The mistake I made was to use German.
Being an American tourist in Tunisia at a time shortly after the first Gulf War was not dangerous, but at the same time not entirely comfortable. Occasional photos of Saddam Hussein that were proudly displayed in bakeries, bus stations and shops would remind me that the mother of all dictators was often seen as being a hero for all Arabic folk, even in stable, basically neutral land such as Tunisia. To be on the safe side I decided to only speak German thus letting the shop workers and countless trinket hawkers think that I was from a Germanic country which would not be seen as so much of an aggressor as the U.S. often seems to them. What an error in judgement that turned out to be!
Many of the little kids, teenagers and older males who roam the Tunisian beach towns selling souvenirs learn the rudimentary words of all major European languages. They size you up, make a shrewd guess as to your nationality, then approach you with a sales pitch. If you don’t respond to the first language they’ll try several others from their repertoire until they find the one that you react to. What I didn’t know when I started my little charade was that when a tourist responds to them in German their eyes light up like they just got three lemons on a Las Vegas slot machine. It is well known to them that Germans are amongst the biggest spenders on the Mediterranean tourist circuit having higher incomes and more of a willingness to spend it than do other nationalities. And once one of these greedy, storeless salesmen get their mental hooks into you they are harder to shake off than a thirsty tick.
Once I walked for a mile to find the most deserted beach findable to sit and enjoy some solitude and relief from the constant ‘harass the tourist’ mentality there. No sooner had I sat down and opened my book than a young moocher sat down directly next to me. What did he want? Money, of course, although his intentions came gift wrapped in politeness and just wanting to be friendly. Where he came from, I don’t know. I had already done a 360 degree look around to make sure I was alone and had not seen him.
I tried to maintain a visage of friendliness that soon proved futile. He absolutely needed 5 dinars for a supposed bus ride home; a sum at least ten times higher than the real cost of the transport. I said no and got up and started walking away but he kept up his act and followed me. To finally get rid of him I poured a small amount of small coins into his hand and told him if he really wanted money he should try working, a statement that he took as an insult. But it got rid of him.
It was after this incident that I hit upon a solution to dealing with this ‘tourist as milk cow’ mentality that was so dominant here. I started answering peddlers with jabberwocky - a spontaneously made up language. Total gibberish actually. I somehow was good at making nonsensical sentences sound as though they did mean something in a strange tongue. When approached I would answer the minor assailant with a mouthful of nonsense. The seller would look confused, try his luck with a few other languages, then give up and go on to his next victim.
The trick worked well enough for me to have some peace of mind for the rest of my trip. It is now a cross-cultural weapon of defense that I have found useful elsewhere in my trips for the survival of my nervous system and my finances.
