The sun was low in the sky when I turned to make my way back down the rocky hill. I had been exploring the djebel for a couple of hours, enjoying the peace and quiet, and taking some photos of the view across the coastal plain to the Mediterranean. As I picked my way down the slope to where I had parked the bike, I saw an old Peugeot ute* battling up one of the steep tracks. I initially thought it must be one of the local farmers out on his evening rounds, but then realised the ute was coming directly towards me. I watched as three blokes climbed out and headed my way.
The men walked with intent, and the tallest of the three had a stern expression on his face. ‘Well this could be interesting.’ I thought to myself. I’ve always found the best way to approach such a situation is to be friendly and cheerful, so I mustered a friendly and cheerful ‘Hello!’
‘Hello.’ replied the tall, stern-faced man. ‘You are taking pictures.’
I wondered if I had stumbled into an area where photography was not permitted. This can go down badly in some countries.
‘Yes, it’s very beautiful here.’ I replied.
‘Can I see?’ asked the stern man, sternly.
‘Sure!’ I was thinking he might ask me to delete all the photos I had taken of the area. I showed him the screen on the back of the camera, and flicked through a few of the shots.
A conversation in Arabic began between the stern man, the shortest of the men whose face was hidden by a hoodie, and the youngest of the three. Not speaking any Arabic, I stood there trying to figure out if I was in trouble. Then the young fella turned to me and said in French: ‘Come to my brother’s house and eat’. Well I wasn’t expecting that.
Now my French isn’t great, and I wanted to make sure I had heard and understood correctly. I apologised in my stilted French and stated that I don’t speak the language very well. The young man again asked me to his brother’s house, at least that’s what I thought he’d said, so I thanked him very much and accepted the offer. The three men returned to their ute, and I hurried back to the bike and jumped aboard.
By this time it was dark, and I tagged along behind the ute until it pulled up outside a walled compound. One of the men slid a steel door open, the ute entered, and I was beckoned to follow. I didn’t really know what to expect, but just decided to roll with it.
After taking off my riding boots, I was invited to enter the house, which I later found out belonged to the man in the hoodie. A side door lead to a large sitting room, with the typical north African low couches lining the walls. The man in the hoodie appeared with a stack of four stools, which he proceeded to unstack and set out on the floor. He left the room again, then returned with a short table upon which was a large bowl of cous cous, lamb and vegetables. It looked amazing. I was invited to sit down, presented with a fork, and encouraged to eat. Crowding around the little table, the four of us got stuck into the cous cous, each having our own little section of the communal bowl. With the fresh, hot ingredients covered in a harrisa (chili) broth, it was absolutely delicious.
Using my stilted French and a translation app, I found out that the three were brothers: Fawzi was the eldest (despite having looked stern earlier, he was now smiling broadly), then Mohammed in the hoodie, and the youngest was Fahd. They asked me where I was staying. My original plan was to camp somewhere, but I told them I would return to Gabes and stay at a hotel. Through the app, and Fahd’s French, I was told that I shouldn’t return to Gabes but rather stay here at Mohammed’s house.
Forty-five minutes ago I had never met these three men, and to them I was just some strange foreign bloke walking around in the hills near their home. Now I was in a warm house, with beautiful food, and I had been offered a place to stay. Their kindness was genuine and unconditional.
After the meal, Fahd made a phone call, then announced that the brothers’ father was coming around to meet me. He arrived shortly after, a man in his early 60s with a neat moustache and wearing a tweed cap. Just like his sons, he was very welcoming, and having farmed the area all his life, was happy to field my questions about raising stock, cropping, rainfall and market prices. He also seemed to enjoy hearing about the similarities and differences between farming in Australia and Tunisia.
After chatting for a while, the father wished us goodnight and headed back home. Fawzi said that earlier in the day he had picked up some stock feed for the goats and sheep, and that it needed to be unloaded from the back of his ute. We filed back out the door, and as I was about to step back into my riding boots, Fawzi presented me with a pair of slippers, which I soon discovered are the work boot of choice for many Tunisians.
The night air was cool and the stars bright above the little compound in the village. Fawzi pulled a tarp off the back of his ute to reveal a mountain of dates. He explained that poorer quality Tunisian dates are used as stock feed. My hosts took it in turn to shovel the dates out of the back of the ute, which is challenging work as the fruit clumps together in big datey blocks.
Still in my riding gear, plus slippers
Not prepared to stand by and watch other blokes work, I managed to take my turn in the shovelling roster despite the protestations of the three brothers. I always reckon the best way to show appreciation for hospitality is to jump in and help with whatever needs doing. My date shovelling efforts certainly won me some cred that night with my new Tunisian friends.
It took us a while to finish the job, and it was getting late by the time we kicked off our work slippers (which now had a couple of centimetres of squashed dates cemented to their soles) and went back inside. Mohammed fetched me a blanket and a heavy Berber rug, and using the couch cushions made a bed for me on the floor. We all wished each other goodnight, and as I lay under the woollen rug I smiled and wondered how on earth I had ended up in a village house with three new friends.
I would end up spending three days with my Tunisian brothers, working with them on their farm, meeting their extended family, and being humbled by their kindness and hospitality. The experience was a highlight of not only my time in Tunisia, but also my entire Odyssey, and one I will never forget.
*Ute – Shortening of ‘utility’, an Australian slang for a light commercial vehicle with a tray, similar to the term ‘pickup’ used in the Unite States
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