The Pillars of Hercules

Walking through the small pleasant city of Tunis to shake off the effects of my sedentary trip here I was reminded by the street names of its events. There was Rue 18 Janvier 1952 and Boulevard du 9 Avril 1938, and Rue du 2 Mars 1934, and Place 3 Aout 1903, and many others. I noticed that the sky was full of birds. They were like dark, madly twittering sparrows or swifts, and they swooped and roosted in enormous noisy flocks, blackening the sky and wheeling back and forth. As they rose in the air, they shat in tremendous squirts that splashed on virtually everyone strolling on the Avenue Habib Bourguiba. These pestiferous birds are called asfour zitoun by the Tunisians—“olive birds,” for their habit of snatching the olives from the great coastal crop.

I felt pleased with myself: I had arrived slowly by sea; I had discovered there was a railway network throughout the country; I was now resident in a thirty-five-dollar hotel. I liked the food, Tunis was the right size—not much more than a big town—and the people were approachable. Already I had met the Taoufiks—Mr. was Tunisian, Mrs. was from Birmingham—and their sixteen-year-old son. After seventeen years in the country none of them had been to either Algeria or Libya. “And nothing has changed here in seventeen years!”

Another man, Ahmed, had lived and worked in New York City for three years, at Forty-second between Seventh and Eighth. “I was working in a shop selling smoking things, like water pipes and souvenirs.” He had a Green Card. So why was he back in Tunisia? He hated New York City: “Too many people and too dangerous, because,” he said pointedly, “of black people and white people.” I met Mr. Salah, who had gone to college in Baltimore. “I was there, like, four and a half years, studying business management. It was a neat place.” Most of all, he missed basketball—the heroes, Jordan, Ewing, Rodman, O’Neal.

Tunisians seemed to me hospitable and pleasant, especially Ali, whom I bumped into at the railway station. He asked in Italian, “You’re Italian?”

This was another country, like Malta and Albania and Croatia, within range of Italian TV broadcasts, so that many of the people who owned televisions also spoke Italian. But Ali had also worked in Rome for a while. Then he came back, got married and now had three lovely children—he showed me their pictures.

We were walking along, chatting in Italian. He spoke it well. This was not some tout who wanted an English lesson, or a loan, or to offer me a deal on some local merchandise. He spoke about his children—three girls. He had an enlightened view of women and was eager, he said, for his girls to have the same chance as a boy in Tunisia.

He looked up and pointed ahead, beyond the people crowding the sidewalk. “The Medina is at the end of this street,” he said. “Incredible place—you’ve seen it?”

“I just arrived yesterday.”

“You’re in luck. There’s a big event this morning—the Berber carpet sellers’ market. You’ve heard of the Berbers? I’m a Berber myself, from a village near Gafsa.”

He unfolded my map of Tunisia and showed me the exact location of his village. I really ought to visit him there sometime, he said. He would introduce me to the elders and take me around. Berber culture was real Tunisian culture, and carpets were their masterpieces.

“But we haven’t got much time at the moment. This Berber market closes at noon and look—it’s eleven-fifteen. Berber carpets are lovely—but then I am biased, being a Berber myself. Right through here.”

It was a classic entrance to a bazaar, narrow, with fabrics hung up and fluttering like flags, and all sort of brassware and carvings stacked near it, and a beckoning fragrance of perfume and spices. Entering it reminded me of the souk at Aleppo—once I stepped out of the city heat and dust I was in the humid shadows of this labyrinth, in the passageways, where men in gowns sipped coffee at the entrance to their tiny shops.

Ali moved so fast through the crowd I had to hurry to keep up with him, dodging some people and squeezing past others. Fortunately, he was a tall fellow, and so much bigger than the other Tunisians that I could see him above the crowd of shoppers.

“I don’t want you to be late,” he called out, glancing back and moving a bit faster. “The Berbers will all be going home with their carpets pretty soon.”

We passed a shop selling books and papers.

“I need to buy a notebook.”

“Later,” he said, stepping up his pace. “When you have time to look calmly you will be able to buy many good things.”

He used a nice Italian phrase, tante belle cose, and I was reassured once again. He seemed the most sensible and helpful person I had met on my whole trip—not just in Tunisia but in the Mediterranean; he had the right priorities, he was the perfect host.