What I remember about driving in Tunisia

Inauspicious. We were less than five minutes into our adventure on the streets of Sousse when the car ran out of fuel. Our rental agent had given us the car, empty of fuel, and explained that you can't leave cars sitting around with full tanks of gas. He had advised us to get to the nearest gas station before we set out, but before we could get there the car sputtered and died right where the side road spat cars into the anarchy of a Tunisian main street. I stepped out of the car, apologetic, hands out, supplicating. I was nervous to be where I was, in the situation I was in. In your home country, you never hear anything but the horror stories about other countries; the reasons to stay home. I think now I'd rather break down in Sousse than in parts of Jacksonville. Helping hands descended on the car from all directions; one man filled my gas tank with fuel he'd siphoned from his own. He asked for 4 dinars for the trouble and the fuel - more would have been fair. Another man approached me as I wrung my hands on the side of the road, asking me where I was from. I was from America. This news delighted, and I was welcomed heartily to his country.

A few minutes later, we were fully fueled and climbing the pock-marked hill to our rented apartment. As I was in France, I was nervous about driving here. Nervous about having signed over 1000 dinars as a deposit in a city with such a high incidence of scratched and dented vehicles. Our car, however, was pretty shitty in its own right... the shocks were shot - I can only imagine that this is a common problem in Sousse.

 We drove past a half-starved waif of a cat scavenging from a dumpster. Ooh, kitty! Rebecca purred.

Oh... donkey! I replied. An ass-drawn cart was parked in front of our apartment. I'll have to be careful about those.

***

In the cities, the lines on the road are suggestions. The direction of traffic is taken in the same spirit. You drive on the right, as in America, as in France. But you should expect to see the occasional car or moped speeding toward you in your own lane. The rightmost side of the road seems to be reserved for these; salmon traveling upstream. If you're used to driving in a high school parking lot after school, you're ready. The roads in Tunisia are like the markets: It's anarchy, with everyone out for his or herself. Unregulated, unbridled. The only intervention from the police seems to be at the roundabouts or on the highways, when you may be stopped as you pass, presumably to be checked for papers. We were stopped once, as we traveled back from Hammamet.

- Est-ce que vous êtes français? The officer asked.
- Non, Américain. The officer's face brightened. He continued in French.
- I've never met an American before. When I've spoken to Americans on chat rooms and things, none of them seem to know where Tunisia is!
- Well, we are living in France at the moment.
- Oh! Well, I wish you a good day, and a good stay in our country.
- Thank you.

***

- I'm trying to think of how I'd describe this if I were to write about it, like maybe later for my blog.
- Okay.
- I feel like, the lanes are polite suggestions but it's up to you sorta thing.
- Yeah.
- Even the direction of traffic.

Rebecca and I are driving along the coastal highway in Sousse. The Mediterranean sparkles impossibly blue. Yesterday, Monday, we drove south to El Djem, then inland to Kairouan. Today, we are following the coast northwards. In my mind, a half formed quest to capture the olive groves of Northeast Tunisia in their glory. This part of the world is beautiful, with gently rolling hills, and groves of olive trees with their curious silvery-green color.

We drove up the coast to Hammamet, a town gently dismissed by our landlord as "touristique". It was, and beautiful. I helped some fishermen pull their boat to shore, and learned and then forgot the Arabic word for "C'mon!" as it was shouted to galvanize the group to collective effort. We changed into our bathing suits in the shelter of the Hammamet fishing boats and plunged into the Mediterranean.

I lost my wallet on the beach in Hammamet. I would have driven away without it, but the parking monitor approached to demand a dinar for having parked where I did. Annoyed, I fumbled for my wallet. Annoyance turned quickly to panic as I realized I couldn't find my wallet. I ransacked the car, then stumbled blindly onto the beach, retracing our footprints. I searched among the boats, and finally came to where we had gone swimming. Rebecca went back to the restaurant where we'd shared a bottle of rosé. Finally, on the point of tears, I spotted my sand-colored wallet lying in the sand. Back at the car, the parking monitor laughed at my relief and gave me a hug.

Good thing I came, huh? How about a dinar for helping you find the wallet?

I gave him four. It was a good thing he came along.