Anxiety Awaits (Tunisia)

I obtained the Libyan transit visa in Tunis after waiting for a week. It was a surprising development, especially given that Libya and Taiwan have neither diplomatic nor economic ties. In fact, it is not uncommon for Taiwanese to be restricted or even barred from entering certain countries, such as Pakistan, Tunisia and Lebanon, simply because Taiwan receives so little international recognition.

Moreover, independent travelers of various nationalities are routinely turned down from visiting General Gaddafi's al-Jamihiriya (Arabic for "state of the masses"), a country that has been isolated by the West for over a decade and only recently been removed from the State Department's list of state sponsors of terrorism. How could a Taiwanese backpacker enjoy relative ease of access when others do not?

But what surprised me the most was the fact that I was never questioned as to the status of my Tunisian entry visa, which was affixed on my U.S. passport. If they had known I was also a US citizen, I would never have been given the green flag.

Finding a way to go by land to Libya was not as straightforward as I had assumed, but by the word of mouth I eventually found the street not far from Bab al-Bahr where minivans were lined up and destined for the Libyan capital Trablous (Tripoli). We waited for more than five hours before the shared minivan was fully occupied and departed late at night. On the bus, everyone was curious as to why I, an Asian, was going to Libya. It seemed rather amusing to the two drivers and my fellow passengers, mostly businesspeople, that I was willing to pay 30 dinar ($25) just to cross into Libya. For many of the women and men on board, it was unthinkable that Libya had anything interesting to see. After all, Libyans are widely considered by Tunisians to be uncouth and backward "rural pumpkins," notwithstanding their common heritage as Arabs. A man next to me even asked why I was not spending more time to tour Tunisia, which had far more interesting attractions.

The journey to the border at Ras al-Jedir was 9 hours long. At 5 a.m., traffic came to a screeching halt as hundreds of vehicles awaited the opening of customs. We descended the van, had our bags checked after a 1-hour hiatus, and presented our passports. But I was singled out to stay behind while others were quickly granted stamps of approval. A Tunisian official took both my passports away, after I was forced to show him that I had the requisite visas on different passports.

For half an hour, my companions and I were anxiously looking for the official who had confiscated my passports and disappeared without a trace. When he reemerged, he did not have my passports with him. I was told I had to stay alone at the border. My protests fell on deaf ears as I defended my rights to leave Tunisia for Libya.

--"Monsieur, j'ai des visas pour entrer la Tunisie et la Libyie. Pourquoi je ne peux pas partir maintenant?"
(Sir, I have the visas for entering Tunisia and Libya. Why am I not allowed to leave right now?)
--"Il est interdict d'avoir les visas sur deux passports."
(It is forbidden to have visas on two passports.)
--"Mais il n'y a pas de probleme avec mon visa tunisien!" I retorted, You could simply stamp my U.S. passport and let me leave Tunisia and never have to worry whether I could enter the other side of the border!
--"Vous ne pouvez pas entrer la Libyie comme ca...We have an agreement with the Libyans whereby foreigners without Libyan visas are not permitted to go."
--"But I have a visa for Libya; you know it! It says very clearly that I am permitted to enter the country. Just give me the exit stamp, and everything will be fine."
--"No, it is not possible. Il faut que vous restiez ici." (You must stay here).

My companions could not help; they left my rucksack and bag behind and departed for Tripoli. The next hour and a half was a gruesome wait, as I nervously contemplated whether I would have to return to Tunis and purchase a ridiculously expensive intracontinental flight to Cairo.

A Friendship of Unequals (Tunisia)

Said did not return home to Maztouria, as he could not afford to. Instead, we met in Djerba where he was working in a touristy hotel catering to Germans and other Europeans. Puffs of apple-scented tobacco ascended into the air, a mild bobbling sound reverberating on the ground, as we caught up with one another over sheesha. Said was pleased to see me back in the country, but it was obvious that something else was on his shoulders.

Slowly, he told of contemptuous treatment by Western holidaymakers, even though he and other Tunisians are the masters of this land. While his earning here was higher than what he could have achieved in Tataouine, it was still difficult to have to serve alien couples and families who regarded him with little respect, as if he was a mere thief who plied on tourist money. But I was not a "tourist" but his brother, he said, because I appreciated the culture and traditions of Tunisia and was well loved by his family.

Opportunities are rare in Tunisia. While tourism is a booming industry there, its salutary effects are lost on the vast majority of Tunisians. With record high unemployment and rising prices, young people who make up the bulk of the population are forced to look elsewhere for their livelihood. Going to university is not a realistic option, as tuition is high and there is a huge shortage of jobs anyway. Sadly, a phenomenon has developed in which young men are engaged in alternative prostitution--many have chosen to become boyfriends to older white women in hopes of obtaining free passage into Fortress Europe.

Said was contemplating something along this line, although it was marriage to a young beautiful Czech woman with whom he had interacted that he had in mind. As if to allay my doubts, he told me that this was a far more promising path for him, given the circumstances in which he found himself. Papa Ali was getting old; the entire family was looking for ways to accumulate savings to allow him to perform the hajj in Saudi Arabia, a rite of passage that was far beyond their means.

Marriage with a European woman would be easier, even though she was not Muslim, as Said could then work in a continent where wages were far higher than the meager $5/day that he could ever expect to earn at home. Moreover, a European woman could certainly afford air travel; she would be able to financially support her bon homme should the need arise.

I could not help Said in any way. Having to sacrifice one's own beliefs and leave loved ones behind for a foreign (usually hostile) land, is a difficult matter for migrants and refugees all around the world. In his shoes, I would very likely consider the same option. But I am not similarly situated as Said. I can afford to travel the world for no other divine purpose than pleasure, even if I was backpacking on a shoestring. I also have life opportunities that many Tunisians can never imagine. And when I think of all these asymmetries between me and Said, I could utter little in the way of advice or assistance to my friend.

Good-byes (Tunisia)

For lunch, Zena and Mabrouka teach me how to cook couscous Tunisian style. We laugh as the women, Khawla and I help each other out, peeling and dicing potatoes and bell peppers, mixing in spices, and steaming a mound of wheat granules on top of the stewing vegetable and lamb concoction. The pungent scents of turmeric, cumin and harisa (chili) soon fill the air, as Zena happily opens the lid and proceeds to pour the soup into the couscous.

The national dish is spicy, sweet and filling. In the typical Znaiti fashion, the guest is given the largest portions of the meat served with baguette slices and mint tea. This time around, I have mastered the art of eating with the first three fingers of the right hand: I used the bread to soak up the juices and fold in small pieces of carrots, lamb and peppers.

It is then that I learn more of the family's stories. Papa Ali has worked diligently his entire life; as a youth, he worked in Libya. Later on, he returned to Tunisia and became a farmer and owner of a small grocery shop near their home. Now, at age 70, Papa Ali has achieved most of his goals with the notable exception of one: the hajj pilgrimage to Mecca--the milestone event in a Muslim's life--for which his sons are trying hard to accumulate savings. The women, too, are helping Papa Ali towards the realisation of his lifelong dream: they tend a plot of ancestral land and knit yarns and make bead necklaces on the side. Apart from Said, though, none of them benefits directly from the booming tourist industry that is concentrated in Djerba, Tunis, Kairoan, and Matmata, the latter made famous by Star Wars.

Unfortunately, the urgent needs of the family and rural tradition also mean that Zena and Mabrouka will remain unwed and stay behind to take care of their elderly parents. Wrinkles and sunburns are strikingly visible on 29-year-old Mabrouka and 11-year-old Khawla, despite their relative youth. Yet, even without the luxuries and choices that many of us take for granted, the women of the family seem content, optimistic and never complain. Zena is the jokester and chatterbox in the house; we laugh a lot even though we barely understand each other. (I still remember the time when she picked up my deodorant and smelled it out of curiosity!). Mabrouka is the chef who knows how to make the best couscous, brik, macaroni, and chips. And Khawla is the mature girl who aids the family in every possible way she can, including cleaning, cooking, farming, and running errands; a girl half so mature as Khawla is increasingly difficult to find in today's developed world.

The sons of the family are amazing, too. Selam has a musical talent. He dances and plays Egyptian drums and a Tunisian leather bagpipe that emits a distinct high-pitched sound and tempo that are reminiscent of Tunisian artist Samir Lousiff's masterpieces. Habib, born in the same year as I, is always cheerful and laughing even though he wears scars, sunburns, and bruises from working long hours in construction. And Said, the friend who opened his home to me when I first visited Tunisia, at a time when I felt alone after parting with my travel buddies!

The heart-warming hospitality of the Znaitis has been inspirational to me. So when we wave good-bye, it is one of the most sentimental moments in life. I know that I will probably never see them again. But the memories of their smiles; their dances; their laughters; their food; and their kindness will never fade.

The Znaitis revisited (Tunisia)

Papa Ali is still the adorable, old but wise, man that I remember from my last trip. Though a man of modest means and no formal education, through hard work, honesty and faith in God he has managed to provide for his large family and has raised each of his children well. All of his sons, daughters and grandchildren are respectable, down-to-earth, and intelligent people who exude a lot of confidence and optimism despite struggling with poverty and little employment opportunities in a country where the average daily wage is around US$5.

Moreover, everyone helps each other out unconditionally, with a bond so enduing that many of us in the developed world would envy. Perhaps in spite, or because of, the lack of material wealth, the family provides the glue that help carry people through hard times.

I spend the next two days with the Znaitis while waiting for Said to come home. At night, I would sleep along with Hedi, Hamadi, Selam (27) and Habib (25) on the flat rooftop as cool breezes lightly brushed the skin, and the full moon and bright stars twinkled in the limitless expanse of darkness that has inspired many a philosopher, artist and scientist.

Before going to sleep, Hedi would pray to God in the typical Muslim ritual composed of Koranic recitations, hands raising to the ears, palms touching the chest, and kneeling on all fours--repeated several cycles. He would also sit beside me on the rooftop, inquiring about me and my family in French mixed with Arabic words, while Hamadi looks at me curiously with his innocent, shy smile. Sometimes we cannot understand each other; the small Egyptian Arabic phrasebook that I brought with me helps to bridge some of the gap, though only imperfectly (Note: Colloquial Egyptian Arabic is distinct from Tunisian Arabic, so much so that speakers of the dialects cannot understand each other without a third mediating language. An Algerian Arab once told me that he would have to switch to French or English in order to converse with a Lebanese). Regardless of the language barriers, Hedi's gestures of affection touched me deeply, giving me a sense of belongingness at a time when I haven't seen my parents for over a year.

The North African sun comes into full swing at 8 a.m., its brilliant rays waking the foreign guest at last. The Znaitis have long been awake, with the exception of Selam and Habib who are young men and naturally sleep late. The women have already fed the mama and baby goats in the small chamber round the corner of the house; fetched water from a nearby source; folded bedsheets and blankets; and swept and mopped the open courtyard where the family's daily activities would take place.

Mama Aida is now seated on the ground making na'na chai (mint tea) using a small kettle heated by a miniature "stove"; she would fan the charcoal from time to time to stop it from burning and keep the distinct mint flavour brewing. Meanwhile, Mabrouka (29) takes an iron plate with tasty brik (pastries filled with meat, vegie and eggs), cheese, milk and coffee--quite a divine, hearty breakfast she has cooked especially for me! All of us then sit in the courtyard sipping Mama Aida's specialty hot green tea, seasoned with handfuls of mint and sugar. It is certainly delicious, but what particularly touch me are the lengths to which the family have sought to make me feel at home.

The Village of Maztouria (Tunisia)

Said's family is delighted to see me. Having lavished kisses on my cheeks, Said's mother Aida takes me into the familiar courtyard where I used to spend hours, back in 2006, enjoying the family's conversations, songs, dances and laughter, interrupted occasionally by offers of nana'a (mint) tea, food and questions about my family.

This time, though, I am invited to a small bedroom that, like most other rooms, is whitewashed and windowless. A piece of cloth hangs over the doorway to ward off the intrusion of noxious insects as well as the unbearable summer heat--the "Tunisian sauna" as Aida laughingly calls. Inside, clean synthetic and handwoven mats cover the floor, while oversized Arabesque pillows lean cozily against the bright walls.

Said's 70-year-old father, Ali, a short but energetic man who has worked hard his entire life, summons me to lie down on a light mattress and pillow specially prepared for me. The family comes to greet me.

The Znaitis are a rather large family by Taiwanese standards. Three generations and 13 people live under the same roof, although Said has moved to Djerba for work to help support the family. Hedi, the eldest son, and his wife Riim have four children: Kawla (10), Hamadi (8) and Uiselle (1) are familiar to me. But I am pleasantly surprised to find that the Znaitis have had a new addition to the family: a 2-month-old toddler named Yusuf.

Without warning, in less than 20 minutes after my arrival, Said's sister Zena (36) brings me an omelet and a baguette, disregarding my protestation that I have already eaten. Momma Aida and Zena are especially chatty and inquisitive. Aida talks to me in a jovial voice accompanied by a huge smile and big, welcoming gestures. And though her Arabic is incomprehensible to me, her kindness and facial expression require no translation.

Reunion (Tunisia)

Tataouine had changed quite a bit in less than 2 years. Many avenues and housing were being developed as the pickup sped through roads that were now decorated with grandiose--though rather gaudy--ornaments like white cement statues and vases. A vast expanse of sand, hills and desert oases soon came into view, along with exotic, eco-friendly houses that were made of honey-infused clay. Occasionally, women adorned with brightly coloured red, blue or green flowing robes ebbed and flowed in the distance.

The lad who had invited me for an afternoon tea got off from the pickup, reminding the foreign guest to visit him the next day. In a minute, the pickup stopped abruptly in front of a humble adobe graced with two rusted iron gates. The kind interloper rushed indoors; an elderly man in a Muslim prayer cap and a woman adorned with a patterned red dress, silver bracelets and necklaces ran out to greet the Taiwanese visitor.

The man hugged me tightly to his heart; the woman kissed me five times on the cheeks, as if I were a long-lost son that had returned for a family reunion. I was touched, not believing this was the same family that I had stayed with for 3 unforgettable days nearly 2 years ago. And while the little Arabic I picked up was inadequate for the occasion, it did not seem to matter.

Emotions transcended social and language boundaries.

The Land of Star Wars (Tunisia)

I had read on Thorn Tree that at least 3 independent travellers had secured 7-day transit visas at an obscure Libyan consulate in the suburbs of Tunis. As I found out later, this was the only consulate in the entire Tunisia and possibly the only place in the world where one could apply for the special permit to enter Libya as a backpacker. The vast majority of travellers have to join expensive tour groups, paying at least $200/day, for the privilege of visiting Libya's impressive archaeological wonders. Independent traveling in the Jamahiriya is absolutely discouraged under official policy. As a Taiwanese American traveller, I knew for certain that my U.S. passport would not work. So I had to take chances on my Taiwanese passport, hoping the Libyans would not be too friendly with the Chinese as to deny my entry.

I crossed my fingers. Since the visa would take a week to process, I decided to venture south to Maztouria where my Tunisian friend Said's family resided, before returning to Tunis to retrieve my passport that would, hopefully, have obtained the desired permit.

Maztouria is a tiny, traditional Berber village with a population of 3,500 in the outskirts of Tataouine. In March 2006 I was lucky enough to be invited to stay at Said's home for 3 days and 2 nights. We didn't know each other beforehand; Said, 22, simply wanted to show me a part of his village life with typical Berber hospitality. This time around, Said told me to head straight to Maztouria, to which he would try to find a way to head home from Djerba where he was working.

I rang Said's sister when I arrived in the scorching hot Tataouine, a 40 degrees+"sauna" as Said's friendly sisters and mother laughingly described. I had forgotten about our language barriers: I could not speak Arabic and Said's sister could not understand French. But somehow this didn't matter. The public phone vendor quickly intervened to act as my interpreter, and kindly boarded a shared pickup-taxi to take me to Maztouria, located 10km from downtown Tataouine. En route, a young villager told me repeatedly that I must have a cup of mint tea with his family.

I was extremely happy to have come upon the familiar Berber hospitality that I fondly remembered from my last visit. And I was dying to see Said's big family.