Journey to the airport / First Two Days in Tunis

We had to get the train to Gatwick airport at 11PM and Ali hadn't even packed yet. This was because she spent the night before boiling me alive as she tossed and turned with a fever of 38.9. At one point she kissed me in some vain attempt at proving to herself that she was not ill at all, oh no, because ill people don't kiss. Her stubborn yet feeble attempt was emotionally touching to see but physically felt like 3rd degree burns on my lips. No wonder they went so flaky. She kept complaining she was cold and clung on to me through the night as I kept the rest of my body out of the covers to avoid heat stroke. I tried to stay awake through the night to make sure she would be OK but by quarter past one I was exhausted and selfishly went to sleep. The next day I woke up and was in such a good mood after seeing Ali up and about in comparison to the cold, lifeless body I expected to find next to me. What can I say, I’m a worrier.

So, that’s why Ali hadn’t packed. I had told her to see a doctor but she refused and spent the day playing Guitar Hero to distract herself from illness and deliver her from evil, for thine is the music, the star power and the rawkness. Amen. I spent the day feeling great and watching ‘Futurama’ up until about 6PM when my throat had a little catch in it. I was coughing a little but thought nothing of it. We left at half 10 and arrived at Gatwick at 12. Only 6 hours to go in a cold, air conditioned airport. Great. It wasn't long until I started getting chest pains whenever I exhaled; this was soon followed by the shits and a fever. Just what you need before you go to Africa. 

We waited an hour to hand our luggage over, both snotty and aching. Ali couldn't even speak and would express herself verbally with a menacing whisper in a slightly Cockney accent, even though she is from Leeds. 'Eastenders' has a lot to answer for. There was an awful woman waiting in the line who would not shut up complaining and forced her past experiences of travelling to Tunisia on to our suffering ears. It was just our luck that she sat behind us on the plane, griping and grousing the whole journey: “It’s appalling we are holed up like this, shouldn’t be allowed. Sardines have more space than us. Just trying to save money aren’t they? It really is dreadful and the size of that woman’s bag, tsk, shouldn’t be allowed on the plane. And she’s got one on her back. Excuse me Miss, didn’t think you were allowed two big bags on a flight like this. Tsk. I feel like mackerel in a tin of sardines I do. I can’t even fit in my seat properly; disgraceful.” Why don’t you lose some weight then you horrible fat bitch? I turned to Ali who was biting her thumb in a rage and said “I hope she’s not at our hotel. She’s horrible.” We later heard then saw her in the hotel restaurant when we went down for dinner in the evening. Typical.

The plane landed next to sand and water at 9.30AM. We took a tiny mini bus to the hotel which didn't even have seatbelts (the mini bus that is, not the hotel. Why would a hotel need seatbelts?). Fearing for my life as the driver pelted it past other cars in some sort of competitive death race I distracted myself by looking out of the window. There were dogs running about in the roads and Ali sternly said “Don’t touch the dogs Jo” like I had suddenly morphed into Lenny from 'Of Mice and Men' and wanted to “Stroke ‘em and hold ‘em and squeeze ‘em George.” For God's sake. As much as I love dogs I'm not going to stroke any straggy looking ones that could give the mouldy rottweilers in the Resident Evil games a run for their money in the ugliness and rabidity stakes. It was a big shock to the cultural system being in Tunisia. There were cow heads with the tongue lolling out in shop windows and men were everywhere you looked; in bars and café’s, in cars and on the streets. Hardly any women were to be seen. I was told this was because the women worked and a lot of the men are unemployed.

The Hotel Marhaba is a beautiful looking hotel with marble floors and walls. The decor is slightly dated but our room was large with a comfortable bed, TV and a balcony overlooking the palm trees at the front of the hotel. Ali and I both had a high fever but were quietly smug at how good we looked. Flushed in the face and shiny eyed, maybe this illness wasn't so bad after all? We spent the rest of the day in bed drinking unnatural amounts of water. I had four litres of water in twelve hours and only went to the toilet twice.


Day two:


No more looking good. Good looks all gone. Instead we were left with clammy skin, glazed eyes streaming noses and watering eyes. To get some fresh air and escape the acrid, foisty stench of our hotel room that was brimming with germs and bad breath we took a walk along beach. Port El Kantoui has beautiful beaches with stunningly clear sea water. We walked down the golden beach and around the port where we were harassed by men. It reminded me of Peter out of Family Guy when he tries to chat up women: 


“Hey pretty lady how ya doin’? I’m Peter-“ (woman walks off) “Well screw you you’re a bitch” 


We soon realised that Tunisia is no place for two young women with no male company. You are either harassed for your money or for your body, or for both. We noticed a woman in her fourties with metallic eye make up on smooching a young Tunisian in his twenties. She was at the bank, getting money out for him and had a black eye under the metallic silver she had chosen to decorate her face with. Quite depressing, no?

Trotting up and down the road that lay before the hotels was a man on horse and cart. He halted to talk to some English holiday makers only to be interrupted by Ali who shouted at him “That’s disgusting. Feed your horses!” Stunned that someone with a vagina has spoken to him in such a harsh manner he asked “What?” to which Ali repeated “You are disgusting. Feed your horses.” Then grumbled to me about how none of the money he makes must go on carrots for those poor horses and how the Japanese are really nice to animal but in African countries they are cruel. Yeah, what about that girl who gouges cat’s eyes out with her stiletto heels?


We noticed the horribly loud and crass woman was walking towards us but managed to avoid her by pretending to observe the statue of the giraffe we had walked past four times already. Still feeling ill with temperatures of over 38 degrees we decided to go to a pharmacy. The pharmacist wanted 51 danir (around £26.00) for some antibiotics we didn't even need. Rip off. We brought some paracetamol and fever sachets and went back to the hotel room to do an online NHS quiz on fevers. It has obvious questions hinting at septicaemia, meningitis and appendicitis. No, no, no. “Do you have general aches and pains, a snotty nose and high fever?” Yes, and lots of the above too. We have a virus. Woo.

Slick hair, eyes that can barely stay open and a red nose. Fit.

As part of our package holiday we get free breakfast and dinner so we went down to see what culinary delights they had for us. Not much that I would call a culinary delight... just lots of mushed up, bland food to suit the tastes of the ancient and dentured; otherwise known as the majority of holiday makers in the hotel. Lovely. We were sat right next to other people, so it was hardly a romantic atmosphere for two rheumy eyed lesbians hoping for a loved up break.  We were exhausted and annoyingly the couple next to us fancied a chat. We had to listen to them as they regaled us with their experiences of Tunisia. So many seem to come back year after year and enjoy acting like smug tour guides or “know it all fuck alls” as my sister would call them. They told us the Tunisian for "fuck off" if we are harassed which was hardly a polite way to talk to a monster that the Westernised world has created. You can't create a beggar and then scold the beggar for begging and since when did politeness cost anything? It just seemed as though this couple came back each year to feel like they were somebody important, where their small amount of money made them rich and special compared to being Mr and Mrs Normal at home. I found it very unattractive and depressing. 


We were also subjected to horror stories from the women on the other side of us as they told us of white women going into carpet shops only for the doors to be barricaded by men while the men inside raped them: “The women would be covered in love bites. It was just awful.” one of them said as though this was an hourly occurence in Tunisia in the 70's and probably still goes on now. Indeed, it would be awful... if there was any truth in it! We left our new dinner guests to their ignorant conversations and went for a walk through the ports funfair. It was dated and had paintings of classic Disney characters and a few typical rides like Dodgems. I doubted I could ever get used to the attention from Tunisian men, knowing I am more of an observer of what goes on around me rather than a person whose desire it is to be observed.