All photos related to this blog entry can be found at Grant & Julie

Traditional Tunisian Wedding Scene - Matmata Museum

Most towns with a historical Arab settlement have a medina somewhere. Tunisia is no different. The medina is usually in the old fortified or walled city and new suburbs have been built around them in modern times. This historical part of town was designed to be maze like, only the local people would be able to find their way through and anyone who came there as marauders or invading armies would become lost very quickly and thus overcome by the locals.

The streets are narrow and the buildings can be two and three stories high. Every now and then you burst into a wider street or a small square before being twisted and turned again with no sense of direction and typically not a street sign in sight. If you are lucky you will find the souk or market place jumbled up in there as well, which presents its own problems for vehicles, pedestrians and donkey drawn carts alike.

It seems Google Maps most often chooses a route out of town straight through the medina. It looks straight forward on your screen, but one small slip up and you may never come out again. Usually the small slip up comes on the first or second turn you need to make.

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We sat on the veranda of the small restaurant, our host had a thing for Bob Marley, his photograph donned the walls of the eatery along with all manner of Rastafarian paraphernalia. The music of the legend gently wafted out the door and over us as we watched the hub bub of life in Douz.

Our bricks* arrived, piping hot with a wedge of lemon and the old man in the small shoe making shop next door saluted us with 'Bon Appétit'. We had not noticed him there, sitting on his short improvised stool, sorting through his leather collection.

‘Merci’ we replied and he quietly continued on with his work. He picked through all the pieces and scraps of skin until finding the sample he was searching for. Looking over it thoroughly and feeling it with his fingers, he nodded satisfied. His makeshift bench was cleared and he rolled out the fabric, smoothing it straight.

He picks up a shoe on its last and traces the outline for a sole. Deftly with gnarled hands and giant shears cuts the shape and repeats the process for the other shoe.

The leather is rolled on to a metal roller and he gently beats it with a hammer, unrolls it and looks over it with approval. Next he lays it in position on the partially completed slipper and hammers a few tacks to hold it in place.

A young man comes to the shop and greets the old man in Arabic. They shake hands, the boy kisses him on both cheeks and they converse for a few minutes. The Call to Prayer bellows from the minaret nearby, the young man leaves, kissing his elder again and the old man quietly packs up his shop, locks the door and trundles off to mosque.

Our bricks were delicious.

*Bricks are served as an entree or snack. They are a fine layer of pastry that wrapped around a filling, most likely eggs, fresh herbs and tuna, then fried until the eggs are set and the pastry crisp.

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Across the Salt Lake

Embassy warnings were that it may not be safe to travel in Tunisia as there was a revolution in 2011 and the country was currently undertaking democratic elections. We were keen to head south away from the coast ad into the Tunisian hinterland. We spoke to hotel operators, Tour Guides, food vendors, police and military alike about the safety of travelling in their country.

The same answer was given always. Tunisia was tranquil, quiet, safe, beautiful, so on and so forth. We were warned to stay away from some areas of the Algerian and Libyan borders and also the deep south of the Sahara. Everywhere else we were welcome and encouraged to visit.

On the more isolated roads there was a strong military presence and numerous check points both police and military. Of all the places in Tunisia we had visited, only the town of Mides in the isolated mountain region, on the border of Algeria, felt uncomfortable. Our tour guide rushed our stay here, the town seemed almost deserted and we were the only foreign tourists there, we were grateful to be chaperoned out of that area. Never the less, the canyon and valleys around Mides are spectacular and we had no misgivings about visiting such.

As with visiting, Colombia so many years ago, heading local advice and remaining on reasonably trafficked roads was the best approach.

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Unexpectedly a road block appears, the officious soldier stands in the middle of the only through section of the road block, signalling us to pull over to the side of the road. Who were we to argue as he fiddled with his submachine gun hanging off his shoulder.

Immediately I bring Crumpet to a stop and I cut the engine. Jules gets off the bike and up goes the flip up face shields of our helmets. Oh the practicality of these things at the many road blocks.

He, the commanding soldier with the submachine gun, in rapid fire asks ‘What are you doing here? Where are you going? Where are you from?’ He speaks in French and it may as well be Arabic but we manage the gist of the questioning.

‘Well,’ I reply ‘we are from Australia and sorry but we don’t speak French and we hope to go to Tataouine, Chenini and Ksar Ouled Soultane.’ We speak jubilantly like excited children (as we are).

‘Why?’ says the soldier.

I pause and consider the reply, thinking why else would we come so far south when every embassy on the inter-web, apart from Tunisia, has said don’t!

He smiles, as Tunisians do, ‘Ah, so you are visiting for Tourism only and no other reason?’

We look at each other mystified at this conversation and the soldier smiles more broadly and I think ‘Beauty, we are on our way’.

His smile disappears ‘Your passports please’. It is never a good feeling seeing your only official document of your identity you carry disappearing into a ramshackle stone hut. (We have tried to use the colour photocopy of our passports on such occasions in the past, however, they are usually rejected as officials prefer to see the original document.)

We are both a little nervous, perhaps it was not such a grand idea to head into the far south. A moment later he returns, our passports in his hand, I reach out to grab them, there is resistance. He looks at Crumpet admiringly.

‘I love your motorcycle’ he states.

I reply ‘We love her too.’

‘I would like to ride this moto’ he states demandingly and his grasp is firm on our passports.

‘Yikes’ I imagine our bike charging down the road, disappearing, never to be seen again.

I hold the passports gently tugging them in my direction, he stares into my eyes, I plead humbly ‘No I can’t let you, I love my bike, and besides she is my baby’. And with that I feel his grip on the passports loosen and in a moment I have them.

Quickly I shove them in my coat pocket, Crumpet is fired up, Julie leaps onto the bike and we smile graciously thanking everybody (a crowd of soldiers had now gathered around us with the ensuing conversation) we rode off thanking Allah.

We were after all travelling throughout Tunisia during the height of the democratic elections, however, this behaviour from an official is rare and not acceptable.

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Luke Skywalkers House

Our beloved and well used Trangia camping stove burns Methylated Spirits (metho), a clear alcohol, as the stove fuel.

Metho is readily available in various degrees of quality and price around the world. In Australia you can purchase it happily from the supermarket and it is tinted purple and not too expensive. In the UK it also is purple but exorbitant in price and only available in hardware stores. France and Italy it is clear or pink and cheap as chips at the supermarket.

So how were we going to find 90% proof alcohol in a dominant Islamic country that frowns on alcohol?

We took an extra two litres hidden in our luggage to Tunisia only to find that the frown was more of a puckered eyebrow. Tunisia is a moderate Muslim country, they are tolerant of alcohol you only need to see how many empty beer cans are on the side of the road, they have a nice wine industry and some supermarkets in tourist centres have a wine and spirit cellars. Hard alcohol is more difficult to find.

In the past we have found metho in all sorts of places. In East Africa bootleg alcohol can be found found in dark dusty corners of little stores, or in Central America we have used the local fire water purchased in the market. Sometimes we have found rubbing alcohol in pharmacies.

We decided to hit a pharmacy and popped into the chemist shop of small village, just to ask, to see if we could get any.

Trying to explain in really really bad French and broken English that we did not want to buy alcohol to drink but to use in stove burner is not an easy task.

‘For cooking?’ the pharmacist questions.

‘Yes?’ thinking he has the idea.

‘Instead of oil?’ he looks confused.

‘No.’ We try another tack including some interesting drawings of the Trangia and its operation.

Eventually light bulbs click on and the pharmacist pops out the back and returns with a brown bottle. We open it and sniff the content. Pure, unadulterated spirit. We smile and he writes out a pharmacy label ‘95% Alcol’ and warns us not to swallow.

Grant smiles and comments ‘I only drink vin rouge’ the pharmacist lets out a huge guffaw and sends us on our way with our free bottle of methylated spirits.

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We had seen the back packer, a rare site, earlier in the day, around Matmata and now here he was in the Camping Desert Club, Douz. He too had seen us riding about the countryside.

Matt, from Toronto Canada, has been hitchhiking, couch surfing and back packing his way around Europe and North Africa for the last couple of years.

After conversation the three of us decided to make a nice quite pot-luck dinner together, share a bottle of wine and talk travel. Matt has been ‘abducted’ by an Algerian family in Matmata and had been subjected to large amounts of hospitality and fun for the last three day and was looking forward to a quite sedate evening with us.

Dinner preparations underway and Basheer, the campground night watchman, came over to Matt to tell him his friends from Algeria had arrived.

Matt offers his apologies and excuses himself momentarily. He returns to inform us that our joint dinner is cancelled as he will be spending the evening with this Algerian friends. We understand and suggest that after our dinner we may join them.

We settle into our dinner, lamb stew, salad... red wine. Matt appears with a loaf of bread. The Algerians insist we have some bread. We ask Matt to thank them and continue with our dinner. Matt appears yet again this time with a plate of harissa. The Algerians insist we take some, actually take alot. Four times Matt came bearing gifts and four times we thanked them. We finished our dinner whipped up another salad and took it to their table.

This was the beginning of an interesting evening. Laid, Joseph, Fatima and Laila were on holidays and letting their hair down. Even though dinner was finished, there was still food to be eaten. We were force fed cheese, salami, bread, olives, wine and more wine then yoghurt, it was never ending. Algerian hospitality is generous to the extreme. After eating we danced then ate and drank some more before collapsing into bed.

Matt did not escape as easily as our tent was pitched on the other side of the camp ground to theirs.

Promises to help us with visas to Algeria, places to stay in their homes, exchanges of emails ended a great night that will be remembered for a long time.

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Where Are We Now?

We left Tunisia with fond memories and a place for this diverse special country in our hearts, hoping to return again soon.