11/20/12
My Dad is an economist, whatever that means. I've tried in vain my whole life to understand his profession but have come up short. When asked I simply say he works for the CIA (imagine him and Petreaus high-fiving). His work takes him all over the world and when I get the chance, I like to visit this international quinti-lingual father of mine. He is currently working with USAID in Tunisia so I figured I'd visit him for two weeks while I'm not tied down too tight in Portland. Here are some rules that my help if you find yourself in Tunisia.
A quick cast of characters:
Alec - My aforementioned father.
Dorra - A 23-year old graduate student at IHEC Carthage. Generous from the inside out, Dorra showed me all there is to see in Tunis. She met my Dad while applying for a job with his outfit and has since acted as the ultimate altruistic tour guide in exchange for impromptu English lessons.
Wassim - A total bro. Being the son of a prominent Tunisian banker and a banker himself, Wassim is no stranger to comforts. He also attended Graduate School at LMU, the Gonzaga of Socal. We had a lot in common and his english is flawless.
Salib - The captain hired by Wassim for the entirety of every summer since the christening of his boat, Laser Shark.
Tocher - A resident of Vermont who works with my Dad and enjoys the outdoors.
Rule #1 Learn some French or Arabic
Useless Chocolate
In South America I was overcome with bilingual gratification, Tunisia however is run by Frarabic, not Spanish. It's a seamless combination of French and Arabic and it's impossible to keep up with. In retrospect I should have done more to re-learn French than simply watching Chocolat on the plane...such a beautiful film. Take my word for it, English doesn't get one far in Tunisia.
Rule #2 Bring Catnip
Pussy Galore
In New York it's pigeons that can be found in every backdrop, in Alaska it's bald eagles, South America had stray dogs—nipples dragging on the ground, Portland's streets are clogged with hipsters, but Tunisia is overpopulated with cats. I'm told it's a Mediterranean symptom. A normal person might find this gross, odd, or sad. Thank goodness Moses (my cat) has made me appreciate felines with an unhealthy passion. While most tourists and locals avoid the one-eyed street cats that stalk the trash heaps of Tunisia, I'm busy with feline photoshoots and holding out my hand to these cuddly parasites. Just trying to shatter American stereotypes here.
Rule #3 Have your camera ready
Fists and Headdresses
There is one main misconception about Tunisia, that it is violent and dangerous. I hope I'm not the first to shatter this untruth because the closest I got to danger in my travels was witnessing a spat between housewives on an intercity bus ride.
From an English-speaking perspective, Arabic gives the vibe of constant argument whether or not the topic of conversation is conflicted. One could be commenting on the scented subtleties of jasmine on a fence and it to the untrained American ear, sounds more like the speaker is disgusted by the gaul of such a pompous plant.
I was seated in the back of the bus with tour guide extraordinaire Dorra when an altercation escalated between two middle-aged women wearing Hijabs. At first it was Romney's wet dream, an exchange of ideas across the aisle, then as emotions ran higher, the once docile ladies raised their voices and their fannies off the seats. One woman was caught in between, attempting to keep a shred of peace but to no avail. From the crowd's reaction, I gathered that the insults escalated along with vocal volume. Nails scratched and shawls were grabbed ferociously until a portly man nearby began the long process of separating the two adversaries. For two and a half dinars, it was a well worth it bus ride.
Rule #4 Enjoy the comforts
Resort to Life and Edible Opportunities
It's been a while since I've stayed in a real hotel. Pinching pennies on the road has been a goal since South America but when Big Daddy Alec is footing the bill, it's resorts and fresh sheets till the sun sets on the Mediterranean.
I feel like a jerk when the bellhop carries my bag to the room and calls me Monsieur Hansen. No, my friend, I'm Mac, Monsieur Hansen is my father. Despite my reluctancy to bask in the prepaid service, hotel life takes no notice. Buffets and busboys keep the German tourists plump, but American fishermen hankering for hummus. But no hummus could be found—not even a dollop. Just olives, tuna, and squid eggs. Tuna is served with bread before every meal, even if you ordered a tuna sandwich. I for one specialized in eating a record amount of squid eggs, a Tunisian specialty. However delicious, I'm beginning to fear that I'll father a crossbreed soon…named Squac Hansid.
Rule #5 A burger is out of the question
Bacon Fantasies
Day 13 without bacon. This is why I'm an atheist. I respect the fact that some animals are being spared, but why the most delicious one? It seems like the pigs from Tunisia should be playing poker with the cows from India. The pigs would always win because cows can't hide the truth in their udders. I can hear the squeal of victory already, a deliciously succulent squeal, one that says "Heat me on a non-stick a little past halfway"…mmm bacon.
Rule #6 Money can buy love
Belly-dancing Businessmen
One night I had the pleasure of being taken out on the town by Wassim. We went out on a Thursday to several clubs. I'm not a frequent attendee of such establishments but when in a city formerly obliterated by Romans, do as the Tunisians do. So we grabbed drinks at two clubs, the second of which was classic, a famous DJ who I couldn't appreciate and no matter where you stood, you were in the way.
Conversation? Not unless you want to lose your voice. The last place on the agenda was an amazing venue on the water whose theme was Bob Marley night. That's more like it. We jammed to "Jammin'" and I was able to make some cultural parallels. After this I thought the night was over, I was certainly ready for bed.
The night took a turn when Wassim was dropping me off at the Ramada in Gammarth. It is across the street from a place called the Piranha Lounge. Wassim ran into a friend outside said lounge who insisted we join him. The guy was a textbook skeez so naturally me and my mustache were game. Upon entering the staff was insanely accommodating. "Here is your table, sit down please and thank you!" There was no bar so I immediately felt thirsty. Out of nowhere a man walked up holding a giant tub of ice with any soda or alcohol imaginable poking out of the cubes. "What would you like to drink?" Oh my…I don't even have to sit up. They make the drink right in front of you.
Wassim explained that the guys we were sitting with were all clients. We watched a bellydancer entertain a crowd of CEOs, money tycoons, and well, their many many escorts. Don't get me wrong, these girls had it together so to speak. They looked fancy, but there were too many for each table with only one or two men. The men were pompously content. Our belly dancette was in her element, shaking, shimmying, and provoking her way around the room, inspiring the glutinous businessmen to do the same. Maybe it was the mood lighting, maybe the booze, but I've never seen anything more bizarre in my life. Young intelligent men being ignored by women for old fat ones. Awesome.
Rule #7 Watch out for street rats, scoundrels...Aladdins
Sharp Thieves
Dorra was nice enough to take me to the Medina one day to buy gifts for friends and family and see more sights. We cruised the alleys bargaining and snapping pictures until finally hunger got the best of us. I insisted we go to a cheap place because it was day 5 of being wined and dined at places that were delicious but too chic for my taste.
Dorra was confounded but kindly obliged to ask around. We ended up in a place that was cheap, crowded, noisy, and undoubtedly unsanitary. It was the best food I had the whole trip. We shared a table with two locals who looked young and exciting. They spoke Arabic the whole time while we spoke English and ordered in French. Midway through the meal my stomach turned on me for committing bacterial adultery but I soldiered through.
Dorra spoke low and rushed, "You would not believe what these people next to us are saying!" I told her to enlighten me but she was too afraid, "They think I am a tourist because of my light skin like you, if he knew I spoke Arabic he might hit me!" I kept my cool and we finished our meal.
To make things right with my intestinal complaints we sought a restroom with real live toilet paper. This found us in a rooftop restaurant for dessert and Dorra filled me in on our old neighbor's conversation, "They were thieves!"
Apparently they had determined it was safe to talk about the latest pilfering news because my inescapably American accent inspires confidence in any Tunisian. They discussed petty thievery and their two friends whose nicknames were meant to make your bones shiver: Shark and Snake. I think they would have done better with Mufasa, but hey, what do I know.
Up until then I had been somewhat daring by wearing my backpack normally, on my back. It's an old backpack so it has a plethora of holes perfect for picking precious possessions. After hearing of Snake and Shark, I walked the streets like a real man, pregnant with a real backpack-child.
Rule #8 Languages have translation gaps
"Sailing"
My first day in Tunis was spent trying to catch that damned jet lag fairy. After sacking her with a spectra butterfly net, my first real day was to be spent sailing. The boat belonged to Wassim, who my Dad hadn't met yet. Alec was supposed to join but his close associate had to leave the country for a family emergency so poor Alec was stuck on land for the day putting out economic fires (assassinating world leaders no doubt).
I picked up Tocher (another one of Dad's colleagues) and we headed to the port of Sidi Bou Said (Sidi = Saint). Tocher and I were giddy, turned out we both shared an irrational passion for sailing. A couple steps out of the taxi and Wassim approached us. He had never met us but immediately knew who we were: the only two skinny white dudes for miles. He led us to the boat. It was a 44 foot…motorboat.
Ahhhhhh. Tocher and I did our damnedest to stifle any trace of disappointment. It turns out there's a language gap when it comes to the verb sail. We stepped aboard the Laser Shark, Wassim is a highly regarded World of Warcraft player for all you wonderful nerds. With two powerful engines we motored to a remote cliffside on Cape Bon.
Salib was the captain, cook, and crew. It was great to exchange stories with Wassim and Tocher because of their international backgrounds. Between the three of us we had the globe covered. After anchoring next to a rock face that displayed every texture shy of diamond, Salib dry-suited up. He was off to catch one of our many course meal.
With the extra snorkel gear I was able to root around in the salty shallows. The payoff was an all too familiar jellyfish sting on my shoulder and a humbling for the ages. I wanted to get video of Salib spearing a fish but the guy is on a level supreme to the aquatic devil. I began video as he dove from the surface, he reached the bottom and waited, and waited, and waited, and kept waiting. I had my snorkel above water the whole time, he was holding his breath.
I waited for him to come up, and waited, and waited, and waited. The guy can hold his breath longer than my attention span. Never did see him come up. Maybe an hour later he appeared at the stern with a sack full of urchins and a fish on his belt.
I'm an Alaskan fisherman on my better days but his dude was Captain Ahab reborn. We feasted on a seriously high class of seafood four course meal while Salib slaved away in the galley. Call me Joffrey Lannister because I felt like a King who had stolen the throne. When we got back on land I shook Wassim's hand, "Hey man, I'll go 'sailing' with you any time."
Rule #9 Do your homework
Arabs Sprung
Have you heard of the Arab Spring? A classic economist Dad question on par with when was the last time you flossed your teeth? At first, I had not. At the end of the trip, I'd gathered enough different takes on it to get my own feel for it. For your sake I'm going to grossly summarize it Americano style.
In 2010 working conditions in Tunisia were terrible for the average Salim. So bad that one day, a mentally unstable man burned himself alive to make a statement while simultaneously killing himself. Little did he know his martyrdom would spark the fire that fed more than one revolution in the Arab world after Tunisia’s dictator was ousted, dominoes fell in Egypt, Yemen and Libya, and probably soon in Syria too. And most other countries are still very nervous. Tunisians saw this as the last straw, they had been suppressed for years by the not so benevolent president, Ben Ali. He imprisoned any media source that didn't make him sparkle. When the media isn't safe, where can a rebel turn? Facebook, blogs, basically the internet…duh!
Revolutionary movements were orchestrated by what Alaskan Senator Ted Stevens called "a series of tubes." You may know the outcome to this story, it worked. When Ben Ali was in power, the police were assertive and omnipresent. Crime was very low. When the power baton got passed to a more democratic coalition government, the prisons were full of journalists (good guys) and other criminals (bad guys), many of which were released.
Simultaneously there was a cultural shift, the old ways were frowned upon, so there was less respect for the police—since they had collaborated with Ben Ali they had less authority in the eyes of the people of Tunisia. They played into this a little too well it seems. Crime is all too common in Tunis. Even in the nice neighborhoods one wouldn't be remiss to drive a girl home. Not walk. And some of the fundamentalist religious groups (not Pat Robertson but the Middle Eastern variety) have jumped on the bandwagon, trying to hijack the revolution, even though they weren’t on the front lines when it happened.Ahh the price you pay for freedom! Although it is a step in the right direction, two years later Tunisians are still getting used to a colossal paradigm shift.
Rule #10 You must wear your wealth
Fashion by 2nis
Shiny pants that are either way too tight, or at the very least fit snug enough to unsettle a man's pride. Collared shirt, if not it must be designer and expensive. Dress shoes or some skinny-fitting Pumas. Sunglasses, solar presence optional.
Above all, the almighty hair gel. Don't be sparing, if firefight were to breakout you need a bulletproof mop. These are the fashion codes for your average Tunisian. Being a guy who wears the same pair of red shorts 5 times a week gets you noticed pretty easily, Dorra offered to give me a makeover. Your father is so elegant and grown up, you need to be elegant too!
Normally I'd laugh heartily before smiting her hopes of meddling with the effortless bro visage I create day after day, then again normally I'm not on vacation in Africa. Obama had just been re-elected so I was feeling chipper, why not? One condition, the mustache stays. She grimaced and agreed to the terms. The first step was a haircut.
Call me insensitive but it's somewhat disconcerting when your barber only speaks Arabic and comes at your throat with a straight razor. Prior to making his first stroke he smiled and said Obama, ehh?! I was afraid to smile or frown or nod. Rule number one about barbers: don't talk politics. He ended up doing a great job despite some manhandling and near-death experience for the ole' stache.
Clothes were next. This took a while. I've played this game before, your mother shoves you into a dressing room and bombards you with item after item you'd never be caught dead wearing. Luckily the fo-hawked sales rep and Dorra were patient with my immaturity and we settled on a black coat, a collared grey shirt (too small), a brown sweater (way too small), and some shiny black pants (guess). The getup combined with my rock hard hair made me feel…fancy!
In an instant I felt people in the service industry needed to work for my tip. What was this feeling of entitlement sweeping over me? When I walk the streets people will nod in approval. Or so I thought. The first group of locals we passed couldn't hide their smirks. They are talking about you! Dorra said with excitement. No, they're talking about an obviously overdressed American.
I can tell when people are watching me, it wasn't a new feeling in Tunis, but this time it wasn't the real me they were watching. I couldn't stand it. I felt like someone else. After humoring her for a long day, I went back to my old superdopekickass style and I'll let you in on a little secret, I'm never going back. You can take my red board shorts and burn them but you can never take my freedom to dress myself. Red shorts are never going out of style.
Rule #11 Always look educated on campus
History via Trilingual Extroverts
Tunisians are overly hospitable at times. They insist that you not take a taxi back to your hotel without an escort, Tunisian cabbies are notorious for overcharging the linguistically impaired tourists that frequent their smelly french Peugots.
With a local you can get a fair price without having to feel either cheated out of some dinars or a haggling asshole cheating poor taxi drivers out of some dinars. In one instance Dorra insisted she escort me back to the Ramada but that meant I had to wait at the University of Carthage (IHEC).
It had been a while since my last loiter session on a college campus so I gladly found a bench in le quad. Like always, I stuck out like a caucasian-american thumb. I got wary stares, curious stares, stares that would make a man introduce himself if maybe he knew the language, all kinds of looks shot my way. It was so surreal that I decided to document it in my notebook, that didn't help me fit in.
After an hour of close calls, a group of students finally came up to me. "Excuse me, hello, what are you doing?" asked a tall 20-something with a hip set of spectacles. I explained my predicament. "Oh, we thought you were a professor or a supervisor because you seemed to be writing about the students." Another win for the mustache.
After an impressively seamless conversation I found out that these articulate undergrads were running an exchange program called AISEC, a foreign exchange program. This explained their English fluency and outgoing nature. There was an opportunity to clear the air on a subject that to me was clearly vague. How do Tunisians define themselves? The country has been taken over by a different foreign power once or twice a century since history began, so who do they identify with? The answer was simple, "We're Tunisians." To be called Arabs would be incorrect, Africans wouldn't really cover it, Mediterranean is a little closer, and French is just wrong. Punic? No, no the Romans wiped them out completely. Ottoman? Same story, different wipers. With Ben Ali finally out of the picture, I'm interested to hear what the definition will 50 years from now. With a cohort of young people trying desperately to be free of their family traditions their future is wide open.
