Tunisia's Golden Ring
Like any self-respecting tourist country, Tunisia hastened to acquire a string of local attractions and souvenirs. And soft toys in the form of dromedaries are not all there is to them. A brief description (in Russian, by the way) was handed to me by my "agitator" and he ordered me to be at the hotel gates tomorrow at dawn, so to speak, with the Tunisian roosters.
It should be noted that roosters in Tunisia wake up indecently early. So exactly at 5:00, on autopilot, I steered toward the exit and, half-asleep, grabbed hold of the openwork wrought-iron gate. About ten minutes later, a bus honked nearby. On its step appeared an ancient Bedouin in the most picturesque uniform - our guide Fgaier Nezih - and cheerfully waved at me. I plopped down on the first free seat, subconsciously noting the happy fact of a working air conditioner. The bus was almost full. Sleepy tourists looked around listlessly. A cheerful grandmother sitting in front of me was separating two fair-haired urchins who were stubbornly trying to fight. She told me in a loud bass voice that "we're still lucky - only two days, but the Germans are taken around the desert for three days. That's to get more money out of them!" Behind me, a cool couple from Saratov was disdainfully reasoning that "with these measly hundred bucks, what level of service can we talk about?" A light-brown-haired young lady in microscopic shorts was intently doing a pedicure. Her neighbor, a sturdy bald-headed man, watched the process with interest. But then the bus started moving, grandma's grandsons resumed the fight interrupted by the stop, and somewhere ahead a nasty child's voice began whining for water. The journey had begun.
Tearing through my drowsiness, I studied the upcoming route. So, we were leaving from Hammamet, along the way we were to pick up tourists from Sousse and Monastir, and then - forward, into the depths of Tunisia. Ancient cities, fairy-tale oases and salt marshes, mysterious cave settlements, like beads of a priceless necklace, would flash before us during this short journey.
Visiting the Roman Patricians
The first city on our way was El Jem. This small town is famous for, firstly, the Oscar-winning "Gladiator" being filmed here, and secondly, the Roman Colosseum is located here - the third largest in the world and the first in terms of preservation. It was erected by the order of numerous Roman officials, who by fate's whims had been sent on official business to the African backwater. No stadium today can compare with the ancient Roman scale. Apart from its impressive size, it amazes with architectural beauty. Here is a majestic parterre for the nobility, here are more modest places for local commoners. And at the very top, in the gallery, are places where even slaves were allowed on holidays. Below, under the arena's flooring, are dungeons for wild animals and gladiators. The problem of cleaning up after bloody spectacles was solved simply: the flooring consisted of two parts, which were pulled apart after the show - bloodied sand and corpses were thrown down.
The abundance of tourists evokes a sincere desire to stage fights right here and now. But - it's not allowed. Instead, symphony concerts are held here annually, attracting up to 35,000 spectators. Statues of some Roman emperors are randomly placed in the niches. Just like our leaders, whose portraits are also often found dumped somewhere in storage rooms. Our guide Fgaier Nezih in his exotic outfit was often mistaken for one of them.
On the way back to the bus, everyone unanimously bought authentic ancient Roman shards. The Saratov family purchased a hand coffee grinder. The seller solemnly assured that Cleopatra herself ground coffee for Mark Antony with its millstones...
Greetings from Grandma Fatima
A dusty country road winds. A stop near a roadside cafe - cola, nuts, chips, ice cream, toilet. Along the highway there are plastic buckets with tomatoes and cactus fruits. Nearby, in the shade of palm trees, elderly Tunisian grandmothers are sitting. So, it seems, they are about to say: "Choose the prickly pear, lady! Fresh, I'll give it to you cheap."
Matmata is the mysterious cave city of the Berbers. It seems that they can be considered the indigenous inhabitants of this land. They managed to coexist with Greeks and Romans, Phoenicians and barbarians. And only the warriors of Allah, imposing Islam with fire and sword, mercilessly pushed them to the very foot of the Atlas Mountains. When there was nowhere left to retreat, the Berbers went... into the ground. Huge craters, in whose walls hundreds of caves were dug, formed bizarre underground cities. And to this day, some Berbers do not want to leave their dwellings: in summer it is cool there, in winter warm; by order of the authorities, light and water were brought into the caves. Children are taken to school by a rickety bus, once a week a bus-shop arrives with bread, cereals, and olive oil. And basically, the world has not changed too much over the past couple of hundred years, the Berbers believe. Today, enterprising guides call them troglodytes - "those who live in a cave." To one of them, Grandma Fatima, we went to visit.
Grandma Fatima is the national pride of Tunisia. Even a postcard with her photograph has been issued. The ninety-year-old granny is posing as a classic woman of the East: she walks barefoot on the scorching sand, dressed in a national costume, all covered in patterns of henna and basma. For all that, above the cave, a satellite antenna rises inconspicuously, and for inspecting the ancient dwelling it would be awkward to give less than a dinar (as the guide explained). Plus a dinar for a photo with Grandma Fatima. Plus, her younger daughter-in-law briskly sells postcards depicting the famous mother-in-law. Two more buses lined up behind ours in the queue to visit granny's dwelling, so by simple arithmetic... In short, all the numerous children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren of the shrewd granny have long built houses and live - without a care in big cities. And Grandma Fatima continues to help them financially.
Our Russian grandmother walked around the little cave, felt the dense woolen blanket on the bed, for some reason crossed herself at the wall calendar with a gray-bearded man and sighed: "The little cave has five rooms. This Fatima is raking in money with a shovel. And do they pay her a pension or what?" Grandmother Fatima listened warily and muttered something displeased. Fgaier Nezih smiled conciliatorily and nudged us toward the exit. The visit was over.
The desert opens its gates
The sun heavily passed its zenith. Outside it's forty-plus. The whitish sky seems incandescent. The air conditioner is no longer blasting, but wheezes laboriously. Even grandmother's grandchildren have calmed down. And then, when it seems that the endless strip of rocky dusty mountains outside the window will never end, the white walls of a mirage city rise ahead.
Duz is the gateway to the desert. This is the last place of human habitation before the great silence of the Sahara. Once here was the largest market where dromedary camels were sold. Now sugar-cube luxury villas and old sandstone shacks are buried in the greenery of jasmine and hibiscus. Elderly respectable men sitting at café tables watch us with indifferent looks. The bus winds through narrow streets, turns behind the city, and ahead is a sea of greenery. Under the palm crowns, banana trees have spread luxuriantly; nearby oranges are filling with gold, ruby grains of pomegranates are ripening. Below, as a third tier, ripe sides of tomatoes please the eye. We are in an oasis. In its middle, a hotel mansion sprawls like a tale from Scheherazade. A fountain quietly murmurs, peaceful vacationers lounge on sunbeds around the pool, and from the kitchen comes an appetizing smell of meat. "Grandma, look - water!" and both grandchildren, kicking off their flip-flops on the run, flopped into the pool cannonball-style. Oh, life is good!
After dinner we were awaited by a camel excursion into the Sahara. Everyone received striped Bedouin robes and turbans. On foot, tripping over the flying hems, we set off to meet the camels. Local spectators came out to watch this spectacle. There were no 'grandmother Fatima's grandchildren' among us: for the sincere delight with which the real Bedouins looked at the striped ones, one could safely collect a dinar.
The dromedaries lounged in the sands like plush toys. Tangled in the wide robe, I cautiously approached my camel. The driver shouted something encouragingly guttural. The camel looked at me with a sad brown eye. Sitting on it turned out to be surprisingly simple: the desert caravan didn't even move. But then, hearing a sharp command, it easily and with a sweep threw up its hindquarters, remaining on its front knees. For a couple of minutes the 'Bedouins' hung at a 45-degree angle. Then another jerk, and the caravan set off. My dromedary walked at a measured pace, sometimes sighing noisily and sadly. I bent down and carefully stroked its felt-like neck. The dromedary chewed its lips approvingly and sped up. I had to pull the reins.
Twilight was falling. The white desert sun gradually turned red, the heat subsided, and we were stopped for a rest. Underfoot stretched an endless sea of the famous sand. You won't see such sand anywhere - it is the finest and most delicate, like a creamy sand-colored powder. It covers your face and hands in a thin layer, and you can neither shake it off nor wipe it away. They say that once the Romans carried it for the arenas of the Colosseum...
I was filling a Coke bottle with sand. The camel and the driver looked at me with ill-concealed mockery: no wonder, it's hard to understand a person who tries to stuff the great secret of the Sahara into a plastic bottle.
...The African night covered us with black velvet. The nocturnal inhabitants of the desert chirped quietly, water murmured in the small fountain by the pool. The heat had subsided, and a blissful night fell in the quiet dusk under the palm crowns. I swam in the pool and counted the large stars. They hung quite low, like toys on a Christmas tree in distant childhood. Fgaier Nezih sat on the hotel terrace and smoked a hookah. The bus hadn't broken down, the air conditioner faithfully blows cold air into the cabin. None of the tourists fell behind, no one quarreled with anyone. True, a tourist from Vinnytsia (the one who went to the Sahara in ten-centimeter heels) slept through both the camels and dinner. And grandmother's grandchildren, playing Cossacks and robbers in the dining room, knocked over a dish of couscous. And that family from Saratov talked so loudly that the camels got scared, and the driver had to be given a dinar to make them (the camels) stop roaring. But overall, the day went well, praise be to Allah! Fgaier Nezih closed his eyes and contentedly gurgled his hookah. I slipped past on tiptoe...
The mystery of salt and sand
Again outside the bus window is the lunar landscape of the Sahara. We are approaching the famous salt marshes. A thick salt crust covers the lakes of salt water. The path through them is dangerous. They say that once an entire caravan of a thousand camels disappeared without a trace on the smooth plain of the salt marsh. Now, according to Fgaier Nezih, high-speed races in jet cars are held on the bulletproof crust of the salt marsh. The record speed recorded during such competitions was 900 km/h. More cautious and romantic rich people prefer to fly over the salt marsh in a hot-air balloon. And in general, here, in the small town of Kebili-Tozer, salt is mined.
In a small shop near the scattered piles of mined salt, locals sold simple souvenirs: dried lizards and snakes, half-rotted rugs, leather slippers, and the famous desert rose. Salt and wind, sun and sand create stone flowers of unseen beauty. They are cheap, there are a great many of them, and it seems that bringing this simple souvenir home isn't worth it. But at home, when autumn slush sets in outside the window for many weeks, the proud spread of the stone petals will remind you of the great tale of the desert.
Grandmother's grandchildren bought a live iguana. The hefty lizard curled up in a juice bag and unsuccessfully tried to pretend to be asleep. The pale little devils periodically shook the bag, crumbled chips into it, and in hot whispers discussed the issue of smuggling live goods into Sheremetyevo.
In the bus, they noticed a shaven-headed and silent little man. Fgaier Nezih flew back to the bench. And indeed - our dear fellow had managed not only to haggle with the local lads for a bottle of hooch (potent fig moonshine), but also to try the product. A few minutes later he was put back in his seat on the bus, and Fgaier Nezih began to explain at length the key tenets of Islam. As it turned out, Muslims do not drink for a quite understandable reason - it is very hot. But when the heat subsides...
Not far from Kebili-Tozer, a tiny village - Tamerza - nestles in rocky crevices. In the 60s it was washed away by a flood. A flood in the desert is an inexplicable phenomenon, so locals preferred not to get involved with the forces of Allah, left the village and settled nearby. We wander along deserted streets, look into village courtyards and the prayer hall of the mosque. Local children follow on our heels like tar and with quiet stubbornness push clay beads and little bouquets of fragrant jasmine into our hands. Nearby, in the shade of scrubby palms, flows an unremarkable stream - it was its menacing torrent that destroyed Tamerza 40 years ago. Time seems to have frozen in its course. Here, as hundreds of years ago, women wear black veils with a colored edging: white - a girl, blue - a married woman, red - a widow or divorced. And men wear a jasmine flower behind their ear: behind the right - a bachelor, behind the left - the head of the family. Life in the sands is harsh and simple, there is no time for cunning and speculation.
City of Shrines and Carpets
The sun had risen to its zenith when the walls of Kairouan appeared on the horizon. In the Muslim world there are four shrines: Mecca, Medina, Jerusalem and Kairouan. A sevenfold pilgrimage to Kairouan is equivalent to one hajj to Mecca, which automatically makes the one who has performed it a "very respected person." But besides its officially recognized holiness, the city is famous as a trading center. In 670 AD, the Arab commander Okba ibn Nafa, during another raid on Tunisia, decided to found a city right in the middle of the great trade route. From the Arabic word "kairouan" - which means "caravan" - the future city got its name.
Since then and to this day, Kairouan has been famous for lively trade. The special pride of the locals is the famous carpets. And so we sit in the grand hall of a carpet factory, sipping scaldingly sweet mint tea and importantly nodding our heads, examining the splendor shown to us. Size, color scheme, price - for every taste. For 150-200 dinars you can buy souvenir rugs with a cheerful pattern. About 1,000 dinars will cost a Berber carpet - milky white, thick, with mysterious black hieroglyphs. And here is a silk carpet, the most delicate to the touch, shimmering with all the colors of the rainbow. The sellers modestly keep silent about its price. In the old days, carpets were used to pay off debts, they were given as a bride price, and handed down as inheritance. The service life of a quality carpet is 100 years. It is for that many years that they will give you a written guarantee at the carpet factory.
...The high walls of Kairouan remained far behind, and again the road envelops us in soft dust. Ahead are the lights of Hammamet. The journey is coming to an end. As a farewell, grandmother's grandchildren gave me an iguana: in their and grandmother's common opinion, it would not survive the Russian winter. The poor little lizard, martyredly rolling its eyes, lay like a brown twig at the bottom of a bag. I took it to the walls of the medina, beyond which began a sandy steppe with sparse tufts of camel thorn. I put the bag on the ground. The iguana cautiously moved its nose, but refused to come out. Then I simply shook it out onto the sand. After lying dead-still for a couple of minutes for decency's sake, it suddenly gave a vigorous flick of its tail and trotted briskly toward the horizon - to where the Great Desert awaited it. I sighed and went to pack my suitcase. We were both in a hurry to get home.