In Tunisia, the cameras are clicked constantly, adding a tourist sound to the noise of the sea and the singing of the muezzin, to the stories of the guide and the rustling of sand under the camel's soles .Here there is something to see: right in front of you there are white and blue houses of Sidi-bu-Said, to the left - the azure of the sea and the distant island of Zembri soaring in the haze, to the right - the Carthaginian stones and the huge bulk of the presidential palace towering above them, mosaics with drunken satires and soldered in the pavement ceramic fish and palms, guaranteed to bring happiness .And just above your head - bowed fluffy bougainvillea colors of paint Castellani with a blue sky that is visible in the holes .But I want to tell you about other photos .About those instant flash pictures, which, like a frozen sketch, a freeze-frame from an endless film called "Tunisia", appear suddenly before our eyes and are permanently imprinted on a photographic paper of our memory .

Here is the tourist bus on the highway ahead of the wasted Isuzu pickup truck, whose body is littered with huge red and green pumpkins. In the midst of this abundance there is a big, hectic goat-bugger with twisted horns and Stenka Razin's removal in sight. On board the pickup, it says: "This is the gift of Allah." Its owner is a peasant, and the machine uses it to transport vegetables and fruits. Past the snow-white "Porsche" with the numbers of the last series: the golden Tunisian youth goes to have fun on the banks of Carthage.

But in Sidi-bu-Said there is an absolutely picturesque grandfather looking out of the ultramarine door in black metal rivets: perfectly laid English mustache, iron silk "jubba", snow-white socks and national shoes without "grandmother's" backs. Seduyu head is adorned with scarlet cap-shishia. He smiles wryly: "Bonjour, mademoiselle! "- and holds out a bouquet of jasmine, preliminarily drawing in its flavor in the style of an experienced donjuan.

Another old man remains behind the sightseeing bus, leaving early in the morning from the southern city of Kebili, a trans-shipment point during a trip to the Sahara. Four with something in the morning, the horizon is still black, only the tourist route is illuminated. Suddenly, behind the bus windows, the wall of a house, painted with graffiti, sweeps past: the road leaving the sunset with diminishing lampposts, and against the backdrop of this calling dream, a hunched old man with a shoulder bag is wandering about with a knotty stick.

On a narrow street of Sousse Medina from a simple gate there are three girls twins of five years .Early spring, in Tunisia is still quite cold .The sisters are dressed in knitted blouses, and each has a huge lush burgundy rose, as you can see, just cut from the bush .They go hesitantly, always clutching each other ."Aslama, hello! "- I tell them .Stop and carefully examine the ground .And suddenly one, following such a rare rule among adults, to solve all difficulties with love, gives me a flower, on the petals of which the drops of morning dew still shine .

Another trio, this time an old woman, is caught on the road near Gabes, a seaside oasis halfway between the resorts and the Sahara .In the roadside dust, against the background of the Atlas mountains that have faded in the sun and the same faded sky - a vortex of colorful silk garments burning with golden threads stuck in the canvas .The picture is dumbfounded by the blinding wealth: how can such luxury exist in this wilderness? It turns out that artificial silk here is the cheapest material (conventional synthetics), but a modest calico costs much more than .Crocheted as baked apples, faces are decorated with tattoos: crosses on cheeks, sign Tanith on forehead and "cross of Sahara" on chin .

I want this album of memory never to be filled, because every day Tunisia generously adds there all the new frozen pictures.