6-30-14. El Fahs, Tunisia
Desperately in need of a break, I decided to visit a site no more than an hour from Tunis (the original plan entailed eight hours on the bus). For once, almost everything went according to plan. I was, to be sure, nearly run down several times on my way to the bus station; but this seems to be pretty common around here. After securing my ticket and boarding the right bus (always a matter of anxiety in a country where all destinations are marked in Arabic), I even managed to get off at the proper stop. Moreover, within minutes of my arrival in the dirty parking lot that serves as the bus station of El-Fahs – a town my guidebook aptly labels “perfectly miserable” – I had negotiated a cab to and from my destination, the Roman city of Thuburbo Maius, and even persuaded the driver that I had no need of his services as an impromptu archaeological guide (which would, naturally, have cost me extra). I can see why he wanted the money, as I had to hold the door of his cab shut as we drove.
I was the only visitor at Thuburbo, and – to judge from the guards’ reactions – apparently the first all day. All three of the men charged with watching the site were sleeping when I arrived, one in the shade of the Capitolium’s columns and the others beneath a large olive tree. When he realized that an actual tourist had arrived, the Capitolium guard tried (very illegally) to sell me a handful of Roman coins picked up from the site. So far as I could tell, the coins, unlike most of their kind, were not obvious fakes; but I knew better than to bargain for any souvenir so likely to raise hackles at customs.
Though not situated so dramatically as Dougga, Thuburbo occupies a similar landscape. Save the white scar of El-Fahs in the distance, the predominant colors were gold and burnt brown. At first sight, the ruins themselves were a mottled gray; on closer inspection, however, it became clear that the blotches of color were the shells of snails, clustering in pores of the rock to preserve their moisture. Snails aside, the ruins, if not on a par with Dougga, were quite impressive. A partially reconstructed Capitolium overlooked a curia and second temple on the dusty forum, and the columns of other buildings – notably a temple dedicated to the Punic fertility goddess and a large palaestra – rose among the sighing grass that covered the site. Although most of the best mosaics are displayed in the Bardo, a few fine examples still adorn the two bath complexes and several elaborate villas. Other highlights included a small, yet unexcavated, amphitheater and a fifth-century Christian basilica complete with altar and baptismal font. As at Dougga, the views of the surrounding hills and wheat fields were splendidly evocative.
While holding the cab’s door shut again on the way back to El-Fahs, I asked the driver to drop me off at the Louage station for my ride back to Tunis. The Louage (shared taxi) is a Tunisian institution akin to the Turkish Dolmus. Each Louage plies a set route, usually between regional centers without regular bus service, for a set fee. The prices are extremely reasonable, but the catch is convenience: the louage only leaves when it is full, and the driver is perfectly willing to wait hours for the final passenger. Fortunately, I was the final passenger in my louage to Tunis, and got to sit in the passenger seat. Unfortunately, the driver was, even by Tunisian standards, a complete lunatic. If unable to force slower vehicles onto the shoulder (a maneuver he managed with several pickups overloaded with melons – a comedy routine/horrible accident waiting to happen), his favorite strategy was to simply drive in the face of oncoming traffic. At roundabouts, he routinely cut off every other incoming vehicle without so much as checking his mirrors. A similar degree of nonchalance led him to review his text messages while speeding along at 120 KPH, always looking up just in time to avoid smashing into slower-moving vehicles. I watched with an expression of frozen horror from my perch in the passenger seat, periodically pulling my arm inside the window to avoid losing it to passing trucks.
We reached Tunis in record time, passing along the way the sixty-mile Roman aqueduct which Hadrian built for Carthage. The louage left me on Av. Habib Boughuiba and sped off, trailing the scent of burning rubber. I thus found myself, unexpectedly, with an afternoon to kill. After accomplishing a number of practical chores – including a visit to the ever-colorful local supermarket – I decided to wander the medina (old town) of Tunis. Although many of the carpet and silver shops lining the winding streets are clearly targeted at tourists, the medina retains the timeless appearance of a traditional Arab city, a warren of whitewashed alleys and blue shutters. Regrettably, since all the mosques are closed to non-Muslims, there is little to do but wander through what amounts to a vast bazaar, populated by some of the most aggressive salesmen on the face of the earth: “Monsieur! Sir! Bonjour! Hello! Please – I have many carpet…” I spotted a few other tourists here, but I have no idea how any of these merchants turn a profit. One particularly desperate vendor followed me for the better part of a block, entreating me to view his wares.
I did not linger in the Medina, and eventually returned to the air conditioning of my hotel room, to write and wait for sunset, when I can finally find something to eat.