Our ferry was four hours late leaving Genoa, Italy, which meant our arrival into Tunis was also delayed. By the time the ship finally swung its enormous backside to the quay, and the doors were dropped, it was around 2300.
I had a met Jozef, a fellow adventure biker from Germany, in the departure lounge at Genoa. He had been riding in Tunisia before, and was a great source of information. I’d read some horror stories about riders having to completely unload their bikes and belongings at the customs point, and officials demanding visitors’ itineraries and evidence of hotel bookings for their entire time in Tunisia. Jozef assured me we wouldn’t have any problems, and I hoped he was right. After descending to the ferry’s garage and finding the bikes had survived the rough crossing, we rode off together and headed for customs and passport control.
Just like Jozef had said, entering Tunisia turned out to be a straightforward affair: after about an hour of queuing and paperwork we were through. I breathed a big sigh of relief, oblivious to the fact that my problems were only just about to start.
Before leaving Italy, I had checked to make sure I could access the internet upon arrival in Tunisia using my Italian sim card. As the ferry headed down Tunisia’s northern coast towards the capital I had got coverage, so was pretty confident it wouldn’t be a problem. However upon arrival at the port I could no longer connect to the net. Having crossed plenty of international borders over the past few years, I tried all the tricks I knew to get it to work, but to no avail.
It wasn’t that I just wanted to check out Facebook of TikTok or put on a bet; I needed the net to navigate to my hotel. Just in case I did have problems connecting, I had screen shot a few maps before leaving Italy, and I also had my small hiking GPS as a backup.
Jozef and I shook hands and wished each other well, and I followed him out of the dock area. He disappeared into the night, and I took it easy, trying to remember the route I had done my best to memorize. I followed the quiet, dusty road from the port, tired but excited to be back in Africa. I made a left hand turn, and followed La Guelette Road which bisects the Lake of Tunis and heads towards the city. I knew I had to make a right hand turn at the end of the lake, and assumed it would be easy to see.
I don’t know what happened, but I missed my turn.
Finding myself drawn onto what looked like a freeway, I was soon heading in what I new was the wrong direction. Thankfully I was able to pull into a service station, and I dug out my GPS. Compact, hand-held GPS units are great when you’re hiking, less so when riding. Knowing my phone would be good enough for navigation in large areas of Tunisia, the plan was only to use the GPS, paper map and compass when things got remote.
I found the hotel on the GPS, tried to figure out a rough route to the city centre, then put it back in my pocket. I would ride to Centre Ville, then reassess from there. I did have a mount for the GPS somewhere in my bag, but I didn’t want to spend the time trying to find and install it. Besides, the screen on the GPS was too small to use to follow urban street directions while riding. And besides, it wouldn’t take too long to find the hotel, right?
Things seemed to be going pretty well initially. I was heading in the right direction, the signage was reasonably clear, and the roads were pretty much deserted. (This was great, as last time I had driven in Tunis it was daytime and the streets were chaotic.) I was tired, but confident that I would soon be at my hotel having a feed and a shower. Then I reached a multi-road intersection and must have missed the road to Centre Ville. Feeling I was heading the wrong way, I found a spot to pull over and checked the GPS. I had made progress towards the hotel, so that was something, but had now veered off course. I oriented myself and headed off again.
With relief I arrived in the centre of town, turning onto the grand Avenue Habib Bourguiba, with it’s lines of trees and lamp posts. I passed the Carlton Hotel where I had stayed on my last visit to Tunis. Things were looking up, and I allowed myself a little contented smile.
I needed to turn right and head north, but left it too late, and instead of staying on the predictable grid of Centre Ville I entered the maze of narrow streets that lies to the west. I wiggled and wound my way through the deserted laneways, several times finding myself at dead-ends. Occasionally I passed a small store or café that was still open, and the clientele would stare as I rode by. Motorcycles aren’t unusual in Tunis, but large adventure bikes with foreigners aboard in the middle of the night apparently are.
By now I was starting to get pissed off. Why hadn’t I turned around straight away when I first realised I had taken the wrong road after leaving the port? Why had I thought that a few screen-shot maps would be enough to get me to my hotel? Why didn’t I buy an e-sim to be sure I had coverage when I arrived? With my frustration growing, I tried not to lose my bearings through the innumerable corners. Thankfully I somehow managed to find my way back out of the labyrinth to an intersection I recognised. Pulling over again, I consulted the GPS’ match-box sized screen. Making my way back to the grid of Centre Ville, I turned north.
There were a few cabs around, and if I had more than 5 euros in my wallet, I would have hailed one to lead me to the hotel. I tried to stay positive, figuring that sooner or later I would find my destination. When I got drawn onto a northern freeway and overshot my hotel’s district by about 5km, I finally lost it. While getting further and further away from where I wanted to be, I yelled and swore inside my helmet at the top of my voice. I had been riding around Tunis for an hour in the middle of the night and I’d had a gutful of it.
I found a exit and managed to get back on the same road heading south again. Upon reaching the intersection where I’d gone astray, I stopped and took the GPS from my pocket. With surprise I saw I wasn’t far from the hotel. With only a few kilometres to go, I tried to memorize the street names and each of the turns I needed to make. Taking off again, I stopped to check the GPS every few hundred metres. So near now and with so little patience and energy left, I wasn’t taking any chances.
Closing on my destination, the road suddenly split. With a car tailing me I had no time to hesitate. I took the right hand option. Turns out I needed the left. I was on a one way street, heading the wrong way, with a kerb and two sets of tram tracks separating me from the opposite lane. I promptly mounted the kerb, and headed back up the tram tracks. I figured it would be too late for the trams to be running, and was beyond caring anyway. I then hopped down over the kerb and back onto the road, and while hugging the gutter, rode the wrong way into the oncoming traffic back to the intersection. Pulling across the lane, I was back at the fork, and took the left.
A couple more stops to check the GPS, and I wearily turned onto the street of my hotel. I felt more fatigue and hunger than relief, and just wanted to get off the bike. It had taken me an hour and a half to make the 20 minute trip from the port.
After checking in I headed up to my room, and ate what food I had left over from my ferry trip. A quick shower and I was into bed, very grateful that my first ride in Tunisia was over. Before I fell asleep, I solemnly vowed never again to arrive in a foreign city on a motorcycle without a working sim card.
If you enjoyed this post, you may also like Driving in Tunisia, Incidents and Accidents, Crete
Leave a Reply