Travel Log 1 London to Djerba, Tunisia

09/01/08
With an overbearing sense of bewilderment we began our journey proper from London. Other than the hour lunch in Paris we headed straight for the ultra efficient TGV to Marseille. The Eurostar afforded us enough time not to complete the day’s crossword. As we crossed France looking out as the countryside gradually change from the train’s second deck we were left thinking, the French know how to organise their public transport.

10/01/08

Marseille seemed to be a city of lax planning regulations. Austere colonial architecture was interjected by Fraco-esque high rise modern living. The dark take on modern living continued into the city’s bowels where the metro seemed to be in a state of 1970’s stasis with everything in a shade of orange which assumed the city’s citizens would be taking public transport to Mars by now. This however is not a fair reflection on some of the beautiful buildings and churches we passed by, it just difficult to appreciate them in the January gloom that smacked of Blackpool.

The hour delay for the ferry to Tunis was the first taster of the waiting game we are sure we will have to play again and again with forty or so foot passengers for company, most of who appeared to be shopkeepers with huge loads of goods. It was a good opportunity to pick up some clues on how Tunisians operate because we were unlikely to pick much up with our broken French and a complete lack of Arabic (thus far). There did not seem to be a rule as to the number of kisses they gave each other on the cheeks. The question that arose was, how do they avoid the embarrassment of leaning in for a kiss that the other party is not willing to reciprocate? Their personal space seemed even smaller than that of the French and their gesticulations all the more categorical, with an emphasis upon an out stretched arm with all fingers brought together as if plucking a grape from a vine. As they talked it seemed as if from sentence to sentence the flipped from telling one another their house was going to be repossessed, to them letting them know that they would be marrying into the other party’s family with their own fortune.

It will be intriguing to see these minutiae in cultures change as the landscape does as we travel towards South Africa.

There must have been five hundred berths onboard the ferry, most of which were empty and seemed to be in a state of being cleaned for the entire journey. There was a definite sense of colonial era travel, with the waiter service and entertainment, but the long curving staircase to the bar with a dance floor had a filthy carpet more reminiscent of the Dover to Calais experience. That night we were treated to a set of what were evidently Tunisian classics, by the reactions of the tipsy gentlemen pulling shapes such as the ’measure the arm length at the tailors’ and the ’wafting of a burn on the forehead with outstretched arms’ on the dance floor. The sleep we got that night was un-funnily hysterical. The ship’s syncopated judder felt like the sofa upon which another person is sitting and who is finding something inappropriate hysterical and remains on the brink of guffaw. As this reverberated through us as we slept on the floor of the ’quiet’ lounge a group of shopkeepers entered and conducted some kind of anarchic tea party at top volume. It became clear we were already a long way from home.

11/01/08
We awoke to the sound of Hoovers and the sun rising over the Northern tip Africa. It was upon arrival at passport control that we were definitely not yet in the zone because we had not filled in the appropriate pass cards while onboard. After sorting out the issue we declined the offers of the cawing taxi drivers intent on taking us into Central Tunis and walked off to try and find the train station. This was the first instance of troublesome public transport not being the easy option. The train took us to the centre of Tunis where we walked to the medina to find our accommodation for the night. The Medina was a set of high, narrow streets filled with Chinese plastic from different moulds to those were accustomed to, the intrigue of which was lost, as there was a overriding sense of being perpetually swindled by people bumping into us and just so happening to the location of King Ottoman’s wife’s bed above a rug shop and so on. One Fagin / Oddjob character we allowed to boss us around for a while, telling us to take pictures of seemingly random objects who we managed to placate, unsurprisingly, with money, put it well when he said ‘Tourist love Tunis, Tunis love tourist’. He also said ‘You not catch plane? You not capitalist!’, which was even better.

Being engulfed in Islamic architecture and interiors has left me feeling that I am missing out on something. I am sure that there is something to see in the intricate repetitions of patterns on tiles and in the symmetry of the domes and pillar alignment that I cannot see.

What I can see in this environment is something far more repetitious - a regurgitated aesthetic ideal marketed at individuals such as myself, the model of which I have seen countless images customised to. It is the image with the pretence of being un-sanitised and authentic. It is the perfectly ‘antiqued’ archway framing a poor child in ‘distressed’ clothing playing with a ‘crossbreed’ cat on a ‘traditional’ road I saw today and wished I had my camera with me.

A concerted effort is going to be required to accommodate other culture’s take upon beauty and not have my field of vision narrowed down by search for it improbable places. Stuart does not entirely agree with this, hence it being in the first person.

12/01/08
One of our Australian dorm mates found the throwing of shoes at the snoring Stuart even more amusing than Toby. An early rise and off to see the Grand Mosque which was both peaceful and grand at once, which is quite an achievement.

We planned to reach Djerba today, an island in the South of Tunisia popular with package holidays that while benefiting the island’s economy, are apparently severely affecting the island’s water supply. To get to Djerba we were going to get the train to Sfax, Tunisia's second city. On the way to the station we happened upon an impressive market behind an unassuming entrance way. There were bull heads in buckets, mountains and olives and fruits and a cheeky lady who let us try some different cheeses. After a wander round we were well stocked for the travel ahead.

From Sfax we caught the Louage (minibus) to Djerba. The Louage ‘station’ was fairly chaotic with bus drivers attempting to fill there bus in order for them to travel economically. The bus journey was an interesting experience in its own right. We shot down arrow straight roads cutting through the olive groves, weaving through the traffic. Stopping abruptly for yet more coffee and cigarettes then shooting off again. During the night, we passed eerie restaurants illuminated by fluorescent bulbs of various garish colours hung from the beams of their outdoor seating areas. Men ate below the carcass of an eviscerated sheep with its fleece still upon its back, which dangled from a chain on the ceiling. This scene was repeated in restaurant after restaurant in what seemed like installation art.

The man running the Youth Hostel in the islands capital was an amazing character with full Tunisian garb, shin length hooded fleece top with tassels and Yassar Arafat style head scarf and requisite dusty laminate shoes and no socks. We are pretty sure when he was younger he was a fearsome character. That night we ate like kings on roadside tuna and almost raw egg pizza followed by shish and coffee.

The next few days are to be getting an idea of Djerba before heading for the Libyan border and Allah willing we will have visas given to us on the border by the tour company you are required to have.

Until we work out how to get all the photos on the blog you can see them at;

http://www.flickr.com/photos/africacarbonodyssey/