On the Winds of the Sahara: Tunisia Kite Festival 2026

Doch wir wollen ihn dir zeigen und du wirst
mit Staunen sehn daß er dir sein Herz geweiht.

A patio. The orange glow of the cigarette lights the night. There is sand in the air, carried by a westerly wind. There is an invitation to knock on a particular door. To the south, a strip of green, barely discernible in the dark: palms, thousands, millions of palms. Beyond them – nothing. The nothing of Chott el Djerid, of the Sahara. The next tree is in Niger, more than two thousand kilometers away.

Breaths are quick and shallow, and everything hurts. The legs tremble, barely able to support the weary body; the hands, disfigured by a thousand cuts from a line – but what hurts most is the stomach and the arse.

Because of laughing … literally laughing our arses off. In Nafta, Tunisia.

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Before we delve deeper (and we shall go very deep) into the poetic, the insane, the hilarious … we must first tell you what the Tunisia Kite Festival was – and how we feel about it.

The Tunisia Kite Festival 2026 was easily among the top three festivals ever – if not higher. Full stop.

The participants were the best bunch imaginable: at first glance we had nothing in common; after a couple of hours we were best friends forever. As Dario said so accurately: we are crazy, but nice.

The Tunisian team did a terrific job under difficult conditions (i.e. cold). Were there hiccups and snags? Yes—but compared to the amazing festival two years back, they had about ten times more on their hands. And, to be honest, there are no problems, only adventures; to borrow a faux-Indonesian expression: no komplikasi, relaksasi!

There is nothing but praise and gratitude the organizing team deserves.

And now brace yourself for a looong drive deep into the heart of the Tunisia kite festival 2026!

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I curse the rains down in Africa …
– Saša

The Tunisia Kite Festival, it turned out, was about songs. One necessary, some unexpected, one unwanted. The unwanted forced its way into the mind of the newcomer to the continent almost immediately after the first glimpse of Africa from the window up in the clouds.

And what a glimpse – the semicircle at the edge of the coast, centre frame, is what remains of the mighty port of Carthage, which challenged Rome before it was cool, bringing elephants into the heart of Italy …

North Africa! Sunny Tunisia! Desert, mirages, heat, oasis, camels! Here we come!

Yeah, right … We’ve never been so cold on a kite festival …

Anyway, we were picked up, driven to the Centre Culturel et-Sportif de la Jeunesse Ben Arous, and, after a short festival briefing, promptly shoved into a party. An old school Tunisian party. With a semi-traditional band and traditionally beautiful singers, of course.

It was a long day and a long night we danced into – but far from the longest …

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The next morning was glorious, and the Centre de Jeunesse was glimmering in the North African sun.

And a most incredible thing happened early that morning. See, we were having French lessons for four years in high school, and while we learned even less than un petit petit petit petit peu de Francais, none of us will ever forget the first lesson we had on the first day of the first year.

It was a typical contrived conversation for beginners, between a kid named Michel Chartier, his friend Claude, and his mom Madame Chartier, about the boys going to the swimming pool. Bonjour Michel, bonjour Claude! Bonjour Madame Chartier! Nous allons a la piscine! Vous allez a la piscine? Oui, maman! and the like.

Turns out the Centre de Jeunesse has a swimming pool.

And there is a cafe where a lady makes a fantastic cappucino.

So we were walking towards La Piscine (!) for a coffee, we met a caretaker on the way, and he said: Bonjour.

And we replied: Bonjour, monsieur.

And he asked: Vous allez a la piscine?

And we blurted automatically: OUI MAMAN! NOUS ALLONS A LA PISCINE!

Who says French lessons are in vain?

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Every respectable kite festival opens with an elaborate ceremony, and this one was no exception. Every respectable opening ceremony gets delayed, and this one was no exception. So László did what László does: he flew a kite.

And we had time to check out an impromptu kite museum showing the loot One Tunisia kite team amassed from kite festivals all over the world.

Proud to be included!

The ceremony was fun. We all got our flag carriers, we got nice Tunisian hats, and went on stage to thunderous applause .

There was spectacular traditional dancing …

… spectacular modern dancing ….

… amazing traditional singing (by a very very cool choir!) …

Some speeches, some applause, some more speeches, more applause, and we were ready to rumble – to colour the sky above Tunisia!

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“Sabrina? Why do you need a gun?”
– concerned Dario

Fetch me a fizzy, would ya, asked Sabrina in her impeccable London accent when we headed to a nearby store, and Gregor was a bit confused, as in what the hell a fizzy is and whether it is a real thing or something the lady made up on the spot.

We returned and had some laughs about fetching a fizzy, when Dario brought his concerned face closer.

No need for a fizi, Dario tried very seriously to explain to Sabrina and us who were bending over in laughter.

Sabrina, if someone is giving you trouble, we beat them easily.
What?
Look here, Saša, Gregor, László, me – all strong men, we can beat anyone. You don’t need a fizi.
What are you talking about? I need a fizzy ’cause I am thirsty and I crave for some sugar.
What?

Dario and Sabrina were looking at each other more and more bewildered, and then Dario finally got that while he might speak kreol morisien fluently, very few of us do, and broke the misunderstanding: Ah! In my country a fizi means a gun, une fusil!

Now we always want to clear things up when asked to fetch a fizzy … just to be sure – you want a cola, or a 9 mm?

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Ezzahra Beach is one of Tunis’s prime stretches, and it was chosen as our first flying spot of the festival. The wind was perfect and soon the kites were up …

… and Balazs in.

(He’s a bit crazy. For swimming. A regular at La Piscine.)

The sky grew crowded, and soon the beach followed, with curious – if initially shy – kids admiring the kites from a distance, but clearly itching to grab a line.

Yo, wanna be a pilot?
Yes!

Now you are! Une pilote!

Madame Amel came over to us as we sat in the sand, relaxing, and asked, slightly concerned, what exactly we were doing while the festival was meant to be in full swing.

Spreading happiness!

All our kites were up – but we were not, because a group of eager young Tunisian pilots were training with them.

And happiness spread far and wide.

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The first day of kite flying ended with a posh dinner at a top-end hotel our driver found easily after getting lost like five times (Look! This roundabout – I know it, this is the third time we pass it!)

It was time to fill the void.

It was meowing persuasively.

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About the food … this little episode happened much later, deep in the desert, when we went off-roading in the most battered Land Cruiser imaginable—carefully selected by Judit and us (the wildest ride is always with a driver who drives like he hates the car). Miryam broke the bumpy silence with a remark about the excellent food we had been enjoying:

That camel meat yesterday was really good … I wonder if they will serve some more today.
What?
The camel meat. The dinner last night. Was very good
What camel meat?
What do you mean – you told me it was camel, Judit!

Everyone remembered Miryam going around tables singing praise to the “camel meat” the night before, and everyone was politely nodding, yes, yes, excellent, and whispering what’s wrong with her?

It was a joke, Miryam!
Oh … so it wasn’t camel? But I … I told everyone how good it was!

We laughed (we laughed more or less all the time), a culinary bubble was popped, and the light in Miryam’s eyes dimmed a bit. The couscous with lamb later that day was sublime, though, even more: it was the best couscous ever – and we have a very Instagrammy photo to prove it:

Bon appétit!

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The third day of the festival – yes, the delightfully unhinged Tunisian team crammed a 14-day festival into one week! – began in bitter cold, threatening rain, and fierce wind. Where better to fly than the middle of nowhere, right next to power lines?

At least the small talk on the way was warm. Maimouna is finishing her biotechnology studies, and we drifted into a surprisingly cosy discussion about RNA vaccines, CNRS research, Slovenian pharmaceutical companies … What better topic at a kite festival – endoplasmic reticulum FTW!

This wind is a bit much, right?
Yes.
What, up to forty? With gusts over that?
Seems so.
So, a manta?
Absolutely.

A manta is a ferocious beast that is not supposed to fly but in the gentlest breeze, lest it goes wild, sweeps the festival clean, decapitates a few bystanders, and takes down the county power grid for good measure. Naturally, it was the first kite we launched – and everything immediately went wrong …

Sorry Yunus! Did it cut your bridle?
Yes … like through butter.

The large lifter of the Turkish team went down, reduced to a rag lying on the grass – while Yusuf, the merry Indonesian exchange student (and a future president of Indonesia – we have already arranged to take over the Ministry of Kites) was going up. Literary.

Yusuf, where are you going?
I am sorry, I don’t want to!

The sandbags provided were no match for the manta, so we placed rookie Yusuf on top of them, hoping he might prove useful. The manta, of course, decided to take him and the bags on a short trip to Libya.

It took stern words and three strong men to bring the beast down. Then we had to help Gregor, who was battling the trilobite like Leonidas facing the Persians.

The crazy kites lost the fight, and it was time for a cold lunch under tents that were themselves considering flight …

A perfect kite flying day!

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We said this flying spot was in the middle of nowhere – and it was! – but a couple of millennia ago it certainly was not. Today the village is called Oudhna, an echo of its proud Carthaginian name: Uthina.

The ground we flew on was sacred.

Up on the remains of the Temple of Jupiter the wind was even fiercer. A perfect opportunity to unleash the venerable MASAG β rokkaku, patch the failing Velcro with some silver tape, and send it into the storm.

When it became clear this was a terrible idea, we put a camera on the line and let it fly.

The flight was completely insane. The line screamed, and so did we, as it sliced through glove and fingers. There was only one direction: up. Holding it was barely possible; reeling it in was not.

Then the tape gave up.

The kite collapsed and dropped, still pulling like mad. The jagged stones of the imperial baths waited eagerly for the camera to smash into them, while we watched the disaster unfold in slow motion.

At the very last moment, Nature intervened. The only bush around caught the falling rig in its soft branches – so gently the camera did not even notice, and kept happily snapping away.

The mangled rokkaku landed across the baths, angry but largely unscathed.

The aerial photos are good—we will share them in the next article. We even repeated the madness at the nearby Roman amphitheatre, in the same wind, this time with more tape.

Against all logic, it worked.

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Nearby Youth Club Khelidia opened both doors and hearts to a group of battered, freezing kiters. We warmed up, played football (scored a goal!), gave a radio interview, played table football and ping-pong. Gregor and László went to buy cigarettes at a shop that sold exactly two things: tobacco … and cheese.

Gregor, would you like some cheese?
I won’t buy this cheese, it is scratched.

They returned laughing, and exhausted we went to the bus and back to Ben Arous, for the next day was supposed to be the longest. But we were not done yet …

We had a terr … pardon, a tourist attack on Tunis scheduled!

Madam Amel, you mean firebombing those houses?
No, no, we just let some nice lanterns fly …
So, a firebombing campaign. Cool!

When the sound of approaching sirens filled the night, we hid in our rooms.

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Yunus was barely holding up the tears. And it was entirely Mohammed’s fault.

We were deep in the south, at what the girls described as a halal nightclub. Traditional Tunisian music roared, we danced, sang, laughed – and the proud Turk stood there, eyes glistening.

See, Mohammed the Grand Schemer of Bahrain had discovered Yunus’s secret and conspired with locals to make …

… a cake.

The music suddenly stopped, Yunus was unceremoniously pushed into the centre of attention, and we all sang:

Happy birthday dear Yunus!
Happy birthday to you!

He almost cried.

That’s what a kite flying crew is all about. Drawing out tears from friends, soulmates, family. As Dario so aptly said, we are crazy – but nice. What do we have in common, a lawyer from Ljubljana, an exchange student from Indonesia, a former MP of Bahrain, a future biotech engineer from Tunis, a retiree from Mauritius, a traveller from London? Elena from Ukraine, Judith from Spain, Mamar from Algeria, Taysir, Ousama …

Kites, of course.

A love of mischief and laughter. A warm, generous spirit. An embrace for anyone.

When Dario’s snake swept across the Yasmine golf course, we all rushed in: climbing palms, rescuing kites, untangling lines. When Sabrina’s soap opera took a turn, we were there. When a friend is in trouble, first you laugh—because it is always hilarious – and then you help.

Kabel, kurwa, came Arek holding the phone and the powerbank. We gave him our charging cable, he tried and … Nie kabel, kurwa!

Hey habibi – chill.

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The longest day began with coffee and tea in the new medina of Hammamet. It was raining. Again.

Then the rain stopped, and the sun began shyly peering from behind the clouds. We drove to a place where one never flies a kite, as its sacred grass is not to be trodden by the unwashed masses: The Yasmine Golf Club Hammamet.

The driving range was reserved for us, and the wind was yet again driving hard as hell.

Sabrina generously let the lads take her UK lifter, and laughed her arse off as the powerful kite hurled the unprepared flyers around the range.

Elena and Andrei seemed intent on breaking a Guinness record for the number of kite crashes in a single session. The counter stopped at 276.

The Bahraini kite was getting very intimate with a cluster of palms, and the Tunisian lifter soon joined it in an unholy treesome.

Arek was hauling a giant spinner – or perhaps the spinner was hauling Arek – without a lifter. Who needs one in such wind?

Then Dario had enough.

I am cold.

He pulled out the 50 meters snake, let it fly, and the beast obligingly swept the field, sending kites crashing left and right.

Let’s go inside.

On the patio of the golf club the toughest enjoyed a couple of cold ones, while others opted for the dubious comfort of a fake fireplace. Dario warmed his fingers with a hot cappuccino.

At six pm, the bus finally started its engine. Destination: an oasis in the Sahara, 500 km to the south-west.

We arrived at three AM: the breakfast is at seven, the opening ceremony at eight, at ten we go fly kites!

Yeah, right … what is this, India?

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Into the orchard I walk, peering way past the gate

This date palm plantation is enormous. At its widest, a good mile across, it stretches from beyond Nafta all the way past ⵜⵓⵣⴻⵔ to Degache for more than forty miles. There are millions of date palms, and billions of dates.

We visited the experimental part of he plantation where new ingenious ways of tending to this vital crop are being tested, we drank palm juice and we had more dates than we could ever asked for (for some of us it was a first date in decades!) …

Sabrina, what is this?
A date.
It’s a date, then!
Man … I got engaged three times just on our tour of the medina this morning. Don’t expect too much of this …
I got a date, I got a date, lalala la la …

The palms were fascinating, but the medina of Nafta was something else entirely. As a true oasis town in the middle of the desert, it boasts peculiar architecture – and millions of slender yellow bricks.

Gregor found a friend …

… others found beautiful ladies …

… the rest got lost in the labyrinth of bricks, flowers, and strange letters.

Where every front door has three knockers.

One for children, one for women, one for men. You would not want the lady of the house answering the door to a man, would you?

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The afternoon flying took place at Ras al Ayn, a monument to the poet. The wind did not cooperate, so we let a few children run up and down with our kites. Spreading happiness – that is what we do.

Some of the larger beasts rose above the monument as well – but only briefly, just long enough for a photograph or two. Enough to keep our intrepid social media team satisfied.

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Look, Dario, a fizi!

It is getting long, we know, but bear with us. We have just one opening ceremony, one closing ceremony, some exquisite flying, and a visit to a town of our dreams left.

This opening ceremony started with a real gun.

And a fusion band.

The whirlwind rhythm carried us away, faster and faster …

Then came the VIPs, the speeches, the thunderous applause – as it should be. The three-day kite festival in Nafta had officially begun.

First on the menu: a kite workshop:

Second on the menu: a galaxy far far away.

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Far beyond Gafsa
where the ancient olive trees
meet the date palms and yield to them
and then the palms yield to the sand
the endless sand …

We went flying kites … on the sands of Tatooine.

No, for real.

We have been to a kite festival or two. We have taken part in international festivals. We have even done a transcontinental one. But an intergalactic festival? Only in Tunisia!

This was, quite possibly, the most beautiful place we have ever flown. Sand dunes kissed by the setting desert sun, caressed by a gentle wind.

Immense.

Endless.

Unforgettable.

Beyond.

Some dumbass – who shall remain nameless – attempted to lift a camera at this most perfect of flying spots, only to realise, rather late, that he had forgotten to switch it on.

Too late.

To express our feelings, we burned the desert down.

What a day …

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The good people of Nafta were incredibly generous to us. The food, the trips, the stay at the Maison de Jeunes, the parties, the music, the overwhelming hospitality, everything.

So we felt we have to give something back – but as kite flyiers and kite aerial photographers we didn’t have much to offer.

Except, perhaps, a kite aerial photography session?

This is our rokkaku riding the wild winds of the Sahara. What the kite saw from above was … spectacular.

Behold, the oasis of Nafta:

Thank you so much for this, Nafta!

When the kite landed, Dario did what must to be done every time:

He kissed the rokakku, and we all celebrated its safe return from the skies above Nafta.

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فتمــايلتِ فــي الوجــود، كلحْـنٍ
عبقــريِّ الخيــالِ حــلوِ النشـيدِ:
خـــطواتٌ، ســكرانةٌ بالأناشــيد،
وصــوتٌ، كرجْــع نــاي بعيــدِ
… وقــوامٌ، يكــاد ينطــق بالألحـان

A smouldering pot was carried around, smoke billowing from it, chasing away the evil spirits. The rhaitas were emanating their hypnotic sound, the qraqeb were piercing the ears, and tabl drums were banging away in some transcendental (as in π or e) rhythm. This was Twareg music, the sounds of the desert, way out of our comfort zone.

A young woman was entranced by the music; gyrating wildly, her long black hair sweeping through the smoke-filled space … it would have been a perfect example of an ancient dance speaking in an unknown language – if it weren’t for a small detail on her vest. A decal with a band name:

Slayer.

This was the wildest party of them all: the closing ceremony of one of the the most incredible festival ever.

They took us at night, a police car providing armed escort. We drove along windy roads that got bumpier and bumpier, until they let us off in a dark meadow lined with palms. And under the palms … a nightclub.

A halal nightclub.

The band was insane, the rituals were insane, and we went a bit insane too.

We danced and laughed and waved our flags and ate dates and cakes and making fun of each other and ourselves.

Yusuf, you like kite festivals?
AAAAAaaaaaaaAAAAAAaaaaaa!

On the way back we discussed music.

I hate it when people think Slayer are a satanic band …
But Lina, they are!
Yes, I know – but still!

No wonder the young woman was so surprised when she wanted to organise a metal music festival called Hellfest – but the government, for reasons unknown, forbade it … just out of the blue.

L’enfer, c’est les autres!

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Le strade deserte di Tozeur …

It’s been 42 years since the word Tozeur entered our minds – through a song, of course. It lingered there, forming images, fake memories, a certain longing for something not experienced yet.

Then this incredible festival happened and promised to take us to this unreal, magical place of our dreams. And suddenly we were there.

Tozeur. ⵜⵓⵣⴻⵔ.

Come un incantesimo.

The medina of Tozeur.

The mint tea.

The endless discussions with Dario, sitting by the main road, ogling passers-by – hey habibi, chill! – sipping tea in a ritual performed by humans for thousands of years, a ritual that will only stop when the sand runs out.

Never.

A week of a lifetime it was. Formed from dreams, now forming new dreams.

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Perhaps we should end this essay with a song by Gods of Carthage, or at least one by Slayer – but we won’t.

Sorry, Lina.

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Madam Amel. Mr Mouledi. Najat, Nadir, Mabrouka, Mounir, Nabila, Haifa, Iman, Hadeel, Adem, Ousama, Najah, Khaled, Afafa, Yousef, Khalil, Mona, Taysir, Lina, Reeman, Amani, Maimouna, Olfa, … all the good people of Ben Arous, of Tunis, of Khlelidia, of Hammamet, of Nafta, of Tunisia –
thank you.

We hope you know what you did in the week of the Tunisia Kite Festival 2026.

You made us laugh. You took us to profoundly beautiful places, and let us fly kites in some of the most incredible spots. You helped us create a ton of fantastic memories. You let us fall in love with Tunisia. You became friends – and more. A family. Forever.

And you made us cry a little when the wheels of the plane lifted off the Tunis-Carthage Airport.

But we will come back. Even if you don’t invite us to a festival. Even if there is no festival.

Because this is not a goodbye. This is an au revoir.