever we went in any case). Soon enough, a stout, balding man, I would guess in his late fifties or so, pulled up a chair next to me and offered me a cigarette. After a brief catalog of the various languages which he could speak and I could not, we began to converse in German, of all things. Of course, my German is absolutely atrocious, as I have not practice it for nearly three years, but I was able to make some small talk, and somewhat understood what he said. From what I gleamed, he had traveled all over Europe, France, Belgium, the Netherlands, Germany, Italy, Austria, all over a span of fifteen years. For what escaped me, but it certainly did explain his linguistic diversity.


Of course, because I am an awkward sort, and as I had essentially exhausted my functional German lexicon, I made it clear that I had to depart, and that it was very nice to meet him. At that point, the medina which had been so dull before held a sudden interest to me and I quickly ducked into a local clothing shop so that it would appear if I was not aimlessly fleeing the conversation. The shop keeper, eager to take advantage of this opportunity, quickly took a turban scarf from the rack and started to wrap it around my head. Before I knew what had happened I was wearing a very fetching turban of light cotton cloth. Now, I hadn't washed my hair that day (I had used all of my shampoo scrubbing sand from my hair the day before) I was in a bind, as I did not want him to uselessly dirty his merchandise on my greasy hair. In any case, I had made plans before to get a turban, and so he and I, both the opportunist began to bargain. Now, I am no haggler, to be sure, and he seemed quite eager to keep it that way, but I did hold my own, and so was only marginally overcharged. After money was exchanged, I left with my new (and very comfortable) head-wear which I can only wear on very specific occasions without seeming to be an absurd tosser.


After this adventure, we finally arrived at our hotel, but unlike usual we also had an excessive quantity of baguettes with us. It turns out that this day happened to be memorial day, and so our professor had arranged for a celebration with peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, a most American treat (as there seem to be some barbaric nations, viz. the rest of the world, who do not eat peanut butter), as well as a round of drinks. Thus, Monday night we sat out on the deck, ruining our supper with sandwiches and wine, before heading off to an early bed (as the next day was extraordinarily early).


The next day, waking up at a lovely 5am, we once again boarded not our bus, but 4x4 off roaders. Alas, we did not have the same driver, however, but rather a tall man, who, with his large turban and bushy, bristling mustache, had the impeccable likeness of an Indian raj. We visited several locations, including Nefta, the Star Wars film set at Mos Espa, a off-roader stunt course and, most notable of all, the oasis at Tamerza. It is a small stream and pool nestled within a crevice in the mountains, with the bluest damn water I've ever seen. Some of the more adventurous among us decided to take a dip in the pool. I myself elected to remain dry, as my already limited wardrobe of relatively clean
clothes was stretched far too thin. After this, we made our way to Hotel Jugurtha Palace, where we remained for the rest of the evening.


Wednesday marked the last day of official business before our long ride back north. We first left for Sidi Bouzid, a town which by all accounts is rather unremarkable except for one important point. It was in this town that Mohammad Bouaziz, a simple fruit vendor, immolated himself and sparked the Arab Spring. However, it seemed that the day before, in the town of Kasserine, one province eastward, there had been an attack on the Minister of Interior's home, which had left three policemen dead, and several more injured. While, of course, we ourselves were never in any danger, the whole of Tunisia was abuzz, and we ourselves had a police escort shadowing us just in case. So there would be some time to scout out the area, to ensure there was no danger in the town itself, we stopped in a cafe on the outskirts of the city, which happened to be nestled among some student dormitories. There we met with a pair of recent graduates, who themselves happened to be a part of the revolution. The francophones among us translated what they had to say, and for some time we discussed the revolution, as well as listening to passers by voice their own opinions. After this, it was determined that there was no danger in the town, and so we made our way inside and briefly toured it.


After this, we made our way further Northeast to the town of Sbeitla, which would be our very last site. Happily for me, it happened to be an incredibly well preserved Roman ruin, which we explored in great detail. Even better, there was a storm coming in at the time, and so the dark, rain filled clouds contrasted with the bright yellow marble in the most beautiful way, I could hardly believe I was standing there myself. On this, I will let the pictures speak for
themselves.


Once we had concluded our business, we made our way back to Kairouan, and lodged at the same Casbah hotel from before. Though it was a hotel which we had only stayed at for two days, it felt like home, welcoming and familiar. It was at this point which I really started to long for my return. As much as I enjoyed my time, the comforts of home were beckoning.


The next day, we made the final stretch of our journey to Hamammet, a suburb of Tunis. We checked into our hotel, which, very much like Sousse was a tourist trap, crawling with French and German tourists. It was massive: the winding path from the dining hall to my room took nearly ten minutes to cross, and the rooms themselves were extremely odd. The washroom, save for the toilet, opened up into the main room itself, with nary but a curtain to shield the shower from view of of the beds and the very large open balcony window. It was here that we made our farewells to our beloved tour guide tour guide, after which we knew that the end was truly upon us. After our dinner, which was hindered by a waitstaff that was simultaneously over-attentive and extremely unhelpful, we broke off into groups to study for our final, a tedious task, which was interrupted constantly by the strange and unnerving European dance party.


The next day, we woke up relatively late and took our exam. For the sake of future students I will only say that it is not difficult, but beware that a hotel bar is not a suitable environment for test taking by any stretch of the imagination. The rest of the day we languished, with very little to do at all. The resort was far too big to actually find anyone, and the extremely lackadaisical dress of the common European tourist ensured lasting discomfort wherever one went. Still though, the final dinner, our last official event, came soon enough and we dined together with the Tunisian students one last time. As we were the only Americans there, we took it upon ourselves to cheer, sing, stay late and generally make a loud, obnoxious nuisance of ourselves, so that our national character would not be sullied by imagined perceptions of politeness. After dinner, we spent our last night together, drinking cheap wine, smoking shishah, making merry and cheerful farewells. I went to bed late last night, and with too few precautions to prevent a hangover, to ensure that my long day of travel was fresh and comfortable.


Alas, my final day in Tunisia had arrived. I happened to be on the largest flight of people, and so we boarded onto our faithful bus one last time and made our way to the airport. By some happy coincidence, on my flight to Frankfurt, I was seated with my fellow group members, and so we made our loud American ways known one last time. Once we arrived in Frankfurt, I had to bid farewell my company, for they were flying to Chicago, and myself DC and then Denver. As I was sitting in the very same seat, on which, high over the Atlantic, I now write my final entry, the melancholy bittersweet fell over me. As much as I long for home, I will miss that country which was so good to me for the past three weeks. I should think Tunisia will forever hold a place in my heart.


Sincere Regards,
Michael Coffey