Sounds like a screaming howler monkey outside...

So a new cat has moved into my alleyway, replacing the old black one that died. And thankfully so, because it would take a daily crap on our doorstep. Evidently because it didn't appreciate lil' Marley, my roommate Roz's medina kitty. The new cat, however, has this annoying proclivity to yowl away at any hour, particularly at bedtime. It's not easy trying to sleep when there's a medina cat in heat right outside your window. 

Medina cats have always been this mysterious curiosity for me. I was introduced to their existence less than an hour after I arrived in Tunis after nearly stepping on a dead kitten on the sidewalk. Traumatizing. (To Morocco's credit, I haven't seen any dead kittens here, compared to the occasional roadside corpse in Tunisia. But here the cats don't have to deal with Tunisia's incessant heat.) Tunisia was abound with abandoned kittens. One endearing kitten ran after me all the way down the road crying for love (or food? same thing), and then hung out by the door of the dorm for nearly 15 minutes after that. It had to be shooed away by our doorman, it wouldn't leave.

Anyways, back to Fessi medina cats... what exactly are they thinking when they glare at me when I walk by? It's indignant and indigent simultaneously. Like, "What the hell are you doing walking in my territory? I'll claw you!!" and "Please feed me/don't kick me!" at once.  They're the homeless and scorned, survivors by means of souk scraps and garbage, and are all big, dirty, and battle worn. And there are thousands of them here in the medina.

After living here for a while, you get to know some of the medina cats, even by name. At night at my host family's house, if you hang your head outside the kitchen window on the 2nd floor and cluck your tongue, Michel the tortoiseshell medina cat will appear out of the darkness, perched upon the medina wall, and mew at you. I see the three cats that hang outside my house several times a day: huge sleepy white one, all black one, and the howler.  At my school lives an ancient tuxedo cat whom I've affectionately named grumpy cat. Grumpy cat's fur is clumped and scraggly, and he hangs out in the garden hunched over with his eyes half closed, looking as I feel at 8 in the morning. Then there's Sara, the pregnant black cat that prances about Cafe Clock, the local ex-pat hangout. She feels privileged to ensconce herself atop your lap and then digs her claws into your clothes if you move an inch.  

But it's apparent the life of a medina cat is a hard one. On many an occasion I will see them kicked and menaced by mean men (probably the same ones that menace me) and then not only they have to worry about these disparaging attacks, there are other medina cats to deal with. I assume most of these territory battles wage on at night, since I hear most of them at 3 in the morning. Last time Marley happened to be sleeping with me under the covers, and suddenly blood curdling shrieks from the streets awoke both of us from slumber, and kept us up for about half an hour. Each time the cats would shriek louder, Marley hopped up and down on top of me under the covers, either from fright or excitement. I couldn't tell if he wanted to go join the fierce fight or was thanking his lucky stars he is now a pampered house cat with three mommies. With his incessant whining for food and tricky methods of getting into the garbage can, it makes you think you can't take the medina out of the medina cat. 

Me n Marley- luckiest kitty in the medina!

Une mise à jour

I really don't know what I was thinking when I started this blog and thought I could actually publish a post every now and then. I've attempted my whole life to keep a journal and have never made it past a few weeks... and same with this blog. But there have been some angry comments recently wanting more posts so I'll try to oblige.

So much has happened since my last post, which was about my summer in Tunisia. There was Ramadan during the month of September, when I decided to join in and fast along with my host family and everyone else. Fasting required no drinking or eating from the morning call to prayer, around 4:30 in the morning to the evening call to prayer, around 6:30 pm. By 6:30 a cannon from atop a hill would blast, and everyone in Fez would be in their home, listening the calls to prayer from nearly 200 mosques rise up over the ancient city, loud, muddled wails of allahu akhbar and lailahhaillalah, (Allah is the greatest, There is no god but Allah) proclaiming that it was time to break the fast. Hamdullilah! (Praise be to Allah) Every Iftar (the meal to break the fast, meaning breakfast) consisted of harira, tomato soup with chickpeas, boiled eggs sprinkled with salt and cumin, shabakia and hulawiat (Moroccan honey desserts), and dates with milk. 

After Iftar everyone goes out and has fun, finally being able to drink coffee or banana shakes in the outdoor cafes and smoke. I would normally go to bed around 12, only to get up again at 3:30 for the Suhur, the late night meal. It's hard to realize how uncomfortable waking up from REM and eating fried sausages or chicken tajine at 4 in the morning is until you've experienced it. Every night too. By the last week of Ramadan the whole city seems sedated and sluggish. Work hours during Ramadan change so everyone can return home at 4, to salvage what little energy they have left, or in my case, sleep away the time until the cannon blasts. It also becomes the time when people, fatigued and hungry, become rash and aggressive. Tantrums and fights in the medina are a common sight during the month dedicated to Allah. 

Looking back, I'm glad to have participated. For me, fasting was a wonderful way to mediate on life, on faith, on purpose and aspirations, as well as a time to think of the poor who fast daily and not by choice. Here people wish you a generous Ramadan, as a focus of the month (and in Islam) is charity and aiding the poor. It is a month of religious introspection which actually got me going back to Mass. By the time Ramadan had ended, I felt so happy to be living in this ancient city, to be living with an interesting and fun host family, and confident that I could learn to fit in. After all, if I could go for over 20 days fasting, what couldn't I do?

Unfortunately, the first month is a period known to all who have lived abroad before as the honeymoon stage. At first everything is new and exciting. Everything you eat takes delicious, everyone you meet is friendly and helpful, and acquiring the new language is an exciting challenge. The honeymoon stage is almost always followed by a plunge, brought on by a catalyst such as a breakup, an illness, frustrating interactions with the natives, even change of weather. In my case, I can say it was all of the above that brought on my plunge which, hamdullilah, I am ascending out of currently. 

I was completely content living with my lively Moroccan family, and intended to stay with them until March. Their mother had died several years earlier, leaving the father, grandmother, three sons, Hamid, Mehde, Amine, and a daughter Oumima. The three brothers are all in their upper 20s, and Oumima is 13. It was great living with them, and the four siblings really took care of me and helped me become accustomed to living in Fez by taking strolls in the medina, going to play billiards, providing an occasional nighttime escort when it was too dangerous to walk back home, and exchanging all the words you hear constantly on the street but would never learn in the classroom. However its through a host brother I learned one of the hardest lessons I've learned here in Morocco- that men and women, at least in this conservative city, cannot be friends. There will always be more expected than friendship and consequently it became just too awkward to live in a family with three older men. There were other reasons why I decided to move too, some of which being the expensive rent and a growing need for more freedom. 

To continue on the issue of male female relations in this city, well... it's frustrating and difficult and has caused me to throw a tantrum or break into tears many a time. Even if I cover myself up so that only my head and hands are exposed, men in the streets will call out, follow, and ever grab me on occasion. It's quite the culture shock to feel constantly sexually harassed whenever you're outside walking by a male dominated cafe. Many men have no shame and feel entitled to stare and sleazily offer offensive propositions as I whisk by, walking fast, head down. The trick is to never ever look at anyone's or face or in their eyes, this is just an invitation for harassment. 

To be fair, however, I must acknowledge that it seems like it has been less that I've been harassed on the street. It is possible that at the peak of my discontentment I noticed it more, or now I'm noticing it less. And, most importantly, there are some good men here who don't participate in the catcalling, which at times seems to be the national sport. At any case, I've heard from many that in the cities such as Rabat and Casablanca male female relations are much more healthy and the harassment isn't as bad. I hope this is true. Anyways, I could go on and on about men and women in Moroccan society, but I will admit that my current position on this is an uneducated one based on superficial observations and very likely to change, as I continue to explore Moroccan culture and Islam. I'll keep you posted on my evolving impressions and research (that is, if I can actually keep this blog running).

Adding to my plunge was a 2 week battle with a "worm inside of me" (Kelly from The Office). I eagerly took up on a host brother's offer to go out to a city in the country for an afternoon. Upon arrival we ate at a little roadside restaurant. On the menu? Fried egg and cold potato and rice sandwiches with mayo. I know, sounds dangerous from the get-go right? Well, that infamous egg sandwich caused me to.... ahem... expel whatever I ate from both ends. During this time the smell or sight of any Moroccan dish triggered a visceral revulsion, and the ordeal ended with my near-fainting and a long overdue trip to the doctor. He prescribed me 5 different medicines, all foul tasting and taken through unorthodox methods, and after a few days I was feeling better and ready to move into a new apartment with my two Fulbright girlfriends Roz and Liz and the adopted medina kitty Marley.

And that's where I find myself right now. Marley is purring on my lap, a little ball of black and white plush. If you have gotten the impression that my time here in Fez hasn't been a cake walk, well it's true. But it gets better day by day. Living here is a roller coaster ride. Some days I understand everything, all the taxi drivers are friendly, people don't rip me off when I buy veggies at the outdoor market, and I manage to walk in the streets invisible. And some days I can't seem to speak any language, including English, I get overcharged by 200% and don't realize until later, it's pouring down rain and the past 100 taxis I've lost to Moroccans, who are used to pushing, fighting, and running after the elusive available taxi. And, hamdulliah, de plus en plus there are more good days than bad, and I'm optimistic about living here for another 12 months. And inshallah I'll be able to keep up this blog until then. 

Oumima and Mehde on Eid al Sghir, the festival celebrating the end of Ramadan

Host brother Amine and me on Eid al Sghir. I'm wearing a kaftan, Amine is wearing a jllaba.

 

Tunisia pictures

Hey everyone! I created a Picasa web album so now you can look at pictures from Tunisia! Here's the link... More to come, I promise!

http://picasaweb.google.com/StephBaldwin/Tunisia#

Ijaaza in Tunisia

Dear everyone,

It’s September, the holy month of Ramadan, and I still haven’t gotten around to posting about Tunisia. Due to the lack of internet and time and laziness I managed to neglect this blog for nearly two months now. So, as it’s a lazy Friday afternoon and I have nothing to do except wait for the Iftar - the meal that breaks the daily fast during Ramadan- I’ll finally inform you of all my adventures this summer...

Mid July 2008 

I began Arabic lessons at the Bourguiba Institute- known by nearly every Tunisian as the Bourguiba School. Lessons lasted around 25 hours per week, including a bi weekly class for reciting poetry. (I amproud to say I can recite Hubbuki tairun akhtharu- Your love is a green bird and Khamsu rasaaila ila ummi - Five letters to my Mom.) In lessons we learned vocabulary for restaurants, shopping, and most of all weddings. I believe we spent around 3 weeks discussing wedding vocabulary and now I can write my wedding invitations and tell you all about my honeymoon in Arabic! Not much more exciting here- what was fun was where I resided and the few excursions I took outside of Tunis. 

My dorm, mabiit raafia,  was conveniently located near the tram, the souk, and was around a 30 minute walk from center of Tunis, Avenue Bourguiba. Here around 25 students lived, all from different countries. French, British, Dutch, German, Canadian, Italian, Spanish, American, etc... all studying at Bourguiba School. Since we were a small group living in small quarters sharing bathrooms and kitchens we all became rather close, a raafian family. On occasion we held different theme parties. For the American party we had a hamburger grill out with country music and banners saying things like “mission accomplished” and “these colors don’t run”. (The Canadians evidently get the joke and complained about offending people with our American patriotism.) Then we held a British party, a whole day affair complete with reading Shakespeare in the park, badmition, peach tea and Victoria sponge cake, and for dinner bangers and mash with gin tonics. After a few weeks the first Arabic summer session ended and many people left, leaving only the three Americans, Brian, Eric, and myself and 15 other Italians. Consequently, I have to admit I spoke much more Italian than Arabic or French while in Tunisia. Italian party night involved ragu, lots of Lucio Battisti and Ligabue, and dancing to the YMCA and You Sexy Thing (The two songs omnipresent at any Italian festa.)

The city of Tunis seems surprisingly small, because you tend to run into people you know constantly. Once I met a Tunisian at a beach in La Goulette, a suburb of Tunis, and ran into him three days later while on my way to the grocery store. It’s hot, busy, full of homeless cats mewing for your attention (with the occasional dead kitten on the sidewalk) and smells like sewage in certain areas at certain times, and after a while it really grows on you. Restaurants are normally cheap with great food, with a quarter roasted chicken, Tunisian salad (cucumbers tomatoes tuna onions and olives) french fries and unlimited bread and harissa (spicy hot pepper sauce) running about three dollars. And I just have to mention how wonderful another Tunisian specialty is, called brik. It’s tracing paper thin and inside there are potatoes, capers, tuna, and an egg. It’s fried then squirted with lemon juice and voila! Just take care to not spill egg yolk over yourself when you bite into it. Oh! And Boga...mmmmmm.. Boga is a Tunisian coke that comes in a cider flavor. Strange once you try it but now I’m finding myself here in Morocco missing Boga Cidre like crazy. 

Avenue Bourguiba, the center of Tunis, is considered the Champs Elysee of North Africa, and really does seem like a run down Champs Elysee, without the Louis Vuitton and Virgin stores, and every once in a while there was a Ben Ali youth parade full of bored looking marching bands celebrating his decision to run for reelection. Ben Ali is ubiquitous throughout Tunisia, a poster of him in all his patriotic glory displayed in every shop, restaurant, hotel, empty wall along the street, etc. He’s been president since 1987 and has consistently been reelected with 95% or more of the vote. These posters were quite the novelty for those living in Raafia since although they are plastered everywhere, there are none to be found to buy and we were concocting plans to steal some... until I went to Kairouan! 

Around three weeks into the program I took a little two day one night viaggio to Kairouan, the holiest city in Tunisia. Kairouan is known for its mosque, one of the oldest in North Africa, and said to be the 4th holiest city in Islam. (On a side note, I’m beginning to think the holiness of the city in Islam really depends on where you’re from, because I have had Tunisians claim that Kairouan is the 4th holiest city after Mecca, Medina, and Jerusalem but then Moroccans declare that, no way, Fez is the 4th holiest. And I’ve also had a Tunisian man on a louage tell me that it’s all a bunch of bunk. So who knows, I’ll have to look into it a bit more.) 

So I went with Greg and George, two Brits from Raafia and jumped into a louage to Kairouan. Just a note about louages, they’re buses for eight people that travel all throughout Tunis and personally I love them. They can be quite uncomfortable, sweaty, and the driver’s driving at times is petrifying but every time I traveled by louage I was able to strike up conversations with normal Tunisians about the Middle East, traveling, America and the elections (everyone loves Obama with a passion, but seem quite disbelieving that the American people could actually elect a man with an Arabic name. Another thing, today I learned that Barack means blessing in Arabic). 

Anyways, after a 3 hour ride we arrived in Kairouan and set off to explore the ancient medina which is a UNESCO World Heritage site. While walking around, I noticed that there was a Ben Ali youth group center (they’re very easy to spot, they’re covered with Ben Ali’s face and Tunisian flags) and decided to try to see if there were any spare posters about. We were greeted with the upmost enthusiasm and hospitality, and around 25 posters of all kinds were rolled up for us. Ben Ali with the Tunisian flag, Ben Ali in purple, his favorite color, Ben Ali with the symbol of Tunisian youth (which really reminds me of Maoist posters for some reason...), Ben Ali in traditional Tunisian dress, Ben Ali galore! 

We stayed and talked about the youth organization for a while with the vice president, a chatty cheerful man who was dubbed “Nuzl” after we forgot what his real name was. He was quite proud of the organization and the activities it organized for the community, and tonight there was to be a Ben Ali party celebrating his decision to run for reelection! After about an hour Nuzl decided that he and his friend would be our guides for that day around Kairouan. They took us to their favorite bakery, full of Tunisians outside waiting, and bought us a whole kilo of manrudh, a type of crunchy Fig Newton covered in honey- a Kairouan specialty. After they took us through the medina, stopping at the famous old water well and traditional artisan shops that sold blankets and such. At each stop Nuzl insisted on taking pictures, mainly of himself and me in various poses. Last on the stop was the ancient mosque, which was at this time closed to tourists but Nuzl said I could take a peek in the women’s section, which was of course in the very back of the mosque. 

Greg, George, and I returned to the hotel and debated whether to attend the Ben Ali party or not. Nuzl, although friendly, was almost too friendly and exhausting to talk to and since he only spoke Arabic and French and I was the only one who could converse with him. Also, being with him and his friend all day made the three of of realize the differences in perceptions of “personal space” between our cultures and Arab culture. They both tended to sit very close or stand and talk to you just inches away from your face and for us (and especially for Greg and George, two Brits very aware of their personal space) it was difficult to be comfortable with. But then we decided to go for a little bit and I’m so glad we did. The party was an outdoor concert, the stage plastered in purple Ben Ali posters, and all the songs were dedicated to glorious Tunisia. People would get up and dance and a group of girls formed in front of the stage, which I eventually got dragged into. 

During the concert Nuzl told me about his feelings for Ben Ali. Tunisia is strong and well, Nuzl said, thanks to Ben Ali, and it was the Tunisian people who asked him to run for reelection. Ben Ali, according to Nuzl, didn’t want to run, he really just wants to retire, but he loves Tunisia and Tunisians so much he’s sacrificing this and running for another term. “Despite anything, we love our president Ben Ali.” (I believe this “despite anything” is referring to the total dearth of free press or freedom of expression...and I’m positive that not all Tunisians share Nuzl’s opinion on their president.) The next day we went to Sousse, but there’s really nothing to tell. In the six hours I was there it just seemed like a big tourist city with a medina full of kitch tourist items.

About 2 weeks later I took another two day trip, this time to a small city called El Haouaria on the tip of Cap Bon, which resembles a pinky finger jutting into the Mediterrean Ocean. El Haouaria is famous for its massive grottos where Roman slaves toiled their lives away digging out marble, and some immaculate beaches less frequented by the European tourist masses that descend upon Tunisia. So, Eric and I planned to go to El Haouaria for a day after school, spend some time in the grottos, climb the mountain Jebel El Haouaria, that extends out into the ocean, go to the beach, and eat some great grilled fish, and basically breath some fresh air. However, we didn’t get to half of that, al hamdullilah. On the louage Eric made friends with a Tunisia man on his way home to Sidi Daoud, a small sleepy fishing village nearby El Haouaria, and invited us to his home for lunch and to meet his family. But we really didn’t know where we were going. We only understood “family” and “house” and decided in 30 seconds to jump off the bus with him, and thank God we did, because this afternoon was easily the best afternoon I spent in Tunisia. 

The man, Imeen, led us up a dirt path for a few minutes until we reached his house where his family- his mother, sisters, brothers, cousins, and even a few friends greeted us with handshakes and kisses.  The house was square, with a large courtyard in the middle, and their water came from a deep ancient well nearby. Their living room, like many North African living rooms I’m finding out, is on one side lined by sofas and on the other an incessantly blaring television which only gets turned off at night. After meeting everyone, we took a walk to go meet the dad, who farms peanuts, hot peppers, tomatoes, corn, and other various crops. He was out be the shed and while we talked Amira, Imeen’s sister, caught a chicken (dejaj in Arabic) and took it behind the shed to kill it. We ate that dejaj about an hour later with couscous and veggies, I have to say that Tunisian homecookin is delicious.

While waiting for lunch we sat around on the porch and attempted to chat. The family only spoke Tunisian Arabic, which the exception of Amira who spoke a little bit of fusha (Modern Standard Arabic), and the little cousin who would speak some English. So we managed to get out that we studied Arabic at Bourguiba school, Youcef worked for Coca Cola in Tunis, Amira and some of the cousins worked at the tuna factory nearby Sidi Daoud, etc. I admired the harqus that all the girls had, a henna like tattoo, told them it was jamil jidan, very pretty, and the mom promptly grabbed my hand and lead me off to the neighbors house, the whole way holding my hand. One of the neighbor’s daughters was getting married in two days and so today was the day the women gather together to painted henna all over the bride and themselves, prepare food for the next few days, and celebrate the happy occasion. 

Inside the neighbors house there were about 30 women, of all ages, who all greeted me with kisses, and the immobilized bride, who had to wait for the henna covering the bottoms of her feet and hands to dry for hours. In the kitchen were the mothers, sitting on the floor cutting up bits of stomach and intestine and throwing them into a gigantic bowl on the floor. All over the kitchen were plastic bags of meat (mainly stomach and intestine it seemed) and vegetables, and lots of happy flies. After greeting everyone, I sat down and waited my turn with the professional henna lady hired for the day and tried to talk with the girls, all speaking rapid Tunisian dialect. No luck. 

To put on the harqus the woman used her fingers for the top of my finger and nail, which were completely painted black, and different instrument to design dots, leaves, flowers and vines that curved down my finger past my wrist, and finished with shaking glitter over the wet ink. The design ended up lasting for around two weeks, but my fingernail is still a brownish black that won’t go away until the nail grows out. After she finished, Imeen’s mother paid the woman a dinar and we said goodbye and the mom lead me back to her house, hand in hand again.

By this time lunch was ready and after we ate we all, Imeen, Eric and I, Amira, and four other cousins, took a walk down to the sea. On the way Eric and Imeen walked ahead, while I walked with all the girls, stopping to eat hind, a seedy cactus fruit, and learning Arabic words for different plants and animals. The shore by Sidi Doaud is rocky and windy, and Imeen was proud to point out the windmills that line the hills nearby, only one out of the two places to find wind power in Africa (the other is in South Africa, he said). There were some people swimming at the rocky beach, little boys jumping in and out and girls dressed head to toe in clothes going swimming. To swim in shorts and a t-shirt here would have been extremely risque. 

We walked through the town Sidi Daoud in about 5 minutes, it’s that tiny, and Eric bought popsicles for everyone. The town is quite pretty, situated right on the edge of the sea and painted white and blue. For its size it’s actually quite well known in Tunisia due to the Sidi Daoud brand tuna fish that you can find everywhere. Around March there’s an annual tuna fishing festival here, where all the fishermen throw their nets a few miles off, gathering in the migrating herds of tuna, and eventually jump into the drawn nets, killing the tuna with clubs which eventually turns the sea blood red. Or so the guide book says. 

After our walk it was then around 6 and time to go. We took pictures and exchanged cell phone numbers, and gave sad kisses goodbye. The family, really everyone we met in the village, was so kind and hospitable and regardless of the language barrier we were at least able to connect on a personal level by expressing our shared excitement for a potential Obama presidency. (The first thing anyone said to us once they learned we were American was “OBAMA!” with a huge smile and a thumbs up.) When we finally left, Imeen came out of the living room with a vase filled with fake red roses. “This is for love and not war” he said in simple Arabic. One of the best presents I’ve ever received, although I suspect it came from the TV stand in the living room.

The next day Eric and I started bright and early, prepared to first climb the mountain to see the view and then down to the grottos by the sea and then eat grilled fish. But, thanks to our brilliant navigational skills we only got to one of these, climbing not one, but two mountains. The guide book says it only takes about an hour and a half to climb to up and back. WRONG! It took us around 6 hours, and in the blazing sun too. The hike started off poorly, as we found ourself wandering around someone’s backyard instead of the road, and got worse as we decided to take a shortcut and not follow the road. We hiked and hiked, watching out for shauqua, thorny bushes and trying to find the path the hotel man said we could follow straight to the top. We went higher and higher and al hamdullilah, the acme was in sight! Try to image our disillusionment when we reached the top, and found yet another mountain in front of us, the next one bordering the sea. So down we marched, forging a path through the thorns and bushes and found the road snaking up to the top of the real Djebel Haouaria.

Around an hour later we reached the top, home to an old creepy Tunisian navy station with humming radio receptors and WWII cannons. The view there was well worth the hike. Facing Tunisia you could see the sea on both sides, the white beaches on the left, and El Haouaria on the right, with the large island and Sidi Daoud shining in the  distance. Being so high up, facing the sea all you can see is an infinite blue, and seagulls coasting along with the wind. 

 

After taking a few pictures we started back down. We had run out of water quite a while ago, and by this time the sun was beating down hard. After walking for an hour or so, we passed by two shepards who motioned us to come join them. One of them we had passed a few hours before when starting on the second mountain and shared salam aalaikum and le bes’s with each other (Peace be with you, how are you?) They obviously realized how exhausted we were and gave us orange Fanta, lots of bread, hind, and two large bottles of well water. While we ate we talked about Arabic school and showed each other pictures of our family, and they asked whether Eric and I had any children. It was so kind of them to give us their food and drink, again Tunisian hospitality at its best. After relaxing for a while with them in the shade, we headed off and managed to hitchhike the rest of the way down. When we finally arrived back at the hotel, the owner told us we only had 30 minutes until the last bus to Tunis, so we had to hastily bid El Haouaria goodbye. It was a lovely little city with the fresh sea breeze and mountains, and it was quite sad to leave.

A week and two Arabic tests later, Eric and I decided last moment to take another two day journey, this time to the west of Tunisia near the Algerian border. After a 3 hour bus ride we arrived at Le Kef, a beautiful little city spilling down the sides of a mountain. I choose to go here because according to the guidebook it’s little visited by tourists and is one of Tunisia’s gems. Which is true, while there I didn’t see a single tourist out (except for one in our hotel) and the city was beautiful. Le Kef’s medina is built along the slope of the mountain, and all the houses are painted white, like a less touristy version of Sidi Bou Said. The hotel where I stayed a long time ago was the home for the vacationing bey (king) and his family, and my hotel room with its ornate vaulted ceilings and decorative tiles was quite luxurious, regardless the shared toilets, a wobbly, lumpy bed, and no hot water. 

Despite not attracting many tourists, Le Kef has a lot of offer. There are old French forts, hiking trails, Roman ruins, museums, and best of all a wonderful view of the red barren countryside. We went to a museum on Berber tribes, wandered through the medina, climbed to the top of the city, and munched on popcorn from street vendors. Then, all of a sudden, the city came alive. Around dusk, it seemed, everyone in Le Kef went out and walked up to the top of the mountain to the cafes and parks. Vendors sold corn roasted over coals in car rims and music blasted from cafes. While walking up the road kids would run up to Eric and I and ask in English what our names where and where we were from, and run off laughing. One kid asked for our email so he could practice his English. This was surprising because in other parts in Tunisia kids will only approach you to ask for money, but here I suppose they weren’t used to tourists and free hand outs and thankfully didn’t expect any dinars or candy. We ended up in a cafe near the top of the city where everyone seemed to be gathering, and had fruit cocktails in the family section of the cafe (The other section was men-only, cloudy with shisha and cigarette smoke).    

The following day we headed off farther to the west in another bus, this time to a small village less than 3 miles from the Algerian border, called Kalaat Senaan. Our final destination was nearby Kalaat Senaan, a large flat-topped mountain named Jurgurtha’s Table. Evidently we hadn’t gotten our fill of hiking since our last trip in El Haouaria. Upon arriving in Kalaat Senaan we were immediately escorted to the National Guard to register. We had to demonstrate our passports and wait while the police officers made numerous calls. After about 30 minutes we were escorted by the officers to a taxi that took us up to the base of the mountain. This time we made sure to bring plenty of water, especially since up near the mountain there was no water at all, villagers had to bring water back to their homes with jug-laden donkeys.

The hike up was quite entertaining, we ran into donkeys, lizards, and puzzled sheep and goats, who seemed to realize that we didn’t belong there. Again, we got lost and wandered around for a bit trying to locate the Byzantine stairs that lead up the mountain. Finally we found the stairs and were greeted by a few Tunisian men at the top, who knew that two Americans that studied Arabic at Bourguiba school in Tunis were coming. They escorted us around the top of the mountain, full of caverns, Byzantine ruins, and a creepy marabout, a shrine to a local saint. Off into the the hazy distance you could see a few Algerian towns and mountains, after all we were only about 3 miles from the border. 

After wandering around on the top we headed back down where we were met by our driver, who took us back to the national guard. By this time we were starving, and therefore were escorted down the road to a restaurant. We feasted in a private upstairs room full of ketch decorations on soup with vegetables, Tunisian salad, harissa, hind, Boga, french fried, a half dejaj, and a half head of lamb. After stuffing ourselves we were escorted back to the National Guard, fed more fruit, and then escorted to the bus that would take us back to Tunis. About 40 miles out of Kalaat Senaan the bus was stopped by more national guards who had been stopping every bus and asking if there were two Americans on board. They made us go to their office and show our passports again, asked us about Bourguiba school (without us ever mentioning it), made a few calls, then let us back onto the bus. 

I think by now you get the picture that Tunisia is quite the police state, especially near Algeria. That whole day we were tracked by the National Guard, either worried about our safety or worried that we’d do something stupid, like try to cross into Algeria and get kidnapped and get the State Department travel warning slapped on Tunisia again.

So, now you’ve read nearly 8 pages of Tunisian adventures, but it’s not over yet! A few days later it was time to leave, and I have to be at the airport at 7:30. After waiting awhile, the person in front of me at the desk explodes in Italian “What do you mean there aren’t any more free seats?!” Tunisiair had managed to overbook around 30 people for my flight, and considering the raging mass of Italians and Tunisians around the desk yelling simultaneously, I figured there was no way I could leave Tunisia until the next day. Hooray! Another day, it was like winning the lottery. I really wanted to go to Sidi Bou Said, a suburb of Tunis situated on a cliff offering a fantastic view of the sea, and now I had the time. 

However, in the end Sidi Bou Said wasn’t all it was crack up to be, in my opinion. Yes, it’s quite pretty, with the white buildings, blue studded doors, and pink flower vines tumbling over walls, but it was so overpriced and touristy. Each store was dedicated to selling gear like stuffed camels, singing camels, wooden camels, and camel embossed shoes and bags. So for dinner Eric and I headed to la Goulette to eat at our favorite fish restaurant. At this restaurant, you go inside an there are tables of fish, squid, mussels, and octopus on ice covered tables. You grab a plastic bag and choose what you want, making sure to look at the gills and eyes to see if it’s fresh. Then at the cash register you weighs your bag and pay and they take it next door to be grilled. The fish is excellent and the atmosphere is quite entertaining. It’s outside and kind of dirty because there isn’t anywhere to wash your hands and really crowded- you sometimes need to share your table with other people, but it seemed like a local Tunisian haunt.

On our way to the restaurant we encountered a marching band and a horse drawn carriage carrying a little 5 year old boy robed in traditional Tunisian dress. In front of the carriage were women trilling “lalalalalalalalala” and the band was playing energetic music, so we stopped to watch and were eventually asked to join the procession by a elderly woman walking along. She informed us that the party was for the little boy, who was going to be circumcised and henceforth a Muslim. The parade went along and ended filing down a small alleyway and stopping in front of the boy’s house. While the women “lalalalallalalalalalala”ed and the band played and the children danced, the boy was circumcised in his bedroom. After women threw little sachets of chocolate covered almonds and tasty grains with honey and pistachios, and the little kids shrieked and fought to grab the most goodies. Then drinks were passed out and everyone was invited to come inside and congratulate the boy and his mother and grandmother. The little boy was lying on the bed with a blanket covering him, and his aunt, a beautiful woman named Imna told me he cried. Imna spoke English very well, and worked in Tunis. She invited us to the following party two days later and to come to get a coffee with her in Tunis, but alas both Eric and I were leaving the next morning. It was the closest I had gotten to making a real Tunisian friend, and that made leaving all the harder. 

And that’s it for my Tunisian summer. I flew to Rome the next day and took a train to Pesaro, where I spent the following two weeks eating a lot of pork and good cheese, two thing difficult to find in North Africa. It was really wonderful to see Teresa, Roberto, Fede, Ale, and all my Italian friends again and go to the beach to swim and play cards everyday. Now I’ve been in Morocco for about a week, and am absolutely loving it. More to come soon about my Moroccan host family, Fez, and Ramadan