|
Tunisian dispatches: TUNIS | DJERBA ISLAND | KAIROUAN | KERKENNAH ISLAND
DISPATCH:
Djerba Island, Tunisia
October 20, 2001
"Exaltation is the going of an inland soul to
sea."
- Emily Dickinson
A gorgeous quote, yet imperfectly suited to my Djerban odyssey, given that I was born on a beach, raised on a coral island and have lived my adult life in a place called the Bay Area. I've not an inland cell in my soul. Quotes from Ulysses' journey to the Land of the Lotus-Eaters were not at hand, however, and I thank Dunya for this associated tidbit - some hook on which to hang a beginning.
Djerba Island, my home for eleven days,
was the location of the fabled 'honeyed' fruit that enchanted Odysseus and
his men, delaying their return to Troy. The island of indolent
forgetfulness: how I wish I had found some opiated anything, along with a
commensurate dose of amnesia.
As it was, this is where I was most
tuned-in to the goings on of the world, since the villa in which I was
staying had a satellite dish the size of a small stadium. That said, the
only English channel in its hyperbolic range was MSNBC, mostly stocks and
world bourse activity reported in densely British accents, with Tom Brokaw's
Nightly News appearing at 11:30 pm. I thought he was the voice of reason
until I witnessed his theatrically emotional response to his assistant's
anthrax case. The media is bent on creating paranoia and fear: who
edits this stuff anyway? If the news is going to be so spun that it veers
from one extreme suspect (lone psychotic) to another (Iraq) why don't they
just get a psychologist to spin it right down the middle and save America
the heartache? Because this is much more riveting, and drama sells -
conjecture, rather than fact. Since the newsmedia is controlled by the same
oil-based machine that runs the FBI, no wonder there is confusion in the
air.
Old Emily's quote above could
pertain to my contact here on the island, a close friend and business
partner of Abdelhamid's, owner of the aforementioned villa. Abdelfettah is
a very religiously conservative man in his forties, with a wife and three
children. He said I would recognize him at the bus station because he had
a beard. This turns out to be a unique feature in Tunisia, a country that
has nearly banned the beard on men for fears of association with Islamic
fundamentalists. Abdelfettah doesn't care; he wears one because in the
Koran, Mohammed said that men were different from women and should express
it by wearing a full beard. He became a welcome sea of English for my
verbal soul since no one else on the island was conversant, Europeans
being the bulk of the tourist trade. I stopped by his shop daily for
animated discussions of the latest developments and to hear his reports
from various Arabic news programs. Between the two of us, we developed a
pretty well rounded idea of what might be occurring as the
Americans began the bombing of Afghanistan. He assured me more than once
that Tunisians, especially Djerbans, were astute observers of world
politics, not taking action against others unless they really had to. He
was a very articulate barometer of the general Arabic mood, and the one
person, besides my sister, who jokingly advised me to 'be Canadian' for a
while. I'm not a talented liar; American was all I could be.
Since shopping was part of my mission for
this trip, persistent rumors had it that Djerba was where the treasures
were, where my heaven would lie. There were treasures indeed: silver
bracelets, textiles, and kilims that I would have purchased in a second.
There just weren't any bargains. The German, French and Italian
tourists who have frequented this hot haven for years have spoiled the
local merchants with their free-spending ways. The price per gram of
silver was four times what I'd found elsewhere in Tunisia, so I did lots
of window-shopping and learning. It was hard work, and I journeyed every
day from my country home, amid the only fruit-bearing olive trees on the
island, to Houmt Souk. There I would inquire in shop after shop for
faddah kadeem (silver, old) until I was feeling very kadeema
myself. I didn't tell you this, but my nickname in Kairouan was 'Zena
Kadeema' because I was so lazy about walking everywhere. I'd rather
pay a buck than walk in cruel shoes through desert heat. Cruel, in this heat, equals
shoes plus any horizontal movement. I thrive in the vertical realm.
In Djerba, the response to my smattering
of Arabic was surprising and quite engaging. I learned what little I know
on the streets of Egypt, mixed with a touch of classical Arabic (my summer
intensive). The first question everyone asks after "Ca va?" is "Lubnania
o Masria?" (Are you from Lebanon or Egypt?) I say "Nos Masria, nos
Amerikia" (half and half), which approaches the truth. Apparently, my
Arabic is so typically Egyptian, which they all know from popular songs
and movies, that I am automatically pegged. That is, until they actually
try to have a conversation with me, when I'm forced to admit, "Mish
fahema" (I don't understand…) and they understand the Pacific shallows in
which my Arabic swims. It's valuable in the realm of conviviality, though,
and they treat me as more than mere tourist. Many of them ask what my work
is here in Tunisia, I seem so, well, …local. This is part of what has
contributed to my feelings of safety and acceptance: how can I be afraid
with so many smiles and titters coming at me?
One strange and wonderful thing about this
island, all 25 square miles of it, is that besides 246 mosques, it is home
to one of the oldest Torahs on the planet. I waited till the end of Sukkot
to visit the El Ghriba Synagogue in a town called Erriadh, about a
ten-minute bus ride from Houmt Souk. (You must know by now that in this
life that I am not Jewish; maybe you don't: I was raised Catholic). I
entered the synagogue and was immediately handed a scarf (we wore
doilies), in which I could smell the somewhat rancid perfume from scores of other
women. I took off my shoes (as requested - we never did this in church)
before I walked to the inner room and read the welcoming introduction in
five languages. I will let it speak for itself, in English:
"This sacred and antique place called El
Ghriba (the Stranger) dated of the year 586 BC, i.e. since the destruction
of the first temple (erected by Solomon) under the rule of King
Nabuchodonosor of Babylon.
It has been restored during the centuries and represents today the
spiritual centre of the studies of the Tora and admiration of divinity;
Brought of the life by venerable Rabbis whose time is dedicated to daily
studies of the holy books.
We hope, that the honorable visitor conduce to this religious place by
their generous; destinated to the Rabbis and old lecturers.
May god give yours desires his consent of fulfillment. Amen."
Ahmein. I appreciated these
sentiments and so gave generously to the sprightly man standing watch. I
took photos of the many silver plaques enclosed in glass, dedications and
prayers made over time in commemoration of loved ones. The distinct patina
of spirit and prayer created a peacefulness that could be felt; this was
also where the mysterious and guarded Torah lived, though I couldn't
really discern where, so few have been the synagogues in which I have
stepped. There was one raised and gated dais that might have been its
home, though I was expecting a fabulous closet of some sort.
I returned to the main hall, with its sky
blue columns, ornate tiles and intricate woodwork. An overlarge Rabbi
waddled in, his sad bulbous eyes meeting mine briefly. I recognized him
from the many postcards and guidebooks I'd seen: the resident venerable
Rabbi. He went to a small closet on the wall and rooted around for several
books, which he removed, then sat heavily down to study. I walked over and
asked if I could take his photograph; he assented with a slow and
meaningful move of his eyes. After the click of the shutter he asked if I
had a cigarette; 'no, I don't smoke.' Then he raised his hand and rolled
the pads of his fingers in a gesture for a 'donation.' I gave him some
change.
The older, bearded rabbi then walked in, took a
book and sat by the window, sunlight pouring over him like a saint. I
glanced at the younger one and pointed to my camera. He rolled his
fingers; I assented with a nod and shot some photos. His fingers circled
again, a bit impatiently; some earlier tourist must have walked out before paying
up. I took 5 dinar out of my purse and walked over to the donation box.
He jumped up faster than a big man should, intercepted my path and put the
bill in his shirt pocket. Cigarette money, no doubt, or maybe for the
purchase of indolent fruit. I was a little shocked at the mercenary aspect
of this sacred place, but imagined that I, and all camera-wielding
travelers who came before me, were the cause of his corruption. It sadly
goes the way of most third-world tourist sites, holy or not.
On the emotional graph of a prolonged
journey there are always two unforgettable days: a nadir and a zenith. It
was here on Djerba that my nadir occurred, a collusion of three distinct
physical conditions, all underlined by the irrational fear of war and sent
into another magnitude of pain by the unreasonable heat. The first factor
was my period, always a life-altering mini-event. The second was a bout
with Circe's revenge, brought on by the innocent and delightful
consumption of salad with fish the prior night. Condition number three was
a dress rehearsal of my right hip for some future arthritic or rheumatic
performance, set, I hope, in the far, far distant future. I was bedridden
most of the day, sleeping off plague, revenge and rehearsal, staggering
like a ninety year-old crone by sundown. I felt that my body was becoming
unhinged by some horrific hormone dance I'd never heard of. I finally took
a Darvocet when I realized that there was no position I could assume in
the entire house where my hip would not screech for undivided attention.
Fortunately, this was only a one-day nadir. (My zenith, al hamdulilah,
arrived a week later in Sidi Bou Said, but that will wait for a future
dispatch).
Two days later, I bid adieu to Djerba and
traveled north towards the fruitful souk of Sfax. Arriving happily by bus,
I stayed in a four-star hotel, had indulgent room service and wine in the
bed, and made arrangements to meet my rug man, Zribi, in the lobby the
next morning. I treat myself to these luxury accommodations whenever the
pressure of third-world living reaches critical mass. Post-nadir, it had.
♦
Tunisian dispatches: TUNIS | DJERBA ISLAND | KAIROUAN | KERKENNAH ISLAND
|