on Toilets

IF YOU EVER BACKPACK in Tunisia, be sure to use the bathroom before stepping out of the airport, as it may be the nicest you’ll use for a while.  The restroom ladies might expect a tip, but it’s impossible if you haven’t yet done the currency exchange.  Each time I thought it couldn’t be rougher, the next toilet proved me wrong.  And each time it was necessary to use the bathroom, the more grateful I was for all of the little things in life here to enjoy.  My first two nights were spent in the capitol, Tunis, at a decent hotel.  The shared toilet was right around the corner from my room.  At times, a puddle accumulated on the ground where the right foot stands while on the toilet.  But, there was always toilet paper and the flushing mechanism worked. 

Moving on to the city of Sousse, the toilets went downhill.  Among so many switches, the bathroom light switch was nowhere to be found.  In the raunchy closet of a bathroom whose size required strategic entry, I left the door cracked open allowing the outside passage light to enter.  Judging from the smell, it was probably a blessing to not have seen the facility flooded with light. 

The next morning, enter the chic, sunny café.  After indulging in a café au lait and a croissant whose center revealed a creamy, subtle dab of chocolate, nature called.  Although the kind waiter had just given me a napkin for my hands, I forgot to take it with me to the restroom.  Crap!  Seriously.  Instead of stocking the restrooms with toilet paper, there’s always a water hose.  In India, it was often a faucet with a mini bucket for water.  The greater thing about India is that the toilets were usually squatter-style.  Set into the ground, they require one to squat down.  In my opinion, they’re brilliantly cleaner.  No tissue?  No problem.  Squatting always allows for a naturally clean break.  Here, it’s a rubbery or metal hose, fastened to a faucet, hanging beside the toilet.  Rather than wasting paper and clogging the toilets, simply spray the area to be cleaned with water from the hose.  Hahahahaha!  Oh, how I longed for a squatter style throne.  So there I was, having to spray this water hose between my legs and all around.  The gracious mirror was big and low, if needed, to ensure everything was washed.  In the end, my ass was a little damp, but at least it was clean. 

I’ve already written about the shower in Kairoaun, so now I’ll move on to the toilet of Khazazia.  Joking, I asked Nadhem if I’d need to go outside for the toilet.  Indeed, I did.  Among the roaming poultry, not far from the fenced-in sheep, the aunt led me to a small door less, barn-like structure.  In the corner were old sheepskins piled onto other things.  In the middle of the dusty concrete floor was the toilet bowl, just a bowl.  No back, no flusher.  Beside it was a large jug of water with a bucket.  Auntie lifted a 3-feet-high slab of wood and propped it up against the doorway for privacy.  I was truly understanding and living the “right hand is for eating, left hand is for cleansing oneself and using the bathroom” aspect of being in that part of the world. 

In Kairoaun, at a café, I used a toilet in a back room where there was no light.  Gotta appreciate those flashbulbs on the mobile phones. 

At one house, I had to ask someone to show me how to flush by pouring water into the toilet.  I didn’t realize it required such a great amount.  It wasn’t just any toilet; it was a filthy toilet in a bathroom that smelled like a Porta-Jon.  The next day, I had the luxury of showering in that very bathroom.  At the time there was no hot water, so they made some for me.  In the shower was placed a large plastic tub, filled with warm water and a small bucket for pouring.  The bathroom may have been below my standards of cleanliness, but it wasn’t mine.  And that day, the dwellers of that house went beyond all expectations to accommodate me and make me feel at home.  In the midst of a nasty toilet, my ass was still grateful.  

t.g.i.f.

FEELING UNDER THE WEATHER, Sana apologized for not being able to accompany me to the Friday prayers.  As we entered the mosque’s wide courtyard, Nadhim beckoned a woman walking in front of us.  He asked if she wouldn’t mind guiding me in, as this was new to me.  She agreed, and Nadhim made his way to the men’s entrance.  Shorter, older, and with a few gold teeth, the gentle woman led me to the women’s section.  She showed me where to place my shoes, on a shelf near a large pillar.  The prayer hall was full of women of all ages, and a few children.  Some wore dresses, some wore skirts, with every kind of hijab one could imagine:  black, black with rhinestones, busy patterns, subdued solids, striped, flowered, bright, paisley, some with silvery strands of thread, others modest and blending with the skin.

We found our places in the last row, near the open entryway to the courtyard.  As I faced forward for the first rounds of prayer, I was overtaken by this amazing, new experience.  I stood there.  I didn’t try to remember, nor did I forget, I just stood.  I was in the Great Mosque in Kairouan, Tunisia, and it was beautiful.  After a few moments, I focused and prayed.  We sat for several minutes, waiting for the Imam to speak.  I couldn’t grasp all that he was saying, but did understand the reference he made to Mother’s Day, noting that mothers must be celebrated each and every day.  Following his words, the worship began.  Shoulder to shoulder, we prayed in unity.  It was yet another great day to be alive, and a moment I’ll not soon forget. 

Following the prayer, I thanked the lady and made my way out to find Nadhim.  We walked around the corner and sat on a bench in front of the mosque.  Scores of tall, blonde, summery-dressed tourists flooded the plaza, taking photos of the holy site and its dispersing crowd of worshipers.  As the day-trippers hovered around the big, luxury buses, I was grateful to not be one of them.  For the rest of the afternoon, Nadhim & I walked around the city, ending the evening enjoying a sheesha smoke at a roadside café.  He and a friend walked me back to my hotel, and tomorrow we would be off to a Land of Olives… Khazazia. 

 

A holy city, a stranger, and a peculiar shower

THE SUN LOWERS, presenting a rainbow of hues from orange to blue along the horizon.  The cotton-ball clouds nestle themselves among snow-covered peaks.  By now, we’re probably flying over the south of France.  The fresh, cold appearance of those clouds below is such an extreme contrast to the days of dry, warm Tunisia. 

Without any contact, without using the Internet, having lived solely among Arabic-French speaking Tunisians for six days, it seems I’m reentering the modern world.  I don’t know if I want to, but that’s the way life goes. 

From the seat pocket in front of me, I remove the airline magazine and peruse the articles on the small gem of North Africa that is Tunisia.  I read about the fourth most holy city (behind Mecca, Medina, and Jerusalem), the new capitol of the world of Islam, Kairouan.  After having spent the last four nights under the great care of one of her families, it was so strange to read a formal article, from a tourist perspective.  I intended on wandering the streets of that old holy city, visiting her great mosque, and staying there for just one night.  It is easy to say that the meetings and events that took place there changed my life, but it’s important to remember that with each moment, we can be changing ourselves.  ... ... ...   

So there I was in Kairoaun, Tunisia.  After a divine season of learning as much as I could about Islam, here was the perfect opportunity for me to connect with others, to know Allah, through prayer in a mosque.  The ride in the shared taxi (louage) lasted just under an hour.  I arrived to the hotel, recommended by a fellow traveler, before ten in the morning.  Just as Eugene described, the rooms were set around a gorgeous courtyard.  The man at reception gave a warm welcome, offering the choice between two rooms.  After settling in, I headed back down to settle up.  I inquired about prayer time at the mosque, and we talked about Islam.  The man at the desk congratulated me for having accepted this religion of truth, this beautiful way of life, and advised me on the appropriate time to get to the mosque.  It was still mid-morning, and I felt like stepping out to see the city and grab a bite to eat. 

 

I passed by a few small restaurants, not having any idea of where I was going or what foods would be found.  Across the street, a young stranger greeted me in French.  I greeted him in Arabic and continued down the road.  Turning around a corner, we met again and he accompanied me as I glanced at a restaurant’s sidewalk counter.  He asked me what I wanted.  This food was unfamiliar, so I told him I’d eat anything without animals.  Seconds later, an egg and vegetable chapati sandwich was made for me, though I forgot to emphasize “no tuna”.  As Nadhim sat across the table from me, I happily ate.  I wanted so badly to share with him, but he refused.

After lunch Nadhim suggested we pass by the house, and then he’d show me around.   I met his cousin, Sana, a trained English teacher who is currently employed at a factory.  She and an aunt welcomed me to the kitchen where we chatted about Kairouaun and the Great Mosque.  As I was too full to eat it, Sana insisted I take a packet of yogurt with me as Nadhim and I were leaving to stroll around town.  We walked north to see the huge, round Aghlabid Pools and made our way through the narrow streets of the city.  

 

Among the many interesting sights of Kairouan, we stopped by to see a camel who walks a circle around a well to provide spring water for the drinking.  Rounding back to the hotel, Nadhim dropped me off and promised to return to take me to the Friday Prayer. 

I had thirty minutes to get ready, and the shower in my room was abnormal.  The water wouldn’t come out, so I tried the adjacent sink.  It took a minute, but water finally began to flow.   I rushed to turn on the shower and it worked… for mere seconds.  I left it on and further loosened the sink’s knob.  I went back and forth from the showerhead to the sink, trying to suds up, trying to rinse off, as the water dripped, stopped, and flowed alternately and simultaneously from the showerhead and the sink’s faucet.  Where was my camel to get the water flowing?  This was a most ridiculous bathing experience, and it was cracking me up. 

Finally, I was rinsed and ready to dress.  My clothes from the backpack weren’t exactly the finest, but they would do.  Pink pants, flowing floral purple long sleeves, and sandals.  Time to try the hijab.  It was my first time wearing one, and I wrapped it the best I could.  I dashed outside to find Nadhim waiting for me.  As we walked toward the house for Sana, I tried to explain the feeling of having happy butterflies in my stomach.  First day in hijab, first time to pray in the mosque.  Off we went… 

The Echoes of Islam

(dessert: the best for last in my religious buffet)

It’s a little after nine, and I’m sitting on a too-soft hotel bed in the coastal town of Sousse.  After a two-hour train ride, followed by long walks of continuously losing my bearings in the labyrinth of the medina, it’s good to be in this run-down hotel room.  The further the sun goes down in Tunisia, the more Tunisian males decide to walk beside me asking me the same scripted questions that lead me to lie and tell them, “Yes, I do have a boyfriend here in Tunisia”. 

Mishary Al-Afasy’s recitation of the Qur’an soothes my tired soul, and the nightfall call to prayer echoes powerfully through the opened, screen-less window.  I was gently awoken around 4:00 this morning by the call to prayer, and it was nice.  Though it proclaims, “prayer is better than sleep”, I chose to resume my slumber.  Despite this morning’s lack of prayer, for the past few months I have allowed Islam to enter my heart.  It began with a bizarre moment of realization.  It was something like a renewal of the wonder and awe that I’ve felt for the life force behind everything, that great energy that keeps the world spinning around.  Since that moment, some divinity has guided me to learn more about Islam, to further contemplate the concept of God, and to learn proper methods of ablution and prayer.  This hasn’t made me any weirder than I already am.  It’s made me more grateful for every moment and more acknowledging of the uncertainties of anything beyond the present. 

So I purchased a hijab and have no idea how to pin this thing.  The scarf wraps around the head, for the purpose of covering the neck and hair.  I’ve almost figured it out, needing only to perfect the strategic placement of a pin or two.  It’s not that I’ll wear it regularly, but I need to enter the holiest site in the country, the Great Mosque in Kairouan.  I need to pray there, and it’s open to Muslims only.  The city ranks among the holiest in the world, after Mecca, Medina, and Jerusalem. 

Besides the never-ending hunger for new experiences, I’ve had a thing for religion.  Growing up Catholic gave me the appreciation of rituals.  Perhaps more importantly came the appreciation of fantastically divine art and ornate stained glass windows.  Frankly, the religious aspect of Catholicism didn’t compel me to continue my practice beyond the age of about fourteen.  Since then, I’ve visited other churches, including Presbyterian, Lutheran, and Episcopalian.  I’ve participated in a Buddhist temple stay, which included the completion of 108 proper bows before most people wake up.  I’ve chanted in worship to the Hindu Lord Shiva while gazing at the flames of burning ghee and cow dung.  I have, on the inside, at times ridiculed others who seemed to take religion too seriously.  Now, here I am, the eve of a journey to a very holy city for my first experience of prayer in a mosque.  God willing. 

Out in the hallway, there are about six light switches.  Not one of them turns on the light in the shared, smelly toilet room.  Good thing the sun comes up so early these days.  Pardon me, but if I were a man, I might be tempted to piss out the window.  The adventures of solo travel end up being tests of the self.  Rather than allowing things to become bothersome, one ideally learns to be appreciative of the little things we mostly take for granted.

First morning in Tunisia

IS THAT REALLY a packet of fig jam on the breakfast tray?  I may be seated calmly in post-yoga bliss, about to enjoy my first breakfast in Tunis, but my inner being has been jumping up and down, shouting HELL YES, as the first 19 hours spent in this sunny North African country have been outstanding.  As I savor the hard roll, Arabic music videos play on the TV.  The mustached man behind the modest counter steams milk and serves out trays of rolls and cafés au lait to the steady trickle of morning diners.  In this hotel dining room, watercolor and oil paintings adorn the upper part of the walls, the lower half being tiled with geometric patterns of yellow, green, black, and white.  After 19 hours of travel from Korea to Tunisia, last night’s slumber on the yoga mat on the tiled floor was deep and refreshing… …

The seats of the Turkish Airliner were a shade of turquoise that reminded me of the freshness I had just left in Jeju.  The snack of hazelnuts and sour cherry nectar gave me the false impression that the upcoming meals might be slightly pleasing.  As I settled into my place, an aisle seat with two vacancies to the left, the air’s heavy fragrance of jasmine perfume was a prelude to the symphony of sweet, musky, floral, smoky scents that would continue to seduce my being for the hours to come.  Thankfully, the meal on the connecting flight from Istanbul passed as flavorful spicy tofu and curried potatoes.  On that flight, I was stuck in the middle.   The man to my right, who had been studying what appeared to be the script of a play in French and Arabic, fell into a deep sleep after his second cup of wine.  The Tunisian to my left enthusiastically suggested an itinerary for the next week, to include a delve into the South. 

Upon arriving, I found the airport to be clean, humble, and elegant with cool tiled floors, and quick yet non-smiling security inspectors.  I attempted to use a pay phone to call a hotel, but was unable to hear or understand anything beyond the surrounding bustle.  Of course, the reservation office only booked mid to high-range hotels, but the man kindly showed me to the bus stop, as the area was under construction.  Because of luggage, I opted for a taxi.  I checked out a driver-recommended hotel, but it was too expensive for me and too far from the center of town.  Though initially pushy, the driver appreciated my attempt at Arabic and even began speaking to me in a ridiculously proper form that I once knew so well.  There was no more English between us, and it was good.  I had him drop me in the center of town.  He asked if I knew what I was doing and pointed to the area of cheap hotels.  As I confirmed my inner compass was working, I assured him I’d be fine.  Pulling my over-stuffed suitcase, backpack in tow past the lunch peak of outdoor cafés, up and down sidewalk curbs, I was so very happy to be warmed by the Tunisian sun.

Thanks to the already useful guidebook (The Rough Guide to Tunisia), I easily found my first choice of hotels, De France.  Before the very friendly reception, the beautiful blue, white and burnt sienna patterns of the lobby’s floor tiles impressed me.  Upon opening the shutters, breezy rays of sunlight filled the room.  Perfect.  Venturing out, I walk past the square, dominated by the old Bab al Bahr (Gate of the Sea) and into the medina where the streets narrow into the meandering mazes of markets.  After making a short loop, I return to the square to sit at an outdoor café table for people watching over a cool citronade.  Eventually, I get to chatting with a Tunisian, who takes me through the winding medina to the Zaytouna Mosque where we sit on the steps. 

I head back to the hotel to meet an English Eugene who happens to be writing a book about everything, to include his experiences across the Middle East, the “ideal” form of the hermaphrodite, and surely plenty of scholarly info across the subjects of history and economics.  We go out to meet a friend of his friend, Sofeen, who turns out to be a well-spoken man who has taught Arabic in the States.  Over mint tea in a cafe, the two discuss economics, discrimination, and French colonization.  I’m open to learning, so I try to listen.  The oil painting mounted above Sofeen’s head, depicting a woman who eerily looks like Kate Moss, serves as a nice distraction.  We head for dinner and Sofeen gives me directions to a school in town that runs an English education program.  The cheese and mushroom omelet leaves me pleasantly full and I’m back to the hotel and sleeping before 11.  Alhamdulillah.

… Breakfast was simple, yet satisfying, and I’ll soon be off for a lovely walk around the capitol city…