1 March 2004

The Road to Tunisia - Day 1

It takes as long to drive from Hadleigh to Gatwick Airport in London as it does to fly Tunisia, North Africa from Gatwick.  What an amazing concept.  Tunisia is our next stop to experience a little life in a new small town. 

But before we even got there I was feeling a little worried.  First, the car park, as they say in England was completely full of cars, but not just any cars…Bentleys, BMWs, Morris Minis, Rolls Royces…you get the picture.  I was starting to think that the only people that flew on airplanes were rich.

After we hopped on the shuttle bus and pulled our three small suitcases to the check-in counter we heard an announcement that confirmed my worries…”Gatwick International apologizes for any inconvenience during the recent evacuation.”  The check-in person looked totally surprised and started laughing because there had been no alarm, and no one had left the building.  I sure hope they do better at flying airplanes then they do at building maintenance.

People seemed in a hurry to leave this little island for a quick dose of sunshine.  They were going off to the Canary Islands, Majorca and Tunisia.  Of course they would want to do some shopping before they go because as long as they had a ticket to fly on the day they bought things they didn’t have to pay any sales tax, which is almost 20%.  So shops like FCUK (clothing that is supposed to cause a sensation because it has this misspelled word on the front of it), The Body Shop, Duty Free (1,000 cigarettes are around $134), and Harrods all sell merchandise in this crazy place.  Sunglasses, London teacups and ski goggles, all tax-free seem to be the big sellers right now.

As luck would have it the flight was delayed so between the two hours of driving, arriving three hours ahead of the flight in case of terrorist problems, and the airlines timing we ended up leaving at 1:00 in the morning.  By then I was pretty sure that I didn’t have to worry anymore because all of the bothersome things were happening at the beginning of the trip.  Finally I could sit back and relax the two and a half hours of the flight.

In Monastir, where the main Tunisian airport is located, the tour company Panorama was there to meet us and load up our luggage.  The red headed retired British woman who was the guide told us all kinds of pleasant information as we drove past palm trees and olive groves on our one hour trip to Hammamet, a tourist center for Tunisia.  She says that there isn’t a crime problem because the President of the country is very strict.  Hum…I wonder, as I struggle to keep my eyes open, if being Muslim or something else is the real reason.

At the Les Orangers (lay z oranjay), a large white 1950’s looking building that is surrounded by palm trees and a tall white wall we watched the porter take our bags inside.  A man in a gray suite with a day’s growth of beard sternly directed us to sit down in the foyer to fill out the arrival cards and show our passports.  A waiter appeared with freshly squeezed orange juice for everyone.  Everything happened quickly as we followed the porter to room 1010.

The hallways we passed through had windows shaded by latticework to keep out the harsh sunlight.  We passed into a pleasant looking courtyard with an enormous crystal clear blue pool.  At the same time we could hear the Mediterranean Sea in the background.  The sun felt refreshing. 

Once we were in our simple hotel bedroom (two double beds and a single plus balcony, TV and bath) we quickly changed our shoes and walked on the beach.  Within minutes we were pounced on by men selling things.  The first man wanted us to go riding on horses or camels and insisted we come and look at the hotel stable, which we found out later was not really the hotel stable at all.  He swore he would give us a good price for riding lessons.

The next man wanted to sell us silver bracelets.  Then the next had some sort of chocolate kernels packed in little bags.  Or how about a boat trip?  There was a constant parade of men insisting we had to buy something.  At first I was polite, but eventually I started saying, “No! No! No!” and they would pass on down the beach to the next tourist.

Next came the cop on his horse.  As soon as he saw me he called out to me in French to ask how I was doing.  I answered back in French, which I learned later seemed to mean I must be Canadian.  As soon as he realized I wasn’t Canadian, but American his whole attitude became soft and he said, “Welcome” in English.

At this point we decided to walk back to the hotel to eat breakfast, since it was provided with the room.  The buffet, as they called it was quite a mix of food since they were trying to provide something for people from England, Croatia, Germany, France and Poland.  There were different types of eggs, plus a chef that made omelets or crepes,  some sort of wieners with celery, lunchmeats with lettuce and olives, various “normal- looking” breads and cereals.  I ate some thinly sliced white cheese with white beans. 

After breakfast we decided to walk to a small shopping area we saw earlier as we drove  to the hotel.  The small shops had a lot of their colorful wares (pottery, ceramic dishes, all sizes of bongs wrapped in plastic, candle holders and leather products) sitting on the sidewalk so that people passing by could get an idea of what they had for sale.  We had no idea what we were about to get ourselves into.

At the first place on the sidewalk where we slowed down to get past all of the stuff for sale a young man grabbed Cat and started trying to push things into her hands and asking her to please take these trinkets because they were a gift to her for being so lovely.  Earlier Cat had said she was very interested in a miniature ceramic tea set she wanted for her dolls at home.  So she calmly put down the “free” things and in French asked the price of the little tea set.  The man said something in French about a cheap price of 8D (Dinars is the Tunisian money which is worth about 80 cents to a US dollar).  We all just laughed and turned around to leave but he was not going to let us go.  All the way down the street he chased after us insisting on a lower price.  The last price we heard was all the way down to 4D.

Further down the road, and far away from the bothersome shopkeepers we found a fresh fruit market where we bought very yellow pears and green apples, plus some plain yogurt for 5D.  There were lots of different types of oranges, fennel and a yellow fruit that looked like really hard hedge apples.

On the way back we stopped at a stand to look for a ball cap for Jay.  A woman came out of the shop and asked if we were English.  When she discovered we were American her whole attitude changed as she warmly said, “Welcome to my country!” 

The hats were too small plus they had “NY” or the Nike symbol on them.  There was one hat with “Tunisie” (Tunisia in French) written on it so I asked the price.  When the woman said 25D I just laughed (this was to be my reaction a lot of the time when I was told a price).  She insisted I tell her what Jay would pay for the hat, as if I was going to speak for him.  When I said 7D, she turned to Jay, and in perfect English said, “Brother you are brave.”

We looked around some more to see what else she had in her shop and at this point she admired the blue and gold scarf I was wearing over my hair.  I had decided after my experience on the beach that if I had on a headscarf the men might think I was Muslim and would not bother me with their silly selling techniques.  For the most part I was right.  The woman asked me if I wanted to trade for her scarf.  Instantly I said, “yes”.

We traded scarves as she asked what I had paid for it.  She tied the scarf on my head, and I tied my scarf on her head and we kissed each other’s checks.  I asked if we could have our picture taken together but she said her husband forbid her to have her picture taken. She said “bislemah” (goodbye in Arabic) and we headed off to the hotel. 

I could see that this was going to be an interesting place…full of adventure.  Already the “moments” here had been a gift.