Our overnight Alitalia flight from Casablanca to Rome is terrible. The attendants are surly, the food is surprisingly poor, and they do not even bother with a safety briefing. More disturbing is the fact that the plane appears to be falling apart. The lights flicker on and off repeatedly throughout the flight, while weird, unexplained noises emanate from the cabin. If the Alitalia flight crew noticed or even cared they didn’t explain the reason to an increasingly jittery group of passengers. On the plus side, Christi and I have a row of three seats to share, which enables us to doze a little during the turbulent 3-hour flight. Add in a 2-hour time difference and it’s 7.30 am when we finally touch down in the Eternal City amid a thunderstorm. But at least we got there and the Icelandic eruptions did not impede our progress. We have a 2-hour layover, and yet we feel so discombobulated by the sudden cultural change. Most everything in Africa is a struggle; in Europe and the West convenience and easy living are taken for granted. No wonder there is a mass migration from Africa to Europe. It’s almost surreal to say it but Christi and I are eager to return to the daily struggles of life in Africa. Our connecting flight to Tunis, capital of Tunisia is a more pleasant 55-minute hop that involves a comforting safety briefing (even if the food remains debatable). This is our third country in 24 hours and we’re exhausted.
Tunis begins poorly as our taxi driver rips us off, charging double the price suggested in our Lonely Planet guide. Perhaps if I wasn’t so tired I would have argued with the guy, but all I really want at the moment is a nap. The Grand Hotel de France is not quite as grand as the title suggest, but at US$25 per night including breakfast it is perfectly adequate. What this hotel does have is the best shower we have experienced so far in Africa. Both Christi and I indulge outrageously, hoping to wash away not only the dirt but our tiredness as well. For reasons that I cannot fathom now, I’ve allowed only 1.5 days to explore Tunis and the clock is ticking. So if we sleep we will see nothing.
After a spicy shawarma lunch (Christi is thrilled by the return of flavorful food) we take metro line 4 to the Bardo Museum – one of the highlights of Tunis according to our trusty Lonely Planet guide to Africa. It costs pennies to ride the train, which probably explains why the entire population of Tunis join us. We are packed in to the point of suffocation and still the Tunisians force their way into the carriages. There’s a frisson of agitation and edginess; the possibility that violence is simmering just beneath the surface. Christi and I both feel uncomfortable – Christi for the unwanted physical attention of the locals, while I’m fearful of being robbed again. Indeed we force our way off the tram and out of the mayhem several stops early; even then some bully boy Tunisian steals the Tunis City map out of Christi’s hand. Perhaps he thought it was money, the bastard. (I can’t say I could have predicted the Arab Spring that began in Tunisia not long after we left, but it was clear there was some underlying social tension) Attempting to find the Bardo museum on foot, without a city map, and under threatening skies proves very challenging. We ask the locals several times and often they have never heard of it – and this is the top museum in their country.
We do find the place eventually, although the palace I was expecting is rather drab on the outside. The artifacts are, however, superlative and would not have been out of place in the British Museum, the Louvre, or the Smithsonian Institute. And for once we are able to truly appreciate a museum in Africa because the Bardo offers an English audio guide (how very civilized). The museum comprises mosaics, sculptures, jewelry, and masks dating back thousands of years, recounting the times of Carthaginian and Roman influences in particular. Aside from the marvelous artifacts, themselves, the interior of the palace comprises some beautiful artwork, notably the carved wooden roof in the Sousse room, Hercules playing with his penis (and why not, I say), and the partial mosaic face of Neptune are my favorites. It’s possible that I’m hallucinating due to lack of sleep but the Punic death masks remind me of Orcs from Lord of the Rings, while the Punic goddess, Tanit, is surely Jar Jar Binks from Star Wars!
Later taxi back to our hotel without being ripped off this time (thank you) and collapse into a comfortable bed with fresh sheets and warm blankets by 6.30 pm. With my eyes closed, I could almost be in my own bed at home.
Blog post by Roderick Phillips, author of Weary Heart – a gut-wrenching tale of love and test tubes
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