Having wound our clocks back twice in two days as we travelled west across North Africa towards Tunisia, it was perhaps no surprise that I woke at 6am this morning to find my other half sitting on a chair on the balcony of our cabin, watching our arrival into La Goulette, Tunisia.
An hour later we found ourselves sipping the horrific processed orange juice in the buffet before gathering up our passports, paperwork, and wallets before setting out – on foot – towards the nearest train station. I couldn’t help noticing aboard the ship that those going ashore had taken no notice at all of the guidance we had all been given about suitable attire when visiting Tunisia – long trousers, shirts with sleeves, and so on – with the word “respect” underlined. I remember exactly the same thing happening when we visited Tunisia years ago – always being careful to cover up when entering the hotel restaurants to fit in with their culture and customs – and coming face to face with wilfully ignorant holiday makers in swimming costumes at breakfast and lunch.
Really?
Anyway…
Having taken the utmost care in filling out our temporary visitor visas, I was somewhat surprised when a bored looking port clerk ripped it in half without really looking, stamped it, and handed it back. I’m guessing a cruise ship mostly filled with sixty, seventy, and eighty somethings isn’t likely to have many international master criminals aboard.
Having left the relative safety of the ship behind, we were pitched head-long into a wall of competing taxi-drivers – still within the bounds of the port. Each in turn attempted to stand in front of us, and offer lower and lower rates to visit nearby cities and resorts – despite each of them seeing us refuse all of their competitors, and our very clear instruction that we didn’t need the – we were going to the train station.
The biscuit was probably taken by the first taxi driver we encountered *outside* the port walls, that menacingly confronted us – telling us it was very dangerous for western tourists to walk anywhere in La Goulette or Tunis – and that we should get in his cab immediately. We ignored him while shaking our head and smiling, and carried on walking.
I should have taken his photo and made him famous – perhaps linked in the Tunisian tourist board across all of the social platforms – with words to the effect of “don’t be this guy”.
Over the next half a mile towards the train station we encountered more and more taxi drivers – and policemen sitting on plastic garden furniture at the road side. Wherever policemen sit – typically in the shade – you often find ferrel cats curled up too – I wonder if there’s a deal going on between them? Or if the police are a soft-touch to get food from?
While walking we kept an eye out for a cash machine, and ended up searching on our phones – lucking into a Western Union bank near the railway station – and drew enough Tunisian Dinars to get us through the day. It was a bit of a gamble, because it’s a “closed currency” – meaning you’re not allowed to take it into or out of the country.
It’s worth noting – while walking towards the train station – the entire population of flies in La Goulette seemed to zero in on me. While my other half laughed, they landed on my face, in my ears, up my nose… For a good few minutes I must have looked like an erratic morris dancer – swatting them away.
We finally found the railway station – after a couple of wrong turns. A white shack near a raised kerb next to the railway lines. The shack had a “ticket office” window, and an open door. A friendly, albeit scruffy man tried out several languages on us before explaining that the train tickets were about 20 pence each – and he had no change for even the smallest note we had. Luckily another couple from the boat had tagged along with us – while completely lost – so we bought their train tickets too, and made the transaction slightly less complicated. The ticket stall man still had to borrow change from another “official” (perhaps a friend that happened to be walking past? Who knows…).
So. We ended up sitting, waiting for the train with the other couple from the ship, and wondered if it might ever appear. It did. Two small carriages. Broken windows, lights, and air conditioning. Covered in graffiti. But it worked – and it transported us, and a rag-tag group of Tunisians from La Goulette across a brakewater and directly into Tunis.
The walk from the station into the centre of Tunis was… interesting. We thought it best to keep to the central avenue through the city, which had wide walk-ways either side of it, and in the centre. The roads down each side were teeming with traffic which seemed to obey no traffic lights, crossings, or policemen who continually blew their whistles and waved their arms this way and that.
After observing fellow pedestrians with a mixture of shock and awe as they walked straight out into the traffic, we gained all sorts of pretend bravery and started doing the same thing. The fact that I’m still here to write this proves that we weren’t mown down by a taxi or errant motorcyclist, but there were a few close shaves.
After reaching the centre of Tunis, we passed the gate and fountains that mark the division between the modern city, and the old city – the maze of alleyways that make up the bazaar.
It was *wonderful*. Yes, the stall holders in the endless narrow alleys stood outside, trying out every language on you to try to prompt a reaction, but they were respectful. No meant no, and they didn’t push it. Perhaps the most entertainingly sneaky trader we came across pretended to be a tourist in the passing crowd. After pretending to be held up by two old women ahead in full traditional dress, he struck up conversation, and pretty much replicated the patter of social media scammers – only in the real world – trying to get us to visit his store within the bazaar. I had to admire him for his attempt, but a firm “no” was responded to with a smile and a shrug, and he set off towards his next opportunity.
While walking through the bazaar, I couldn’t help noticing a division between the generations of native people in Tunis. Any women older than perhaps 40 tended to dress in traditional clothes – covering their entire body, with head-scarves covering their hair. Most younger women were dressed in western clothes – figure hugging trousers or jeans, skinny fit shirts, and loose hair. It struck me that most older men were dressed nowhere near as smartly as the older women, and most younger men wore tracksuit bottoms and t-shirts. It was an odd thing to notice, but almost universal across the city.
While wandering through the bazaar we happened upon a beautiful tea room in-between the various stalls – and decided to give it a chance. At first I wasn’t sure if it even *was* a tea room, but then spotted a group of female American tourists around a low circular table in a far corner with small glass cups of tea and coffee. The tea house seemed to extend over several winding floors, and was decorated in the most beautiful painted patterns – I want to say mandalas, but they really weren’t – it was almost a continual mural that stretched across walls, ceilings, and stairways.
While sitting, sipping my coffee, a mother cat and her kitten timidly made their way through the cafe. The kitten had a broken tail, and was interested in everything (probably how its tail got broken). I couldn’t help smiling at its antics as it ran this way and that – hiding from tourists, but always keeping up with mum.
Before settling our bill and leaving, I took a few photos of the upper levels of the tea room – which you could see through from the atrium where we were sitting. High above, I spotted the group of Americans once more – this time taking turns to take photos of themselves against the artwork. It beggared belief really – that anybody could be in such a beautiful place, and yet think first of taking a picture of themself, rather than the building and its art.
I’ll never make it as an influencer. I would much rather be behind the camera, saying “isn’t this great”, than being in front of it, saying “look at me”. Perhaps having a face for radio explains a lot of that though (the influencers were all very pretty).
After exploring the bazaar a bit further we decided it was probably time to grab something to eat – and set off to find a restaurant my other half had researched online. We nearly missed it. A winding staircase with Tunisian writing above it lead to a pretty restaurant two stories above the street, overlooking the bazaar – with clean decor, polished wooden tables, and attentive staff quietly making their way from table to table in traditional dress.
It was fantastic.
We both ordered light brunch dishes, and were amazed when they arrived – with french bread, figs, croissants, tea, and coffee.
The trip back across Tunis was interesting in its own way. Once you’ve been somewhere for a while you stop looking up so much, and start to look down. I started to notice the general level of disrepair and neglect along the side-streets – even close to the parliament buildings.
During the train ride back I read about the many and varied causes of the neglect, and discovered the usual reasons – a newly democratic country beset by decades of corruption, and internal infrastructure that cannot support democracy in the same way that developed countries somehow can. It seems to be the same in most places in this part of the world – it’s not so much that they want to be better (whatever better is) – more that they’ve settled for how things are.
If anything, experiencing so many countries during this holiday has opened my eyes to just how ignorant those who complain about problems at home are to *real* problems. It’s certainly made me appreciate what we have – the services we take for granted – the infrastructure we have that mostly works – when you compare it to other places around the world.
After catching the train for the return ride to the port, we met the same taxi drivers again, and they again tried to sell us trips to the end of the known world. Their heart didn’t seem to be in it as much any more – and there were no threats about what might happen to us either.
The port security almost had an apoplectic fit when I walked straight past him. Granted – he didn’t have full uniform on, and was lazing on a patio chair in the shade behind a tree with a machine gun leaning against the wall – but still – I should perhaps have noticed him. Rather than get up, he leaned forwards in his plastic patio chair to take a look at my passport, then sat back again – satisfied with doing a good job.
We’re now back on the boat. After returning I had a glass of lemonade on one of the decks at the back, and watched the world going by in the port for half an hour or so. Another cruise liner scrolled slowly past after disembarking – its passengers waved to us. It struck me how strange this world is we inhabit at the moment – this bubble, travelling the world – and what the people we have encountered in some of the cities would make either of it, or of our normal lives (because lets face it – this is NOT normal).
While talking to the couple we bought train tickets for earlier, they mentioned that they are already booked on a *seventy five night* cruise next year. I found myself wondering if they even know what normal is any more – let alone how anybody might afford that – until my other half reminded me that cruising the world non-stop is significantly cheaper than a retirement home.
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