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MyWikiBiz, Author Your Legacy — Wednesday March 11, 2026
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I maintain my travelog for my travels in Tunisia on this subpage; updates are irregular due to how questionable it is to find an Internet connection here. If you are friends with me on Facebook, I maintain these entries in my Notes as well. To be reminded of updates, try subscribing to this page via watchlist or [http://feeds.feedburner.com/Userandrewm/tunisia-RevisionHistory?format=xml RSS feed].
==The Start of a Legend==
==The Start of a Legend==
Coming up next is my experience in the hammam (حمّام), a public Turkish bath, as well as a mystery subject which you will find out when the article is published. As always, keep your eyes glued here! My entries should be more frequent during our twelve-day excursion outside of the house since I will have a stable Internet connection and too much to talk about.
Coming up next is my experience in the hammam (حمّام), a public Turkish bath, as well as a mystery subject which you will find out when the article is published. As always, keep your eyes glued here! My entries should be more frequent during our twelve-day excursion outside of the house since I will have a stable Internet connection and too much to talk about.
==The Clothes Are Coming Off==
A few nights ago, I went with my family and my housemates to the hammam (حمّام), a public bathhouse descended from the old Turkish baths that are spread throughout the whole former territory of the Ottoman Empire. We had to go at night - it is segregated by sex according to time, and during the afternoon it is occupied by women. We brought along our toiletries, change of clothes, and towels, and headed out to the hammam - it was within walking distance. The first one we tried to visit, however, was closed, even after the family argued with the management and peered through the window by standing atop an unstable pile of rubble, so we went back to the house to visit another one - which, as we would later learn, was a wise decision.
We entered the hammam, greeted by a changing room where we were given lockers to hold our stuff. We stripped down to our bathing suits and trunks here (all the men were nude except for this), then grabbed our toiletries and headed onwards to the cleaning facilites. And what a variegated display we saw: the neatly tiled room was so full of steam that our visibility was slightly reduced. Nevertheless, I could still make out spickets for both hot and cold water dotted along the perimeter of the room and private showering rooms with locking doors, each containing a small stool. The two most interesting features, however, were the room over to the left, even more congested with steam than the main hall thanks to two candles at the top of the room (which also provided the only light within the room itself) and the flat panel on the right room where employees gave professional massages and scrubbings to whomever wanted them.
The eight of us began by sitting in the dark room, simmering our feet in hot water held in large plastic pails, which were provided for free use alongside some gourd-like devices which had a handle which we could use to scoop up water and lap it upon ourselves. Being the constantly-intrigued type, I grew somewhat bored of this and joined Aziz up on a raised landing, where the steam was at its thickest thanks to the candles, constricting my vision even further. It was almost suffocating to be up here for too long - I could only keep my head up here for a few minutes at a time and had to take long, labored breaths after only several seconds. During this time, I talked to Moemen and Achraf about starting a hammam business in America, making myself president and the two of them vice-presidents. However, I was only joking about that prospect - or am I?
Next came the time we spent thoroughly cleaning our bodies. We lathered ourselves with our soap, taking hot showers either in the stalls or outside with the public shower. This allowed me to use my new shampoo and almond-infused milk soap, both of which I approved. In addition, I received a massage from the man that Mansour personally recommended - it was a very interesting experience, to say the least. The massager stretched me in ways that I did not think possible, and he relieved stresses on my joints that I was not aware of until he soothed them free. He also had a special coarse sponge which he lathered up with shampoo and liberally scratched over my whole body - apparently this is supposed to clear off dead skin and reduces risks of infections as well as making you smell fresher. I finished off this hammam experience with a shave using one of the little scoopers to wash off my blade and changed into my pyjamas back in the foyer, all for only three dinars.
We went two days later to the hammam that was closed on our first night. Everything about this place seemed tawdry in comparison to the other one: the facilities were less clean and did not feature any wonderful mosaics, just plain blue and white tiles. Furthermore, the men there were likely all ex-convicts - they had large tattoos covering their bodies depicting things such as snakes and demons, and one of them had a straight-blade razor, but I seemed to pay no attention to this and went about my jolly way. Luckily, for my own sake, Dave had kept a lookout for me and advised me not to strut about the place so freely. To be honest, though, the people there were not inhospitable - perhaps a bit brusque and annoyed by our presence, but still they did not show any outward signs of disrespect to at least me.
The last hammam we went to was unique among the three - while the other two were similar in regards to their amenities, this one featured an odd combination of a cool room and a searing-hot room which was filled as much as possible with steam. So saturated was this room with steam that it was simply impossible to see further than three inches. Nevertheless, I explored around with extreme caution on the slippery tiles and discovered a trough filled with warm-hot water, which I laid in and soaked my arms, legs, and hair. I spent the rest of the time lounging out on the raised platforms and attempting feebly to do some crunches, then retired to the cool room for a shower and dressed myself in the changing room.
And now, for my surprise topic: maybe it was obvious, maybe you thought it wouldn't come, but it's here now. Without further ado, I'm putting the Man in Mandrew...!
To begin the chronicle of my escapades, I present an incident which occurred in the Celio store at Carrefour, a mall on the outskirts of La Marsa. While perusing their selection of "les t-shirts", a very pretty employee wearing blue eyeliner came up to me and asked me something in French. I whipped out the only French I know, "Je ne parlais français," and without any further warning proceeded to talk her in Arabic. Immediately her expression livened up, and we carried ourselves into a discussion on our studies and travels. She did not speak much English, so we had to hinge on my knowledge of Arabic to communicate - nevertheless, we were able to tell each other our aspirations for employment and education, and she even made a few suggestions on the shirts I chose. However, despite my command of Arabic, I still was struggling to find the right words, so this sadly had to remain a brief flirtation.
Prior to this, I had partied at the discotheque in the Hotel Mouradi in Gommarth (قمرت), where we would have spent the entire trip had the host familiy stays not worked out. One of the workers at the hotel noticed that I was dancing improperly (shock!), so we spent some time dancing with each other the proper way in the middle of a rowdy circle of Delaware students. It was hard to retain my composure in the pandemonium that had erupted down there, but eventually I recalled my informal lessons from ages past and was able to put on an acceptable demonstration. Expect more details about the night life in Tunisia later in the trip - we almost certainly will be going out to one, hopefully with some locals.
However, what happened yesterday puts both of those meager stories to shame: we were touring some ancient mosques and forts being guided by Si Najib. At the last fort we visited, I walked up a hefty flight of stairs to bear witness to a small museum carved out from one of the abandoned embattlements. A man nearby was selling newspapers and gestured as much to me. In reply, I said "لا أريد الجريدة" (I don't want the newspaper) - this pleasantly surprised everyone sitting around the area, and they could not help but break out into laughter. The curator of the museum, curious about this Westerner who could speak Arabic, began bombarding me with friendly questions about where I was from, how long I have been studying Arabic, etc. I told her that I wrote articles for my school newspaper and that I was considering becoming a journalist and that I would consider buying the newspaper when I left.
This discussion raised the attention of two female visitors nearby, who seemed just as mesmerized at my Arabic abilities as the museum employees were. Recognizing me as an English speaker, they took this opportunity to practice their knowledge of the language with me - they had only been studying for two years, but their command of the language was stronger than my Arabic. Luckily for me, the more attractive of the two, Rania (رانية), seemed more interested in me, and showed as much by looking me straight in the eye and beaming with a sincere smile. Amused by this demonstration, several members of our crew took pictures of the three of us talking about our travels and their desire to become English teachers - they were from the north of the country, but are temporarily residing in more southerly reaches to attend university.
Things took an interesting turn as we climbed up one of the fort's towers - it is structured roughly like a lighthouse, but its spiral staircase is made of somewhat irregularly placed stones and was much darker and narrower. Rania had exclaimed to me "Oh! I'm afraid of the dark!", which led me to ascend the tower with me holding her hand and hugging the innermost edge. Several of the guys on the trip made some intriguing (though not offensive) comments about this display, but mostly they were grumbling about how it complicated their descent from the tower. Eventually, I reached the top with Rania and her friend, and we could overlook the entire city of Kerouan.
We stared down at the many harbors, buildings, and streets which dominated this somewhat poor costal town, which thrives primarily on tourism. By this time, Rania had sidled next to me. She was joking around a little bit with Dave and few members of our crew, but quickly returned to discussion with me. We had been making light of our ethnicities and playfully stating how the Asians on our crew were related to Jackie Chan and Bruce Lee, and that I because I was Italian, I was connected to Sylvester Stallone. By this time, we had climbed back down the tower and were looking around in some parts of the fort we had not explored. Unfortunately, this all came to a bittersweet ending as Khalil had called us back to the bus before I had a chance to get her number - perhaps our paths will wend together again, but alas, I have no guarantee that they will. Still, I predict this is the start of something big...stay tuned for more!
My next entry will discuss Aziz's volleyball game (with considerable assistance from him, since I know so little about the art of that game) and our treks through the Sahara, from which I am writing this entry right now. As always, don't blink for a second lest you miss an entry! They should be appearing more frequently now that I have a break from studies and am going on a twelve-day excursion touring the whole country.
==The Soaked Sahara, Part One==
27 January 2008, 20:39
My, what a wonderful landscape! We have entered the Tunisian Sahara, and it has presented some of the most gorgeous views that I have ever seen in my entire life. Accentuating this geographic panoply of mountains, plains, salt lakes, and dunes was the fact that despite being a desert, it rained for four days straight - an aberration which has not happened here for fifteen years. So torrential was the rain that one of our hotels, with its open-air roofs and supposedly sun-licked walkways, was flooded with an inch of water in certain areas.
Our exploration of this forbidding terrain began with a train ride through the mountains on the fringe of the desert. Our vessel careened along carefully-navigated tracks that followed, not fought, the natural undulations of the terrain, though occasionally a particularly thick knot of mountains made it necessary for the track to wend its way through tunnels. Every so often, the train would stop and we would be able to leave and immerse ourselves in the scenery.
While standing atop jagged medium-sized rocks which ran down a steep gradient ending in a small streamlet, I beheld the mountains with this smooth, almost vertical surfaces patterned by a dazzling spectrum of auburn, tan, beige, and sienna arranged in horizontal streaks. The only vegetation growing here were some rugged-looking flowers with soft lavender petals and some grungy shrubs which grew out of the few sand pockets interspersed between the rocks. Further along the tracks, I saw an impressive ravine - a miniature fjord, I would contend - where the rain-fed streams flowed between two impressive pillars of stone, coated in that ancient gamut of browns and orange-reds. Accentuating these eternal edifices was a true blue sky far into the distance.
The last train stop brought us to a flatter area, strewn with gray pebbles and small stones. Given my natural inclination to climb anything which looks reasonably sturdy, I crossed the train tracks (we only were let out on one side of the train and waltzed up a irregularly-shaped outcropping of some pewter-tinted boulder. Being the highest point where a fall would not risk me breaking a bone, I looked out and felt the wet wind blowing into my face, my eyes tearing and reddening from the abundance of moisture, but still joyous that they were taking in this magnificient natural scenery. Words cannot do this justice - I will upload some pictures alongside this entry (and actually do it this time) so you can appreciate these desert fringes a bit more.
The interior of the train presented its fair share of surprises too. An elevated seat allowed me to look above the roof of the train from the safety of some Plexiglass windows, which were clear enough for me to take a few pictures from. Several locals waved to us from the sides of the track - I got off a smile and a wave before we zoomed yonder towards the desert. A few members of the group spoke a little bit with a Brit, who had been climbing in these mountains half a century prior and also traveled extensively throughout North America as well. Perhaps the most peculiar moment was, while I was ordering some Bugles, one of the workers remarked that I "looked like Harry Potter" (I firmly deny this accusation) and was pining to know whether Daniel Radcliffe was still alive after a fight which apparently broke out at one of his private parties. Describing this event sent one of our group members into a wild fit of laughter.
That afternoon, we took a cadre of SUVs out into the remote desert, devoid of any signs of civilization beyond the paved tarmac road we used to get there. The first stop took us to a bumpy plain, over which was scattered various tough-looking desert shrubs and the processed lunch of the wild camels, who were grazing there before our arrival but lazily sauntered away from us. Nevertheless, a few of us had the audacity to chase after these slow beasts. Adam apparently evoked the ire of one cantakerous camel and was being chased by it some seventy-four yards away from the road. He eventually was able to best the camel and darted back to safer terrain, beyond which the camels stopped caring about his intrusion. After a few more sprints across this beautiful, barren landscape, we saundered back to our SUVs to continue our trek.
I proudly became the envy of every basement-dwelling nerd as we arrived at the legendary set of Star Wars, still preserved in the governate of Tatouine (تطاوين). Funnily enough, The buildings on this set closely mirrored the traditional Berber house architecture of mud-brick walls, but had just enough of that extragalactic flair to be recognized as a distinct entity. Odd silver-gray pillars were abound on this set, tapering at their tops to a long, fine antenna. Outside of these buildings, we climbed about on the various unstable staircases with the abandon of Victorian-era children who were finally freed from their stuffy, pampered life. Going inside the buildings was slightly underwhelming - there were no internal walls, only the back-faces of the exterior ones, and the wooden scaffolding had remained in place. (Yes, I did climb it - I got high enough to peer over the wall, but I quickly ceased my ascent when I heard a questionable creak from one of the boards.) The upside was that the windows in these buildings made for a nice pose for taking pictures.
Returning to the hotel was an adventure in and of itself - the SUV drivers showed no restraints in freestyling over the rolling dunes, and we took several dips and dives with our fate in their hands. Consultation with my fellows afterwards made me suspect we had one of the wildest of the pack. He took us to a flat sandy plain with some regularly arranged, jagged brown rocks, each about the size of a large gorilla. In vainglorious spite of these risky conditions, he had the chutzpah to pull off a few donuts between these pillars of doom. Yet, having experienced some reckless drivers in my own family, I felt strangely safe in this hunky metal chassis - the driver's movements were graceful and calculated, the mark of a man who constantly flirts with death but never quite manages to kiss Her. (Sorry for the allusion, ladies!)
Upon the next morning of being alive - الحمد لله! Elhamdullah! - the group boarded the SUVs once again to spend a whimsical but physically taxing morning blazing across the dunes. Since the rain had stopped by now, this was the desert wearing her most sincere face - dry, featureless, and utterly without remorse, yet still a joy to play on. Ikram, our Arabic professor, made her enjoyment obvious, calling out her distinctive "whoo-whoo!" as she tumbled down the first dune we climbed. After a laborious trudge up that same dune, I lunged down the other side, spewing sand everywhere as momentum took a hold of my now-puny physical form. This rapture was so great for Ted that he ended up falling down, rolling until he hit the foot of the dune. A group of macho men who have titled themselves The Trifecta plowed into the interior and gave heroic poses at the broad, flat peak of one dune. Our immersion in the natural landscape had to come to an end, however - but as I ran down that very slope I had first conquered, I kicked around the sand in such a bizarre manner that I managed to get some in my mouth. For a moment I became a camel, wildly spitting on the side of the road until I cleared out enough of the grit for me to be satisfied.
As you guessed from the title, you'll be hearing more of my outstanding adventures in the most impressive desert in the world. Watch your step, hold on to your reins and don't close your eyes, I'll be taking you on a wild ride! As always, keep your eyes on this space!
==The Soaked Sahara, Part Two==
One entry in my travelog cannot do justice to the grandeur of the Sahara - in fact, two is still an absolute disgrace to a geographical feature which I honestly believe deserves volumes of books devoted to it. Nevertheless, this is the most justice I can give it for now, especially in this rare time when its parched vegetation is quenching its thirst on these four days of unrelenting rain.
My safari in the Sahara continues as we explored another mountain range on the fringes of the desert. Out of all the lands we visited, the rain's effects here were the most pronounced: what were once bare-stone gullies have been transformed into speedy, meandering rivulets, darting about between the rocks and flowing off the edges to create gushing snow-white waterfalls. Even the air was affected by this meteorological anomaly: instead of the clear blue skies which so often accompany deserts, the entire landscape was blanketed in a dreary gray layer of fog, which hampered visibility and made for a lousy day of photography.
As the group plowed into this thicket of mountains, we were met with suspicious-looking lakes of vibrant green water, which looked unsafe to drink or even touch. Per the course, we were also hounded by many merchants, most of them wearing mopey faces and trying to sell various gemstones and these strange rocks which almost defy explanation - they are roughly circular as opposed to being flat or oblong, and protruding from their central point are several sand-colored, thick planes which taper to a fine edge and are rounded at their ends. Allured by the presence of amethyst, my Arabic professor had a field day doing business with these merchants - she stood out as a tourist more than the rest of us despite being a native Tunisian!
The issues of navigating this terrain in these damp conditions soon became miserably manifest to us all: the dessicated dirt that once covered the stairs leading up to the summit had soaked up so much moisture that it transformed into a thick layer of semi-solid mud. that it was like walking through mounds of marshmallow fluff - every step was a laborious task as the goop ensnared our shoes, only relenting its indefatigable grasp after we concentrated our entire weight and mind into releasing our feet from its grapple. Some of the girls on our trip had the misfortune to be wearing sandals or flip-flops - they were no match for the mud, and every step threatened to strip the flimsy pads straight off their feet. Of course, the mud won many of these battles, which left them to stand on one foot until a kind passerby could dig up the stolen
For those of us who were wearing more secure footwear, delving into the interior of this formation was only a slight impediment, and we were able to see the summit of the mountain in all of its rejuvenated splendor (but only as much as the fog permitted): large stones lined out a path for us which ran alongside the natural troughs, which housed the small streams of rainwater all racing down to collect in those toxic-green lakes. The path was by no means cruising; every perch and step had to be carefully calculated lest I risk a tumbling fall, especially considering how slippery they were, but it was similar enough to the hiking expeditions I embarked on during my camping trips as a child and more recently in Maine for me to navigate it deftly.
Right before we began the tricky climb up to the first summit, two things immediately caught my attention: there was a large palm tree growing on the other side on the stream, its roots twisting through the rocks and apparently finding rich soil underneath them. More impressive, however, was a deep croaking sound which undulated through the air and which I could feel on the skin of my face. A brief exploration through the fog revealed that this sound came from a toad, who kept on making his incessant din and would stop at no distraction. More pertinent to me was a rocky ascent which I could feel swaggering at me, daring me to climb up it. Of course, I gave into this temptation and proceeded to dart up it until the mud had so stymied my movement that I was forged to trudge the rest of the way up. Oh, how vast and clear the view would be were it not for that infuriating layer of fog!
The struggles against the mud that we fought earlier were but petty squabbles compared to the tall staircase leading directly to the caps of the mountains. So thick were these slabs of mud that one of the crew members donning flip-flops decided to go barefoot - despite stepping on tiny sharp pebbles embedded in the mud, it no longer took ten seconds just to climb up one stair. No longer hampered by the mud, I plowed up the mountain with her and reached the stony summit. Strewn all over the place were more of those sharp pebbles, this time without any mud to cushion them - despite her feet hurting, my climbing partner did not don her filthy flip-flops until she had an opportunity to clean them off. Out in the distance, I could make out a large black monument, stained gray in my vision because of the fog, of a large mountain goat. (As expected, the pictures did not turn out.) I could spot a few members of the UD crew were along this same line of sight - they had to cross a rickety bridge to get over to this section of the mountain range. My wanderlust was taking a hold of me, so I left my climbing partner for a short while to get close to the edge of the mountain.
Teetering on the brink of death! I love it! To begin my daring journey, I poked about on some fingery protrusions of the mountain, taking utmost care with every step I walked. The ground here was still covered with those flaky-sharp pebbles - luckily for me, though, I was wearing decent enough shoes for climbing. I went to the tips of one of these stretches of stone and kneeled down at the very tip of it, knuckles white and clenching the stones for my dear life. The downward incline of this foot of the mountain was easily at least 75°, and were it not for my natural surefootedness I would have surely suffered the fifty-foot plunge down to the streamlet. The visitors to the mountains appeared tiny from this vantage in the fog - the fog was thicker near the top and relatively thin at the foot, so I could make out the slight shine of polyester raincoats and a few commands for controlling this two-way traffic, mumbled in universally understood terms. After this risky journey, I returned to the safety of my climbing partner, who I assisted down the mountain and back to the SUVs.
Beyond this trailblazing across new and strange terrains came the quintessential event to partake in an Arabian desert: yes, we drove into the interior of the country to go riding on camels. The grounds where the camels were kept were nothing out of the ordinary: it had that slight rank odor so reminiscent of a poorly-maintained zoo, and sand-coated balls of dung lined the path in various conditions, ranging from freshly prepared to sufficiently smudged. The camels made no attempt to hide their foul activities; they even had the audacity to do this while we were feebly attempting to get atop their high-set backs. With some assistance from the director, I was able to seat myself up on the camel, the largest in a caravan of three and whose name was Ra'd (رعد), the Arabic word for Thunder. With a signal from the driver of the caravan, the camel slowly lurched its way up on all fours, and we embarked into the great expanse of the desert.
My expectations for what riding a camel would be like were wildly shattered - I thought that sitting on a big lump of fat would be exceedingly difficult, but I could have easily ridden on it without holding on to the steel handlebar attached to the saddle (and indeed, I went hands-free for some stints). I was in a caravan with two other members from the UD crew, and our herd driver took us on a bumpy trek through this dune-filled stretch of desert - the only green things in sight were some trees in the far distance. I preferred to simply gaze off into the distance and enjoy the ride - it was not smooth by any means, but I had a strange sense of security sitting on the camel. More than anything, though, it was the vastness of the dunes that struck me - realizing that this was less than a fraction of the entire desert caused a wave of humility to pass through me.
The congregation of camels came to a stop too quickly for my tastes - despite my reluctance, I had to get off and obey the stubborn lazy camel for once. The caravan drivers made a noise between that of gurgling and growling, after which the camels ceased their bumbling forward and proceeded to lower themselves to the ground. First, they lowered their hind legs simultaneously while keeping their front legs erect (this happened suddenly enough to take me by surprise - I did not realize that I was nearly six feet off the ground until the camel made me smell reality), then they lowered their front legs and tucked them to their sides, knees bent. The group stretched their aching thighs and sauntered about in this depression between the dunes, until a masked man in blue came up riding a oaken-brown steed.
Oh, the joy I felt upon just seeing this stallion! Long has it been a goal of mine to ride a horse, and this mysterious figure and his partner, who followed soon after him, was offering to take us out on individual rides. I readily signed up for this, hoisting myself up on the stallion and securing my feet in the stirrups. Whatever excitement I had upon seeing these courser was immediately forgotten the instant it set foot with me on its back in front of its azure-clad owner. We bolted on into the desert, jarringly jostling up and down, up and down, and before only a few seconds I was able to catch this rhythm and move in sync with the horse. For those brief seconds, I felt completely at liberty, the sandy winds beating against my face and puffing up my clothes. Chills of excitement ran down my spine; I had never lived the experience of riding a horse before, yet the joy and intensity I felt atop its back was unlike anything else I had ever done.
After some last-minute stretching on two legs, it was finally time to head back to the four-legged beasts, who idly waited for us to savor our leisure time. This trip was not as relaxing as the ride into the interior since the camel to my right, Barack (بارك), use my stirrup-fastened leg to scratch its neck, against which my leg muscles were no match. Aside from this uneasy setback, I still had an enjoyable enough sojourn atop my camel. The walk back saw the camels scaling more dunes as well; I could feel the incline as they trudged up a small hill and accomodated for it by shifting my weight forward. We also had a few accidents; two of the more finicky camels threw their riders off, sending them slamming into the coarse sands. Despite a wrist injury from a misplaced camel foot, there was no permanent damage suffered by these two, and we went on as a merry group to delve into the country another day.
Ugh, I still have so much more to report, and so little time - we arrive back in the States in two days! This trip has really flown by - I hope to get at least two more entries done after this one, including a reflection on the whole journey which I will write after spending a few days in my native America.
==Update: Six Months Later==
Going about the usual routines of my life in America, it still amazes me that it was only six short months ago I was sleeping in a bed halfway across the world. While this might have seemed like an unnecessarily long pause, I wished to take this extended stint of time not only to reflect on the sensations that Tunisia left on me, but also how dramatically different the American experience has treated me post-Tunisia. Despite being a well-to-do economic haven in its particular geographic locale and adopting modern Western values regarding the treatment of women and education of children, which stands in stark contrast to what most Westerners themselves conceive a majority-Muslim nation to be, Tunisia must leap over great hurdles to solidify these fledging ideals and their economic prowess - in other words, they must still finalize the process of modernization. President Borguiba laid the seeds for this cultural turnaround over fifty years ago when he assumed executive rule of the nation after its independence from France, and my venture into the nation proved to be particularly fortuituous on account that I was witnessing the near-complete manifestation of these dreams envisioned so long ago.
While I still have a large amount of material to organize - including a final article describing my last day, which I will publish within the coming week.
