It will come as no surprise to anyone to find out that it was whole lot easier for us to get out of Tunisia than it was to get in. Our NZ passports did cause some consternation to the young woman at the check-in counter but a quick check with her superviser was enough to see us through and on our way back to Paris...
...and getting into Europe remains one of the most astonishingly easy things to do. I don't think we ever pass through an airport here without marvelling at the speed and apparent lack of checks on our way through, at least for those of us with "European" looks and a NZ passport.
The climate change has been a bit of a shock to our systems - we left temperatures in the mid-20s and returned to 9 degrees. Apparently it has been unseasonably cold here for the last week or so. Just the motivation we need to really start looking forward to coming home! We are really looking forward to catching up with family and friends in person too.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
What a difference a day makes
Follows "Into Africa" below
When our visas were finally given to us, it was after midnight in Tunisian time, so Monday was our first official day in the country. We woke at around 8:30 after an exhausted sleep and began to take in the surroundings. The Golf Beach Hotel has three stars. Its rooms are reminiscent of hotel rooms in the French Pacific islands: clean, spacious and functional but with slightly dodgy bathroom arrangements - in this case a shower (over a bath) whose water does not want to be contained by the slightly-too-small shower curtain and tiles. Only the picture of a carpet-seller in the bedroom and the pattern of the tiles in the bathroom hint at a North African rather than a South Pacific setting. From the bedroom window, the vegetation doesn’t look too different either; date palms replace coconut palms but otherwise the grass struggles to grow in just the same way and bougainvilleas abound.
Our first call in the morning was to the main reception area to complete the registration formalities, which they had kindly spared us the night before. We’d been through it the night before but in the near-dark and in our exhausted state, we hadn’t noticed a great deal. Now it was blatantly obvious that we were somewhere quite different. The architecture and the décor - both sumptuous - shouted of their North African location. Registration was easy; we had a form to complete and we were then “labelled” with a hospital-type bracelet, which we wear all week and which identifies us as being entitled to eat, drink, play and stay in the resort within the (generous) limitations provided by the package deal. There are, of course, always extras available at a cost!
Suitably “tagged“, we launched into our day with a buffet breakfast that had everything you’d hope for except decent coffee, followed by an orientation wander around the complex. It is probably fair to say that the resort as a whole would be at the upper end of the three-star range - the pools and surrounds are magnificent, as are the communal areas of the hotel. In addition to the main pool outside, there is a smaller, heated, indoor-outdoor pool linked to the health and fitness centre. The weight training room is available free of charge; the massage and spa treatments come at a cost. The resort is situated right on the beach and offers loungers, and a variety of free water-sports, including kayaks, catamarans and pedal boats. For a fee, you can hire a jet-ski or go for a ride on dromedary. I think we’ll stick with the free activities…
In beautiful, sunny weather with temperatures ranging from around 20-26 degrees, the day went more or less as follows:
Change into swimming togs and go down to the beach
Swim in the sea
Lie in the sun
Swim in the sea
Lie in the sun
Move to poolside
Swim in pool
Pre-lunch G&T from the poolside bar
Buffet lunch (wine included)
Siesta
Back down to the beach
Kayak, swim, lie in sun to dry off
Back to room to shower and change
Pre-dinner cocktail for new guests
Buffet dinner
Reading and game of cards
Bed
As you can imagine, with this kind of day following the previous one, we slept like logs having decided that maybe we would be happy to stay in the country for the whole week after all.
When our visas were finally given to us, it was after midnight in Tunisian time, so Monday was our first official day in the country. We woke at around 8:30 after an exhausted sleep and began to take in the surroundings. The Golf Beach Hotel has three stars. Its rooms are reminiscent of hotel rooms in the French Pacific islands: clean, spacious and functional but with slightly dodgy bathroom arrangements - in this case a shower (over a bath) whose water does not want to be contained by the slightly-too-small shower curtain and tiles. Only the picture of a carpet-seller in the bedroom and the pattern of the tiles in the bathroom hint at a North African rather than a South Pacific setting. From the bedroom window, the vegetation doesn’t look too different either; date palms replace coconut palms but otherwise the grass struggles to grow in just the same way and bougainvilleas abound.
Our first call in the morning was to the main reception area to complete the registration formalities, which they had kindly spared us the night before. We’d been through it the night before but in the near-dark and in our exhausted state, we hadn’t noticed a great deal. Now it was blatantly obvious that we were somewhere quite different. The architecture and the décor - both sumptuous - shouted of their North African location. Registration was easy; we had a form to complete and we were then “labelled” with a hospital-type bracelet, which we wear all week and which identifies us as being entitled to eat, drink, play and stay in the resort within the (generous) limitations provided by the package deal. There are, of course, always extras available at a cost!
Suitably “tagged“, we launched into our day with a buffet breakfast that had everything you’d hope for except decent coffee, followed by an orientation wander around the complex. It is probably fair to say that the resort as a whole would be at the upper end of the three-star range - the pools and surrounds are magnificent, as are the communal areas of the hotel. In addition to the main pool outside, there is a smaller, heated, indoor-outdoor pool linked to the health and fitness centre. The weight training room is available free of charge; the massage and spa treatments come at a cost. The resort is situated right on the beach and offers loungers, and a variety of free water-sports, including kayaks, catamarans and pedal boats. For a fee, you can hire a jet-ski or go for a ride on dromedary. I think we’ll stick with the free activities…
In beautiful, sunny weather with temperatures ranging from around 20-26 degrees, the day went more or less as follows:
Change into swimming togs and go down to the beach
Swim in the sea
Lie in the sun
Swim in the sea
Lie in the sun
Move to poolside
Swim in pool
Pre-lunch G&T from the poolside bar
Buffet lunch (wine included)
Siesta
Back down to the beach
Kayak, swim, lie in sun to dry off
Back to room to shower and change
Pre-dinner cocktail for new guests
Buffet dinner
Reading and game of cards
Bed
As you can imagine, with this kind of day following the previous one, we slept like logs having decided that maybe we would be happy to stay in the country for the whole week after all.
Into Africa
At the beginning of October we found ourselves within striking distance of St Jean de Losne and we were noticing the cooler mornings and evenings even though the days were glorious. There had been no rain since September 5th. We took M and M to Dijon, one of our favourite cities, to have a look around and then they would catch a TGV for Paris. We all had lunch in a nice café with the lovely Christian who took us on a brief walking tour of his city that he is so proud of. The lovely man then drove M and M to the station. Earlier in the day Christian took us to his travel agent as we had mentioned trying to find a ‘last minute’ cheap destination to somewhere warm where we could swim in the sea. Nadine recommended a resort in Djerba, Tunisia, which was on the beach, had all the usual features of a resort. The price included all meals and drinks as well as all activities except motorised water sports. As Tunisia is a former French colony, it is an easy destination for the French. We asked about the need for a visa and Nadine made a phone call to check on that important detail and was told an NZ passport and a return ticket were all that was needed.
We left Dijon on Sunday 11th and as usual J was anxious to be at the Gare in plenty of time to catch the TGV to Paris. Christian, with whom we were staying, assured us it only took 20 minutes to get to the station and as we had our tickets he could drop us very close to the platform and 10.30am would be plenty of time to catch a 10.52 an train. To cut a long story short, as we were all packed and ready at 9am, he decided to take us for a walk around Talant and Fontaine, two old and charming parts of Dijon before dropping us off at the railway station. The train ride to Paris was pleasant and uneventful, and it was amusing to follow part of the canal we did last year. A section that took us weeks last year took just 18 minutes in the TGV. At the Gare de Lyon, on Christian’s advice we took an airport shuttle bus instead of the metro because there would be fewer stairs to carry suitcases up and down. However, we were going to Terminal 3 at Charles de Gaulle and the shuttle bus route had changed. We must have dragged our suitcases well over one kilometre before we got to the terminal.
When we checked in, the lady at the counter frowned at our passports, called in the manager who made a phone call and verified that a NZ passport and a return ticket were adequate. We blithely thought that would be the end of the matter! The plane was an hour and a half late taking off which meant we had cooled our heels at the airport for nearly 5 hours. Terminal 3 is very much a satellite terminal with little to see or do. We were hungry and were able to buy a packet of biscuits to eat. We had chosen a salad for lunch when we got to Paris as we felt the need for vegetables. It had been lovely but hadn’t lasted the extra time till the (modest) in-flight meal had arrived. The flight itself was uneventful and the entertainment consisted solely of watching the progress of the plane’s journey from France into Africa.
We disembarked and joined the queue to go through the immigration check. When our entry documents were inspected a ‘manager’ was rung and we were summarily told to get our luggage and ‘sit over there’! We were given explanation and no opportunity to ask what the problem was. We were just told that we had no visa. Another couple was there, they had just had their visa cleared. They told us they had a visa but there was some discrepancy with the spelling of one person‘s name. It had taken them two hours to sort out. It was just after 9pm local time(10pm French time) and we had no visa of any description. So we waited. After about two hours a young man joined us. We chatted to him. His parents were locals and he lived in Belgium. He spoke good English. We said no one was telling us what was happening. He said the manager probably does not know, he would have to ring someone, perhaps our Embassy to find out. By now it was really late and we knew the shuttle that should have taken us to the resort would have gone ages ago. The young man was at least able to reassure us that the airport bank was open 24 hours and taxis were not expensive. The young man was given the all clear to leave and we were left alone and by now exhausted in an empty terminal in the early hours of the morning with no idea what was happening. If they were trying to make us worried, it was working.
The next time the manager walked by we were brave enough to ask him what was happening. We explained the lengths we had gone to and the advice we had from the travel agent and the counter at Charles de Gaulle. He dismissed all that as French inadequacy and reiterated we needed a visa and he was going to make a phone call about it. That he hadn’t made the call earlier was probably to emphasise the fact we were completely in his hands. By now we were more than a little concerned. Then abruptly he burst out of his office, all energy and action and told C to go off with another official. J was to stay with the luggage. As the minutes ticked by, J was getting more and more concerned. Another flight came in and was processed and then the terminal was empty again. J began to wonder how she and C had so meekly followed orders with no explanation! She also realised she would find it very difficult to speak to officials who spoke only Arabic and French and get information about where C was. After half an hour alone with a very active imagination, J decided that when the next flight came in she would shout out, ‘does anyone here speak English, I need help!’ Fortunately at that point, C arrived and said we would have our visas as soon as she had changed some euros to cover the fee of 20 dinar (about NZ$20). So the good news was we could legally stay for a week but by then we were wondering if we really wanted to.
We left the terminal to arrange for a taxi (the only transport option at that time of the day) to take us to Golf Beach Hotel which, for some reason, we thought was only about 7km away. There were a lot of taxis outside even though it was the early hours of the morning. We followed some advice we had in France and asked how much it would cost as apparently this was something one bartered. The man said there was a meter in the car. There seemed to be no option but to get in the car. About half a dozen other taxi drivers hooted and hollered at our driver when we said where we wanted to go. We had no idea what they were saying but it made us uncomfortable. We tried to take comfort from the fact that Tunisia needs its tourism industry and that we were probably safe. We were quickly out of the town area and were travelling very quickly out into ‘country’ area. The meter was ticking over at a frightening speed and heading towards 140 dinar (NZ$140) when the driver stopped at the Djerba Beach Hotel - we had asked to be taken to the Golf Beach Resort! We repeated the name of the our hotel and he said, OK it is just down the road. After a while - and a lot more clicks on the meter - C asked how much further it was and expressed some concern about the cost. He protested and told us that the reading on the meter wasn’t the 140 dinar we imagined but only 14 dinar. It transpires that in Tunisia they always put in three places their decimal point - not the two we are accustomed to. When he realised our misunderstanding he could hardly stop laughing. He kept hitting the steering wheel and cackling fit to kill. However, that broke the tension and the driver and C had a nice chat till we eventually got to the correct resort. The one hour‘s drive cost just over NZ$21, not the NZ$210 we thought we were going to have to pay. We finally got to our room at 2am, French time, exhausted, hungry and thirsty. We were too scared to drink the water out of the tap (with reason, it turns out) so had a shower and went to bed in the hope of tomorrow being a better day…
On reflection…
We can’t help wondering how 2 Tunisian women would get on trying to come to NZ for a week-long holiday after a stay in Australia; we suspect they may well find themselves on a plane back to wherever we had come from.
We left Dijon on Sunday 11th and as usual J was anxious to be at the Gare in plenty of time to catch the TGV to Paris. Christian, with whom we were staying, assured us it only took 20 minutes to get to the station and as we had our tickets he could drop us very close to the platform and 10.30am would be plenty of time to catch a 10.52 an train. To cut a long story short, as we were all packed and ready at 9am, he decided to take us for a walk around Talant and Fontaine, two old and charming parts of Dijon before dropping us off at the railway station. The train ride to Paris was pleasant and uneventful, and it was amusing to follow part of the canal we did last year. A section that took us weeks last year took just 18 minutes in the TGV. At the Gare de Lyon, on Christian’s advice we took an airport shuttle bus instead of the metro because there would be fewer stairs to carry suitcases up and down. However, we were going to Terminal 3 at Charles de Gaulle and the shuttle bus route had changed. We must have dragged our suitcases well over one kilometre before we got to the terminal.
When we checked in, the lady at the counter frowned at our passports, called in the manager who made a phone call and verified that a NZ passport and a return ticket were adequate. We blithely thought that would be the end of the matter! The plane was an hour and a half late taking off which meant we had cooled our heels at the airport for nearly 5 hours. Terminal 3 is very much a satellite terminal with little to see or do. We were hungry and were able to buy a packet of biscuits to eat. We had chosen a salad for lunch when we got to Paris as we felt the need for vegetables. It had been lovely but hadn’t lasted the extra time till the (modest) in-flight meal had arrived. The flight itself was uneventful and the entertainment consisted solely of watching the progress of the plane’s journey from France into Africa.
We disembarked and joined the queue to go through the immigration check. When our entry documents were inspected a ‘manager’ was rung and we were summarily told to get our luggage and ‘sit over there’! We were given explanation and no opportunity to ask what the problem was. We were just told that we had no visa. Another couple was there, they had just had their visa cleared. They told us they had a visa but there was some discrepancy with the spelling of one person‘s name. It had taken them two hours to sort out. It was just after 9pm local time(10pm French time) and we had no visa of any description. So we waited. After about two hours a young man joined us. We chatted to him. His parents were locals and he lived in Belgium. He spoke good English. We said no one was telling us what was happening. He said the manager probably does not know, he would have to ring someone, perhaps our Embassy to find out. By now it was really late and we knew the shuttle that should have taken us to the resort would have gone ages ago. The young man was at least able to reassure us that the airport bank was open 24 hours and taxis were not expensive. The young man was given the all clear to leave and we were left alone and by now exhausted in an empty terminal in the early hours of the morning with no idea what was happening. If they were trying to make us worried, it was working.
The next time the manager walked by we were brave enough to ask him what was happening. We explained the lengths we had gone to and the advice we had from the travel agent and the counter at Charles de Gaulle. He dismissed all that as French inadequacy and reiterated we needed a visa and he was going to make a phone call about it. That he hadn’t made the call earlier was probably to emphasise the fact we were completely in his hands. By now we were more than a little concerned. Then abruptly he burst out of his office, all energy and action and told C to go off with another official. J was to stay with the luggage. As the minutes ticked by, J was getting more and more concerned. Another flight came in and was processed and then the terminal was empty again. J began to wonder how she and C had so meekly followed orders with no explanation! She also realised she would find it very difficult to speak to officials who spoke only Arabic and French and get information about where C was. After half an hour alone with a very active imagination, J decided that when the next flight came in she would shout out, ‘does anyone here speak English, I need help!’ Fortunately at that point, C arrived and said we would have our visas as soon as she had changed some euros to cover the fee of 20 dinar (about NZ$20). So the good news was we could legally stay for a week but by then we were wondering if we really wanted to.
We left the terminal to arrange for a taxi (the only transport option at that time of the day) to take us to Golf Beach Hotel which, for some reason, we thought was only about 7km away. There were a lot of taxis outside even though it was the early hours of the morning. We followed some advice we had in France and asked how much it would cost as apparently this was something one bartered. The man said there was a meter in the car. There seemed to be no option but to get in the car. About half a dozen other taxi drivers hooted and hollered at our driver when we said where we wanted to go. We had no idea what they were saying but it made us uncomfortable. We tried to take comfort from the fact that Tunisia needs its tourism industry and that we were probably safe. We were quickly out of the town area and were travelling very quickly out into ‘country’ area. The meter was ticking over at a frightening speed and heading towards 140 dinar (NZ$140) when the driver stopped at the Djerba Beach Hotel - we had asked to be taken to the Golf Beach Resort! We repeated the name of the our hotel and he said, OK it is just down the road. After a while - and a lot more clicks on the meter - C asked how much further it was and expressed some concern about the cost. He protested and told us that the reading on the meter wasn’t the 140 dinar we imagined but only 14 dinar. It transpires that in Tunisia they always put in three places their decimal point - not the two we are accustomed to. When he realised our misunderstanding he could hardly stop laughing. He kept hitting the steering wheel and cackling fit to kill. However, that broke the tension and the driver and C had a nice chat till we eventually got to the correct resort. The one hour‘s drive cost just over NZ$21, not the NZ$210 we thought we were going to have to pay. We finally got to our room at 2am, French time, exhausted, hungry and thirsty. We were too scared to drink the water out of the tap (with reason, it turns out) so had a shower and went to bed in the hope of tomorrow being a better day…
On reflection…
We can’t help wondering how 2 Tunisian women would get on trying to come to NZ for a week-long holiday after a stay in Australia; we suspect they may well find themselves on a plane back to wherever we had come from.
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