Pottery Barn

No. 33: Learn a medieval trade

The first language of Tunisia is Arabic, and I have an exotic stamp in my passport to prove it. I’ve spent a week trekking through rock mountain villages; visiting with weavers and potters; riding a spitting, grumpy camel through the Sahara; driving up and down sand dunes with our turban-wearing guide named BuBar. That last bit was a test of faith in my fellow man. There are no paved roads in this part of Tunisia and BuBar’s idea of a comedy routine is making English women think he’s going to roll our car over a slope. I’ve become well acquainted with my seatbelt.

As Indiana Jones as I’m feeling this week, I’m currently met with a most challenging quest. Standing with two British journalists at 6 am before an early morning safari, we’re at a sleepy café and desperate for coffee. A quick look around at the quiet locals sipping their morning drinks reveals this place specializes in black sludge served in tiny cups.

“Tosh, they don’t do milk,” my fellow traveler Vicki groans from beside me.

This places me in a quandary. See, the second language of Tunisia is French and I’m 75 percent sure I know the phrase that will get us out of this mess and into milky caffeine goodness. But memories of German bakers are holding my tongue.

“Ahem,” I cough at the thick-necked proprietor. “Bonjour monsieur.”

I’m smiling, pleased I’ve gotten those two words out. The waiter is looking unimpressed, his hands spread in front of him on the counter like he’s a blackjack dealer and I can’t decide whether to stay or double down.

“Avez vouz du café au lait?” I state as slowly and clearly as possible. I sound like a learning impaired Audrey Tautou.

He takes a long pause to dry his hands on his red striped apron, before turning with a conceding reply of “Oui.”

I am elated. I am a French genius and global translator. I am an ambassador of goodwill, a beacon of hope for the tongue tied, a provider of coffee for your weak, your tired, your humble masses yearning to drink free.

I want to tell the man merci but am too afraid of what might come out, and I sip gratefully from my mug of light-brown coffee instead.

Our PR organizer Ffion finds us there, sitting in a post-caffeine glaze, and escorts us down a crowded street in Djerba where the noisy alleyways are filled with children mixing spices, men weighing vegetables and a group of older gentlemen arguing over a game that looks like chess but with flat round pieces. I think they call it checkers.

I speed up to get around a trio of goats being led by a barefoot boy wearing a Superman T-shirt, and step into a smoothed plot of land with orange and yellow bowls laid out in pretty rows.

“Parlez vous francais?” a thin man with dark skin and cropped hair asks from behind me.

“No,” I respond. “English.”

“That is good. I speak English. I show you my work and maybe you like.”

He’s motioning for me to follow him into what I can only describe as a cave, a tiny dwelling carved into the rock of the mountains. I look over my shoulder to where Ffion, Bubar and the other journalists are taking pictures of a stack of cone-shaped hats, shrug my shoulders, and follow behind.

The inside of the hut is bigger than I would have expected, lined with shelves filled with hundreds of pieces of oddly shaped pottery. It’s dark in the cave, the space actually dug into the ground so that it’s four feet below land level outside, the only light coming from a series of candles strewn sporadically throughout the place. The floor isn’t a floor, it’s sand.

In the corner is a kiln, but not like any kiln I’ve ever seen at my local JCC. It’s an ancient looking monster, breathing fire and sparks from its mouth, as a short, round man in overalls leans over it with a metal rod, twirling a small plate over the flames.

“My family makes pottery here for more than 100 years. I will show you, then you try,” thin man says. Watching skinny and his partner work is like seeing two eight year olds playing double dutch. Their hands move quickly performing different elements, one using water to make a clay from the sand, the other smoothing that clay with quick flicks of the wrist. They’re able to make lattice patterns with a tiny metal hook, creating a texture that looks like the result of a machine twice the size of this Cave of Wonders we’re currently in.

The short one hands me his pole and in a language I don’t understand begins explaining how to turn my arm and make sure the small bowl he’s just created gets fired on all sides.

Stepping out of the space I blink three times and hold my hand up to shield my eyes, taking care not to drop the tray, three small bowls, and incense burner I’ve just purchased.

“You are from England?” my new friend asks as I walk away.

“No, from America.”

“America?” he asks, the last syllable lilting up in surprise. “America is wonderful place, is very free. One day is my dream to go to America.”

I tell him I agree, and wonder how five minutes with a stranger who doesn’t know the difference between Miami and Michigan could make me more lonesome for my country than eight months with a city of people who spend four weeks out of the year there.

The Sahara: It's Sandy!

Greetings from sunny Tunisia! I recently returned from a five-day press trip to the lovely North African country, where I was able to take part in one of the most exotic holidays I could imagine. I've included some photos and videos below to try and describe the experience, though I'm afraid words and images don't do it justice. It was really incredibly amazing!

We spent our first day at a Jewish festival on the island of Djerba. We visited a synagogue, a yeshiva (Jewish school), and joined in a little market set up for the event with rabbis passing out glasses of liquor. It was very different than any shul experience I've ever had.

After our Jewish festivities, we visited a 1,000-year-old mosque and met Tunisia's head imam, who spoke about the great relationship beween North African Jews and Muslims, where the two religions live not just peacefully, but as good friends. I kept noticing signs in the villages, with Arab writing right on top of Hebrew.

Tunisia is filled with some of the most vibrant pottery. Residents use their immense supply of sand, mix it with water, fire it then paint it gorgeous colors. Everywhere you looked there were hundreds of bowls, plates and lamps and they were all unique looking. I got to go into an underground dwelling (that was really more like a cave) and watch two men make the stuff. It was dark and the floor was all sand with flickering candles. It felt like Aladdin's Cave of Wonders.

This was an area with 500 year old mud huts. You could climb in and out of each hut by tiny little ladders, and a man there showed me how to jump from each one to walk on the roofs, where you had the most amazing view of the entire desert.

We spent a lot of time driving through mountain terrain, and we would stop every now and then to look around. There are small clusters where people live in tiny homes carved out of the actual rock of the mountain, and the peopl we met there were incredibly kind, often inviting us inside to look at their houses.

In the villages we stopped at, women were weaving rugs and they would stop to show us their work. It made for a very colorful backdrop to the cream colored desert.

We rode camels through the Sahara; mine was named Caramel. We were surrounded by sand, you couldn't see anything but the dunes, and it was very cool. You felt completely isolated and couldn't hear anything but the sand whipping around.