We went to Tunis during Eid. At a certain point on our way from the airport to the city of Hammamet, the autoroute was blocked with sheap. The trafic waited politely for the enourmos amount of animals to cross over.
In the afternoon we found a café facing the ocean and where the noise from the city was muted. We sat and stared into the sea, sharing a water pipe.
On the way back into the city we passed the city shore. On the sand, dozens of fishnet layed covered in random picked out textiles. Old wool blankets, cheap fleese or a worn out umbrella. The piles were laying there as a strange mix of a cuddling sort of object loaded with history and a pragmatic survival kit. Resting, belonging to someone, not locked in, but with full condence left there all tucked together, it gave this sculptural worktools some kind of peculiar vividness, as a sleeping animal, but yet always on guard.
It got darker. We went alongside the old walls of the fort. Terracotta red ickering. The imam started singing from the mosque and men were walking together towards the entrance. At certain places there were set out grindstones and daddies, uncles, brothers and cousins went to sharpen their slaughter knifes.
The morning after we heard bleating outside our window. In the middle of the street an old man tried to pull a terrified sheap with him towards the town center. We passed them later on, walking in to town. They had barely moved. The streets were scilent. We looked at the gardens. In a porch hanged a skinned sheap from its hoofs, a mother was flushing a house entrance and in a front yard and a little girl followed her dad with exitement.