The cause and effect

With the first sight of snow in Europe means the cold weather is also migrating south.

We now have overcast skies and frigid temperatures.

With the lower temperature means more spicy food.

The spice is said to warm your body.

This drastic drop in temperature can also drop one’s immunity.

Yes, I have finally had my first common cold complete with all the symptoms individually packed.

First it’s the sore throat.

Then it’s the first coughs (oh no, not the coughs!)

Then comes the sneezing.

Aches.

Fever.

Runny nose.

In reaction to this, my mom asks me if I want tea.

“Do you want honey in your tea?”

I reply that it doesn’t matter because I can’t taste anything.

This makes her laugh.

…

So I sit in bed day after day.

Naturally I am nostalgic to be back home where I know what will make me better.

Oh the pain to be somewhere we cannot be.

We all have times when we travel somewhere new, wishing we were with people who understand us.

Or with people who want to get to know us.

Or sometimes we wish we were with people who speak our language.

Or know where we come from.

Sometimes we have that, but not always.

When we don’t it makes us uneasy and want to be back where we are understood.

Nasty nostalgia.

Coincidentally we had a lecture last Monday about nostalgia.

…

We first discussed, what is nostalgia?

Nostalgia is the longing for an idealized past, a past that never existed because we sugarcoat it so much and forget about all the ills of that moment.

It also means there is a strong dissatisfaction with our current life situation.

The present doesn’t hold our interests.

It doesn’t inspire us.

It doesn’t comfort us.

Part of the reason we experience nostalgia is because we are in the moment.

The moment maybe something we can’t see through when we don’t know where we are headed or know what we want.

Meanwhile the past has already happened and we can see it for what it was and how it changed us.

As an effect we are upset when we find that the present moment doesn’t offer us the same feeling.

…

So what is giving me nostalgia?

Most of my nostalgia stems from my sickness.

Some of it is hearing from friends and family back home who update me on in their lives.

Some of it is thinking about food that I cannot find here.

Another part is language and sometimes feeling at a loss for words.

Sometimes I feel misunderstood.

And sometimes I feel that I should be doing better and putting myself out there more.

And I hate to be hard on myself.

It’s hard to go to a country that speaks three languages.

All of which I do not know.

Sometimes people speak one and switch to another.

In class I mix up MS Arabic with Tunisie.

Oh the frustration!

…

I am not quite sure where I am headed with my current understanding of language.

I would love to understand it but am continually frustrated with it.

Language is an easy thing to get frustrated with.

It’s so much to think of.

So much.

You step into a new culture.

You hear people speaking, they look at you and expect that you understand them.

I commonly stare blankly back at them.

What I have come to understand is that language is just an agreement made between people as ways to say things.

There is an agreement for how to say something in English and an agreement made between other people for how to say something in Arabic.

And these agreements in words can be learned from one to the other.

…

I commonly hear people say, “I’m too old to learn another language.”

I used that excuse two weeks ago and I fell behind in class (which is hard to imagine when it’s just me and Max in class).

The beginning of that week was rough, as I was not feeling too clear. I needed to clean out my mind but never felt that I had the time.

During class, I got worked up, felt my shoulders tighten up and almost started crying.

I felt so stupid and out of place.

But I got through that class and sat with myself on the bed later that night and spent a little time reviewing over and over.

Then I wrote to my language professor, Nejla.

I told her that I was continually frustrated with Arabic and part of the frustration was me not knowing what was frustrating me.

Later that week, she sat me down telling me her story about learning English and how difficult it was.

She took one year in Tunis and lacked motivation, which prevented her from learning it and as a result was a weaker student in class.

Then the next year she had a different teacher that inspired her.

Her teacher made her want to learn English.

Part of the inspiration was her teacher telling Nejla that she could learn English.

Nejla said it became a thing where she had to sit herself down and tell herself that she could do it.

Little by little she listened, read, wrote and spoke English.

And look at her now, she’s fluent!

She told me that my frustration with Arabic was my head telling me that I couldn’t do it.

She said, “Well guess what, yes you can!”

Now it’s just up to me to say that I have it in me, which will ultimately lead me with patience and motivation through the years ahead.

I can’t force myself to learn something, but I can learn it with grace.

…

Last Friday, Geri, Alex and I rode down to Tunis and explored the medina.

I have come to find that walking through the medina is like walking through a corn maze.

There is the popular route most people take or there is an alternative, less traveled path.

There are several tall and narrow pathways that converge at different points.

The medina has street after street with buildings no more then nine feet apart with clothes hanging from up top.

We pass knock-off designer clothing shops, makeup stands, spices and perfume stores.

Cotton sheets hang above the shops to protect them from the weather.

People crowd around each shop.

I mix the manikins up with real people.

Scary.

We passed some abandoned buildings with moss growing on the wall.

We found the art corner with drawings spreading from one wall to the next.

Then mid-day prayer began.

Hundreds of men crowd the street with their prayer rugs tucked under their arms.

The muezzin begins the call to prayer and the whole medina can hear it.

Then we made a realization.

As we had intended to discover the medina, we got lost in the medina.

Really lost.

I like to say that I am good with directions, but this time I was baffled.

Then it rained.

We huddled under Geri’s umbrella.

It poured for some time, and then stopped abruptly.

We hesitantly moved away from the umbrella, thinking the weather was playing tricks with our minds.

But it wasn’t.

We walk a little more.

Slipped a little on the cobblestone.

Splashed in some muddy puddles.

We passed some mattress, mirror and chandelier shops.

We saw our reflection in the shop windows.

And like a corn maze, it’s not so much of your directional intelligence that will get you out.

We were led by our intuition (and cooperation), which led us out of the medina, one street down from where we started.

We just took the long route.

…

Today is Sunday, the day before we leave to travel south for a week.

Today is also the presidential election.

Somehow I can only predict that Ben Ali will still stay in power.

Last election, several years ago, 99.6% Tunisians voted for him.

He has been president since 1987 and I assume he will for many more years ahead.

…

As for now, I am still recovering from my nasty cold.

I still have the coughs and am home alone.

Every time I cough, Bianco barks from downstairs.

Well, I’m not completely home alone.

Shedding the shroud

Tis the season for celebration.

Cars pass by my window and beep.

Beep beep beep beeeeeep beeeep beepbeep beep beep.

And so on and so forth.

I eagerly look out my window hoping for some real drama.

-like the president and his ten black official cars with two police on motorcycles.

No, this is not an episode of a bad Tunisian soap opera.

Just weddings.

Wedding after wedding after wedding.

Which is strange considering the high divorce rate here.

I once heard a saying in Tunisie that translates to something like: summer in banquet hall (for wedding), autumn in the justice room (for divorce).

It sounds a lot better in Tunisie.

Despite that, people still fall in love and some choose to get married because of that.

Some others may get married for other reasons.

Some see their future and see it with someone, committed.

Some see their future and see it with someone, unsure where to tread with them in tow.

Some want tradition while others beg for modernization.

Some couples see that through time they change.

Some accept that fact and live with it.

Some are annoyed and leave for independence or something new.

Life is all about changing and unfolding oneself in order to find identity.

We long to belong to what we identify with.

If it is someone you feel you can identify with, good for you.

Keep it and nurture it.

Meanwhile, Mimi is perched by my window.

She still thinks the cars are beeping because they’re aggressive drivers.

…

On Monday we were given a lecture on mass media in the Arab world.

We sat in the lecture room with the lights turned off and the slide show pointing at the white wall.

Dr. Azzouz led us through the slides focusing only on a handful of countries: Egypt, Kuwait, Lebanon and Tunisia.

Through each country, we focused on the major sources of media (television, newspaper, movies, radio, magazines and internet) and how it is throughout each country.

Egypt is, by far, the leader of mass media throughout the Arab world with the largest publishing and broadcasting network.

In essence, Egypt is the center of the Arab world, complete with freedom of media, which is guaranteed by their constitution.

Egypt is also the most densely populated of any country in that region, housing 70 million, all of which are close to the Nile delta.

Egypt has eight daily newspapers, four FM stations and their own satellite.

Moving along to Kuwait.

Kuwait is the most developed country in the Arab world as it has the 5^th largest oil reserve in the world.

It also is the most vocal and transparent media in the Arab world and is ranked second in freedom of press, after Israel.

They have 13 television stations and 17 newspaper companies.

Lebanon is not far behind.

Lebanon has 14 television channels, nine daily newspapers and many radio stations.

Lebanon is one of two media hubs in the Arab world.

And last but not least, Tunisia.

Tunisia has nine daily newspapers (four in French, five in Arabic)

They also have six radio stations, along with two private television stations.

So what is it about mass media that we discussed?

Censorship.

How free is the press and how willing will one go to express what they want to express?

In comparison to a more conservative country, Saudi Arabia for example, these countries are doing quite well with their freedom of press.

Tunisia blocked Youtube for political purposes.

But this begs us to question how free is their freedom of media?

Many of the radio and television stations are international.

Representation.

So how does a country represent itself to a wider, international audience?

How do they represent Islam today?

Do they modernize Islam or Islamize modernization?

There are so many questions.

Despite the freedom of press, everything is censored when someone in the industry is thinking about who will read/hear/see what is said.

People have to please people with their words.

Words are never publicly free or freely expressed.

It’s just a rosy illusion.

….

On Wednesday I made a discovery about language.

Year after year I sat in a wooden desk in high school.

Shuffling my feet under my desk as I sat under bad lighting in German class.

I spent four years of high school learning German, which was spent slouching over a thick textbook.

I looked at each page, hoping to be motivated.

Never did.

Today is proof as the only thing I remember how to say is, “goodbye” and “bless you.”

That’ll get me far.

Then I learned Spanish for a semester in college.

I can’t say I retained a lot other than the two main “estar” and “ser” verbs.

Then I went to Peru and Ecuador for three months.

That experience was baffling and humbling at the same time.

The Spanish I learned through those months is still retained (I am so lucky!) as it dug itself deep into my brain. I remember it differently now though and I still have a long way to go to be comfortable with it.

I remembered things because I was put on the spot.

Objects became more personal as I had put emotion into the words describing the objects.

Ultimately feeling an emotion is finding identity within something.

(We are taught in psychology that when emotion is mixed with something we’re learning or living through, that we retain it in our memories far longer than without emotion.)

The reason that I was able to retain Spanish (unlike German) was because I could identify with it.

Because I was living there, I felt a part of it.

With a sense of belonging somewhere it is only natural to want to learn the language.

Now flashback to high school German.

I could have been highly motivated if some Germans called out from the textbook saying, “come on over here, we’ve been waiting for you!”

But they didn’t and I didn’t see myself if their culture or their language so I ceased in identifying with them which affected my motivation and drive to pursue it in college.

As for Arabic, our technique in class is to learn vocabulary.

Before we learn how to structure a sentence we learn words.

This is new to me, but I like it.

We use a program that gives us random words like “door,” “house” and “chicken” (chicken was the first word I remembered in Arabic because it sounds so beautiful).

There is a picture, which describes the word being displayed on the slide and finally a woman pronounces it.

It all takes time and a lot of repetition.

So when you’re trying to think of one of the words in a sentence, the image of that word will come to mind and so will the word.

Voila!

But when living here, there are the words and phrases you learn just from walking day to day.

Naturally you pick up on how to greet people or how to understand what they are saying based off of hearing it over and over and over.

I can walk down the street and figure out what to say in Tunisie to the boys who think that I am Italian or Eastern European.

Who knew I knew their language?

Yeah, who’s sweet-talking now?

…

Today I had lunch with my mom, sister and grandparents.

It was like Ramadan, but with the sun.

This time the TV wasn’t on, just the radio on top of the refrigerator.

The woman who’s singing keeps saying “Enti, enti, enti.”

Flies are buzzing around our heads.

We sit around the kitchen table and my mom hands me the forks and knives.

She pronounces “knife” with the k.

I can’t remember where to place the utensils so I put them both to the right of the plate.

Mimi corrects me: fork on left, knife on right.

Oh that’s right, I laugh.

We drink mint soda.

Eh, I think it is an acquired taste.

My mom dishes the food out on my plate, I feel like a five year old.

During the meal (like every meal), I never understand what is being said, so I patiently sit looking at my fish.

Everyone talks for a little while, about a variety of things.

I understand just a couple words.

They were saying something about the president and money.

Then my grandfather mutters something and the room goes quiet.

No one understands him.

My mom scoots his chair closer to the table and changes the subject.

“That is my favorite fish.”

I ask her what the name of the fish is.

She pronounces it.

I repeat what she says.

She says it again and adds that it sounds like….

She can’t think of the word in English.

Mimi makes the animal noise.

I still don’t know.

Everyone stares at each other around the table, wondering who will be the first to remember the word.

Out of nowhere, my grandfather says, “Wolf.”

He saves the day.

…

I wouldn’t say manners here are strict or that much different from the West.

During our excursion last week, professor taught us that you must ALWAYS fill the other person’s glass before yours.

If not, well, bad luck to you.

You may eat before someone else, but never pour your glass of water unless you have already filled someone else’s glass with water.

I hope my host family will forgive me for my lack of knowledge about that.

…

For now Mimi is calling me for dinner.

Her jacket squeaks as it is made from a weird material.

It looks like a puffed up leather jacket.

She looks like Michael Jackson.

I will never get over the fashion I sometimes see people wearing.

Countless boys and men wear shirts that are pink, blue, green and orange with black, bold print that says “Wild for the night.”

If only they knew what it meant.

Another travelin’ song

After hours of sitting in a dusty Mercedes, we have returned from our first Tunisian excursion complete with myself, Alex, Max, Geri and Professor Mounir.

Strangely enough I am happy to be back home in Tunis.

It’s thundering and I am now realizing how it is the beginning of October.

Bring it on Fall, bring it.
…

I was excited for our first Tunisian excursion.

So excited that I woke up on Saturday morning, like I use to wake up on the last day of elementary school.

I jumped around and took forever to get ready.

Finally when I was ready and a little more mature, I skipped on over to school and met my crew.

We met under an overcast sky and loaded everything into our chariot.

Then we were off.

We drove west into the rocky cliffs off the Mediterranean, kissed the most northern tip of Africa and scooted into the Atlas Mountains.

Scoot scoot.

And we honked a lot, because who doesn’t like honking their horn.

Toot toot.

We passed goats, cows and some unsuspecting dogs.

We waved at little school children, sheepherders and some donkeys.

We listened to Julieta Venegas, Radiohead and Bach.

We rode with our windows down westward, letting the wind blow dry our hair.

We explored Roman ruins over and over and over.

Through that time out west, we visited the beach port of Bizerta then moved further west to the steep cliffs around Tabarka, finally we headed southwest to the ancient city of El Kef.

Before we knew it we were eastbound.

We toot tooted and scoot scooted some more.

We retraced our steps back into the Atlas Mountains.

We passed some more sheepherders and donkeys and people selling honey on the highway (which I believed was lemonade).

We didn’t wave this time.

We explored some more Roman ruins.

We drove with the windows up and the AC blasting cold air.

We arrived to finish our excursion with the tourist city of lights and discothèques, Hammamet.

Traveling has got to teach us something, right?

Here are some things I took note of about each place:

….

On Saturday we found ourselves on the sunny beach of Ghar el Melh before arriving at Bizerta.

For swimming?

Nope.

Oh the disappointment.

We were going to hike up the steep sea cliff.

Professor Mounir claims this will take one hour up and one hour down.

Oh how he was wrong, so wrong.

We marched tenaciously through trees, bushes and wet sand.

We hiked and sweated and hiked a little more.

After following the path, we found ourselves at an old shrine with white washed walls and a green door.

Dogs barked viciously from the roof.

A woman came out to greet us.

She was very old and sick.

Professor felt bad so we kept the visit brief.

We entered her house, the shrine.

Complete with jade walls and red carpets.

It smelled on rotten fish and grapes, flies were everywhere.

The shrine has been around for generation after generation after generation.

It’s old, like the woman.

She lives there with her husband, who hikes down the cliff everyday to catch fish.

The shrine is always handed down to the oldest child to keep and look after it.

She unfortunately has no one to hand it down to since she has had no children (she claimed we were all her children).

So one day when she dies, her niece will take ownership.

She insisted we drink some tea and eat her grapes.

But we didn’t and we weren’t trying to be rude, we just didn’t want her to put effort into being a good, traditional hostess when it was obvious she was sick.

She was a good hostess without the tea and grapes.

She sweet-talked to us, as she was luring us to stay longer than we intended. The girls and I cooed at everything she said. But we had to leave before the sun was setting, and it was setting.

So we left her and professor led us down the same path we took up.

Or so we thought.

We got lost.

We bushwhacked our way through the green mess.

For every few steps, Mounir would lead on to say, “Oops, dead end.”

Then he would quote Wordsworth, telling us the need for a little optimism.

Never, ever give up.

Optimism indeed is what got us through the pinesap and pricks from cacti.

After diving into all the bushes for so long, my first instinct was “I hope there are no ticks in Tunisia.”

After growing up in Northern Minnesota, I am all too familiar with deer ticks sticking to you when you walk through the forest.

I hate ticks.

I ignored the thought only to be reminded hours later of one crawling through the car while we were crossing a bridge.

I say to professor, “Are there ticks in Tunisia?”

“No.”

“Well what’s that?”

“A tick.”

Thanks professor, real profound.

…

We arrived at Bizerta as the sun was setting and settled into our hotel for the night.

Hours later we dined on meat and Magon and finally passed out.

The next morning professor dropped us off at the medina.

We were there to distinguish the difference between the medina in Tunis versus the medina in Bizerta.

The difference that we noted was the lack of tourist zeal throughout each local shop.

No one was selling goods like they do in Tunis.

This is not a tourist spot, so no one living in Bizerta’s medina expects foreigners to knock on their door demanding their local goods.

It’s nice though, local people see you but they don’t annoy you by asking you to buy this and buy that.

….

Later on during the day, we drove on a dirt road to park next to a rural house.

Professor called someone on his cell phone and a pack of sheep crossed the street behind us.

Then we got out of the car and walked into the rural house.

We met a family who made their own pottery and has done so for years and years.

They collect the terra cotta colored clay from a mountain they hike to.

They then mold it into bowls, vases and some random animals.

They heat it in their old oven and dry it.

Then they paint it.

They sell it close the road for a cheap, cheap price.

It intrigued me to wonder why the family would sell their pottery right by the road for a cheap price, when they could walk to a close town and sell it and make more money.

They are very aware of this scenario as well.

They are not interested in that, money isn’t important in that respect.

Sometimes when we do what we have a passion for, making a money profit is not necessary in order to feel the rewards. Doing what we love to do daily gives us a satisfying sensation, which is the ultimate profit.

…

Later we arrived in Tabarka to explore an ancient fort.

We saw the gymnasium (warriors have to keep in shape), bakery (because they love their bread) and the places where the warriors use to live back in the day. We also saw the battleground, naturally.

We had a 360-degree view of the Mediterranean with the wind knocking us over.

Later back at the hotel, we changed clothes and dined on some pasta and more Magon.

The compelling conversations that come up during dinner every night always fascinated me to think about how ready I am for the world.

Sometime I feel like a little insect in the world, about to be squashed. At other times I feel like Atlas.

It’s just the five of us sitting around a rectangular table with a tablecloth covered in breadcrumbs and wine stains. Professor always sits at the head of the table leading conversation.

Hours later we find ourselves stuffed and ready for bed.

…

On Monday we left to arrive in El Kef. We stayed there for two days.

This town was much different from the other towns we had visited and had driven through, as we were in the rural country away from the sea.

We were given a tour of the whole town and it’s complete history through a local guide.

There were Judaic, Christian, and Islamic buildings in between narrow streets.

We came across Berber, Roman and Pagan ruins.

As well as cats that nimbly crossed the streets and little children who poked their heads out of windows, whispering to one another.

Then the sun set and we had more pasta and Magon as well as more conversation and debriefing of our days on the trip so far.

A stray cat would linger around our legs under the table, waiting for us to finish our meals so it could pounce on the rejected meat.

It stared at me and I pet it. I felt rebellious to touch a feral cat.

Woohoo!

I wanted to take it but professor insisted that I couldn’t keep it.

My childhood dreams of owning a pet resurfaced and my heart broke once again.

…

Before we knew it we were in Hammamet on a Wednesday afternoon.

It was muggy and I could sense the presence of foreigners.

I’ve finally found my US, Canadian and UK tourists; they’re here in Hammamet.

Hammamet is the destination for Tunisian and European tourists during the summer months as it has many, many clubs.

During the peak season, as much as 90% of the people in the town are tourists.

Now that it is fall, I would say 40% of the people living there are tourists.

That’s still a lot.

We theorized the effects of tourism and discussed the difference between authenticity and tacky look-alikes.

We were able to witness this by going into the resort part of the town and were baffled to see a “New Medina.”

What?

How is a medina new and how has it been formed so quickly (Medina’s are the oldest part of a city and only form when one culture fills in another culture and polishes itself off through time to become truly authentic)?

How can a wealthy person envision building a medina as a resort to lure tourists into believing this is what Tunisia is?

I felt like I was in the Middle East section of Disneyland.

Plaster, plastic and prissiness all boxed up and tied shut with a red ribbon.

It was so fake and cheap.

Men were aggressively asking us to buy this and that.

I’m sure everything they were trying to sell us was imported from China.

Oh the irony.

What we came to discuss later was why exactly do tourists want these products that the shopkeepers were trying to sell us?

Is this the image tourists have of an exotic area in North Africa, because last time I checked, there were no camels this far up north as well as black servants.

How terrible!

Where do they get this idea?

Hollywood?

Possibly.

As much as we would like to think that luxury and bounty do exist in the Meghrib, we also need to consider where we get these images.

We need to challenge these images we have of far and distant lands by actually traveling to these places.

When we are there, away from the touristy areas, we find a new reality and grow an appreciation for the culture’s authenticity.

Because believe me, the reality of these “exotic” lands may not be what you had in mind, but there is a reward of seeing something you were not expecting to see.

Search for what locals think define themselves and their culture, not what they think you think defines them, because it doesn’t.

Men sell these tacky products because they know what sells but they also know what they are selling is foreign to them.

They’re selling things that don’t even define them, yet they are attempting to define what we all think defines them

There’s something troubling with this scenario, but yet it happens in every tourist city around the world.

…

Hours after exploring the New Medina, we headed back to Tunis to come back home and sleep some more.

After being on the road for so long I realized why I missed home life so much.

I love where I live and who I live with.

There’s just something about living with a mom and a sister, just us there.

It’s a very small house with an incredibly loving and caring atmosphere.

When Mimi was crying the other night (possibly because she missed her sister, who’s studying in France) all I could hear from my room was my mom talking to her with the clink of teacups.

It’s important to talk everything over with a warm belly of mint tea.

It makes you think clearly and heals the pain quicker.

…

My mom may have had two daughters but she still is young at heart.

One late evening as I was eating my potatoes and chicken my mom put the radio up.

I asked her how one dances to this music.

She took her jacket off and walked into the other room. I assumed she didn’t hear me.

She came back into the kitchen with a leopard print scarf, tied it around her waist and belly danced for Mimi and I.

She was so good.

I ask, “How did you get to be so good?”

She dances in front of her mirror, self-taught.

A natural.

She wants Mimi to dance with her but Mimi’s embarrassed, she would rather sing.

Then my mom encourages me to dance and I give it a go.

I got some potential, man.

…

I think the reason why I like my family so much is because we’re all so young or we act young together.

We find alternative ways to express ourselves when language is lacking.

We work in sync and we all recognize each other and what we need.

And these ladies like their academics.

My mom has been studying HIV and currently is looking at the H1N1 virus.

I know, right?

At this moment she is asking my sister and I about what to wear for her party tonight.

She is wearing a red dress with some shiny high heels.

I just gave her the thumbs up.

I want to ask her how she does her makeup.

Makeup and how it is applied to someone’s face can be an incredibly culturing experience.

As for Mimi, she’s got brains too.

She wants to study engineering when she is older.

She likes it when we sing when we walk Bianco.

The routine of walking the dog is so cultural as well.

Where we go, who we pass as well as various landmarks around the neighborhood, all mark a different conversation or song sung.

She got a new cell phone the other day and she downloaded some songs from my computer that she recognized.

We played them while we walk and sang along to “Piano Man” “Say My Name” and “ABC” among others on empty streets with just some cats as our audience.

We only needed a microphone and a spotlight to make it karaoke.

Sometimes we would hit a note and dogs would bark from houses.

Bianco would go crazy.

We’ve got free spirit, yes we do.