A small city whose claim to fame has
been its UNESCO World
Heritage Site ‒ the
centuries-old, walled medina ‒
became notorious for the recent (26 June 2015) abhorrent slaughter of
tourists in its resort area of Port el-Kantaoui. It's
incomprehensible and infuriating that terrorists will target
unsuspecting innocents anywhere. The same horror intruded a few
months earlier this year in the city of Tunis. Three years ago I
spent four days in Sousse, and prefer to remember its MAGIC.
Our hotel was located in the same
resort area, set back a street or so from the beach itself. But we
were not there for sunbathing. The wonderful medina was our
destination, more than enough to fill days of exploration. It's a
renowned example of a medieval
Arab sea fort with well-preserved
walls facing the Mediterranean, including the ribat fortress and
watch tower, the Great Mosque, and kasbah,
most of them built in the ninth and tenth centuries A.D.
We set out early each morning before it
was too crowded. The only camel I encountered at Sousse was this
marble creature resting by the main medina gate. We could peek into
the women's entrance of the mosque, but non-Muslims are not allowed
beyond the courtyard. The medina is a community unto itself: shops,
crafts, food markets, bakeries, cafes, restaurants, and homes, all
set into a confusion of narrow, twisting streets.
No map available, we simply joined one
stream of shoppers into the open-air food market area, seeking a way
to reach the top of the wall for a view. Photography is my travel
buddy's speciality. We were obvious tourists, packing cameras and
water bottles.
With the help of an enthusiastic
volunteer guide we climbed a torturous series of stairways into,
around, and through what appeared to be someone's house, though
no-one paid us any mind. We emerged by a small tower on the top of
the wall. Volunteer guide then, as expected, requested a large tip
for his service but grinned cheerfully when we forked over ten
percent of what he suggested.
Our agenda included seeing the
archaeological museum and a home museum called a dar ―
they are family enterprises here and there to draw a few
tourist dollars,
and why not, because all the homes are centuries old,
filled with history.
Receiving a number of potentially helpful directions (French is known
much more than English but the prevalent Arabic reduces us to wild
sign language) took us by sacks of spices, fragrant bakeries,
butchers, jewellery stalls, leather products, ceramics and pottery
factories, carpets, even modern clothing shops, until it occurred we
were passing the same places twice.
Striking off into the covered byways,
we were waylaid in protracted negotiations for Tuareg-design
earrings. Then we lucked into a MUSÉE
sign for Dar Baba, not the house we sought but a small-ish,
seemingly middle-class home, not in any guidebooks. But
we could smell coffee in the lovely courtyard.
The
caretaker showed us the interesting bedrooms (ornate bed clothing)
colour and patterns galore, everything nicely exhibited but looking a
bit dusty. A small kitchen was on this level. He made a point of
showing us the tap for well water, "potable" he said.
Then
down we went into what he called the catacombs, very old underground
rooms where the family barricaded in times of invasion or war. The
equivalent of a bomb shelter. Such low ceilings, but everything
necessary for survival!
Coffee
and orange slices were brought to us in the lovely courtyard. The
coffee was unexpectedly Turkish, not to everyone's taste, so I
bravely consumed part of my friend's too, not wanting to offend our
kindly host.
Our
next plan was to follow the wall because logically it would sooner or
later take us to the archaeological museum in the kasbah section of
the wall. Alas, the interior side of the medina wall does not know
logic. Inadvertently passing the same ceramics souk several times
destined us to buy some from the bemused vendor. Finally, more
directions and steadily uphill to the highest point of the medina, we
located the kasbah, an imposing residence built originally for the
local administrator / military commander.
Housed
there now is the Sousse Archaeological Museum, at the furthest corner
of the medina from where we entered. Oh boy, was that museum worth
it! To say we were mesmerized is a huge understatement. I described
it in an earlier post.
Knowing
more or less where we were within the medina, heading back was not a
problem. Friendly locals showed us the top of the main street –
when I say street, you understand narrow. Luckily for
our weary bones it was all downhill. A long way downhill. Parts of
the street were quite dark although it was still afternoon; other
parts were covered. Some shopkeepers were beginning to close up. At
one shop a young woman, Layla, indicated the cameras, eager to pose
for several shots. It was surprising to me how many residents asked
to be photographed even though they only ever see the picture
momentarily on the camera screen. Traditionally dressed women,
though, are off limits.
When
we neared the Great Mosque and recognized some landmarks, aaaahh, a
cafe across from the mosque entrance for our favourite café
au lait. We speculate why a rack of robes stands outside the mosque,
monitored by a large burly man. Probably for men to don for prayers
if their street clothing is inappropriate. It's dark by the time we
reach our hotel. Did we remember to eat that day?
Well,
that was only the first day.
The
full stay in Sousse would be far
too long for a blog post (and
so many photos!).
Part
Two to follow, compressing the rest.
©
2015 Brenda Dougall Merriman
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