Night in Tunisia

Life's little moments

The officer stops a vendor on the street. The officer is wearing a flannel shirt and typical tunisian trousers. He's almost anonymous except for the swagger and the bulky radio that he's toying with in his palm. He smiles, and almost succeeds at looking amicable.

Everywhere here people need to carry identity cards. It's strange to think that I live in a country where such is not the case. Certainly, we need drivers' licenses, but nothing more - and if we don't have those on us at the time it's a small fine.

The officer takes the vendor's identity card. It's the ultimate power trip. Look! See! I've got ya now you capitalist-western-poor-and-therefore-aggressable-weak-and-it-makes-me-feel-good man... He bekons and the vendor follows him to the middle of the street to meet the two obvious officers. Those are the ones who bought from him yesterday, but today's another day. They have clubs at their hips, tiny guns tucked into holsters, French-style cuffs that tighten if you struggle and smug grins beside.

Today is not the vendor's day. He chats for a while - while they play with his identity card. He moves back to his mobile stall. He unhitches the moto - a Peugeot 103, pedal-start motorbike that tops out at around 80 clicks. He locks it to the rail and moves his little stall back into the shade.

No need to mention that he's been here every morning for the past four months. In plain sight.

He sits down on the curb behind an ineffectual guardrail.

posted by Loren @ 1:37 p.m.