El Djem

The town stands on Thysdrus, a settlement of Punic origin that grew rich under Rome as the market for the olive oil of the surrounding plain. By the second and third centuries AD it was one of the most prosperous cities of Roman Africa after Carthage, with paved streets, fine courtyard houses floored in mosaic and, on the evidence of its buildings, a population of tens of thousands. Its wealth paid for a series of amphitheatres, the last of them begun in the 230s and never quite finished.

Thysdrus also had a moment at the centre of imperial politics. In 238 landowners angered by taxation rose against the emperor Maximinus Thrax and proclaimed the elderly proconsul Gordian I emperor here, with his son as co-ruler; their reign lasted only weeks, but the revolt led on to the reign of Gordian III. Prosperity faded with the wider crisis of the third century, and later raids and the Arab conquest left the city a village around an enormous ruin.

The amphitheatre survived because it was useful. It served as a fortress in periods of unrest — most famously, by tradition, as the stronghold of the Berber leader known as al-Kahina against the Arab armies — and in 1695 the ruler of Tunis, Mohamed Bey, made an opening in one of its walls to dislodge his brother's followers sheltering inside, which is why one side is open. Stone was quarried from it for centuries. Clearance and restoration began under the French protectorate and continued after independence; the amphitheatre and the archaeological remains were inscribed as a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 1979, and the museum, with mosaics excavated from the Roman houses nearby, followed.

El Djem's life is shaped by the monument at its centre. The amphitheatre is not on the edge of the town but in the middle of it, so children play in its shadow, shops face its arches and the arena has been the setting for weddings, processions and, since the 1980s, a summer festival of symphonic music that brings orchestras and Tunisian audiences in from the coast for night concerts under the walls. It has also drawn film-makers looking for a Roman arena.

Outside that season the culture is that of a Sahel farming town: family-centred, religiously observant, with Friday prayers, the weekly market and the olive harvest as the fixed points of the year. Craft traditions here are practical ones — basketwork, olive-wood objects, textiles — and the carpets sold to visitors near the arena usually come from Kairouan.

Residents are used to visitors passing through, which produces a livelier trade in souvenirs and guiding than the size of the town would suggest, without the scale of hustle found at bigger sites. Conversations start easily, French is widely understood alongside Tunisian Arabic, and a stranger asking directions is likely to be accompanied.

About 21,500 people live in El Djem, a market town in the governorate of Mahdia surrounded by one of Tunisia's main olive-growing districts. The rhythm follows the trees: pruning and ploughing through winter and spring, then the harvest from November into January, when the presses run and seasonal labour fills the town. Cereals, almonds and sheep add to the farming, and small workshops, the market, transport and a handful of hotels and cafés make up the rest of the economy along with the archaeological site.

Days start early, empty out in the afternoon heat and resume towards evening, when men gather in the cafés and families walk the main street. Most people live in low modern houses spreading out from the old centre, and many households depend partly on money sent home by relatives working in Sfax, Tunis or Europe.

The strains are those of inland Tunisia: fewer jobs than the coast, rising prices, water that has to be managed carefully in a dry landscape, and young people leaving. Tourism helps but is concentrated in a few hours of the day and a few months of the year, and much of its spending goes to the coastal hotels rather than to the town.

This is olive country, and the oil is the foundation of the cooking: poured over salads, used for frying, mopped up with bread at breakfast and sold loose in the market. The everyday dishes are those of the Tunisian interior rather than the coast. Couscous appears with lamb, vegetables and chickpeas in a stew reddened with tomato and harissa, the chilli and garlic paste that accompanies almost every meal and is made from peppers dried on the plain.

Grilled meat is the treat: lamb chops and merguez, the spiced sausage, cooked over charcoal and served with slatit mechouia, a salad of charred peppers and tomatoes chopped with oil and capers. Lablabi, a bowl of chickpeas in garlicky broth poured over torn bread and topped with an egg, is a cheap and filling breakfast; ojja sets eggs in a spiced tomato and pepper sauce; and brik, a thin pastry parcel of egg and tuna fried until crisp, is eaten as a starter.

Sweets are semolina, almond and date based, including makroudh, the date-filled pastry that Kairouan up the road has made famous, and trays of honeyed cakes sold for religious holidays. Dates from the southern oases, dried figs and almonds from local trees fill the market stalls. Mint tea with pine nuts and strong coffee are drunk all day in the cafés; alcohol is rare in the town.