After this the Souk where the lawyers sit waiting for business, and now and then writing a few letters which earnest men dictate to them, seems tame, and the libraries are quiet too; but another turn lands you amongst truly magnificent boxes painted and inlaid.
So the show goes on, at once grave and gay, from year’s end to year’s end, always the same, as it has always been, and so may it long continue.
All the more important Souks have thick roofs, and consequently keep cool in the hottest weather, so that even when the thermometer stands at 100° in the shade, the bazaars seem quite fresh, almost chilly at first, as one steps into the dark out of the sunshine.
Some of the small bazaars, however, in the poorer quarters are only protected by shutters, blinds, awnings, rags, or anything that will keep the sun away. How strange this sounds to us! Such a street is the Souk el Belat, a name which is said to mean “a paved street”—hardly a distinctive title in a town where all the streets are paved. The shops are queer little places, some full of strange, unknown commodities, and others full of food of various sorts, which the owners have to protect by flicking it with fans or whisks, as the flies are so troublesome. The beauty of this street lies in its windows, which are screened with ornamental wrought ironwork.
SOUK EL BELAT, TUNIS
Another constant amusement is to watch the informal sales by auction. Men walk up and down laden with various goods and chattels, embroideries, or lengths of silk, shouting a price as they move along. The bystanders occasionally make a bid, or nod, and in time a bargain is made. Furniture and carpets are sold in an open space at the end of the Souk of the tailors, just under the windows of the Bey’s Palace. The auctioneer usually sits on the object, if it is big enough, and the bidding goes on in leisurely fashion, but with a deafening noise, for hours together. It is a grand place for seeing life, for crowds always collect, especially on the days when the Bey comes to Tunis, and they stand and watch him as he sits in a gilt chair near a window, resting after his morning’s work. He has a decided advantage over his subjects, as they cannot see him properly, whereas he has a series of peeping-holes in all his principal rooms, and can see and hear all that goes on in the Souk, without any one guessing at his presence.
A gem of a mosque, that of Sidi Ben Ziad, stands in this street, catching the sunlight on the characteristic black and white marble façade, on the splendid green tiles of the roof, and on the most beautiful minaret in Tunis. When the call to prayer is heard at mid-day echoing from the gallery, the listening crowd of Arabs set their watches and disappear, some to prayers, others to dinner, and the noise and bustle is succeeded by the silent emptiness of a buried city.
In all Tunisia, except at Kairouan, it is a forbidden pleasure to visit the interior of the mosques. Even furtive peeps are guarded against, by large green screens in all the open doorways. This is especially disappointing at the great feasts, though the scene in the bazaars ought to be compensation enough.
On the 26th of May, the birthday of the Prophet, the Bey goes in state to the great Mosque, a pilgrimage that he only makes twice in the year. It is situated in the heart of the Souks: doors open into the court from every side—one with a flight of steps, a terrace and colonnade; another, in the Rue des Libraires, with a beautiful porch and green-tiled roof; the rest with no architectural interest. It is called Djama el Zitouna, the Mosque of the Olives, and many of its pillars are spoils from Carthage.