Part 1

February was cold in 1975, and I found myself in the tatty little western-Sicilian port town of Trapani waiting for the weekly ferryboat to Tunis in North Africa. I had been “on the road” for only six weeks, hitch-hiking south through Italy, and heading for warmer climes, planning to hitch-hike eastwards across North Africa from Tunisia through Libya to Egypt, and then travel south up the Nile into Darkest (warmer) Africa. There were a few other tourists in Trapani, and quite a number of Sicilians were boarding the big, modern ferry that morning, with the customary rude pushing and shoving that seem to be necessary any time lines form in southern Italy. Once on board I met a very interesting Chilean vagabond named Antonio, who had boarded earlier in Palermo. Antonio had been "on the road" for two years already, was an experienced low-budget traveler, speaking perfect English, and apparently great Italian and French. He seemed well-centered, and not too crazy, so we chatted most of the ride. We were both surprised to learn that the other planned to hitch across Libya to Egypt. Each had heard lots of terrifying stories of crimes and violence against vagabonds in North Africa, and each happily told the other every one of the tales of muggings, unprovoked weapon attacks, strong-arm robberies, and casual murders.

It was already dark when we entered the harbor of Tunis, though not too late at night. The thousand or so Sicilians and Tunisians on board had been jammed up at the loading door on the port side for hours before we sighted land. That whole side of the ship was a huge scrum of people and luggage jammed together uncomfortably filling the passageways. I had a flash of intuition. I went to the starboard side of the ship and stood against the deserted mirror-image door in that passageway. Antonio did the same. We had nothing to lose. Ten minutes later, when it became clear to the masses of local passengers that the ship was approaching the pier on the starboard side, a huge rush of obnoxious people came slamming around the corners from both directions and pinned us against the doors themselves !! As a result, I was the very first passenger to clear the slow and inefficient customs area into North Africa, and Antonio was the second. We exited into the darkness, and found ourselves alone on a high pier 60 feet above the water, with 200 feet of long dark sloping ramp, handrails on both sides, leading down straight ahead into the darkness of the port area. It was very still and quiet, no air moving, and only the sound of the water lapping far below. Not a very welcoming scene.

As we started side by side down the narrow, deserted gangway, four shadowy shapes detached themselves from the darkness on either side, and silently began to follow us at a distance of only 20 feet ! My neck swiveled around trying to get a look at the men behind us while also searching for more threats somewhere in the darkness ahead. Antonio, who was similarly disturbed, said "That was quick !" meaning that we hadn't even actually set foot on North Africa yet, and already the situation was deteriorating.

About that time I realized a strange thing. The two pairs of threatening shapes silently following us had fallen into perfect step, and now seemed to be MARCHING along behind us !! Before we could even try to figure out what that might mean, they broke into a rousing chorus -

"Une kilometre a piedi, a piedi, a piedi !
Une kilometre a piedi - "

which I recognized as a French scouting song !! Soon we both joined in the raucous singing, marching triumphantly down the gangway with our escort of Tunisian boyscouts !!

After that fine learning experience I never again jumped to bad conclusions, and paid little heed to the horror stories of North African violence.

At the exit gate from the docks area, taxis were waiting, and tourist passengers were in great demand, because they could be cheated more easily, plus the drivers could get kickbacks by delivering them to specific hotels. Antonio and I did some bargaining, and my schoolboy French revealed itself to be very useful. Almost every adult in Tunisia spoke French, and spoke a particularly clear, simple, idiom-free version of the language, making the Tunisians easier to communicate with than the Italians had been, and easier than Parisians later proved to be. We arranged for a small dilapidated cab to take us into the "far side of the Casbah" in the center of town where the cheapest lodging was to be found. Just as we were pulling away we spotted a Canadian couple exiting from the docks, and loaded them, too, into our taxi, much to the disappointment of the other cab drivers.

Before too long we were checked into small, grotty, upstairs rooms in a crumbling building halfway up the hill to the Citadel in Old Tunis proper. By then it was about nine at night, but we four low-budget tourists sallied out into the souk for some food. It was a fascinating place, especially since Tunisia was the first Moslem country any of us had ever visited. By peeking though doorways, we saw lots of interesting things -- craftsmen plying their trades, women wearing the traditional complete body-covering robes and veils, blue tattoos on chins and lips of some women proclaiming their Berber heritage. We met an old guy who told us vehemently in German that the Americans and the Brits and the French were all worthless toadies, and the best people in the world were the Germans. He was quite insulting, and we finally got him to tell us about working for the Germans when they were in North Africa in 1941/42. We found a cheap eatery, and I introduced myself to "brique a l'oeuf", a wonderful dish. Pastry is wrapped around a raw egg, and a little cheese, and the whole thing is fried up. I ate quite a few brique a l'ouef and enjoyed them hugely.

While we were wandering around in the confusing dark narrow streets, a big commotion with lots of shouting began. We four foreigners were standing in the recessed doorway of a shop when a man with a knife in his hand came running up at full speed, screaming incoherent words. He grabbed the Canadian husband from behind with an arm around his throat, spun him around, still screaming, and began slashing frantically at the air in front of him and his unwilling shield.

Then I spotted the object of his fear. Another Tunisian with a knife held at his side was approaching, walking slowly and determinedly. I had never before seen "Death" looking out of anyone's eyes. This slowly approaching Tunisian tough was DANGEROUS, and the squalling prey trying to hide behind his Canadian human-shield knew it !

I was SO surprised, that, embarrassingly, I did nothing. For years I had trained myself to DO SOMETHING whenever a situation goes to Hades, and violence breaks out. Usually I take immediate action, and about half the time I do the right thing, and half I do something wildly inappropriate. But this time I just stood there with my mouth open ! Very fortunately, the situation resolved itself without my intervention. The Canadian guy freed himself from the terrified embrace of the chased local, who babbled apologetic, incoherent Arabic at the glowering, threatening opponent. Other people who apparently knew both men arrived, inserted themselves between the knife-armed pair, and after considerable argument, turned the pursuer away from his quarry. We were glad about that.

The following morning we found out from the locals that the part of the souk we had been wandering through in the middle of the night was the area which is considered so dangerous that the gendarmes don't patrol there after dark.

Next installment - Bussman's Bluff