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Tunisia
Tunis.
I The Approach
When old travellers get together, the talk turns, sooner or later, on a fascinating question: Which is the finest harbour in the world?
One cannot quarrel too fiercely with the buccaneer who plumps for Vera Cruz with the 18000 feet of Citlaltépetl towering above it in air so clean that it seems nearly to overwhelm the torrid plains of jungle and the little port with its stone horns jutting into the gulf. It would be hypocritical to object that the mountain is not part of the harbour.
But very violent controversy is sure to arise when the talk veers to the rival claims of Hong Kong, Sydney, and the Golden Gate. (New York is merely spectacular, a cinema monstrosity.)
However, if the controversy reaches a point when knives and pistols are about to arrive on the scene, the oldest of the old hands will step in and save bloodshed by remarking: Well gentlemen, there is much to be said on every side of this question. But we can all agree on one point, that there is only one journey in the world—until airships make a couple of thousand miles or so an hour—which enables a man to see three of the finest harbours on the planet, and those of strangely diverse beauty, within four and twenty hours of actual steaming. (Where's that? chirps the nice boy in the corner of the smoking-room, excited.)
The gruff old peacemaker growls: Why, Naples, Palermo, Tunis.
And the And the townies and the authorities vanish, and the steward brings the drinks of peace.
'Twould be a sorry jest to seek to entertain anybody with a description of the Harbour of Naples: enough to say that its constitution is very strong and has survived all that has been written about it. Palermo is another story. There is very little self-advertisement to exist and look beautiful and excite the imagination. More, it is only to the most refined and delicate imaginations, to minds steeped in history and Theocritus and the Odyssey that the island makes its most intense appeal. There is a faery quality in the moral atmosphere: one feels Instinctually that the island is lying in wait for the visitor, reserves for him surprises alike disquieting and delicious. Of course, adventure never comes to tourists: Sicily is like opium, one never gets its pleasures, inconceivable and infamous, until one is lost in its toils. To appreciate Sicily one must give up the world for ever, even as a monk cannot enjoy the Communion of the Most High until he has taken the irrevocable vows.
Let us push on!
The steamer skirts the coast. The sea assumes a million hues, canary to deep purple; the mountains seem to glide backwards, just as in "Parsifal" the scenery travels past the novice knight. They change, he changes not. Now there come low foreshores, large wastes of desolate banks, while rocky islands peer from the rainbow sea, and dip, and disappear.
Night sinks upon the Venetian glass of Ocean life like an anaesthetic, and the traveller's waking dream merges into loss of consciousness. He always wakes before the dawn; the flush of the excitement of the unknown and the mysterious affects his sleeping blood. He hastens, almost feverish with delightful anticipation upon deck, and finds the world transformed to a dim tapestry of velvet—sky, sea, all soft and tacit — — — —
Then, with an inexpressible thrill, he suspects (rather than sees) a density more deep than air or water, dividing them; and his soul whispers: "Africa".
He leans upon the bulwark of the ship, as one entranced. He sinks into delicious fear: the land of infinite promise lies before him. "Mystery! Mystery!" That is the name upon the forehead of the greatest, the most dreadful, continent. It is the fascination of the king-cobra. Life lies within its heart, life more intense than the heart of poet both conceived—life so intense that death itself is merely its henchman, the spice which gives piquancy to its marvels.
"Lapsed in this unwearied air," the traveller loses that sense of time and space which oppresses the subconscious mind of all of us. The cost takes shape before his eyes; he badly perceives it. He wakes as the sun strikes the nape of his neck, flaming up suddenly from the grey banks of the horizon, and the ship stops.
Without warning he is translated into a world of mundane activity; he becomes aware of the material facts of nature.
Before him lies a busy port: the name alone suggests a thousand curious sunrises: La Goulette.
And he realizes the supreme constriction into a single definite purpose of his whole life's vague ambitions in this symbol: the vast of ocean is no more: his way lies through a strait canal, banked by two rigid lines of stone that stretch beyond eyesight to — — — — he knows not what.
A narrow deep between two lapsed lagoons, salt lakes whose desolation laughs by reason of uncounted myriads of diving birds, and enkindles to rosy promise by the dawn-bright glow of flocks of flamingos. Sacred indeed are they, and careless of man. The rush of the midget [?] tramway on the northern embankment does not disturb their mystic meditation. The wash of the steamer, going ahead dead slow, disquiets them no whit.
And the traveller makes his way into a gilded haze of mystery. Is he a little like the soul of Dante, when Virgil guided him to unknown realms, subject to unknown laws? Then let him lift his eyes toward the South; there shall he see the hope of man, the strength and safety of the mountains. There Bou Kornein, "the Father of Horns", lifts his twin peak into the sky, faint rose inspiring the dim grey; behind him, Zaghouan, lord of waters, the true wet-nurse of all this land, raises its strange saw-peak. Miraculous the comfort of this solid beauty in a world of faery glamour. Month after month one gazes on those rocks, and tires not of their utter glory. They always change, and are always the same; they have the secret of the universe. Oh do not go and climb them! Keep them as sacred talismans, as memories of first love, as promises of what shall be hereafter!
Meanwhile, the ship is gliding, gliding, gliding—the cool air glitters with sun-gilded dew and hides the secret of Africa in its ephemeral love. Air is the virgin veil of the continent, and it is spangled with a million gems so spiritual in essence that their material vehicle does not offend the aspiring soul.
But oh! disquiet—the ship glides. Whither, oh whither? impatience mingled with dread confounds the single-hearted ecstasy of all but the most humbly disciplined of the Seekers of the Golden Fleece!
One is reminded of the ordeals of the initiates of Eleusis: "long have ye wandered in darkness: now seek ye the light". only: the "darkness" was this luminous haze; and the "light" is a veritable crystallization of sawn.
Before him gapes a pool of Stygian blackness, indeed: but it is framed by a dream-city: Tunis the White. From the fortress crowned hills on the left to the marble-palaced woods on the right, the city sprawls: the lazy city, the beautiful city, with no blot but the ephemeral curse of ugly cathedrals. For the secret of the city of Tunis is to ignore the prostitution of the [illegible] superstitious that blaspheme the lord, the Sun! Yes: one must be resolute to shut ones eyes on the nondescript provincialism of the sordid, stupid, utterly banal brutalities of the barbarian invader; in their midst, virgin to the eyes, like a strangely carven cameo, lies the vast oval of the native city, brave with mosques that bear witness to the truth of the Universe: "He God is One; He is the One Eternal; nor hath He son, nor sire; He hath nor equal, nor companion." The marvel of that candid city glows from rose-pink to dazzling white as the sun strikes upon its roofs and domes, bringing the beholder into still deeper trance as he glides through the quiet waterway, bathed in pure calm.
Then of a sudden the ship stops and sways; he wakes to find the canal opened out into a pool alive with argosies; and on the wharf a motley crowd awaiting him. The shock is rude: he switches from his beatific contemplation into a positive mood. Intense excitement seizes him: his instinct cries within him that this land is rich with experiences such as he never guessed were possible. And he begins to understand that all the guidebooks, all the histories, are lies; that the truest book in the world is the Arabian Nights.
II The Wisdom of Al Ister
O thou who wouldst travel in Tunisia, leave at home your skates, your umbrellas, and your prejudices.
If you cling passionately to your skates and umbrellas, all right; to bring them will only cost you a few francs excess baggage. But if you insist on bringing your prejudices, it will cost you thousands of francs, and 90% of the whole enjoyment of your journey.
Unless you come from Monkeyville, and are afraid of being brushed [?] when you get back, read up a little evolution; try to understand what is meant by biological adaptation.
They manage life differently in Africa; if you want everything the way it is in Detroit, why not stay in Detroit?
You can't get kous-kous in Illinois; so you mustn't mind if you can't get a porterhouse steak in Tunis. And if you could, it wouldn't agree with you.
The food of Tunisia is very varied and excellent; the stuff imported to cope with the obstinacy of the tourist is inferior. Ask for fish; ask for oriental dishes; drink the admirable local wine at a franc or so a bottle; it is honest-to-God pure food, and tastes better than imported vintages.
Try to avoid being angry with the Arabs for not talking Middle West; in fact, it will be better for them you think to learn their language, which is the key to their thought—and they don't think along your lines at all. Their idea of what is good and bad in life, what is worth while, bears little or no relation to your own. And mere picturesque mysteries become tiresome; whereas if you can once understand what is in the back of an Arab mind, you discover a whole new moral world of infinite dignity and beauty. Their philosophy has stood the test of more centuries than yourselves stood [illegible]: and there are even a few who doubt whether your 100% red-blooded go-getter Babbitt theories of the Cosmos would survive a little wholesome adversity.
Do not try to uplift the Arab; he does not understand your point of view, and cannot; for your conditions of life are not his, and it is these on which men weave their gossamer metaphysics.
Try to get it into your head from the start that the ragged unwashed beggar thinks you dirty, ill-mannered, and a superstitious blasphemer; your wife a shameless and presumably immoral slut. There is moreover a grotesque side to you; your awkwardness, your foolish aimless behaviour, your crazy curiosity, your helplessness, your ignorance of the most elementary rules of politeness: all these things move him to laughter and to pity.
If you intend to get the most out of your journey, you must acquire his sympathy and respect; the first step is the comprehension of his ideals.
And about the worst thing you can do is to try to obtain his esteem by throwing your money about. Do not be mean, like the French; the quality the Arab most admires is justice, which depends on an exact knowledge of values. Generosity he appreciates; but it must be based on genuine good feeling, or true understanding of the circumstances of each particular case. You must never let him fool you, or take a liberty with you; that but accentuates his natural contempt for you. More, never take a liberty with him: every true Arab, uncorrupted by Christian influence, is a gentleman. But the true humility of the saint, the eager steadfast purpose to learn, has his respect. You must persuade him to take you seriously; and that is a question of how seriously you take yourself.
Act thus, and the whole country opens up to you, a wealth untold of unsuspected interests. 99% of tourists leave without ever having seen more of the country than they could get by looking over an album of picture postcards in the sedate seclusion of the Home on Main Street.
Never be in a hurry: never exhibit agitation or annoyance: never change your mind.
Inexorable in patience, inflexible of purpose, imperturbable in calm, move like some God placed high above all accidents of life upon some path of destiny inscrutable.
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