Escaping death in Tunisia — Chapter 1
It's my last day in Africa, and I'm about to dive into the pool of my hotel. Suddenly, the air shatters with the sound of machine guns. Rounds of gunfire are being fired just outside the walls. The optimist in me knows this is my last day on earth.
I scan the area, expecting a squad of cold-blooded assassins to burst at any moment. With my heart in my throat, I scramble to figure out an escape plan. Another round is fired. These are heavy weapons, and they are close. Just outside, I can tell. Is this how I check out of life?
Four days earlier, my friend Chris and I touched down at Tunis International Airport for a photographic expedition. We were welcomed by the relentless sun and the realization that we knew nothing about Tunisia, the country we had just landed in.
Our first lesson: there's no Uber here. Only Bolt, but they take cash and nothing else. Not like a Bolt or an Uber.
After an adventure in currency exchange, we found our ride. An old yellow cab, wearing its history of traffic crashes like battle scars. We hopped in and were instantly introduced to the local tradition of disregarding road safety.
Our driver, a multitasking genius, had his attention divided between cigarettes, his phone, and, occasionally, the steering wheel. Chris reached for the seatbelt. I quickly intervened. "If the driver doesn’t wear it, we don’t wear it," I whispered. Those are the rules.
As we lurched into the anarchic ballet of Tunisian traffic, a mix of apprehension and excitement filled the air. We were on the brink of something far more thrilling than we could ever dream.
Camel parking
After a 20-minute journey, we arrived at our hotel, described on Google as a five-star marvel set against the idyllic backdrop of Gammarth's beaches. We looked for signs of those five stars, but couldn’t find them. Three at best.
We left our stuff in our room — small, with two single beds and no space between them — and immediately went to check out the beach. It promised to be a slice of paradise. It wasn't. As we stepped out, we saw a couple of camels across the street.
The Camel Parking Manager was quick to approach us. He offered a camel tour of the coastline. We politely declined. "The beach is beautiful," he assured us, "but whatever you do, when you get there, don't turn left. Only right."
Francesco
We didn't ask why, thanked the man, and, naturally, proceeded to walk. At the beach, of course, we turned left and quickly learned why the route was to be avoided. While the right side had the façade of expensive hotels, the left side was lined with ruins from what seemed like better days in the past. Everything was falling apart: walls crumbling, resembling a war zone.
We ditched the beach and turned back to the hotel for a high-class lunch in front of the swimming pool. From the Italian restaurant’s menu, we picked a dish of giant shrimp. The waiter, who called Chris and me “Francesco”, insisted we order pizza. “It’s very good,” he said. We told him we wanted those shrimps, and he didn’t look too happy about it.
The shrimp were not great (let alone giant), so we ordered a supplementary pizza.
Carpet shopping
In the morning we left for our actual job, a long walk around town with a local guide, recommended by one of Chris’ friends. Our guide was friendly, spoke good English, and knew his ways well enough. He was too fast, though, and we couldn’t take our time at each location. Except for this one place, where we could see the city from the top. A beautiful view that included the market and the oldest mosque ever built in Africa, we’ve been told.
On our way out, I saw a couple of tourists being guided to a tapestry tour. Chris and I looked at each other and without saying a word we immediately knew it. This was the Carpet Sales Trick Shop, the one we hear about in every story of people traveling around these bands and duped into buying the most expensive carpet of all time.
Thankfully, Chris and I are experienced travelers and Brazilians, making us completely immune to those unscrupulous artisans’ mind tricks. “No matter what they say or do, we say no and don’t buy anything,” I whispered to Chris. He agreed.
We bought two expensive carpets, paying double the price for each.
The Smurf
On our way out of the market, we stopped by a large and beautiful mosque. We took pictures of the architecture and the people. It was a beautiful afternoon, and I was just savoring the moment when a young guy, who was taking selfies nearby, approached me speaking something in Arabic. He looked like one of these influencers on Social Media but didn’t seem to be in the act of influencing much. He wore a blue hat, blue jacket, blue trainer pants, and blue shoes. Once it was clear I couldn’t understand him, he finally addressed me in broken English. “You took pictures of me and you have to delete them.”
You see, asking a photographer to delete a picture is like asking a mother to kill her baby. We tend to avoid it. “How do you know I took your picture?”, I asked. I am very discreet when doing street photography and try my best to not let the subject notice what I am doing, so it won’t disturb the beauty of the moment and the truth behind the scene.
“You took three photos of me, I saw it,” he said. I laughed weirdly. “Three photos? That’s very specific.” I had not taken three photos of him, I was sure. It was more like five. But I wasn’t going to crack. It was then that he played his strongest card, a veiled threat. “I am a member of the army and you can’t take my picture,” he said in a somber voice.
Somehow that move made my already faint will to cooperate disappear completely. “You don’t know if I took your photo,” I said, leaving the man alone. A photographer should only delete pictures because they are ugly or unnecessary. That rule might not apply to babies.
To evade the scene I entered the mosque. Took my shoes off and, once again, very discreetly, observed and photographed some remarkably beautiful scenes, with the help of a very low-in-the-sky sun that was shining a golden aura into the place, casting beautiful shadows and silhouettes. And then I saw it, in the last square of my peripheral vision, the man in blue had just walked in.
End of Chapter 1
Rodrigo Bressane
Tunis, Tunisia
👉🏻 Follow me on 𝕏 @bressane