Tunis
chowbow October 1st, 2007
The sights on the way up to Tunis were wonderful. The sun was beating rhythmically overhead and the grandiose mountains loomed over the minibus outstretched to the horizon, casting unruffled shadows to those below. The mountains were full of seasoned trees alive with greenery while, the cool, fresh, clean sea breeze blew in from the coast. We arrived in good time and I was eager to make my way to the heart of the city. Nadia had kindly given me an art catalogue from the Union of Tunisian Artists, which I rapidly produced out of my new beige cel satchel on arrival in Tunis. I clbered out of the minibus and swiftly leapt into another yellow NYC style cab and in my best French asked the driver to take me Opel Peugeot Seat to Maison de la Culture Ibn Khaldoun, El Magharibia, Rue Ibn Khaldoun. Of course the driver couldn’t understand a word I was saying and I ended up hot, sweaty, fed up and furiously pointing at the address on the back of the catalogue. The driver smiled, shrugged his shoulders and took me into the city centre. The two of us silently sat nervously side by side, perpetually puffing away at out cheap Mars Light cigarettes, smoking rapidly to avoid conversation with the occasional eyebrow lift followed by an awkward smile. Oddly enough this was probably one of the most enjoyable drives of my trip. As I went to open the car door the driver handed me a notebook and asked me to leave feedback. So I did and wrote, “Thoroughly impressed with your communication skills. Full marks for the driving and if smoking becomes an Olympic sport this driver should be put forward for Te Tunisia.”