I saw the future in Tunis. It’s there, a beating heart in the boisterous city, The Cultural Café Liber'Thé at 55 Rue d’Iran.
The cafe occupies the ground floor of an apartment building that would not look out of place on Rigaerstraße in Berlin. One room, twice as long as it is wide, the back wall is a tripartite bookshelf made of steel, overflowing with volumes in Arabic, French, and English. Three old-fashioned light bulbs hang securely from ropes over the service area, where Aziz slings tea infusions and sugary coffees for the young crowd, who sit primarily in foursomes around wooden rectangles.
Stammgaste (regulars) point to the cafe’s creative spirit as its calling card. It’s a spot where composers see the initial motifs of their score emerge and physics students grasp for the first time the interplay of their equations. It is an intense place. There is no alcohol served, naturally, but a patron can easily plow their way through an entire pack of cigs in one visit. There are three industrial strength fans on the south wall that whirr continuously, even in winter, to push cigarette output through the large doors.
I don’t think I have ever seen a better example of a Third Place. In a cagy and difficult part of Tunis’ downtown, the BiblioThé is a beacon. It is a place where you can display your latest fit, meet with a study partner, and see a local band perform all in the same day. One also senses that patrons are aware of how special the Café is. Can’t wait to go back.
Nour by me; me by Nour
I drove 600 kilometers tout seul to the desert. From Tunis to Tatouine. On the way, moving quickly on the Trans-Africa highway, I got pulled over in what was, in my experience, the shoddiest designed checkpoint I have ever seen. I was accused of speeding: radar, they said. Complete nonsense.
I was asked to step out of the rented Kia Picante, hand over my passport, and open the trunk. The commander came over. He asked me, “Why are you square?” (he said “scared” but the accent obscured.)
“Because I am uncomfortable,” I replied. The commander winked and let me go, Scot free.
I visited the Roman colosseum at El Jem on the way. Magnificent, in great shape. They built it around the year 200, towards the twilight of the Empire. I overheard a guide saying that it had been heavily involved in the action the country saw during World War II.
A lesson in humility? A vendor let me park in front of his shop in El Jem. When I came back from the monument and my lunch of lean albeit well-seasoned lamp chops cooked over coals, I thought it important to review his wares in gratitude for the parking. He had nothing special: bunch of antique tea china, recently manufactured mosaics in the Roman style, standard-fare jewellery that is available in every tourist area. I picked out a necklace and an earring that looked decent enough.
I needled him for the price. He said nothing until he wrapped the pieces in newspaper and handed it to me — a tactic.
“Quatre-vingt-sept,” he muttered while intentionally looking away from me.
I think the bartering experience is inherently unsettling to an American. What kind of merchant are you if you don't know the value of your own product? We certainly want to pay a fair price, the judgment of which is 95% predicated on what the vendor offers.
This friction is further exacerbated when you are in a strange country with a strange currency that is big: 30 dinars is about 10 euros; 3:1. A ten dinar difference seems large but it’s just three euros.
Anyways, back to the barter. For reference, entry into the monument was 12 TND while my lamb lunch was 33 TND, which was frankly rather spenny but it was delicious. My friend the merchant started the barter at 87 TND (29 EUR).
I would be surprised if the two pieces wholesaled for more than 10 TND. Plus, they are available pretty widely.
I should have walked away immediately. This was a bad faith offer and he knew it.
I countered with 20. We ended up at 50. I should have paid 30 max. It’s just a 6 EUR difference but I smarted for the next three hours by myself in the car. Drama queen.
As I continued south from El Jem, past Sfax, and into the desert propre, I realized that my Kia was low on fuel. I had less than 70km left in the tank and, with my speed, that would last me about 30 minutes.
In my hometown of Westport, Connecticut there are at least 10 gas stations for a population of ~27,000. I was not in CT any more. I had one option 50km away in the town of Mareth, the namesake of the Mareth Line, which was a system of fortifications built by the French in the 1930s to repel a potential Italian invasion launched from their Libyan colony.
I turned off the AC. The tank started emptying 20% slower than before. As I approached Mareth, I eyed Google Maps every sixty seconds, hoping that the rate of depletion would remain constant. If the gas station was not operational or I encountered another contingency, I was in a baddd spot.
After driving 15 minutes on a county road, I approached Mareth. Like many Tunisian towns, the main street is itself a living organism teeming with lifeforms both mechanical and organic. They don’t do a half-bad job building sidewalks in this country. The problem is that no one uses them. Pedestrian, motorcyclist, and camel all co-mingle on the main thoroughfares.
I made it to the Total station with 20km left in the tank, as projected. I filled up and I was back on the road. Some drama but in the end everything worked out fine. I had a little over an hour to go to reach the house of Karima and Tauphik in Tatouine.
I got off the Trans-African highway at Al-Naffteh and changed the music to Stevie Be Zet’s Archaic Modulation. An inspired move.
I drove west under an enormous sky. The sun was slowly setting in front of me, finding its resting place somewhere behind the Atlas Mountains. The mechanical, long-duration synthesizer notes added an appropriately ethereal epicness to my venture into the Sahara. Already in solitude, Stevie’s tracks made me feel like I was in a spaceship to Alpha Centauri. The light from the flagging sun dropped shadows on the desert plain. The brush was spooky.
It was unequivocal night when I landed in Tatouine. I navigated the Kia through the bustling streets of the city of 70,000 and eventually found my way to Karima’s house, where I was greeted by a girl of around ten, who yelled “over here!”, gesturing towards a lightly rusted metal gate…