Lost on the streets of Tunis

In two rental cars, we zigzagged through Tunis’s maze of one-way streets and irregular city blocks. The second car was relying, for navigation, on a visual connection with the first car. The first car was relying on a rather unreliable Lonely Planet guidebook map.

Suddenly the second car was out of sight. With no immediate means of electronic communication between us, I suddenly transformed into The Human Telephone as we turned the corner and pulled over.

“Wait here. I’ll go back and find them,” I said, knowing that if the first car chose not to “wait here,” that I’d pretty much be a lost foreigner, running through the streets of Tunis in flip flops and board shorts.

Running around the corner and backtracking a block, I realized that this may have been a bad idea. But somehow the car appeared, stopped at the exact intersection that I was running to.

They needed gas, Lindsey, the drvier, told me. They had stopped to ask someone about a gas station. There was one a block up and to the right. I hopped into the car with them as we drove to the next street and peered to the right. There was a gas station a few blocks up.

“OK, we’ll meet you there,” I said, getting out of their car and running back in the direction of my car. Somehow it all worked out and we both ended up at the station. Human Telephone, indeed.

I had to continue my role of inter-car communication, often leaning my head out of the window and yelling back at the other car, then subsequently getting pulled back into the car to avoid an oncoming bus.

***

We had been on our way to a secluded beach, but had to make numerous stops because we got separated, or confused, or lost, or because the other car decided it’d be fun to pull over and run around “frolicking” in the tall roadside grass.

We finally navigated ourselves to the area, driving up onto the soft white sand. The water was a clean light blue and there wasn’t another soul in sight. Somehow we had found what was basically our own private beach. I hopped out of the car and made a mad dash for the water. It was freezing, but it didn’t matter.

We spent the rest of the day goofing off and I ended up giving another bhangra lesson, this time on the sand.

***

Before we left from the beach, a caravan of about 10 cars and SUVs loaded with Tunisian teens rumbled into the area, music blaring from each vehicle and girls hanging out of the windows. They eventually arranged themselves into a row of parked cars, their music thumping as some of them sat on the car roofs, dancing, singing and oogling each other. Others were playing a soccer game on the sand, while still others were standing in between, chitchatting away.

It definitely seemed like a scene straight out of an American teen movie, a clan of trendy, partying youths commandeering a beach and going nuts with their music and scant clothing. Globalization, anyone?

***

We didn’t anticipate that we’d get just as confused driving back into Tunis as we had been driving out of the city. Another maze of one-way roads left us hitting dead end after dead end. Finally, we decided to give up and restart on the main road, but on our way back, we almost drove into a no-entry zone and a police officer came powerwalking toward our car.

As he approach, I yelled out to him, “Khalas,” which basically meant “it’s over,” and told our driver, Stephanie, my friend from the Air Force Academy, to drive and get us the hell out of there. Of course, being the respectful officer that she is, she didn’t budge, letting this guy approach our car and begin hassling us.

Knowing that most Arab officers tend to give up while hassling English-speakers, we all responded in English after he started asking us where we’re from (which we understood). We’re American, we said. We don’t speak Arabic.

“NO!” he says, looking directly at me. “You! You are Arabic!”

Oh god, I thought, not this. No, we all explained, we’re American, we don’t speak Arabic.

“NO!” he said, looking at me again and talking in Arabic now, “Where are you’re from? I know you’re Arab! You said ‘khalas’ You are Arabic! You…” he searched the car for someone else, “and YOU!” he said, pointing at Unaza, my Pakistani friend who wears a hijab.

“Um, I don’t know what you’re talking about, but we’re just trying to get to our hotel,” I said.

“NO! You’re Arab!” he said in English this time. “Show me your passport.”

“I don’t have mine, it’s at the hotel,” I said.

“I have mine right here!” said Unaza, smiling. I shot her a confounded stare.

Somehow, within this exchange, the officer had gained a sidekick, who was clearly not an officer, but who was extremely excited by our confrontation. He examined the passport along with the officer.

“Islamabad?” they said excitedly, thinking that the fact that Unaza was born in Pakistan somehow made them right.

“Yes, we’re from Pakistan,” Unaza said. “We’re not Arab.”

The officer handed the passport back, but didn’t give up.

“You are Arabic,” he said, looking at me and getting a little giddy as he spoke in Arabic. “You’re from Kuwait! I know it! I’m 40 years old and I swear on my mother’s head that you’re Arab.”

Shocked, I explained to him again that I was actually Pakistani. He finally dropped it. We asked how to get back to the main street and he told us, in English, to take two rights. As we were about to drive off, Stephanie said, in Arabic, “So, right and then right?”

“Yes,” the officer said, not noticing the blunder.