Tunisia

Two of the three officials that boarded Gerty when we arrived in Monastir, Tunisia had ink on the tip of their index finger.  We knew that their new controversial constitution was at stake on the day we arrived.

“Did you vote?” I asked in my broken French.

“Oui, oui,” the Customs officers held up their fingers.  Only the police officer’s was bare.

“Police cannot vote in Tunisia,” he said, adding that we were trying to fill out our entry forms backward.  “Right to left,” he said as he swept his hand across the page in the opposite direction that we were accustomed to.  

We don’t have a drone, a gun, or much alcohol on Gerty, so a glass of lemonade and a few minutes of friendly conversation was all it took for us to be welcomed into their harissa-loving world.

It’s hot – the harissa, like the Tunisian sun. 

It was the taste of Tunisia for us, along with all the other traditional foods that we tried – Lablabi chickpea soup, couscous, Bambaloni fried donuts, street crepes filled with spicey sauce, and that mouth-numbing green pepper.

Thinking of the heat, my memories are simmering together and rising to a boil.  I worried about Michael spending hours working in the boatyard.  We splurged and had Mohammed’s crew paint Gerty’s hull, but Michael wanted to do the particulars himself – the propeller, the bow thruster, the centerboard shaft, the lifting lines, and that pesky anchor shackle to name a few. 

I worried about myself, soaking in sweat helping him a bit, and making my way through the stifling market every morning.  

When the sun went down, darkness covered my concerns in a jasmine-scented calm.  People came out in droves.  We joined them, walking the crowded streets, taking it all in – the music pumping pirate ships in the harbor, the hookah bars, the horses towing cinderella wagons through the streets, the permanent bustle passing by the henna artists outside the Ribat, the children driving toy cars in front of the Habib Bourguiba Mausoleum. 

Looking back, the nights were as rich and decadent as if they were topped with Tunisian chantilly cream. Only once did we turn our attention from Gerty during the day to ride the train to Madhia. We chatted all the way there with three young men via google (Arabic-English) translate. 

I went into a crowded Hammam and the festive hoo-loo-ing-chirp song (please excuse my description if it offends) of the decorated women still sticks in my mind.

Our days were full and sweltering – a foot swelling, sweat beading on the forehead, skin scorching heat, but when we carried our backpacks into the air-conditioned airport with a plan to leave Gerty behind for the month, I caught myself thinking how cold and dull it felt in comparison.