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Disappointing news at Gabes. The Libyan tour guy is no fucking help at all. He says that there is no way to get visas unless we are in London and trying to bribe a border guard would be very silly indeed.

Thomas and I head down to Matmata to see the famous restaurant/hotel that was used for Luke’s uncles’ house in the film Star Wars. After that it’s back to Gabes Gabes Gabes (again) and we went our separate ways. I headed off to Tatouine to see some Berber hilltop Ksours (forts).

By 5pm I was racing along a desert highway which looks like somewhere in Arizona in a beat up old French car listening to whiney Arab pipe music. I haven’t slept in 33 hours and the whole scene has quite a surreal feel to it. Both the Chenini and Douret Ksours are totally out of this world.

Today we adopt two Greek girls, a Scot and a Tunisian guy and head off to the beach. There are too many of us to sneak into the resort part of the beach. Especially since we have a local lad with us. The resorts make it especially clear that the locals are not welcome on the nice part of the beach. Our attempt to walk the shore front looking for a less well guarded resort nearly results in blows so we head for the public part of the beach where a good day is had by all regardless.

The Scot, Thomas, turns out to be particularly good value. He has been in Tunisia for three weeks and his stories of the Tunisian scams are funny and run along similar lines to mine. The only difference is that Thomas speaks French and has managed to get by on about 5-10 pounds a day compared to my 20. He let me in on a few secrets, like coffee should only be 10p not the 25-100p that I have been paying. I feel like a very gullible tourist twat indeed.

Back at the hostel Thomas and I are invited drinking with some Libyans at one of the resorts. The ‘disco’ is only a quarter full and 90 percent of the punters are local guys. The women fall into two groups. The very young and the middle aged. Both groups are making short work of the locals (or is it the other way around) and tongues are flying.

We strike it lucky with the Libyans, as they are able to give us the number of a Libyan tour operator who will be able to help us with Libyan visas. This is especially good for me, as it will save me 200 quid on a flight from Tunis to Cairo.

We get in so late there is no point in going to sleep so we pack and catch a 7am louge to Gabes Gabes Gabes.

Transferred to the Auberge des Junes first thing in the morning and arrange to spend the day at one of the resort beaches with a 6’1″ German girl who works at the hostel. The beaches in Jerba are strictly divided amongst the resorts that line the beaches with a shitty bit left over for the locals. Fortunately Karen and I are able to use our distinctly western looks to cruise up to one of the nicer bits and help ourselves to a couple of deck chairs and an umbrella.

A cruisey day all in all and I had to laugh when Karen tells me that her boyfriend is so insecure that he rings her every single day for a talk. Getting back to the hostel the hostel owner stares at me like I have fucking his daughter. Apparently the German boyfriend has rung twice. I suspect tonight’s talk is going to be a long one :)

Monastir is another resort town. I took a photograph of the castle used in Monty Pythons life of Brian and left and hour later for Gabes.

Gabes is a small city, which operates as a transport hub for anyone travelling around the south of Tunisia. I swapped to a new louge taxi for the island of Jerba. One other guy from the first taxi made the change to Jerba with me. Samba is from Senegal and I swear I have never met a darker person in my entire life and I’d be pretty prepared to bet none of you have either. He speaks hardly any English but we share a quick joke about Senegal knocking Moroccan out of the World Cup and we’re mates.

Sambas gig is a good one. He sells those tacky tourist necklaces. But he doesn’t run around selling them to the tourists one at a time. He finds hard up Tunisians who want to make an extra buck, sells them 100 or so and lets them do the hard yards.

To get to Jerba we need to catch a ferry at Jorf. The queue for the ferry is well over 150 vehicles long when we join it so we have a little time to kill. The local kids are on to this and rush up to sell us pizzas for 1 Dinah. I’m famished and was just wondering if this is negotiable when I notice a well dressed 20 something Tunisian is already down to 700 so in French.

I ask his kid how much for two in a mixture of French and pointese. The wealthy Tunisian took one look and me and said 1100 in English. This is well over what he has already negotiated for himself and I realised that he was trying to make me subsidise a substantial proportion on his meal. Then he asked me, in English, if I speak English. To which I replied “and a little French” to let him know I was up to speed with the current status of negotiations. These must have been magic words because all of a sudden we are all paying 700 each.

Whilst waiting for the ferry Samba lined up a local to sell some of his necklaces. I tried to look interested in the necklaces to help him out with the negotiations and he gave me one for free. I’m secretly stoked even though it’s tacky as hell. On the ferry I racked my mind for a suitable gift to repay Samba. In the end I decided to take his photo and post it to him as I doubt he has a camera of his own. This is something I have already arranged to do a few of times on tour. Sometimes in return for being allowed taking a photo. Sometimes as a favour. Lining up the photo I realise that samba is so dark he just looks like a silhouette in the viewfinder. Now I don’t have much experience with photographing very dark skinned people but I decided that the sun might help. A quick look around for the sun and its already shining on his face so this is the best I can hope for. Anyway I figure that if this shot doesn’t come out then his whole family photo album will look like a silhouette fest so he’s probably used to it.

Arriving in Jerba the Auberge de Junes is full. Samba arranges somewhere else and even manages to get us a discount.

At breakfast I find out that the pretty blond Swedish girl has been hitching around Tunisia by herself and is heading off to Morocco by herself. I gave her my Morocco Lonely Planet as I have a feeling that she is going to need it.

After breakfast I finally do the Bardo Museum, which is chocker block full of cool roman stuff. I’d say it was even better than all the cool roman stuff in the Vatican Museum in Rome. Geek quota fulfilled I headed off to catch a train to Sousse.

I’m getting a little lazy so I came across two new taxi scams today. The first guy put the meter on when I asked then slipped it off when he put a tape in. Now normally that would have pissed me off but he put on something that sounded like Dolly Patron so I had a quick play with the meter and got it going again. I must be getting soft because I ended up paying him twice what the journey was worth and he still had the audacity to moan and bitch when I got out of the cab.

The other guy had a meter which wasn’t attached properly so you couldn’t see the screen. I asked him to put the meter on and I saw him set it correctly and then it flipped back down. Then we started to play the “I must take you much farther than you need to go” game which made me suspicious of him. This is a common trick that taxi drivers use. They take you much further than you need to go or they take you in a round about route to get there. This made me suspicious of him so I flipped up the meter and found out that the price had doubled. Which was funny because the taxi hadn’t moved. I gave him a quick description of what I thought of him and got out and walked.

Sousse is a big resort town and as soon as I am settled I regret going there. Firstly it’s expensive. And secondly I always feel like a bit of a fraud in resort towns when I am backpacking. Partly because I am always little bit less well dressed and a little bit more grubby than the rest of the people there. But also because there is a difference in budget that separates backpackers from the average resort punter who has usually flown in for a huge week long party with a huge stack of cash to spend. I promised myself that I am not going to any more resort towns unless it’s on a huge week long party with a huge stack of cash to spend.

On the up side I had the best sales experience of my tour. I noticed some cute stuffed camels and I picked one up while debating in my head if I could get one around the Middle East without destroying it. Immediately I decide against it as it felt like it has been stuffed with scrunched up paper. Then the fat sales guy comes up to me and says, “How much you want to pay” I reply “Combien?” (French for how much). Despite my feeble attempt at French he spotted me as an English speaker straight off and said “Fifty Diram”. That’s 25 quid for a small toy camel stuffed with scrunched up paper, this is a resort town after all. I laughed said “No merci”, put the camel down and started to walk off. Then the fat sales guy uses his bloated body to block my path and says “Okay, how much you want to pay? How much?” I just kept walking around him and he kept trying to get in my way all the time saying “How much you want to pay? How much you want to pay?” Getting louder and louder with each repetition. Eventually I got past him and he slid into a complete panic and screamed, “Okay five Dinah! FIVE DINAH!!!” I just kept walking thinking why can’t it always be that easy to get down to 10 percent of the starting price.

Catch a louge taxi to Tebersouk to see some other well preserved ‘Ruins Roman at Dougga. Once again the best of the mosaics, statues etc have been relocated to the Bardo museum in Tunis.

Louge taxis are definitely the way to travel in Tunisia. They work like this. In ever city there is a louge taxi station where the louge taxis meet. The taxis all go in different directions and the drivers loudly call out the names of the places they are going to three times in a row e.g. “Gabes! Gabes! Gabes!” As soon as a particular taxi is full it leaves. Sometimes this means you wait an hour. Sometimes you get lucky and fill the last seat, which means you leave straight away. Competition for seats can get a bit tough and you need to be a little bit territorial. Otherwise you could have your luggage removed and watch you taxi go without you when you are just over the road buying fruit (as happened to me in Jendouba). The other great advantage of louge taxis is that they are fast. I mean we are not talking Moroccan taxi driver fast here but these guys work on the clock and overtaking is the name of the game. So much so that it’s quite common to be overtaking one vehicle and be staring down the throat of another louge taxi overtaking someone coming from the other direction. Best of all they cost about the same as buses and trains and the prices are fixed by the government so there is no monkey business.

Getting back to Tunis I book into the Maison des Junes which is French for house of the young people. It sounds little pervy to say you are staying at the house of the young people in English so I just use YHA where possible. My luck is in and I find a French guy, an English guy and a Swedish chick that all speak fluent English. I savour my first proper conversations since Marrakech, seven long days ago.

As it turns out Mounir, Yousef and Omar are pretty likeable guys who speak a smattering of English between them. We are able to discuss quite a few topics like: my job as a totally broke labourer in London, their jobs and families, sport, politics and what’s wrong with women these days eh?

Spend day getting lost in Tunis and finding out that the highly recommended Bardo Museum in Tunis is closed for no apparent reason. Instead decide to visit the roman ruins at Bulla Regia near Jendouba a 4 hour train ride away. Very cool but all the really good mosaics and statues have been relocated to the Bardo Museum in Tunis.

In Jendouba I run into a couple of excellent taxi drivers. One speaks English and takes me where I want to go at a very reasonable price and the other is just as good AND he sets my up with some excellent cheap accommodation, which isn’t in the Lonely Planet. I definitely like Tunisians more than Moroccans.

Did a real solid, but a bit sticky, poo this morning so all is good guts wise. I’ll keep you informed if the situation changes.

At breakfast I thank Dave for the alarm clock but don’t have the heart to tell him about the noises or the batsignal – he doesn’t need to know. Instead I make him promise to tell the kids he teaches where New Zealand is.

Interestingly Mohammed V International Airport outside Casablanca doesn’t accept Moroccan Dinahs once you go through customs.

Am looking forward Tunisia as the language thing might improve language wise. In Morocco if you don’t speak French, Spanish or Arabic then you’re pretty much out of luck. In Tunisia it’s only French and Arabic in front of English. In reality I’m no better off than before because no bastard speaks of English beyond the usual sales pitches but I’m definitely climbing the ladder and it feels like progress is being made.

At the Tunis airport the customs guy looks carefully at my passport and reads out “New Zealand” slowly. I’m waiting to see where this is going and then he says “Holland?” to which I nod carefully because I know European nationals don’t need to pay for visas in Tunisia. Five seconds later I’m stamped and ushered through free of charge. Sorted. Although it should make getting out of the country a laugh when they realise I don’t have a visa. Mental note: go to airport early to allow for additional hassle and possible incarceration.

After customs I withdraw 200 quid from the ATM at the airport because it’s cheaper to withdraw in large blocks. I swiftly avoid the Tunisia representative from the “hello my friend” brigade who offers me a taxi to my hotel for 15 quid and bus/walk there instead for 25p.

It’s full wouldn’t you know it but they offer to book me a place in a shared room just around the corner so all is good. The new place seems okay and I am glad to take my pack off. The alarm bells start to go off just after I have paid and handed over my passport. The guy standing next to me at reception who I think works there is shuffling his feet and I realise that he is trying to get away with a 10 Tunisian Dinah note that I have dropped. I tap him on the shoulder and give him my coldest stare. The next thing you know he’s doing a very credible shuffle act with a piece of rubbish as if foot shuffling rubbish is his day job.

Next I meet my roommates who are not too happy to have to share their spare fourth bed with me. Heated words and angry looks are exchanged between them and the hotel guy. This ends with them storming off and the hotel guy smiling nervously at me saying everything is fine. Everything is not fine. I can tell.

Then I get told that I can’t leave my packs in my room, everything has to stay at reception. Why? Can’t my roommates be trusted? What happens when they find out that I am carrying 200 quid cash? What about my 1000 quid digital camera? I’ve got that sinking feeling again and upon leaving my I notice my roommates now have a greasy smiley look to them. I’m fucked.

I leave the hotel for the day and try to put things in perspective. Lonely Planet doesn’t help when I notice that it describes hotels like mine that cater to visiting Algerian labourers with the following quote “unless you are down on your last few dines, avoid these places like he plague” walking around Tunis I am determined to stay out as long as possible in the hope that the roomies will be asleep when I get in. I manage till about midnight but they are still out. Presumably mugging and killing other tourists.

Almost did a solid poo this morning. Progress is definitely being made.

Got up and booked flight to Tunisia for Tuesday (tomorrow) morning.

Leaving the hotel this morning I was offered a part in a Moroccan made for television movie. The comedy sketch involved 5 tourists, of which I would have been ‘touriste un’ (one), trying to book into a single hotel room. The punch line was the tourists calling the hotelier a racist after they were refused. I think some of the humor may have been lost in the translation. I had to turn the role down of course. The director was an idiot who couldn’t see why my character should be renamed touriste prime. Which worked out well as today was my only chance to see the Moroccan capital, Rabat, an hour up the coast.

Rabat is nice and a lot lest bustly than Casablanca.

Here’s a travellers tip for you. If you have a bad case of the squirts don’t look for a McDonalds. Look for a five star hotel. The bogs at the hotel Sofitel Diwan make it a veritable pleasure to have a runny bum and the roll of bog paper I stole is by far the best I have seen in all Morocco.

FINALLY A HINT OF ACTION ON TOUR

I tried to get into the YHA Hostel again and succeeded. This is great because it’s cheaper, cleaner, has a working shower and comes with free breakfast. Best of all I might finally be able to have a conversation with someone who speaks English as a first or even second language. After a much needed shower I was repacking my pack and the though struck me that the place has an eerie lingering stare feel to it. As if on queue a guy ‘appears’ out of the shadows of the bunks and invites himself out to dinner with me. He doesn’t speak a word of English but by the way he holds his two fingers up together the message is clear. Now I don’t want to sound like a paranoid homophobic but that’s not really my thing and I didn’t want to lead the poor bastard on so turned his kind offer of dinner down.

My dinner alone was an authentic Moroccan harira (delicious spicy lentil soup) and karaouni tajine (cows tail served with olives), which was served up in an authentic Moroccan diner called Restaurant California (recommended by Lonely Planet). The chef went to great lengths to point out that only men are allowed karaouni tajine and that it is like viagra for the Moroccans. He even drew me a picture of a bull with great emphasis on the penis and tail. This was followed by laughter, back slapping and hushed conversation about the problems with women today. I didn’t really understand a word of it but I sympathised anyway.

Back at the hostel I note that 10 or so of the 12 beds in the men’s dorm are now full. Later that night I am awoken from my sleep by the noise of a sleeping bag being vigorously rustled. My first though is that someone is having a wank and wants the whole room to know. I dared not look over the side of the bunk to see who the culprit is but from the direction of the noise I suspect it’s the ‘lets go to dinner’ guy. After a while it stops and I think thank god. Then a torch goes on. The last thing I see before it goes dark again is a clear silhouette of a condom cast on the wall of the dorm. Something akin to what Batman might shine on the clouds if he wanted Robin to pop back to the Batcave for a thorough seeing to. I’m definitely not looking over the side of the bunk now.

Some time later I actually manage to sleep.

More brown soup shitting before breakfast. A little disappointed as I had expected some improvement.

Tried to get into the international youth hostel again but it was full again. Am suspicious, as I haven’t seen a single person come or go the entire time I have lived across the square.

Visited the Hassan II mosque which is totally impressive on every front. Started in 1993 it was finished in only 6 years by Moroccan craftsmen working around the clock. It’s big enough to comfortably fit St Peters or Notre Dame in the main prayer hall, which fits 25,000 worshipers with room for another 80,000 fanatics on the esplanades outside. Isn’t it great what a little fundamentalism can buy these days?