A city of friendly people and plenty of cigarettes

The second was the taxi, and this little yellow vehicle that can be anything from shiny Volkswagens to Peugeots is an integral part of life in Tunis. In a country where public transport is shared amongst buses, the metro, and cabs, the later take the cake. During rush hours, it would take 30 minutes to get an empty one. They take the place of boda bodas in terms of numbers, and in characteristics come off as a cross between boda bodas and your regular taxi here.

For example, they will park anywhere they see a passenger and also park anywhere to drop them off like taxis, but then, behave very much like boda bodas when they cut in front of everyone and are forever being cursed by other road users. They also employ the most street smart of the Tunisians you are likely to encounter as I learnt before I even left the airport.

French is the lingua franca
My original plan was to take one of the free buses ferrying those coming for the World Social Forum to the city centre and find a taxi to my hotel from there. But here was a man out to make a quick buck by watching for unsure souls like me.

I was debating whether to spend money on a taxi rather than wait till the empty looking buses fill up. Mr Nicotine-smile took this moment of indecision to tug at my luggage and point in the direction of his taxi. Before I knew it, I was chasing him across the parking lot trying to remember the French words for slow down. Did I not know that I was coming to a country where French is the lingua franca?

Yes, I did, for months actually, which is why I bought the English to French pocket dictionary and why I had crammed a few basic phrases. But I was not prepared to start speaking French this early, assuming that the people around the airport of this very popular tourist destination at least spoke basic English.

It was so at the airport, with the attendants switching from Arabic to French to English with flair, but this one did not, except the word “tip” which he asked for when we reached the cab. Turns out he was a broker, making a dinar for every lost-looking Tunisian first timer. With more than 30,000 people showing up for the World Social Forum, he must have been taking home a tidy sum.
As one who has mastered the art of bargaining, I was not about to let the language barrier stand between me and a good deal so while attempting to negotiate for my cab fare, I had shaken my head at the first figure quoted and which I assumed to be 40 dinar. He quoted a second sum and I still shook my head so he asked me to make my offer. Triumpantly I wrote a neat 20 on his palm to which he looked at me oddly, smiled broadly.

It was only when I sat in the taxi and thought about it that I realised that the initial figure he quoted was actually 20 dinar and the second one 15. Yes, so that was him perplexed at why I would protest so much, only to overcharge myself but by then, the driver had already made out the receipt and there was nothing I could do. In retrospect, I was suspicious how the man was so obliging with the receipt!

Not to say that I did not encounter some really nice people because I did. Genuinely kind Tunisians off the street who took time to listen and try to make sense of my terrible French and even worse pronunciation.

There was the street breadsticks vendor who so happily posed for my camera and also gave me a free bag of breadsticks waving off my change with a smile. His gesture kind of erased the anger I felt at the juice vendor who had taken all my coins not because his juice cost that much but because he noticed I was having difficulty counting out the exact amount.

There was 23-year-old Mohammed who offered to be my guide for the day. He spoke perfect English, French and Arabic and laughingly explained that many Tunisian cars only see a wash when it rains. I had wondered aloud at why almost every car we saw was coated by a dusty white finish.

Weren’t there car washes? Or was Tunis so dusty that they got as dirty as soon as they were washed? This particular thing tickled me, especially when I remembered how Ugandans troop to the car washes to keep their third and fourth hand cars that they will drive over potholes and dusty roads anyway clean and shiny.

On the road
Here, the obviously newer cars, top-of-the-range brands driven on four lane pothole-free roads are left to languish under the coat of dust. “Most people just wipe the windscreen,” Mohammed told me. He is a warm easy-going character who likes his cigarettes and coffee like most Tunisians I have met. He offers me a smoke casually and is actually a little surprised that I do not and have never smoked. Coffee shops line up the streets the way bars and bufundas line Kampala streets. It is almost like the establishments are spaced in such a way that a Tunisian will never lack his dose of nicotine or caffeine.

Maybe it is the biting cold, which is quite hard to comprehend for someone whose experience in terms of weather is Uganda’s equatorial climate where cold is almost always accompanied by rain, or at the very least mist. On my way from the airport in the warmth of the taxi, I wondered why the people outside wore heavy coats and hoods in the seemingly nice weather. It wasn’t long before I was rummaging through my suitcase looking for socks and something heavy enough to guard against the cold.

Most of Tunis appears to be painted some shade of white. From far it appears like one mass of pristine white. Only if you come closer will you see the individual streets and that some of the white is peeling, or long-faded and that some areas are marred with graffiti in Arabic and French. When I thought the weather was warm from inside the cab, this white looked warm and inviting, but when I got out and felt the cold, white was suddenly cold and stand offish.

While I was really curious about it, I barely spoke about the revolution with any Tunisian, because not knowing the political sensibilities of whoever I was speaking to, I could say something and offend them.

But turns out this is as much a part of Tunisia as much as the ruins of Carthage. When we walk past a group of people at the El Manar University campus blasting music from a speaker as students dance, Mohammed tells me those are the songs of the revolution. He does not say more on the subject but I am glad it is not taboo. A friendly cabbie Kareem, tells me things have changed since the revolution. “The economy is bad after this revolution,” he tells me. I ask him if he would rather things went back to how they were before the revolution and after a moment’s pause, he says no, in heavily accented English. “It will pick slowly,” he says.

No marks of the revolution
All the while I was there, I looked for signs of the revolution. It may have been two years ago, but I am hoping to see something that remained from the days of protests. But this sleepy town does not seem to bear marks. I think maybe it is the graffiti but knowing this type of art and given how it is spaced, maybe that was hurriedly sprayed the night before. I think the only visible signs are the people, who were awakened to know about their strength.

“Everybody started claiming their identity after the revolution,” says Rbtecen Tlili, a teacher and women’s activist who notes that in the last two years, there has been a flurry of activity in human rights and activism world in Tunisia. She may be right. A couple of youths both law students at Tunis biggest university, El Manar proudly introduce themselves as human rights activists.

Maybe it is the cold, but I fail to wax lyrical on the beauty of Tunis. It is also possible that I saw so little of it since as a friend pointed out, there is always the dirty rundown place in every city that will be the exact opposite of what you had seen earlier. I never found that part of Tunis though I cannot say I particularly tried. But I will say for what it lacks in grandness or picturesqueness, it makes up for in neatness and general organisation. Even in terms of recycling plastics, men seem to have a way of organising their carts laden with dirty plastic so that it did not look dirty.

However, what I would go back for are the people who seemed to have patience with a little-travelled-only-English-speaking-girl from Kampala.

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