Our Mohamed was a professional tour guide, and our private guide for the next two days. He led Catherine, Brian and me through the medina, which is the old walled city. Since it was an unofficial tour, Mohamed could take us wherever he liked. We started in the office of the medina historical society, which is house (dar) from the 19th century. It had ornately carved ceilings, plaster molding, decorative tile walls and floors. These houses all have drainage pipes to catch rainwater from the roof and carry it down to a cistern below the floors. From a well in the courtyard you can bring water into the house bucket by bucket - almost indoor plumbing. The office workers were happy to let us wander around. They had stacked a few dead computers against the beautifully tiled wall and the only sound was the faint grind of 1990's-era printer.
This dar and other beautiful homes blend in with the white stucco of the medina. The only indicator of what might be behind their walls are the huge keyhole-shaped doors. They are often doors within doors, which can swing wide open for livestock carrying supplies, or open in smaller pieces for people. I have a thing for photos of pretty doors. Here are a few.
We wandered through the winding alleys of the souk, the central market, where one narrow row of stalls selling jewelry lead to another selling hats and another selling satin wedding accessories and another selling shoes... and on and on. Mohamed pointed out the spot where Barbary pirates sold their captives as slaves.
Somehow we wound our way out of the souk and got to Tourbet El Bey, mausoleum of the Ottoman rulers and their families. The place was closed for rennovation, and probably has been for over a decade. Mohamed, however, knew a guy. He knocked on the mausoleum door - no answer. The woman across the street poked her head out a window and shouted down something in Tunisian (technically it is Arabic, but the dialect is so distinct that it might as well be another language). Then her husband leaned out the front door, stroking their cat, and called over something else. Mohamed went back and forth with them for a while about (I imagine) getting someone to let us in the mausoleum when the big door creaked open. The smiling old security guard was there to let us in for our own unofficial tour. I can't say I understood everything he was telling me in French, but he was proud to show us around the place. Mohamed also filled in his own explanations - generally the complete opposite of what the security guard said. We were the only people there.
Rather than an old Catholic crypt or a solemn graveyard, this burial place was bright and beautiful.
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| The hats designate the deceased's military rank |
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