It’s Independence Day in Tunis, and Ben Ali is everywhere. Ben Ali is remarkable in that, at seventy, he has apparently not a single grey hair on his head, and a benign paternal smile surrounding a bulbous nose. This of course is a cheap dig… but you have to admit that, with the streets and squares festooned with his likeness, he does lay himself wide open.
The food is good in Tunisia too… harissa with everything, and lots of olives, oil and good bread, and vin gris to wash it down. Unlike Algeria, Tunisia makes most of its income from tourism – up to six million tourists a year, which, along with its minor deposits of oil and gas, is enough to keep things ticking over. The tourists are encouraged to stay in the hotels on the coastal strip, and there bask on the white sand beaches beneath palm trees, making the occasional foray into the souks and medinas to buy rugs and birdcages. We met a group of happy Germans who told us they neither knew nor cared what country they were in. As long as there was sunshine.
The city of Tunis itself is not terribly exciting, the medina is busy during the day but silent at night, except for a few old palaces which have been turned into chic and expensive restaurants. My favourite lunch though was always to be found in a street café where for a few pence you can have a fresh, tasty feast of beans, eggs, tomatoes and bread. The site of Carthage, with its view across to the horned mountains on the far side of the bay, is dazzling.
