Monday, March 9, 2009

Tunis, Tunisia

Astray in the Medina

On mint tea, Tunisian soccer, and Sahib Sweatshirt

We made it to Tunisia and are staying in a hotel in the capital city of Tunis until we find a house for our three-month stay. Tunisia is a tiny desert country on the northern tip of Africa. A few months ago, I knew nothing about the country, other than the fact that it has a relatively stable secular government and is ostensibly open to Westerners. We were committed to visiting the Muslim world as part of The Big Field Trip, and had originally chosen Morocco to be the third country on the itinerary. However, a bit of research suggested that Tunisia, which is wedged between Algeria and Libya on the southern shore of the Mediterranean, has far fewer tourists. Tunisia, we decided, would be decidedly off of the Gringo Trail.

I’ve never before visited a Muslim country. Given my upbringing, which revolved around pork products, Catholicism, and a dubious stance toward people of any other religion, I’ve been nervous for months in anticipation of our arrival. I have done my best not to pass this anxiety on to the children, and they have been blissfully looking forward to the trip. Though Bella was slightly disappointed when there were no camels or snake charmers to meet us upon our arrival at the airport.

Before leaving Brazil, I had tucked my sarong nervously into my handbag, just in case I needed to use it as a headscarf when we arrived in Tunis. But, at least here in the city, folks seem to be dressed in much the same way as they would be in Europe, which is just a few hundred miles north. A notable exception is an occasional red fez-like hat called the chechia, which when paired with house slippers and a wool suit coat, seems to be the standard uniform for Tunisian men over the age of fifty. As far as I can tell, only about a third of the women here observe hijab by wearing head scarves, and I haven’t seen a full burka yet. Hence, the sarong has stayed in my handbag. I may decide to pull it out eventually, though, to hide the light hair and blue eyes, which stick out here like a hair in a biscuit. Nearly everyone else has beautiful black eyes with long lashes, ebony hair, and olive skin.

Even if I tried to be less conspicuous by hiding beneath a veil, I’m not sure it would work. I’m constantly amazed at how much more social the experience of traveling is when you have children in tow. Whenever we wander out on the streets, the kids are inevitably showered with attention by young Tunisians who have no qualms about sweeping them up in their arms and mussing their blond hair. Under normal circumstances, a mother might be taken aback at having her children snatched up by strangers. But the good-natured hair-mussers are always full of smiles and (what I assume are) kind comments, though of course we can’t understand a word since we don’t speak a lick of Arabic, yet.

We experienced our first call to prayer while exploring the medina—the old Arab quarter of the city—during our first day in Tunis. I had heard, of course, that a call to prayer rings throughout the Muslim world five times each day, summoning the faithful to bow toward Mecca and pray. I must admit that I spent weeks worrying about how we would be expected to act. Does everyone drop immediately to their knees when the prayer begins to echo through the streets? If so, should we also stop and drop? Or maybe non-Muslims are expected to remain standing? To make it easier for everyone else to throw stones at us? We had been wandering for hours (quite unintentionally) through the sprawling outdoor market, which is the often unnavigable maze otherwise known as the souk, when the call to prayer began to blast from loudspeakers mounted to the minaret towers of the great mosque in the center of the medina. My eyebrows shot up, head cowered, and fingers gripped tightly around Cruz’s hand while I paused to see what would happen. The voice of the muezzin sang out versus from the Koran, and to my surprise… life in the medina seemed to go on as usual. Some of the men eventually made their way into the mosque for the mid-day prayer, while everyone else went about their business. Nobody dropped to their knees on the streets. Nobody threw rocks at the last ones standing. Everyone seemed to be caught up in the flow of their own business. We exhaled in relief and wandered on.

Tunis’s souk has purportedly been spilling out on all sides of the main mosque since it was originally erected sometime in the mid-700s. Traditionally, the more sacrosanct merchandise is located in the center of the medina closest to the mosque itself (copies of the Koran, incense, clothing for religious ceremonies, and other sacred what-not), while items not immediately related to salvation (vegetables, spices, jewelry, bootlegged music) are sold toward the fringes. As far as we could tell, though, it was just one big chaotic mass of exotic fragrances, brilliant hues, and mysterious people, all twisting through a tight labyrinth of cobblestone alleyways. They say that the pathways in the medina were originally constructed just wide and tall enough that a loaded camel could pass unfettered beneath its arches. They weren’t kidding. It’s tight. And we were lost.

It was drizzly and cold, which was a sensation none of us had felt during the past three months in Brazil. As Murphy’s Law would have it, mid-day prayers let out just as we reached the most constricted section of the medina. Suddenly scores of men flooded out of the mosque and through the cluttered footpaths en route back to work. As the crowd surged around us, Jason and I gathered the children between us and froze, turning to each other for an idea of what to do. We were both sinking in culture shock and felt wholly unfit to be parenting. The kids were already exhausted, grumpy, jetlagged, and now they could scarcely keep their heads above the clattering wave of humanity rushing in around us. And as a clincher, Cyrus really needed to pee. It was during our long moment of indecision that I realized that good parents wouldn’t even attempt to take their kids out of the hotel on their first day in a new country. They would stay indoors with some hot chocolate, take the sights in gradually from the hotel windows, maybe watch a couple movies and play Monopoly.

Finally, what remained of our child-rearing instincts kicked in, and we realized we had no other choice but to push on through the crowd. On we marched, sometimes in-place and other times making up ground, but always crammed between smoke-smelling wool suit coats—eyes downcast, hands on children and wallets—pretending to have a specific destination in mind. Eventually, our rescue came in the form of a teahouse.

We ducked beneath a low stone archway into a large, bright café and were instantly warmed by the aroma of dried fruit and tobacco burning in nargiles (hookahs) around the room. As we shook the rain from our jackets, young patrons dressed mostly in black looked up from where they relaxed atop earthen benches around the perimeter of the café. Gazes lingered on us a tad longer than expected, and I suddenly noticed that there were no other women in the place. And certainly no children. Maybe they were all out shopping? Cyrus caught site of the WC and was off, leaving the rest of us to grovel for a moment before finding a place to squeeze in along the wall. A waiter greeted us promptly with a smile and a plate of anise-flavored cookies. (This set Cruz and Bella to giggling since we had already insisted there would be no more sweets for the day.) The waiter placed a tiny spoon and a delicate, hourglass-shaped crystal cup in front of each of us. He filled our cups with steaming mint green tea and topped each with a spoonful of pine nuts, which struck me as the best idea since sliced bread. Cruz and Bella initially turned up their noses at such a healthy treat, opting instead to polish off the anise cookies before Cyrus could return to claim his share. I cupped the tiny hourglass in my palms, allowing the warmth to penetrate my frigid fingers. Slowly and deliberately, I lifted the cup to my nose, first inhaling the mint-infused steam. After a long moment, I allowed myself the first long sip of the illustrious Tunisian mint tea, fully expecting to be transported to a dreamy land of sleepy-time.

Instead, I gagged and spit Tunisian mint tea all over Jason’s weary face. Being a Humanities major, I had no idea that a solution could hold that much sugar in suspension. When the children caught wind of the tea’s sugar content, they pounced on their own cups with renewed fervor, and then proceeded to divvy mine up between themselves. I, meanwhile, did my best to gather my composure and then wipe off Jason’s beard.

I remember one afternoon about a month ago, swaying in our hammock under the banana tree back in Brazil, poring through the Tunisia guidebook. I got to the section where they give a brief synopsis of the country’s political history. (You know, the part where they attempt to cover a couple millennia-worth of historical events in five, single-spaced pages.) After rereading the same section three times, my brain was more muddled than when I had begun. It was then I decided that it might be best to secure a guide before our arrival in Tunisia. Someone to offer insight into the Tunisian culture, help us arrange a place to live, and find Arabic language and music classes. Someone who might be able to help us avoid committing too many faux pas. I posted a notice in the online translation community in search of this theoretical someone, and shortly thereafter a colleague offered up his younger brother for the job. We arranged to meet Youssef at a café on our second day in Tunis. He is a cheery, round-faced thirty-something who is between jobs, like so many young men in Tunisia. Without hesitation, Youssef grabbed Cruz and Bella up in his arms and pinched their cheeks, so we knew right away he was a keeper. He has a merry chuckle, a good command of English and French in addition to his native Arabic, and is chomping at the bit to show us around his country.

Today is a holiday known as Mawlid in the Muslim world—the birthday of the Prophet Muhammad. To celebrate, Youssef invited us to a soccer game between what he claimed were two of the best teams in Tunis. I had imagined that we were going to watch him and his buddies kick the ball around on a dusty field, like the empty lot we passed in Brazil each day riding home from the beach. Instead, they drove us to a huge stadium where we filed in with a sea of fanatical fans waving red flags and chanting victory songs in unison. Imagine 30,000 pumped spectators—29,998 men plus Bella and me—belting out We Will Rock You and other family favorites, except in Arabic. It was a lot like seeing an NFL game, with the exception that there were no pork rinds or beers, both of which are forbidden in Islam. Actually, there were a lot of other exceptions too. Like when a particularly raucous section of the crowd lit a dozen flaming road flares and danced through the aisles with them. It was all fun and games until the opposing team scored two unanswered points, at which point the fire dancers became flame throwers and began hurling their flares down into the stands below, pelting the woefully outnumbered police and other (now increasingly raucous) fans in the backs of the heads with their flaming projectiles.

I started to get nervous when I noticed how closely Youssef was guarding Bella and me. He kept carefully maneuvering himself so that he was always between us and the other fans. At one point during the game, a crowd of men behind us jumped up and began yelling something angrily down toward the field below. At the same time, I noticed another fan walking up the stairs wearing a bright red sweatshirt, and I naturally assumed that Sahib Sweatshirt was the target of the shouting from behind. Upon further inspection, I noticed that the bright red sweatshirt was stitched with the huge letters U.S.A., and even had Old Glory blatantly waving across the front. I went instantly into panic mode—this was the part where they were going to string up the Americans along with Sahib Sweatshirt, the American sympathizer. Drat! I knew I should have been more diligent in finding Canadian flags for our backpacks before leaving home. Just then, a roar went up from the other side of the stadium, bringing me instantly back to the soccer game. Luckily, just before I broke into a full sprint, it dawned on me that the men behind us had merely been booing the impending goal. Their anger had nothing to do with Sahib Sweatshirt. Or with us. Just my guilty conscience.  

I sank back into my seat and glanced sheepishly toward Youssef and Jason to see whether either had noticed my anxiety attack. Fortunately, they both seemed to be engrossed in the game and were busy jeering the rival’s goal, along with the fellows behind us. Our team was now three points down. As it became evident that we were going to lose, the crowd grew increasingly unruly. I saw Youssef eye Jason with a worried grimace, motioning nervously toward the exit. He suggested in a hushed voice that it may be best to get out before fans started ripping the seats out of the stadium. This seemed like sage advice to us, so we grabbed our bags and the children and followed Youssef hastily out of the stadium while, behind us, the event transformed into a 30,000 person free-for-all cage match.

As soon as we were back on the highway—the stadium fading in the rear view mirror—I chided myself for being such a paranoid freak. Why am I feeling so totally out of place and self-conscious here? I haven’t even had the nerve yet to take my camera out, afraid to make more of a spectacle of myself than I already am. Given the politics and turmoil of the past decade, I guess, I have been assuming that anti-American sentiment must be running high. But when I think about it, we have not actually been made to feel that way at all—thus far all the Tunisians we’ve met have gone out of their way to make sure we are comfortable. They have been so kind and quick to help. Even so, here more than any country thus far, I seem to be acutely aware of the fact that everything we do will represent all Americans. I’m just not sure I’m up to the task of saving face for my country.