You would think that sleeping in a giant sub-woofer would be quite conducive to a great night's sleep. Not so much as it turns out. At some seperate point for Lee and I, tiredness prevailed over the din of the mother of all parties and we fell asleep. Some sleep, satisfactory portions of hours, being better than a nice round number like eight.
Down in the restaurant, no real indications of the phantom festivities of last night. Once again, we precede our compatriot and his guides into the dining room. We they do arrive, they have the oft-mentioned Marie from last night with them. She seems very nice. The guy still seems a bore.
For the second straight day we have to endure a long wait before our louage departs. Today it's a day trip to Tamerza, nearly to the Algerian border northwest of Tozeur.
Again, the landscape is more arid than blatantly sandy as we proceed to Tamerza. Occasionally, fast-moving convoys of black SUV's whiz by our van. These apparently the conveyance of visitors staying at the Zone Touristique hotels in Tozeur. In time, the Chott el Gharsa, a relative miniature of the vast salt lake east and south of Tozeur, is evidenced by the white scorch of dried salt water along the ground and vegetation as we look to the west out of the left side of the louage. If we extend our gaze far enough toward the same horizon, it looks like there's still some water in the receding lake.
As we approach a small mountain before heading down into Tamerza, we're amused to see camel crossing signs. Sadly, no camels as yet though. The driver downshifts and I can hear the engine working harder as wind our way up the mountain. As we begin to take curves down the other side of the mountain, I hope that the louage system with which we have been so impressed includes routine maintenance on things like, oh, I don't know, breaks.
Whether the result of a conscientious break check or just good luck, we have survived and are walking around the main couple of streets of Tamerza beneath an immaculate blue sky. Perhaps it's just the quality of the light here, but the cloudless skies to which we have grown accustomed have not yet appeared this vibrantly blue.
We had initially walked a short distance up the hill toward the Redeyef/Mides road to get our bearings. Somewhere in the vicinity is supposed to be the old town of Tamerza, which was largely washed away during disastrous floods in 1969. But we saw no indication of it. So, we have come back to Avenue de l'Envrionnement, which runs perpendicular to the main drag and is taking us toward the gorge and one of the town's two cascades.
At the foot of the avenue is a hotel that my travel guide, rather accurately as it turns out describes as "grotty." Beyond issue of cleanliness, the free standing, palm-fronded cottages don't look terribly secure. I wouldn't get much sleep. Not only do we parade through part of the grounds of the hotel, but the walkway down to the gorge winds cleverly through a multi-level series of open air porches, with a souvenir stands perched at most every turn.
At the base of the steps and the shaded porches built into the face of the rock, there's quite open sandy exapanse in front of the cascade, presumably carved out over the centuries when the waterfall was more robust than is the case today. There's certainly not enough water in which to splash about - and it's not that hot, anyway - but any waterfall in the middle of a desert is still a novelty.
The area around Tozeur and Tamerza, as well as other sites around the country, was used for a number of locations in the English Patient. Within a hundred yards or so of the cascade, the gorge takes a sharp turn and narrows dramatically, with high walls of deeply ridged and craggy rock, golden brown where catching the full blast of the southern sun, more buff-colored on the shaded opposite side. This passage does seem familiar, much as I have read conflicting reports on where exactly certain scenes in the film were shot.
Whether immortalized in the English Patient or not, the gorge is very inviting. It's supposed to run for 4.5 kilometers west, all the way to Mides at the Algerian border. I'd love to make the entire walk, but apparently one is well advised to hire a guide. Sure enough, we see a small group, complete with guide, emerge a short while later. Just before Lee and I took the turn into this narrow channel of the gorge, two young Tunisian guys, emanating low-grade menace, preceded use in. They have gone ahead a couple of twists in the canyon and installed themselves, transistor radio blaring, like a couple of B-movie toughs from another era. What, one wonders, will similarly bored youths do in the future? How will one blare one's portable alienation with an MP3 player?
We have enjoyed are relatively brief divagation into the gorge, but we're leaving the boys to their well-advertised turf. As we walk back and cross the shallow stream, it's interesting to see an Arab family in front of the cascade, taking pictures. We haven't seen many tourists in general, but certainly no Arabs until now.
By the time we walk back up the steps, once again run the gamut of the strategically-placed little shops on each level, I'm starting to feel the desert heat for first time, much as I understand this is a very mild version.
As we trudge back up Avenue de l'Envrionnement, we're quite ready to patronize one of the restaurants we had walked by earlier. The Restaurant Chedli looks like the best of the lot and has a big, shaded outdoor seating area. Both the owner and a male assistant approach us as we walk in and direct us to a table. The assistant, in head scarf like his boss, moves in somewhat mysteriou ways, and I get the feeling I wouldn't comprehend his mumbling even if I understood Arabic, but he smiles a lot.
We're looking at the menus, and behold: there's couscous! Lee is quite thrilled. I order a rather more pedestrian kebab and fries. Before the main courses arrive, we (mainly me, as tends to be the case) enjoy the home-made harissa with bread. I love the harissa. When the food arrives, Lee's quite satisfied, both with the long-sought couscous and the bowl of chorba soup that accompanied it. Me, I got a chicken kebab and fries. What do I have to complain about. Without asking for it, we're also brought a desert plate consisting of the area's plentiful dates and a couple of ball-shaped, nut-covered sweets.
Once again, the intrepid explorers McLain and Burdett have set out to find the lost old town of Tamerza. Once again, they seem to have failed. At one point, while roaming around a neighborhood north of Avenue de l'Envrionnement, we did come upon a walled area. But it was alas, a walled area without any means of entry.
We did at least have a nice encounter with some kids playing on the otherwise deserted streets on the other side of the road to Redeyef. Lee took their picture, three boys together and one girl at the end. The boys all in jeans, the grey sweatshirts of the two boys on the right contrasted sharply with the red and yellow striped rugby shirt of the other boy. The small girl on the left - they all looked to be 10 to 12 - cute in her colorful headband, grey dress and dark leggings.
Aside from the photo of with the Tamerza kids, the main benefit of this otherwise fruitless divagation has been a view over the palmerie to the desert beyond. As we looked east out over the desert, it was a striking reminder how the brown, seemingly lifeless terrain explodes into life in the gorge with the profusion of palm trees and other vegetation. I can't imagine how welcome a sight the oases must have been to desert travelers.
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All road apparently lead to the Squabbit. Actually, I'm quite thrilled to see the floppy-eared curiousity. We were just dropped off by the statue by a mystery man from Tamerza whom we hired to drive us back.
As we returned to the town center in Tamerza to await the next louage, a boy approached Lee and told her that the last louage for Tozeur had left for the day. But he knew somebody who could drive us to Tozeur. I did not have a good feeling about this and assumed we were being played. Lee seemed to think that it was okay. God knows neither of us wanted to be stuck in Tamerza for the night. With considerable reluctance, I agreed.
Before long, the driver appeared and we were in his car. My anxiety was not diminished by the fact that we set out in the wrong direction and then turned left into a back alley. As the car moved precariously close to a drop-off of some six feet or so, I thought, "What in the world are we doing?" I held my tongue long enough for the driver to stop behind what I assumed was his house so he could get some gas, which he produced in a plastic container. Once he had poured the modest amount, maybe a couple of gallons into the small car, we returned to the main road. As we turned toward the southbound lane, I saw two louages parked in the town center. Maybe they were bound for points north, or maybe we had just been duped.
Annoyed and uneasy as I was, at least our trip back offered better views out the car windows to the Chott el Gharsa. We also saw actual camels on a couple of occasions to go with the humorous camel crossing signs.
Before we got to the junction at which we would turn south and complete the journey to Tozeur, our driver without a word made a right turn down a dirt road and we were quickly in the midst of what seemed a banana grove or plantation. Again, I nervously wondered what was going on, but tried to reassure myself that it probably wasn't good for the tourist trade to kill the actual tourists.
Finally the main road appeared before us. When we got to the Squabbit intersection, Lee instructed the driver to let us out. She paid the man and we walked back to the hotel.
Well, just as I was beginning to lose my angst about the drive home, we have been threatened with rocks, however small the potential throwers. After a rest at the Du Jardin, we decided to return to the Ouled el Kadef quarter to wander about and take some pictures. We saw plenty more of the unmistakeable brickwork, the underside of archways made of palm wood, beautiful doors (including one painted in shade between mint green and turquoise that featured three knockers: one for the father to the left of one for the mother, beneath the latter a knocker for the children of the family; I can't imagine the knockers are still used, but I' glad they're still intact).
As we turned a corner, we came upon five kids of varying ages with tossing rocks up a high wall. One of the smaller kids, a seemigly cute fellow with closely cropped hair, jeans and a hooded sweatshirt did a strong man pose for me when he saw me pointing the camera. He flexed, I smiled and took the picture and it was a golden little travel moment.
We walked on, and one of my friends little compatriots came running up to me and asked for some money. I happily gave him the last dinar coin I had. Shortly thereafter, the little strongman came for his. I smiled and shrugged, indicating that I had nothing more to give. This was not an acceptable answer; he persisted. I grabbed my pockets and said "no more," which I'm sure doesn't mean much to an Arab speaker, much as the gesture might be universal. The kid still persisted. I laughed and we walked on. But the little charmer returned with a rock in his hand and raised his right arm in a gesture I certainly understood.
I never felt particularly threatened, though I was disappointed at how angry I quickly became as the little urchin continued to brandish a rock. At one point, I none-too-gallantly walked ahead, leaving Lee behind to deal with the kid. The worst he did was roll a rock at us as we walked away. An older woman from the neighborhood scolded the boy. For my part, I temporarily abandoned my beliefs about how children should be disciplined: I felt like smacking him. It was an ugly if harmless incident. The bad taste in my mouth was as much from my reaction as anything else.
Now, at least, we're having a better exchange with people from Tozeur. We're on the roof of a store - we've already warned the guy responsible for the carpets that we're not interested - looking north over the mottled roofline of the city.
After the cute kid photo op gone wrong, we satisfied Lee's desire to see the nearby Museum of Popular Arts and Traditions, its rather close quarters apparently on the site of the fourteenth-century tomb of Sidi Bou Aissa. The staff were as friendly as adverstised. We found ourselves first in the hands of a very polite young man who showed us around the exhibits, everything from some manuscripts - one illustrating the timetable of how water was to be distributed through the oasis, going all the way back to the thirteenth century by the famous...in case it ever comes up in your Trivial Pursuit Tunisia edition...Ibn Chabbat - to something of a bedroom in which they had numerous object from the traditional marriage ceremony.
In what I assume was another tradition, at least with foreign visitors, we were dressed in wedding finery. Lee was clad first and actually look fairly resplendant in her red and blue silk gown, green scarf and gold crown. Unfortunately, once a white robe had been put over me and a white scarf wrapped around my sizable cranium, she didn't look to be marrying well. She looked the lovely bride and I looked the stubbly, bandaged escapee from a pych ward who had taken his duvet cover and thrown it over him like a robe. I was't fooling anybody.
A woman who I assumed is the director of the museum joined us toward the end of the tour. Within the limited range of our common vocabularies, we had a brief, very plesant conversation. It was like a balm after the run-in with the kids with rocks.
I led us into the gift shop on top of which we now regard the rooftops about us. Lee didnt' find anything to her liking, but I finally found a ring for my naked hand, which I had long been seeking.
While I was looking around, a guy approached me, tapping me on the shoulder. I couldn't quite make him out, as he refused to say anything. The man who sold me the ring walked by and indicated that the other man was deaf. I then took pains to try to make sense of what the man was saying to me and speak directly at him in such a way that he might be able to read my lips. None of this was really necessary, as it turned out the odd guy is not actually deaf. He is the one responsible for selling the carpets on the second floor, though he, in his strange way, seems the least aggressive carpet seller we have encountered.
Ironically, given the fact that he initially played deaf and mute, there's no shutting up our new friend now. He's speaking a lot about Tozeur, how at home he feels here. Apparently, he did at one point set off for the capital, but apparently didn't like Tunis. He punctuates his Franglais with "par example" with a frequency reminiscent of the way some African Americans pepper conversation with "Do you know what I'm sayin?" I can't quite tell if this preference for the hometown is something heartfelt or perhaps the bravado of someone who got beaten down by the big city.
Whatever the case, the easy-going consersation has a tinge of melancholy to it as the sunset in Tozeur begins to darken the vista before us. I'm afraid the fairly charming guy could "par example" us all night. Finally, we say that it's time for us to get to dinner and we all wish each other well.
Restaurant Le Minaret is apparently staffed (and patronized) by very observant Muslims. As the call to prayer echoes from the loud speaker near the top of the tall, slender and eponymous minaret of the El Farkous Mosque, we find ourselves standing in what is supposed to be the charming patio area of the restaurant, but there's not another soul to be found. We look up at the minaret, set against the deepening azure of the desert sky, look back down and decide that we need to eat before everyone gets back from their prayers.
There's no lack of people here at the Restaurant De la Republique. The place is full of tourists and locals alike, a swarm of French students adding considerably to the buzz. Much as we spotted our first "wild" camels today, I have yet to consume any. I'm quite tempted by the Dromedaire Brochette. But really, I've had enough adventure for one day. I need something I know I'll like, and some tasty kefta does the job.
We weary travelers returned to the Hotel Du Jardin to find it even nosier than the night before. Somehow, there seem to be competing parties occuring. Or maybe it's the bar of the hotel competing with a party. Whatever the case, we're just a couple of sleep-hungry kids caught in the sonic crossfire. Actually it turns out to be a total shootout. Some sort of parades lumbers noisily up Boulevard De L'Environement and continues north. And ultimately, night falls noisily with all the final calls to prayer from area mosques. Crazy. I wanted to like Tozeur. Really I did...
