Le Rooftop 360˚, Hôtel Dar El Marsa

Tunisian summers are hot - obviously. But there is hot, and then there is hot: once the temperature rises above 37 degrees, i.e. human body temperature, the heat becomes unbearable. It's like a fever is induced on you from outside. The brain stops, the body slows down, clear thinking becomes an impossibility.

Today is such a day. Since she woke up this morning, Rihanna Gaga has been pressing me to go to the sea. Pressing for Rihanna Gaga means she'll just keep repeating whatever she wants until you give in. Normally, I tend not to give in. But the combination of the heat and Rihanna Gaga's remarkable persistence is more than any person could bear. Here's the thing: I don't really mind going to sea, despite it being a bit of a hassle, getting there, taking everything that needs to be taken, then getting back and having to take a bath. At least it's something Rihanna Gaga really enjoys, it's free and easy to do. And there are not a lot of things like that in Tunisia. But I prefer to go after 16:00, when the worst heat is over and we don't need to cover ourselves in sunscreen.

However, there is no stopping Rihanna Gaga today. We're going to the sea and we're going now - I only manage to negotiate that we will first have a bite, because I'm quite hungry. When we're on our way out, Rihanna Gaga gets sunscreen in her eye - not her own, child-friendly, non-stinging sunscreen, but my sunscreen, which she she insisted on helping me to apply. She complains that a musquito stung her eye - her explanation for every physical inconvenience being the musquitos that haunt her at night.  I feel terribly sorry for her: her eye is all red and teary and she cries pitifully. I clean it somewhat with a wet towel. She is also clearly really tired, but when I propose that she'll first get some sleep before we go to the beach, she refuses this. We get on our way and to my dismay I find out that the tire of her stroller is flat. There's not much I can do: the bicycle repair shop where we normally bring the stroller in case of a flat tire will only open in the late afternoon. So I push the heave stroller to the beach. By the time we reach the boulevard, 15 minutes later, my brain is melting.

I'm happy when we enter the airconditioned lobby of Hôtel Dar El Marsa, possible the fanciest place in downtown La Marsa. Although AC gives me severe headaches, at least this is a respite from the oppressive heat. We take the elevator to the rooftop restaurant of the hotel, Le Rooftop 360˚. Rihanna Gaga is dozing in her stroller, but wakes up when we're in the elevator. We get out, leave the stroller in front of the elevator and climb the final stairs to the restaurant, a posh place where the Tunisian elite gathers to hide behind expensive sunglasses and drink cocktails, even at eleven o'clock in the morning, as it is when we enter. Although people are gathered in groups, there is little talking among them. The waiters bring pastiches and mojitos to their tables while the men swat flies and the women cool themselves with expensive looking fans. Once in a while, somebody takes a selfie.

The furniture is white, the tables are brown and black and attached to them are frames for ice buckets with champagene. Generic lounge music stresses the atmosphere of extreme decadence here. Outside the restaurant there is a rooftop swimming pool, that beams its shimmering reflection on the ceiling of the restaurant.

If you'd go outside and turn the corner, there'll be beggars sitting in the street. Places like this represent on a micro-level what is wrong with the world, the ridiculously unfair distribution of wealth among people. Anyone with money - including, therefore, me -is an accomplish of the system that keeps that problem in place. It's not like because a country like the Netherlands doesn't have extreme poverty, it is not part of that problem: we have merely ofshored extreme poverty and the severe exploitation of the lowest layers of the working class to other continents and the riches we enjoy can be enjoyed because of the poverty of others.

We order a strawberry juice and a double latte coffee, alongside a cheese omelette. The double latte is served as two separate coffees (I wonder if they think the second one is for the little girl?), the cheese omelette is ridiculously small and comes with two microscopic bread rolls. It's clear that one pays for the location - the rooftop overlooks the blue, blue, sea in front of La Marsa - and for belonging to the select group of people that can afford being here. 

Rihanna Gaga is still suffering from her stinging eye, but the reflection of the swinging pool cheers her up. She asks if she can go swimming, but then decides she prefers the sea. She eats the omelette with gusto, and drinks two strawberry juices. Then she lays down on the couch and announces she will sleep. She is quiet for a while, while I read, but then she sits straight again to have a chat with 'baby Titou' - her baby doll for whom I am supposed to provide a voice. She tells him they'll go to the beach, which reminds her of why we're here. She tells me that now it really is time to go. I pay the steep bill and we leave. I ask Rihanna Gaga, whose eye is stinging again and who can hardly stand straight because she is so sleepy, whether she wouldn't prefer to go home and sleep before going to the beach. She puts her nose in the air and stubbornly refuses this proposition. By the time we reach the beach, she is vast asleep in her stroller and I turn around, walk back home and put her to bed.