The end of March, 2009. I’ve probably walked thirty miles in the past two days. Will sleep very easily tonight (only wish I could watch Where Eagles Dare). The past two nights, the Sandman did not come quickly or when desired, stayed off by the teeming masses outside my home. I must explain.
Rue De Marché, where I live with Myriam and her family, is a bustling, if unadorned, road. Three schools, a souk and a mosque in the neighborhood, and that’s all I know about, account for traffic at all times of the day. As I type this, children are screaming and cutting up right outside the entrance to the courtyard. Soon I hope to be able to decipher their calls and talk to them on my way to school. The muezzin’s call isn’t as sharp as the youthful yelps, but one night I heard what sounded like a large congregation of men, chanting in a rhythm that sped up, faster and louder until it crested in a solid wall of voice. Every night, however, I hear howliing. The stray dogs of El Omrane come out at midnight and bark aggressively, continuously in the darkness.
Complete exhaustion had kept me close to the house for my first full day, but I decided to check in with the Bourguiba Institute on Monday. I repeated the journey today, and to save time, I’ll use artistic license to compress the two excursions into one.
The road to Bourguiba Institute, on Ave Liberte and east of the old medina, runs through Belvedere Park. Blue sky and great weather, 70 degrees or so with a cooling breeze, and the vegetation gleamed like it was already summer. To get to the park, I walk past two schools, which always seems to have just spilled its students into the street. I hussle past these kids; I remember middle school being a terrible place and don’t want to relive it. A guy around my age stopped me on the way. He requesting brik from me. Myriam had made homemade brik the other night, a wonderful dish comparable to an egg roll, and I said la ayndi brik, I don’t have fried food.
“Fire,” he then said, flicking his unlit cigarrette. Wish I had, but alas, no, but what we built out of briks was a lesson in bilingual country living.
As I kept in the shade of buildings, I wished I had brought my camera. Once I am completely sure where I am going, I’ll bring it along to photograph the gorgeous plays of light and share this wonderful place. A loud honking sound snapped me out of my dazed observations of the local buildings, people and sky. My insticts turned my head to focused on a peacock, plumage in full, honking in the shade of a small tree. Belvedere is a zoo, I remembered Myriam saying as my footsteps took me past five or six more peacocks. Further down the road, antlered deer lay in ditches carved into a hillside, most completely in the spotted shadows of a large tree. Supposedly there are giraffes here too, but I’m saving a trip to the zoo for the roommates.
Belvedere is bordered by a large street, which takes some guts to cross. On the other side is a puzzling layout of streets. It quickly gives way to Ave Liberte on the western side of the asphalt lattice of New Tunis. I followed my memory when I came here with Myriam, walking past a very large synagogue and a lot of suit jackets and designer clothes. On the third story of the Bourguiba Institute, I talked to an administrator, saw a French couple and a Chinese kid in line behind me, and found out I take the language test on Friday, begin school on Monday.
I wanted to see Kennedy Park, family connection and all, so I went down Liberte to Ave de Ghana and went east towards the water. I found out the map lies; the water is obscured by giant construction projects on reclaimed land in the lagoon. I walked along these behemoths blocking the Gulf of Tunis, trying to discern their purpose, and then hailed a cab.
“Ureed an ‘dthab illa safaarat America,” I stumbled to the cab driver, who could’ve played a mafioso in a B movie.
“Embassie Americain?” he replied, in that other colonial language.
“Oui.”
Fifteen minues later I was outside the American Embassy in Tunis, a sparse grey building in an industrial park. Thirteen stars above an eagle let me know I got the address right. No English until I had passed security and gotten into the back of the building with US Citizens Information. A beatufiul woman popped out, saw me, ducked back into her office. Then a younger man came up and asked me what I needed. I explained, he told me to wait, and another, older State Department employee entered. Clean cut, bored looking, he offered me a list of recommended medical providers and pointed me to their website. I left feeling a little let down: I thought it would be a warmer place to spend an afternoon.
I got what I needed and left, and caught a cab to Port du France with a talkative cab driver. We established that Obama was great, he learned French in grade school, and he had traveled to Italy. As soon as I got out, he refused a small tip, and I was at the most European part of Tunis I’ve yet been. I’m talking cleavage, tourists, and beer.
Would’ve stayed longer - for other reasons - but it started raining. Lightly at first, but it slowly grew into a thunderstorm. I tucked my casted hand between my backpack and back, and walked in the drizzle, getting hungry and quite uncertain about my exact location. I ended up walking around in a circle, past broken buildings and putrid alleys. The rain took many by suprise, I saw. Books and magazines were held over heads. Men squinted as their shoulders bulged in their suits in obvious discomfort. Cabs were full, awning’s shadows crowded, street cafes emptied quickly, and no one looked ecstatic. I still had a forty minute walk ahead of me, was kind of lost, when I found three streets with meaningful names.
Ave Kemal Attaturk: I knew I was headed the right way, it ran north-south in the new Tunis grid. I followed him north, parallel to Liberte, and then it hit a wall. I moved west and found Ave Palestine, another north-south street I recognized, and then I hit Ave Ghana. Back where I started. So thanks First-Scout, Shirley, Neil, and Abena - those were all streets that reminded me of you and got me home safe. It continued to rain, and I realized I had been moving for about ten hours straight. I was tired, cold, and hungry, but I knew where I was.
As I walked past the mosque near my house in El Omrane thirty minutes later, a tall skinny man started waving to me. It was odd. We kept walking past each other, but locked eyes as he continued to wave like Princess Diana. When my kneck pulled my vision back around towards my moving feet, I almost walked into a short man. He was dressed in black, with curly black hair and a symmetrical moustache and unibrow. He was speaking directly to me, barely a whisper. “La aaraf,” I mumbled as I stopped, confused by his rapid, quiet words. Over his shoulder, a crowd had gathered outside the mosque, all men, all also in black. It seemed ominous, and I wasn’t getting anything from the small, intense man.
I resumed walking, past the mosque’s fountain and towards my home, through two crowds of students. A boy approached me: “Bonjour.” I responded, and he laughed. As I walked through a crowd, I heard someone going “pssst... pssst...” like a note was being passed. I looked, and three girls were looking at me, not speaking. Embarassed, befuddled, I shuffled away, unlocked the blue door to my new home, and closed it behind me. Fatigue had me, and I dropped my bag, chugged some water and made a short list.
Strawberry yogurt, a hot shower, and a steak - in that order. Myriam pulled the coup de grace with a superb rice and fish dish. Now my feet are up, the meuzzin is calling, and sleep is soon to come.
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Dispatches Africa North Getting Lost and Settling in Tunis
Dispatches Africa North Getting Lost and Settling in Tunis
Getting Lost and Settling in Tunis
