After spending Christmas in Barcelona and getting sprayed with cava by rowdy merrymakers in Plaza Catalunya on New Years, the logical next step for me was to make my way to warmer weather by wintering in the colonies. I settled on French West Africa—more specifically Tunisia, once a centre of culture and luxury in the Maghreb (though I am not sure when because when Lady Mary Wortley Montagu docked here on a return voyage home from the Sublime Porte, she described it as being barbaric, and she was always so impartial). If there is one thing that being locked in the Ivory Tower for five years in the West has done, it is fully prepare me for Africa. If I hadn't taken two (2) seminar courses on this country, who knows what sort of frightening realities might await me? And who could possibly know more about and what is best for all of Africa than me, a white, middle-class, English-speaking male? Armed with this knowledge and life experience, it only calculated favourably that I would be fine in Africa, and surely not get robbed and left for dead in some alleyway in the bad part of Tunis.
Docking 10 hours later than my scheduled arrival in the Port of La Goulette, getting ripped off by a taxi driver, negotiating the Tunis Medina by night, stealing WiFi and fending off several "friends” who wanted me to come have tea with them, talking to a couple of Québécoise, and finally happening upon the hostel at 10pm, I went to bed and discovered that the worst thing that can possibly happen when you are travelling. There were no sheets, and luckily I had stowed away in my bag sheets that my mother insisted I bring in such an event. No matter how many times I contemplated throwing them away to conserve space, it all paid off when I had to sandwich the thin cotton between me and what felt like an oily, dirty dog blanket, making my first night in Tunisia marginally better. The hostel is located in the Sultan's old palace, is not heated, and I can only shower between 7:30 and 8:30am. The breakfast is of stale bread and marmalade, and the toilets contain neither toilet paper, so one must bring his own or use the little hose attached, nor toilet seats, which require using a set of muscles I haven’t employed since I was a treeplanter. But what can one expect? As it would turn out, perhaps Adam Smith was right, in that even the simplest of English peasants live better than the greatest of African kings. He certainly was correct about that whole division of labour nonsense.
On choosing my winter getaway, I was naturally excited about the richness of Tunisia’s history and all it has to offer history buffs with its impressive landmarks: namely the ancient Punic city of Carthage, and the set used for Luke Skywalker’s home in the original Star Wars. Roman ruins always get me so worked up because after years of reading history books designed for children showing elaborate sketches of what Carthage or Rome, or Ancient Greece presumably looked like, I get so excited and imagine that the sites are exactly as the Greeks and Romans, and in this case Carthaginians, left them. When I arrive, I am rudely awakened from my fantasy with the discovery that they are, in fact, ruins. Usually one can make out the cornerstones of what was once—the plaque assures me in English, French and the language of the archaeological team (usually German)—a patrician’s manor house. Exciting! As for Luke Skywalker’s house, it had been converted into a hotel, and I was fairly content to return to the fortunately empty place and say, “Uncle Owen! Aunt Beru? Uncle Owen!?” and then go to bed early to avoid the people who interrupted my dinner to try to sell me a personalised camel tour through the desert for $300.
“Yes, it looks nice, but I just can’t see myself spending that much money on a camel tour at this point in my life. I’m not exactly flush with cash. I am a student.”
“Okay, well how much would you pay?”
“Umm…I don’t know…maybe $15, if dinner were included.”
And thus concluded the negotiations. He went home annoyed and I went back to my dinner of cous-cous and boiled cabbage.
I am just going to say what we are all thinking: thank god for colonialism. The French really know how to rationally order an entirely disorganized space, by containing the Turkish souks and building a grid system of streets and broad boulevards around it, lined with trees and inexpensive cafes. But leave it to the intrepid Tunisians to turn that grid pattern into another extension of the chaotic medina, all the more space to yell and holler at tourists, offering special deals for their “friends.” Tunis is filthy, but endearingly so. I just cannot get over all the wind, sudden bouts of rain, and even more sudden advances of pushy merchants. Everywhere I go I am initially greeted in French, then English or German and then whatever pops into their heads. I was followed for three blocks by someone who wanted to talk to me (and subsequently hint that I should give him money). I told him I spoke neither French nor English, and just Russian. Sadly, he was more aware of the global Great Game than I had initially given him credit: “You don’t speak French or English? How are you here?”
So then, what is travel if not the most recent wave of neocolonialism? By removing the tiresome burdens of administration, middle-class Europeans and North Americans have emerged at the top of a new colonial paradigm. And unlike the Scramble for Africa or missionary work, middle-class westerners are seemingly totally justified in their travels. You can detest Europeans when they are in your face, invade your country permanently, station armed troops, build public works and infrastructure, and force you to learn the colonizer’s tongue; or you can love them when they are in your face, invade during select seasons, arm themselves with hard currency, demand Western-style tourist services, and expect you to already speak their language. So now, 54 years after throwing off the French yoke and declaring independence, Tunisia has wholly embraced this latter form, has rolled out the Welcome rug for the thousands of French tourists every year, baking pain au chocolat, café au lait, and all sorts of other cuisines in the French culinary tradition. And at half the price, it could not possibly work out better for me; I can have my pain au chocolate and eat it too. There is a certain allure to the Orient, and while fake Dolce and Gabbana jeans may not be traditional garb, the atmosphere is always the same. There is still the same latest junk from China for sale—spices and silks and teas, in addition to plastics and ornaments and t-shirts all stamped “Fabrique au Chine”—just as there was 1000 years ago, and there is always some sort of carpet sale on that I “must see” (which surprises me because how wont am I to actually buy a whole carpet? Those things are unmanageably large). The Orient is indeed static and unchanging, so it turns out Edward Saïd was wrong. I have waited three years to say this.
I have no idea how long I will remain in Tunisia for. The French classes I hoped to take are 5 hours per week, which means I will be in Tunis for a really long time doing nothing, whereas the whole country is fluent in French, and the weather nicer to the South. I may end up leaving Africa early because this is a pretty big commitment to have based on one dinner I had at Café Carthage on Commercial Drive back in April. I do not respond positively to being shouted at by merchants and forced into shops, but on the other hand I do respond positively to 30-storey posters of Presidents-for-Life. So, Tunisia has me at a crossroads.
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