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# Tunisia: It Seemed Like a Good Idea at the Time
- URL: https://zany-stories.ghost.io/tunisia-it-seemed-like-a-good-idea-at-the-time/
- Published: 2026-09-24T08:15:50.000Z
- Updated: 2026-09-25T07:02:41.000Z
- Author: Zainul Sachak

**Ten Days in Tunisia: Sun, Souks, Seafood and the Occasional Surprise**

There are holidays where everything goes exactly according to plan.

And then there are holidays that make much better stories.

Our ten days in Hammamet belonged firmly in the second category.

Tunisia greeted us with sunshine, extraordinary heat, warm blue seas, whitewashed buildings, magnificent blue doors, bougainvillaea tumbling over walls, palm trees of every conceivable height and enough watermelon to feed a small country.

It also gave us taxi drivers with an adventurous interpretation of the Highway Code, shopkeepers capable of detecting a potential customer at fifty paces, persistent hotel waiters, pirate ships, Roman ruins, dolphins, excellent seafood and, rather unexpectedly, a customs officer who appeared to regard me as Tunisian royalty.

In other words, a fairly memorable family holiday.

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## **Manchester to Hammamet – not quite a flying start**

Our adventure began at home when the Uber booked to take us to Manchester Airport failed to appear.

Thankfully a replacement was quickly found, and, after that little wobble, everything seemed to be going remarkably smoothly.

That should probably have worried us.

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We boarded our flight on time, only for the captain to announce that bad weather would delay our departure. Then two rather merry ladies sitting in front of us embarked upon what appeared to be their own airborne cabaret—talking, singing and drinking enthusiastically while the rest of us waited patiently to leave Manchester.

To add to the entertainment, the front toilets stopped working.

Soon a substantial queue developed down the aircraft for the remaining facilities at the rear.

Eventually, an hour late, we took off into turbulent weather.

Welcome aboard.

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Several bumpy hours later we finally descended into Enfidha. Stepping out of the aircraft was like opening the door of a greenhouse. Even late at night, the heat hit us immediately.

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At passport control we struck up a conversation with an Indian family from Preston whose roots, like mine, were in East Africa. In one of those lovely coincidences that happen while travelling, their daughter had just returned from spending a month as a trainee nurse in Zanzibar.

Then came my moment of glory.

The passport officer studied my full first name, **Zain-ul-Abidin**, looked at me and pointed out its connection with Tunisia's former president, Zine El Abidine Ben Ali.

Suddenly I appeared to acquire elevated status.

I don't think I quite received a presidential salute, but I certainly felt I was treated with considerably more reverence than I normally receive at Manchester Airport.

Sadly, there was no limousine waiting outside.

Instead, we boarded our coach for Hammamet.

Driving through the town late at night, brightly illuminated buildings and monuments flashed past the windows, giving us our first glimpse of Tunisia before we finally reached The Sinbad hotel just before midnight.

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Bread, cheese and fruit were delivered to our rooms, and then, thoroughly exhausted, we collapsed into bed.

Tunisia could wait until morning.

## **Waking up in The Sinbad**

Arriving at The Sinbad so late at night, we'd really had little idea what the hotel looked like. We had checked in, eaten our emergency supper of bread, cheese and fruit and gone straight to bed.

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It was only the following morning, in brilliant Tunisian sunshine, that we discovered just how quirky the place was.

The Sinbad wasn't one enormous conventional hotel building. Instead, it seemed to unfold around us as a **labyrinth of white-walled walkways and low-rise buildings**, interspersed with palm trees and lush gardens festooned with colourful bougainvillaea.

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There were little paths disappearing around corners, courtyards and terraces, and everywhere that distinctive contrast of white architecture, brilliant flowers and blue sky.

Our rooms had a comfortable, slightly rustic North African feel while still containing all the modern necessities.

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The enormous reception and dining areas were more theatrical, decorated with **mock-Roman artwork, pottery and Mediterranean touches,** a little nod perhaps, to the ancient civilisations that had passed through Tunisia over the centuries.

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And there was that wonderful freshness you sometimes notice when you first wake up somewhere hot: gardens, sea air, tropical birds and sunshine. 

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Then we caught sight of the Mediterranean.

**Wow.**

Beyond the gardens was the hotel's private beach and the magnificent blue Gulf of Hammamet stretching into the distance.

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This looked considerably more like paradise than a wet weekend in Cornwall.

The staff added to the sense that we'd landed somewhere rather special. Everyone seemed immaculately turned out, their uniforms neatly embroidered with **The Sinbad** logo, while waiters and reception staff moved around with an almost old-fashioned formality.

The hotel itself had history. **The Sinbad first opened in 1966 as a small beach hotel** and gradually expanded over the decades into the sprawling five-star resort we were now trying to find our way around, complete with gardens, pools and its own stretch of private beach.

Finding our room again occasionally required navigational skills normally associated with an orienteering competition, but that was part of its charm.

And then there was breakfast.

As we were staying **half-board**, food was going to play an important part in the next ten days, and that first morning suggested we were in for something of a culinary feast.

Fresh omelettes and pancakes were made to order, with eggs prepared fried, poached, boiled or scrambled. European guests were also catered to with bacon, probably turkey bacon in a Muslim country, sausages resembling beef hot dogs, and an assortment of hot vegetable accompaniments I would have expected at dinner. Breads, pastries, cereals, yoghurt, jams, fruit and juices were plentiful, as was the coffee, served by an exceptionally attentive waiter who seemed determined never to let my cup fall below half-full.

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## **Fruit, bread and the serious business of breakfast**

Tunisia turned out to be rather good for anyone who believes that eating fruit on holiday somehow cancels out everything else you've eaten.

Breakfast at The Sinbad usually involved an impressive display of fresh fruit. There were oranges, grapes, figs, dates and, above all, **watermelon**.

Lots of watermelon.

In fact, by the end of ten days I think we'd consumed enough watermelon to qualify for some form of Tunisian agricultural subsidy.

It wasn't particularly exotic fruit to us, as we can buy most of it at home, but somehow an orange, fig or slice of watermelon eaten under the North African sun tasted infinitely better than one retrieved from the fridge on a wet Tuesday morning in Altrincham.

We hadn't realised quite how important fruit is to Tunisia. Carthage Magazine describes citrus fruits, grapes and dates as among the country's most commonly eaten fruits. Tunisian citrus is particularly associated with the north and centre of the country, while much of its date production comes from the southern oases around Tozeur and Kebili. Figs even have their own Tunisian name, **karmous**, while watermelon, known as **dela3,** is described as one of the great pleasures of a Tunisian summer.

Watermelon certainly became one of the great pleasures of *our* Tunisian summer.

But the fruit that really caught our attention came later, during our sweltering excursion to Tunis.

A street fruit seller was offering something rather less familiar: **El Hindi**, the Tunisian prickly pear.

Carthage Magazine rather grandly calls it the **“King of Fruits".** It grows on cactus plants and comes equipped with numerous tiny spikes, nature’s way, presumably, of saying *you may eat me, but I'm not making it easy*. Tunisian street fruit sellers do the dangerous bit themselves, handling and peeling the fruit before selling its sweet, refreshing flesh to considerably less courageous customers like us.

After wandering around Tunis in temperatures approaching the high 30s, we weren't interested in its royal credentials.

It was cold.

It was juicy.

It cost only a few dinars.

At that moment, El Hindi could quite easily have been **Emperor of Fruits**.

Then there was the bread.

Every morning and again at dinner, there seemed to be an enormous assortment: crusty loaves, rolls, baguette-style breads, flatbreads and breads flavoured or enriched with olive oil.

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The French influence was unmistakable. You could be sitting in North Africa surrounded by palms and bougainvillaeas yet find yourself staring at enough freshly baked bread to stock a respectable Parisian boulangerie.

Naturally, we felt obliged to investigate.

Thoroughly.

This was cultural research.

Some breads were crisp and crusty, others soft and chewy, while the olive-oil breads were particularly difficult to walk past without taking another piece.

Breakfast therefore developed its own predictable sequence:

**Fruit first.**

Very healthy.

Then bread.

Still Mediterranean.

Another piece of bread.

Research.

Possibly a croissant.

French colonial history.

And suddenly we'd eaten enough breakfast to sustain a small camel caravan until lunchtime.

The funny thing was that although we eventually became slightly disappointed by the repetition of the hotel's evening buffet, **breakfast never really lost its appeal**.

Fresh fruit, warm bread, coffee and the Tunisian sunshine outside were a pretty good way to start the day.

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Mountains of it.

Sitting there after breakfast, looking through the palm trees towards the Mediterranean, our slightly chaotic journey from Manchester already seemed a long way away.

The temperature was rapidly climbing towards the high 30s.

There was really only one sensible thing to do.

**Find the infinity swimming pool.**

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Or, better still, the sea.

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## **The project manager goes on holiday.**

Over our first proper breakfast at The Sinbad, we began discussing what we wanted to do with the next ten days.

Now, some people go on holiday, arrive at the hotel and decide what to do each morning.

I am not one of those people.

Before we'd even left Manchester, I'd already produced a rough schedule of possible activities and places to visit. I'd researched Hammamet and the surrounding area, identified some of the historical sites worth seeing and had even **pre-booked our catamaran trip**.

Talk about forward planning.

After all those years working as a **project manager,** apparently, I'd learnt something.

There wasn't quite a Gantt chart pinned to the hotel bedroom wall, but give me another couple of days and there might have been one.

There were, however, deliberate gaps in my master plan. This was supposed to be a relaxing holiday, after all.

My research had suggested that we should spend a day visiting **Tunis and some of the important historical sites around it**, but I hadn't yet booked anything. The intention was to look around, compare what was available locally and then decide.

A perfectly sensible procurement strategy.

Or so I thought.

We finished breakfast and emerged from the dining room feeling extremely well fed and ready for our first day in paradise.

We didn't get very far.

Waiting outside was the hotel's resident **activities representative**.

He greeted us warmly and, before mentioning anything as vulgar as money, began chatting.

Where were we from?

Was this our first visit to Tunisia?

What did we do?

Then came stories about his own family and life in Tunisia.

Very friendly.

Very relaxed.

Just a pleasant conversation between new acquaintances.

Except that somewhere during this exchange, without any obvious change of gear, we appeared to have entered a sales presentation.

Had we considered a **three-hour quad-bike adventure in the desert?**

No?

Perhaps an **overnight stay in a desert camp?**

Or maybe we'd prefer a **private car and driver for a day trip to Tunis and the historical sites?**

There seemed to be no part of Tunisia that this gentleman couldn't arrange for us to visit, preferably immediately and at a price he was conveniently able to quote.

I began to admire the technique.

First establish rapport.

Discover the customer's interests.

Identify the opportunity.

Then move towards the sale.

This man hadn't accosted us outside the breakfast room.

He'd conducted a **stakeholder engagement exercise**.

Fortunately for the family holiday budget, Ruth and Ruby showed absolutely no enthusiasm for spending three hours bouncing around the Tunisian countryside on quad bikes.

The desert camp received a similarly underwhelming response.

Apparently sleeping in a tent in the desert wasn't high on their list of priorities when we'd just paid to stay in a five-star hotel with comfortable beds, air-conditioning and an infinity pool.

I could see their point.

The private excursions sounded more interesting, particularly Tunis, but I wasn't going to commit before we'd had the chance to investigate other options.

The project manager in me was fighting back.

**No contract award without competitive tendering.**

So, despite the considerable charm of our new friend, we signed up for precisely nothing.

We smiled, thanked him and escaped towards the swimming pool.

Over the following mornings we discovered that our encounter hadn't been accidental.

There he was again.

Outside the dining room.

Every morning.

Strategically positioned to intercept the latest arrivals emerging from breakfast in that wonderfully vulnerable early-holiday state: relaxed, well fed, slightly disorientated and still trying to work out what to do for the next seven or ten days.

I could imagine how easy it would be for enthusiastic newcomers to arrive on their first morning and, within half an hour, commit a sizeable chunk of their holiday spending money before they'd had the chance to compare prices or discover what else was available.

We, however, were now seasoned veterans.

By Day Three we'd perfected the technique.

Finish breakfast.

Check the exit.

Activities Rep at twelve o'clock.

Avoid eye contact.

Turn towards the pool.

Keep moving.

I almost felt sorry for him.

Almost.

In fairness, he was always friendly and was simply doing his job. And perhaps some guests appreciated the convenience of arranging everything without leaving their hotel.

But for us, part of the enjoyment was finding our own way around, using taxis, wandering through local towns and choosing excursions as we went.

Besides, I already had a Project Manager organising our holiday.

Unfortunately for Ruth and Ruby, **they were married and related to him.**

## **Dressing for dinner – and waiting for the entertainment**

Before arriving in Tunisia, we'd imagined that dinner each evening would be something of a culinary journey: plenty of authentic Tunisian dishes, perhaps some wonderful North African spices and seafood, with a few familiar European options thrown in for less adventurous guests.

The first proper evening certainly looked promising.

Dinner also gave Ruth and Ruby an opportunity to dress up in some of their finest holiday outfits.

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I took a slightly different approach.

Shorts remained the foundation of my evening wardrobe, although I occasionally made the heroic effort of putting on a smarter top.

One has standards.

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The dining room offered an impressive spread. There was grilled seafood—**sardines, naturally**, because surely no Mediterranean holiday is complete without them, alongside various chicken dishes, Tunisian-inspired lamb stews and a huge selection of salads, vegetables and hot accompaniments.

Then came the European contingent: spaghetti Bolognese, lasagne, beef stroganoff and other familiar favourites.

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It was quite a feast.

Unfortunately, as the evenings passed, our initial excitement began to fade.

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Different dishes appeared, but somehow dinner increasingly felt rather familiar. The food became repetitive and sometimes bland, and the distinctive Tunisian flavours we'd hoped to discover weren't as prominent as we'd expected.

By halfway through the holiday, the question wasn't so much:

*"What culinary delights await us tonight?"*

It was becoming:

*"I wonder which version of chicken we're having this evening."*

Perhaps that's one of the compromises of running a large international hotel. Feeding guests from Britain, France, Germany, Eastern Europe and across the Arab world probably encourages a certain amount of culinary diplomacy.

Nobody must be frightened by dinner.

Fortunately, our later discoveries in local restaurants would prove that **Tunisian food itself certainly wasn't the problem**.

We'd also imagined that after dinner the hotel might spring to life with music and entertainment.

It didn't.

One evening we discovered a lone guitarist performing beside the pool.

There were three people watching him.

I'm fairly certain one of them may have been waiting for someone.

We hovered briefly, partly because we felt sorry for the poor chap, before quietly slipping away. Staying might somehow have made the whole situation even more awkward.

In fact, some of our loveliest evenings required no organised entertainment at all.

After dinner we'd wander towards the beach and stand looking along the shoreline.

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In the darkness, the lights from hotels, restaurants and buildings further around the Gulf shimmered across the Mediterranean, their reflections dancing on the water.

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The warm evening air, the sound of the sea and those distant lights provided something rather better than hotel entertainment.

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Sometimes Tunisia was at its best when absolutely nothing was happening.

## **Our first encounter with old Hammamet – everyone has a relative with a shop.**

On our second day, we decided it was time to venture beyond the relative tranquillity of The Sinbad and explore the **old part of Hammamet and its Medina**.

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This was our first proper encounter with the Tunisia of narrow winding alleys, whitewashed walls, beautiful blue doors and tiny shops seemingly squeezed into every available corner. Behind the historic walls, the streets twisted and turned in every direction, occasionally opening onto wonderful glimpses of the brilliant blue Mediterranean beyond.

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It was also where we learnt our first important lesson about exploring a Tunisian Medina:

**Never underestimate the helpfulness of a stranger, particularly one who has a relative with a shop nearby.**

As we wandered through the old streets, we unexpectedly encountered an off-duty member of staff from The Sinbad.

What an extraordinary coincidence!

He greeted us warmly and explained that we had chosen a particularly fortunate day to visit. Apparently, there was a **special weaving festival** taking place in the town, showcasing traditional Tunisian carpet-making skills.

Not only that, but we were told that this was the **very last day of the market** before it closed for two weeks because of municipal elections.

How lucky could we possibly be?

We had arrived on precisely the right day.

Or so the story went.

Looking back, I rather suspect variations of this remarkable tale may have been shared with innocent tourists wandering those same streets for many years.

Our new friend then mentioned that he knew somewhere we could see traditional carpet weaving for ourselves.

Even more remarkably, the shop belonged to his family.

Pure coincidence, obviously.

Before we quite realised what was happening, we were being escorted through the Medina to the "family" carpet shop.

Inside, a lady gave us a short demonstration of traditional carpet weaving. Watching her work was genuinely fascinating and gave us some appreciation of the skill and patience involved.

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Then the proprietor appeared.

And what an appearance.

He welcomed us in with the most immaculate **King's English**.

For a moment I wondered whether we'd somehow taken a wrong turn in the Medina and emerged in Surrey.

His English was so polished that I half expected him to enquire whether we'd had a pleasant journey down the M25.

With introductions completed, we were ushered deeper into what can only be described as his **carpet haven**.

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Carpets were rolled out before us with theatrical precision.

Large ones.

Small ones.

Elaborately patterned ones.

Handmade ones.

And, naturally, several exceptional "masterpieces" available to us at astonishingly generous prices.

This was our introduction to another great tradition of the Tunisian souk: the salesman who merely wants you to *"have a look".*

There is absolutely no obligation to buy.

None whatsoever.

You are simply admiring the craftsmanship.

Although twenty minutes later, you may find yourself surrounded by carpets while someone explains that the particular one beneath your feet normally costs a small fortune, but, because he likes you and you are now practically family, he is prepared to make an enormous personal sacrifice.

We somehow escaped without needing to arrange excess baggage for the flight home.

Back outside, we continued exploring the Medina's labyrinth of narrow alleyways.

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Then another friendly gentleman appeared.

He offered to show us something rather special away from the main tourist streets and led us through a series of back alleys and eventually upwards to the rooftops.

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This time the diversion was genuinely worth it.

From above the houses, we had **splendid views across the old walls of Hammamet and out over the Gulf**, the brilliant blue Mediterranean stretching into the distance.

Below us lay two cemeteries.

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Our guide pointed out the **Muslim cemetery**, explaining how the graves were aligned in relation to the holy city of Mecca. Alongside it was a **Christian cemetery,** two burial grounds from different traditions sitting quietly beside one another beneath the walls of this old Mediterranean town.

It was one of those unexpected moments that travelling sometimes gives you.

For a few minutes there was no hard sell, no haggling and no carpets—just the rooftops, the old walls, the cemeteries and the sea beyond.

Then our helpful guide mentioned that his **sister had a shop**.

Of course she did.

We really should have seen that coming.

Soon we were being guided back through the alleys towards another little emporium selling souvenirs.

By now a pattern was beginning to emerge.

Tunisia, we discovered, appeared to contain an extraordinarily interconnected network of brothers, sisters, cousins, uncles and family friends, all of whom happened to own shops within a convenient walking distance of wherever a tourist happened to be standing.

Still, their hospitality was difficult to resist.

Visitors were often invited to sit down and offered a glass of cold drink or a cup of sweet **Tunisian lemon tea** before any serious discussion of business began.

This was very civilised.

First, you were welcomed.

Then you drank your tea.

Then you admired the merchandise.

And *then* the negotiations began.

It was here that I experienced my **first proper attempt at Tunisian bargaining**.

I soon discovered that haggling wasn't simply about arriving at a price.

It was theatre.

The shopkeeper announced his opening figure.

I looked horrified.

I suggested something considerably lower.

He looked even more horrified.

There were expressions of disbelief, dramatic gestures and assurances that the price being offered to me was already practically an act of charity.

I began walking towards the door.

Miraculously, the price fell.

I stopped.

The price fell again.

Progress!

Ruth and Ruby watched proceedings with varying degrees of amusement and embarrassment, while I slowly discovered that buying a souvenir in a Tunisian souk could take considerably longer than buying a washing machine back home.

Eventually, we emerged carrying a few souvenirs and feeling rather pleased with ourselves.

Whether we had actually secured a bargain or whether the shopkeeper had achieved exactly the price he'd intended all along remains one of the great unanswered questions of the holiday.

I suspect I know the answer.

But it hardly mattered.

Before getting a taxi back to our hotel, we had a cold drink at a street café on the outside of the Medina whilst sitting and watching the locals go about their business. I tried to blend in but failed miserably!

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That's the life.

Our first exploration of old Hammamet had given us beautiful views, centuries-old streets, traditional crafts, sweet tea, some memorable characters and our first taste of the elaborate theatre of the Tunisian souk.

And we had learnt another valuable rule for the remainder of the holiday:

**If a friendly stranger in the Medina offers to show you something interesting, by all means follow him.**

**Just don't be surprised if the journey ends in his sister's shop.**

## **Parlez-vous français? Ask Ruth.**

Another feature of Tunisia quickly became apparent whenever we ventured outside the hotel: **language**.

Arabic and French seemed to be everywhere, on road signs, in shops, restaurants and everyday conversation. Tunisia's long period under French rule had left a linguistic legacy that remained very visible.

This created an interesting problem for me.

Because Ruby and I were occasionally mistaken for Tunisians or Arabs, people sometimes approached us and began speaking confidently in Arabic.

I would look suitably knowledgeable for approximately three seconds.

Then the illusion collapsed.

The irony was that, growing up in Tanzania, I had actually been taught to **read and speak Arabic as a child**.

Unfortunately, several decades later, almost all of it had disappeared into some inaccessible corner of my brain.

Somewhere inside my head there may still be a small boy who understands Arabic perfectly.

He wasn't available during our holiday.

French offered slightly more hope.

I dug deep into the archaeological remains of my **O-level French** and occasionally managed to construct a sentence.

The results were variable.

A few words would emerge.

There would be a pause.

Possibly a hand gesture.

Then another French word would arrive several seconds later.

The Tunisians were generally very patient.

Thankfully, we had a secret weapon.

**Ruth.**

Whenever a conversation became complicated, Ruby and I gradually developed the same strategy.

We moved behind Ruth.

Suddenly she was our interpreter, negotiator and unofficial Head of Franco-Tunisian Relations.

And something rather wonderful happened during the holiday.

The more French Ruth spoke, the more fluent she became.

At first, it was ordering something in a café or exchanging a few words with a waiter. Before long she was chatting away with hotel staff and holding increasingly animated conversations with taxi drivers.

This became particularly useful because Tunisian taxi drivers were rarely short of conversation or opinions.

Somewhere along the way Ruth developed a terrific rapport with several of them, discussing places, people and local life while Ruby and I sat quietly in the back pretending we understood considerably more than we did.

By the end of the holiday, Ruth's French had improved dramatically.

Mine hadn't.

I'd become extremely good at nodding.

Still, every family expedition needs different skills.

I had the itinerary.

Ruth had the French.

Ruby had the good sense to stay out of both.

**Mon Dieu!**

## **Our first Nabeul adventure – "It's not that far..."**

Our next expedition took us to **Nabeul**, a bustling coastal town north of Hammamet, well known for its pottery, ceramics and traditional crafts.

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After arriving, we wandered through the centre, taking in the streets, shops and everyday life of the town before deciding that it would be rather nice to walk down to the beach.

Now, according to my calculations, it didn't look *that* far.

This turned out to be one of those statements that enters family folklore.

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Nearly **four kilometres later**, in temperatures heading towards **38°C**, Ruth and Ruby were making their feelings increasingly clear.

Apparently, a taxi would have been a better idea.

Apparently, I had taken them "the long way".

Apparently, my skills as a family expedition leader were now under formal review.

The closer we got to the sea, the hotter it seemed to become. By the time we finally reached the beach, the sand was so blisteringly hot that crossing it became a strange hopping exercise normally associated with people walking barefoot over hot coals.

Thankfully, we spotted a deserted beach shelter.

It had clearly seen better days and probably wouldn't have survived a particularly enthusiastic structural survey, but at that moment it looked like the Ritz.

We collapsed beneath it.

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After recovering sufficiently, we headed into the Mediterranean for a glorious swim. Warm though the sea was, after our four-kilometre expedition it felt wonderfully refreshing.

Then came the next problem.

We were hungry.

Easy solution.

*"Let's get a taxi."*

There weren't any.

Not one. Yet hundreds of yellow taxis had filled the town centre.

We appeared to have discovered the only stretch of Tunisian coastline entirely unknown to the country's taxi industry.

A search party was therefore dispatched.

The search party consisted of me.

I wandered off heroically in search of transport and returned sometime later having achieved precisely nothing.

This did little to restore confidence in my leadership.

Eventually, salvation appeared.

A taxi drove towards us and dropped off some passengers nearby.

Wonderful!

We gathered our things and prepared to climb aboard.

The driver looked at us.

Then at our swimming clothes.

Then at his back seat.

**Non.**

In French, he explained that he wasn't taking us anywhere because we were wet and would spoil the seats for his next passengers.

Well!

In all my years of using taxis, I'd never encountered the **"too wet to travel"** clause.

Here we were, three paying customers standing in nearly 38°C heat, rejected by a taxi because we'd had the audacity to go swimming at a beach.

You couldn't make it up.

So we started walking again.

This announcement was not greeted enthusiastically by Ruth and Ruby.

Fortunately, this time we followed the promenade and eventually stumbled upon a local beachside restaurant.

It was packed.

Well, packed with **men**, to be precise.

They were eating, talking loudly, smoking like chimneys and drinking bottles of local Tunisian beer. Tunisia may be a predominantly Muslim country, but here was a glimpse of its more relaxed Mediterranean side.

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Walking into the restaurant felt less like arriving at a North African beach café and more like accidentally entering **The Queen Vic in EastEnders** on a particularly lively afternoon.

For a moment I half expected someone behind the counter to shout:

*"Leave it, Ahmed — he's not worth it!"*

We found ourselves a table and ordered lunch.

And what a pleasant surprise.

After the heat, the walking, the failed taxi expedition and our rejection on grounds of excessive dampness, the food was **delicious**.

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We tucked into a Tunisian take on **Salade Niçoise and a spicy seafood pasta dish**, accompanied by cold drinks and the considerable satisfaction of finally being seated somewhere that wasn't moving and wasn't 38°C.

Suddenly the day's disasters didn't seem quite so bad.

Full, rested and, crucially, now considerably drier, we began the final challenge: getting back to Hammamet.

This time we actually found a taxi driver prepared to take us.

Perhaps we should have been more specific when we said we wanted to get back quickly.

Our driver appeared to interpret the journey as the qualifying session for the **Tunisian Grand Prix**.

Mobile phone in one hand, steering wheel in the other, he weaved around cars, lorries and pedestrians at a speed that made our earlier four-kilometre walk suddenly seem rather attractive.

Ruth and Ruby had wanted a taxi.

Well, they'd got one.

We eventually arrived back at The Sinbad in one piece, climbed out and watched our driver disappear into the distance, presumably on his way to set another lap record.

By about 3pm we were exhausted.

There was little enthusiasm for further sightseeing. A rest and a gentle swim in the infinity pool were about all we could manage.

Our first Nabeul adventure had taught us several valuable lessons about travelling in Tunisia:

**Distances on maps can be deceptive.** 
**Never underestimate 38°C heat.** 
**Being wet can apparently disqualify you from a taxi.** 
**And when Ruth and Ruby suggest getting a cab…perhaps just get the cab.**

## **Pirates and dolphins in the Gulf of Hammamet**

A few days later we were up early for a catamaran excursion.

Our coach contained Tunisians, Arabs, French, Bulgarians, Russians, Romanians and British tourists. Looking at the number of passengers, I wondered whether the world's largest catamaran was waiting for us.

Fortunately, most were heading for an enormous mock pirate ship departing from Yasmine Hammamet marina.

These pirate vessels appeared everywhere.

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At times the Gulf of Hammamet looked less like a holiday resort and more like the opening stages of a moderately well-organised naval invasion.

Our much smaller group boarded the catamaran and sailed along the coast towards Nabeul.

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We stopped in beautiful clear water for a swim while the crew produced cold drinks and freshly sliced watermelon.

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Of course they did.

Back aboard, we sailed towards another swimming spot, ironically not far from our own hotel.

Then someone shouted that dolphins had appeared.

Immediately half the passengers sprang into action, phones held aloft, rushing from one side of the boat to the other.

I did not.

Following my knee injuries, I have learnt that charging across a moving catamaran in pursuit of a dolphin photograph is perhaps best left to younger people.

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The captain manoeuvred the boat to give everyone another glimpse, but then jet skis arrived and the dolphins disappeared.

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Probably wisely.

## **Nabeul – shopping and Formula One taxis**

We returned to Nabeul a few times, including its busy Friday market.

Getting there usually involved negotiations with taxi drivers.

The taxi meter, we discovered, sometimes seemed more of a decorative accessory than an essential piece of equipment.

One driver agreed to take us for 25 dinars, already had another passenger in the car, dropped her off enroute and then announced that he would wait three hours to drive us back.

This was apparently perfectly normal. Though slower forms of local transport were available.

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Another journey was considerably more exciting.

In the chaos of drivers either speeding or honking their car horns in the city centre, the traffic would be marshalled by some formidable looking traffic wardens blowing their whistles incessantly or controlling the flow of cars with their hands.

Scary!

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The market, like the one we saw in Tunis, was awash with traders selling everything from Tunisian spices to handmade leather bags. Food sellers selling an array of traditional Tunisian sweets and savoury snacks…and not a single McDonalds to be seen.

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Our driver operated his mobile phone with one hand while steering with the other, weaving around cars, lorries and pedestrians at a speed suggesting that he had misunderstood our request to return to The Sinbad and thought we had asked to qualify for the Tunisian Grand Prix.

We arrived alive.

Which, under the circumstances, seemed worthy of a generous tip.

## **Sidi Bou Said – Tunisia at its prettiest**

The highlight of our sightseeing came on a full-day excursion north towards Tunis, Carthage and Sidi Bou Said.

It began at 5.15 in the morning when I decided to get up to photograph the sunrise.

I hurried down to the beach, expecting something spectacular.

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The sun duly rose.

It was pleasant. I've seen better postcards.

Back to bed.

A little later our coach collected us for the journey north.

Our Tunisian guide was excellent, knowledgeable, articulate and funny, and suddenly the history around us began to make sense.

Our first major stop was **Sidi Bou Said**, the famous hilltop village overlooking the Gulf of Tunis.

Sidi Bou Said is almost absurdly photogenic.

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White houses, brilliant blue doors, blue window frames and explosions of purple bougainvillaea line its steep streets, with spectacular views over the Mediterranean.

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The flowers and architecture unexpectedly transported me back to childhood memories of Tanzania.

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We stopped for coffee overlooking the marina and took far too many photographs, which, of course, is compulsory in Sidi Bou Said.

## **Carthage – where history becomes real**

Then came **Carthage**.

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Long before the **Romans** arrived, Carthage had been one of the great powers of the ancient Mediterranean.

Founded by Phoenician settlers traditionally around the ninth century BC, it developed into a wealthy maritime empire. Its most famous son, **Hannibal**, became Rome's nightmare, famously crossing the Alps with elephants during the Second Punic War.

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Eventually Rome had had enough.

In 146 BC, after the Third Punic War, Roman forces destroyed Carthage.

But history has a sense of irony: the Romans subsequently built a magnificent new city on almost the same site.

Standing amongst its remains today, you can appreciate how sophisticated Roman urban life could be.

We saw the remains of houses, streets, baths and underfloor heating systems. Measurements and street layouts showed extraordinary precision.

Those Romans certainly knew how to build.

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We also visited the amphitheatre, where seating reflected social status.

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The wealthy and important sat near the front.

The middle classes occupied the tiers behind them.

The working classes were sent to the back.

So perhaps civilisation hasn't changed quite as much as we imagine.

Today the ancient site sits amongst the suburbs of modern Tunis, with the Mediterranean shimmering beyond it. Thousands of years of history lie literally beneath your feet, much of it still awaiting excavation.

As we travelled through Carthage, another striking landmark appeared: the enormous **Malik Ibn Anas Mosque,** originally known as the **El Abidine Mosque**. That’s amazing! to hear that the mosque was named in the same way as my first name, **Zain-ul-Abedin**. Such an honour.

With its soaring square minaret, long arcaded colonnades and pale stone glowing beneath an almost cloudless Tunisian sky, it looked centuries old. Surprisingly, it was only completed in 2003\. Standing amid a landscape containing the remains of ancient Carthage, it was another reminder of how Tunisia seems to layer one period of history on top of another. The mosque can hold over 1500 people.

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Before heading into Tunis, we had lunch at a Tunisian restaurant on the outskirts of Tunis. A simple meal which included the famous brik and chicken couscous.

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By now the temperature was approaching the high 30s.

The narrow lanes were packed with people and traders selling leather, clothes, spices, artwork, jewellery, food and virtually everything else imaginable.

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Every doorway seemed to lead somewhere.

Every shopkeeper seemed to know we were coming.

And every price was, naturally, a "special price".

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The Tunisian method of negotiation seemed to involve the seller naming a price, the tourist looking horrified, and the seller clutching his heart as though mortally wounded, followed by ten minutes of theatrical diplomacy.

Ruth and Ruby were not enthusiastic hagglers.

I regarded it as cultural exchange.

Eventually, though, the combination of crowds and heat defeated us.

We escaped towards the open boulevard and found shade wherever possible. We even sought some respite from the heat with a dip in the fountains in the square.

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Then I spotted a fruit seller.

Curiosity overcame common sense, and I crossed the road to buy a freshly peeled **El Hindi**, the Tunisian prickly pear fruit, for three dinars.

A little later we discovered something even more valuable.

An ice-cream parlour.

Few things in life have tasted quite as good as that ice cream after several hours wandering around Tunis in nearly 40°C heat.

And few sights have been as beautiful as our air-conditioned coach.

## **A lonely cocktail party**

Back at The Sinbad that evening, guests had been invited for pre-dinner drinks with the general manager.

Ruth and Ruby were exhausted.

I went alone.

The manager was resplendent in a Havana-style hat while guests enthusiastically enjoyed complimentary Tunisian canapés, cocktails and soft drinks.

I sat by myself, sipping my drink, periodically glancing towards the entrance in the faint hope that my family might suddenly appear.

They didn't.

Eventually I ate several canapés and quietly escaped.

There are moments when travelling alone looks wonderfully sophisticated.

This wasn't one of them.

## **The Great Sinbad Pizza Caper**

Not every memorable episode required an excursion.

Sometimes trouble could find us perfectly well without leaving the hotel.

By now we had developed a rather agreeable beach routine. The Sinbad's private beach was lined with sun loungers beneath large straw parasols, and we would happily spend hours there with our noses buried in the latest novel, occasionally emerging for another dip in the wonderfully warm Mediterranean.

It was a difficult life, but somebody had to endure it.

The beach service added another layer of luxury. Waiters dressed in smart white shorts and T-shirts raced backwards and forwards through the sand, taking orders and delivering cold drinks and food from the hotel's beachside restaurant.

One particularly lazy afternoon, swimming and reading had left us absolutely starving.

There was only one possible solution.

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**Pizza.**

Ruth placed the order, and after what seemed an extraordinarily long wait, to three hungry people staring hopefully towards the restaurant, our pizza finally appeared.

It didn't last long.

Within minutes we'd demolished it.

Eventually Ruth and Ruby decided to abandon the beach and head for the infinity pool. I remained behind for a while longer before gathering my things and following them.

Nothing unusual there.

Normally, anything we ordered at the hotel was simply charged to our room. A waiter would present a receipt; we'd sign it, and that was that.

Because Ruth had ordered the pizza, I naturally assumed she'd signed the bill.

Ruth, equally naturally, assumed the waiter would have brought it over before we left.

He hadn't.

Only later did we realise that we had apparently **eaten the pizza and done a runner**.

Being the respectable and law-abiding guests that we were, I mentioned the mistake to reception that evening and asked them to make sure the pizza was added to our room bill.

Problem solved.

Or so I thought.

Several days later, we were innocently sitting on the beach again when the lifeguard approached me.

Apparently, a waiter was looking for us.

That's odd.

A little later, another member of the beach staff appeared with the same message.

**The waiter was looking for us.**

By now I had begun to feel slightly uneasy.

Word, it seemed, had spread along The Sinbad beachfront.

The respectable British family beneath the straw parasol had a past.

We were **pizza fugitives**.

I half expected our photographs to appear behind the beach bar:

**WANTED – ROOM 307** 
**APPROACH WITH CAUTION** 
**KNOWN TO ORDER PIZZA**

Eventually the original waiter found me.

He explained that because we hadn't signed the receipt that afternoon, the cost couldn't be charged to our room.

Worse still, he told me that **he had been required to pay for the pizza himself**.

I was mortified.

I'd already reported the mistake to reception, but clearly that message had disappeared somewhere into the administrative labyrinth of the hotel.

Perhaps it was still wandering around trying to find our room.

Whatever had happened, I certainly wasn't going to leave the poor waiter out of pocket. I apologised and immediately paid him the full amount in cash.

Case closed.

Except that from then onwards I couldn't quite shake the feeling that we'd become **marked guests**.

Every time a waiter walked past our sun loungers, I wondered whether he knew.

*"That's them."*

*"Who?"*

*"The pizza people."*

Perhaps somewhere behind the beach restaurant a staff briefing had taken place.

*"Keep an eye on the family under parasol twelve. Today it's pizza. Tomorrow it could be two lemonades and a club sandwich."*

It all felt like an unaired episode of **Fawlty Towers: Hammamet Edition**.

And I couldn't help wondering what had happened behind the scenes.

Had the poor waiter been reprimanded?

Had the manager demanded to know how three apparently respectable guests had managed to consume an entire pizza and disappear without leaving so much as a signature?

Had Basil Fawlty himself suddenly appeared from behind reception shouting:

*"You let them eat the WHOLE pizza?"*

We never found out.

For the rest of the holiday, however, whenever we ordered anything on the beach, I made certain that a receipt appeared and was signed before anyone moved more than six inches from the sun lounger.

After all, we'd built up a reputation.

We couldn't risk another offence.

**The Great Sinbad Pizza Caper had been solved.**

Our criminal career was over.

**C'est la vie.**

## **The great seafood discovery**

By the second half of our holiday, we had established a comfortable rhythm.

Breakfast.

Swim.

Explore.

Swim.

Eat.

Swim again.

This is, in my opinion, an underrated approach to travel.

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One day we walked along the beach towards Hammamet's old medina, watching Tunisian families enjoying the sea.

Local women wearing hijabs waded into the water alongside tourists in conventional swimwear, a small snapshot of the different traditions coexisting in modern Tunisia.

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Eventually hunger took over.

I'd researched a family-run seafood restaurant near the beach and confidently led everyone there on the strength of its excellent online reviews.

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We entered.

It was virtually empty.

There was an uncomfortable family silence.

Had TripAdvisor betrayed me?

Had the chef left?

Were the reviews written by the owner's cousins?

Then the food arrived.

It was superb.

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Seafood, prawns and beautifully prepared local dishes appeared from the kitchen. Ruth, demonstrating her adventurous commitment to North African cuisine, ordered steak and chips.

The owner came over personally to explain the dishes and, at the end, presented us with complimentary lemon sorbets.

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We left delighted.

The irony was unavoidable: some of the best food of our holiday had come from an almost empty family restaurant rather than our five-star hotel.

By then the hotel's buffet had become rather predictable.

Even our charming waiter couldn't rescue it.

He did, however, continue his nightly campaign to persuade us to order wine or beer conveniently excluded from the half-board package.

His dedication was impressive.

His success rate with us remained zero.

## **Our final days**

Our last few days involved more swimming, another visit to Nabeul market, souvenir shopping and increasingly determined haggling.

The heat never really relented.

Nor did Tunisia's extraordinary supply of watermelon.

On our final morning, I had one outstanding culinary mission.

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Throughout the holiday, beach sellers had been walking past carrying freshly made Tunisian doughnuts. They are called **Bambalouni,** a traditional Tunisian fried dessert similar to a doughnut sprinkled with sugar.

I finally bought one.

It was warm, sweet, freshly cooked and utterly delicious.

Why had I waited ten days?

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We checked out, squeezed in one final swim, showered and changed before boarding our coach for Enfidha Airport.

As the sun began to sink, we left Hammamet considerably more tanned than when we'd arrived.

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Our adventure, however, had one final twist.

## **The curious case of the disappearing dinars**

At the airport passport and customs control, an officer asked whether I had any Tunisian dinars.

I had about sixty left, deliberately saved to buy food and drinks after security.

He told me Tunisian currency couldn't be taken out of the country and asked me to hand it over.

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Being an innocent and trusting soul, I complied.

He took the money. No receipt appeared.

I walked through.

Only afterwards did it dawn on me that this transaction might not have been entirely consistent with international banking procedures.

Ruth and Ruby reached this conclusion rather faster.

I received considerable grief.

The departure lounge then delivered the final insult.

There was essentially one reasonable place to eat, and, having surrendered my remaining dinars, we discovered prices aimed squarely at departing international travellers paying in pounds.

Thus our cheapest currency transaction of the holiday was immediately followed by our most expensive burger.

Somewhere, I like to imagine, a Tunisian customs officer enjoyed an excellent dinner that evening.

## **So, what did we make of Tunisia?**

Tunisia surprised us.

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It is difficult to capture the country with a single image because so many different worlds overlap.

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There is the Tunisia of white walls, blue doors and brilliant bougainvillaea.

The Tunisia of crowded souks, persistent traders and taxi drivers.

The Tunisia of warm Mediterranean beaches and families swimming late into the afternoon.

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Many of the images had reminded me of my childhood when visiting my grandparents on the island of Zanzibar, where there were many narrow streets, palm trees, sandy beaches and ornate varieties of hand-carved or decorated wooden front doors.

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The French-speaking Tunisia of cafés and broad Tunis boulevards.

The Arab and Muslim Tunisia of mosques, medinas and cemeteries where the dead are buried facing Mecca.

And underneath all of them lies ancient Tunisia, the land of Carthage, Hannibal and Rome.

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It is also a country of contradictions.

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Beautiful resorts sit alongside visibly poorer communities. Modern Western dress mixes easily with traditional clothing. French and Arabic flow between conversations. Ancient ruins sit beside modern roads. Five-star hotels serve international buffets, while a small family restaurant down the road produces the meal you remember.

And the people?

Warm, talkative, entrepreneurial and generally extremely welcoming.

Admittedly, some possessed an almost supernatural ability to identify a tourist who might conceivably require a carpet, taxi, camel ornament or leather sandal.

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But that was part of the experience.

Our ten days gave us sunshine, history, wonderful swimming, memorable food, beautiful scenery and enough family stories to last considerably longer than the suntan.

There were highs.

There were lows.

There were dolphins I didn't photograph.

There was a sunrise that looked better on postcards.

There was a waiter who never managed to sell us a bottle of wine.

And there are sixty Tunisian dinars whose present whereabouts remain the subject of an ongoing family investigation.

Away from the hot spots, we would see what the locals were up to!!

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Sitting in cafes watching the world go by whilst sipping a refreshing cold drink.

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But perhaps that is what makes a good holiday.

You don't necessarily remember the days when everything worked perfectly.

You remember the unexpected moments.

And Tunisia gave us plenty of those.

As our plane lifted away from North Africa and headed towards Manchester, there was really only one question left.

Like many travellers, we completed our customary **TripAdvisor** report on our stay at The Sinbad. It was full of praise for the staff yet clearly expressed our disappointment with the food served and the lack of tea and coffee facilities in our rooms, like typical Brits who are always wanting something they are used to having at home.

Yet the hotel’s response was very polite, which of course had been written by AI, as it didn’t show any human finesse and was very logical in answering the concerns raised.

***Lovely hotel – TripAdvisor report***

*This is a lovely hotel. The rooms are attractive, well-proportioned and clean. The views of the Gulf of Hammamet are uplifting. We enjoyed the stunning infinity pool and time on the beach, where the sea was clean and warm. All the staff were polite and attentive. Hafedh was our impeccable waiter in the evening, and he always served us with a smile. Special mention also goes to Haykal (the crepe and omelette chef), who brightened up every morning and was a whizz with the eggs. Our only reservation with this hotel is that the food in the mornings and in the evenings (we were on half board) was very repetitive. The buffet evening meal offered a wide choice, but the choice was almost the same every evening. Many of the dishes were bland (perhaps to cater to an international clientele). We were craving a wider variety of flavours. Also beware that after breakfast time, you will pay for every single drink, including water. We would have expected free water at the table in the evening at the very least. Also, there was no complimentary tea/coffee in the rooms or after the evening meal.*

*Despite these points, we enjoyed our time in this hotel and would recommend it.*

*Read more.*

*Date of stay: August 2026*

*Trip type: Travelling with family*

***Response from The Sindbad, Ventes at The Sindbad***

*Responded 4 days ago*

*Thank you very much for taking the time to share such a detailed and thoughtful review of your stay at The Sindbad.*

*We are delighted to hear that you enjoyed our beautiful hotel and spacious and comfortable rooms, as well as the uplifting views over the Gulf of Hammamet. It is also wonderful to know that you appreciated our infinity pool, our beach, and the warm and clean sea.*

*We are particularly grateful for your kind words about our team. Your special mention of Hafedh and his impeccable service, always delivered with a smile, means a great deal to us. We will also be delighted to share your lovely comments with Haykal, whose crepes and omelettes clearly helped brighten your mornings!*

*We sincerely appreciate your constructive observations regarding the variety and flavours of our buffet. While we are pleased that you found the selection extensive, we understand your wish for greater variety from one evening to another and for a wider range of flavours. Your comments have been noted and will be shared with our culinary team as we continuously seek to improve our dining experience.*

*We also take note of your remarks regarding the beverage policy and the availability of tea and coffee in the rooms and after dinner. Feedback such as yours helps us better understand our guests’ expectations and identify areas where we can further enhance the overall experience.*

*Despite these reservations, we are very pleased to know that you enjoyed your stay and would recommend The Sindbad. We truly hope to have the pleasure of welcoming you back in the future and providing you with an even more enjoyable experience.*

*Warmest regards,*

*Jamel Saadaoui*

*Quality Manager*

**Nul Point**

Lastly, I mustn’t forget our bedroom visitor!

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## **Where next?**

After Tunisia in 2026, perhaps it is finally time to return to where my own story began.

**Tanzania 2027?**

Now *that* could be an adventure.

**Au revoir, mes amis!**

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**Written by Zain-ul-abidin Sachak with a little help from his family and friends.**

**15th September 2026**