The Last Meal in Tunis

Today’s my least favorite day of the week. I have to do something hard, at least for me. I’m going to find some fresh meat and produce in Tunis.

I’ve been in the country for two months. Things are going OK. I’ve survived Ramadan while being totally out of sync with the daily fasting. I’ve also tried every grocery store in a 5 mile radius in order to find a decent one.

Life in Tunisia is hard, even for the wealthy, which I am by default simply because I earn in dollars. According to the internet, I’m somewhere between a decent lawyer and bad doctor in terms of monthly income. In my home country, I would be below the poverty line.

So, given my new found status, I’m going to the best supermarket in town, La Marsa Carrefour. It’s the only one with consistent quality. It’s about 7 kilometers from my house. I call a Bolt taxi. Busses don’t come with any regularity. Taxis are much cheaper if you hail them on the street, but then you leave yourself open to all sorts of mischief when it comes to pay the fare.

The driver picks me up without a word in front of the townhouse I’m renting. We travel by highway in a car missing a few things. Nothing major, mainly a side view mirror. This car has seat belts at least. They usually don’t. This time, they’re there, they just don’t work. I pay an extra dollar for a premium car (I’m a high roller here), but it’s often the same quality as the regular option.

Along the four lane highway, pedestrians cross randomly. I don’t blame them. Crosswalks only appear every few miles, and it’s hot enough where a few hundred feet can feel like a mile.

I pass by construction sites with men from south of the Sahara sitting in the blazing sun and diesel fumes waiting for work. I’ve been here long enough that the initial shock has worn off.

Sometimes the music in the car is incredible. Upbeat songs with catchy beats and deep strings. They have me swaying and bobbing my head in the backseat, but then are forgotten immediately. I mainly look straight ahead and zone out. This has all become a chore.

At the cavernous grocery store that takes up a city block, I pass by a spice section with mounds of countless exotic herbs. Droves of Tunisian women descend on produce, shoving kilograms of fruit and veggies in bags. I weave through them like a shark cutting through water. This is the best place in town to get fresh groceries.

I come at opening hour when the store has just been stocked, or else the good stuff is picked clean. When I see a crowd forming in front of an item, I make sure to grab some as well. It’s always the freshest then.

I go to buy a roasted chicken. It’s one of the few sources of protein I can get. It’s not always fresh or clean, but the seasoning they use is out of this world.

A young woman offers me a free sample of chicken. She says it’s a new flavor in French. I decline with a polite smile and a shake of the head. She insists. I say “non merci,” pretending like I speak the language. She’s not taking no for an answer. She walks from behind the display with a pinch of chicken in a gloved hand. I look down at it not sure what to do. I’ve never had anyone offer me loose chicken before. I lower my head to eat it out of her hand when I catch myself. I take it with my bare hand instead and put it in my mouth. She laughs. It’s really good.

After filling my cart with enough groceries for the week, I go to take a break at the food court. I like to try something new there every time. I’m not the only one with this idea. The tables are full, even the ones in the smoking section in back. This is still inside the mall but behind a glass window and door that never closes. Vaping doesn’t seem to count as every tenth person is doing it throughout the mall.

I look around for a while and spot a table. As I get closer, I notice a compact but dignified old man hovering over it. I approach carefully. I’m the only non-Tunisian in the building, not counting staff, so I’m careful not to draw attention to myself.

The old man is weary but upbeat. He looks like he has a lot on his mind. He says something in French and gestures to the table and walks away. I sit down, assuming that he’s not coming back. While I’m taking an inventory of my groceries and deciding where to eat, he returns with a plate of BBQ meat and some flat bread that’s suspiciously absent a mound of Harissa (red pepper paste). I get up to leave but he gestures for me to sit again. I tell him I don’t speak French. He switches to English.

His name is Widtha, he’s a retired teacher and he’s going to be dining with me today. I’ve noticed elderly Tunisians approaching younger people and striking up conversations. Their counterparts seemed to think this is normal and even enjoyed the interactions. This is a place where the elderly still have purpose as knowledge receptacles and dispensers of wisdom.

He begins by telling me what his name means. I didn’t ask.

“It means satisfaction.” he says with much satisfaction and some fanfare.

I want to actually understand what he has to say. It feels important. I ask him to repeat the word a few times. I still don’t get it so I ask him to write it on my phone. It’s R-I-D-A, not Widtha as it sounded to me.

His English is surprisingly good for being a fourth language behind Arabic, French, and Italian.

Rida discards the bread that came with his order while saying, “this bread is burnt and not healthy.” He pulls out his own while adding, “I only eat brown bread now.” This is strange. I’ve noticed that every restaurant tends to burn the bread more than toast it. No one seemed to mind so I just went with it.

Rida recommends the place he got food from. I get up to order, while carefully watching my groceries and trying to be subtle. As a 20-year expat, I have a somewhat unhealthy distrust of others. He continues to eat his meal without so much as a glance at my things, as if he knows what I’m thinking.

When I return, he teaches me more Arabic between bites and asking me questions about myself.

“Labez, means good.” he says, projecting as if he’s addressing a classroom full of students.” “Barsha, means a lot.” Rida emphasizes the first and last words to make sure it sinks in. Then he says them together while spreading his hands out in almost bow. “Barsha, labez.” A lot of good. It’s a beautiful phrase.

I didn’t like going to class as a child when my future depended on it. I certainly don’t enjoy strangers lecturing me as a middle-aged man. Something about him makes me listen though. He’s not condescending. Despite the lecture-like tone, he’s talking with me, not at me. And he’s genuinely enthusiastic about sharing knowledge. It’s important to him.

After each explanation, he offers me some dates and a tangerine that he seems to produce from thin air. These are delicious of course. I don’t really like dates, but they’re special here. I’ve found that I don’t like a lot of things until I try them in their country of origin. I get the watered down version of them abroad.

Rida tells me about tourist attractions and restaurants that locals know. I’ve been to a few of them, including a Cous Cous place in La Marsa that’s always packed with locals.

Rida tells me that his daughter is also a teacher. He asks me if I have kids. I say no. And he looks up with his palms facing upward as if to say “it’s god’s will.” He’s from a time and place where children are a standard goal in life.

After a while, Rida lifts his jacket to reveal a colostomy bag. He’s due in surgery tomorrow morning. I realize why he didn’t want to eat alone. It could be one of his last meals. He’s in his mid 70s in a country with a life expectancy around that.

I also realize why he’s the first Tunisian I’ve met who’s health conscious. In the hierarchy of needs of nations, Tunisia is still on the feeding and housing tier. Health has yet to enter the formal conversation. Taxi drivers leave their windows open, even when the car in front is belching white or black smoke. They don’t mind. Most men smoke anyhow. They seem to take it personally when I ask them to roll the windows up so we don’t get the worst of it.

The meal has been really interesting. I’ve been on guard from traveling so long that I forgot how nice a simple interaction like this is. To me, this was a slightly unusual event on an otherwise tedious day. But to him, it was more. As you get closer to the end, every moment carries more weight.

Rida bids me farewell with a handshake. I wish him “bonne chance” with this surgery using one of the few phrases in French I know. He plays up how impressed he is with the encouragement of nurturing teacher. He got through to one student today. His work is done and he can be satisfied.

Health issues aside, I consider him fortunate. On what might be his last day, he ended up teaching. Rida was born to do it. Not everyone figures out their calling in life, much less pursue it.

As he walks off, he gets a free sample of honey on a spoon from a kiosk. He savors it as he walks away. Like all of us, he doesn’t know what tomorrow brings, so he will enjoy today as much as he can.

On the way back home. I take in my surroundings. I look at everyone – the women in Gucci scarves crossing the highway, day laborers waiting for work, and gypsy kids selling flowers in the middle of the road. Life is hard in Tunisia, but especially for the poor. It’s not a beautiful ride, but I won’t be here forever, one way or another. Might as well enjoy it. Rida would agree.