Natural hot springs, Nabeul Governorate, Tunisia

4Johanne C 5:00 PM Jan 3, 2017

Beautiful Place, but caution
I visited in March/April and the sea water was super cold and very wavy. TO get to the hot springs was very dangerous and to stay in it even more as my head was hitting the rocks. Yes it was my own fault by going in in the first place, but I was not about to miss on this experience :) There is no surveillance or lifeguard of any sort. The hot springs that are not in the sea were extremely hot, too hot to put any part of your body in it. But it was nice resting my feet on the hot rocks above the water. Beautiful surrounding scenery. Did not make into town. Do not go eat at the outside restaurant on the premises - very very bad food. Did not try the indoor one, can't possibly be as bad ... All in all enjoyable with caution

4eddiebrylcreem 5:00 PM Mar 12, 2012

Blissful hot springs pouring into the sea.
Lats November we left the crowded streets of Hammamet, some 40 miles from Tunis, and drove to Korbous, a tiny town on the Cap Bon peninsula. Strictly speaking we didn’t actually reach Korbous itself; for its main attraction - the Ain Atrous (or Goat Spring) - is to be found a mile or so away. In high season the place can get pretty crowded, with people coming from miles around, even from the capital, to take advantage of the hot sulphurous water gushing out of the rocks. But when we arrived, on this particular winter day, there were maybe half a dozen local men, all elderly, sitting around the pools just above where the water enters the sea. I had the impression they met up there most days, quite pleased to have the place more or less to themselves. But they showed no signs of displeasure at the sight of Jane and me coming to share their space at the stone pools through which the water is guided towards the sea. All the men were barefoot, though none had their feet actually dangling in the water since, at 60 degrees centigrade, you would have lost most of your surface skin within seconds. A tiny, bearded smiling man, the genius loci, brandishing a short broom appropriate to his size, came over with the cut off bottom half of a large plastic mineral water bottle and, with a deft flick of the wrist, filled it up, laid it beside me and stood back to watch. The nearest of the elderly men demonstrated the ritual to me, indicating that I should imitate him. Like him I was wearing a simple cotton robe, his a local djebba, mine a kaftan from Turkey, so it was easy to roll up my sleeves and bare my knees. My neighbour took his half bottle, shook some hot water into the palm of his other hand and massaged it into the opposite elbow, nodding approval as he saw me do the same. He then worked on the other elbow, both hands, and down to the knees, feet and toes. Finally it was time for the face, with mouth, ears and nostrils being rinsed out. He then removed his skull cap and splashed water over his head and what remained of his hair. Oddly, it is only now, writing about it, that I realise that he was carrying out a version of the wudhu, the ritual washing which every Muslim is duty-bound to do before any act of prayer, combining this with particular care being paid to the various joints susceptible to arthritis in people of our age. Shortly afterwards the group of men went off, and we decided it was time to see what it was like in the sea itself. Two men, brothers by the look of them, both in their 30s, were at the bottom of the steps, about to let themselves down in the water. When they saw us carefully making our way down the rather uneven steps they stayed near the edge, pointing out how slippery the rocks were, and helped us in, showing us the best places to stand, where the almost boiling water was tempered by the incoming December waves. They themselves stood ensconced in a little hollow, a metre from where the water landed and, in unison, washed their hair, using little sachets of shampoo thrown down to them from above by a friend. We stayed there I’m not sure how long, swaying gently as the larger waves hit us, smiling beatifically as the water warmed us to our bones and the sulphur-laden air penetrated deep into our lungs. By the time we were ready to get out we had been joined by a further three or four men, one in a wet-suit proudly displaying the huge octopus he had caught with his harpoon. One of the others handed me out first, adding - in French - that I should help ‘the gazelle’ myself. The little man had been looking after our things and, once dry and clothed again, I gave him a well deserved couple of dinars before we walked a few more steps up towards the little restaurant overlooking the sea, where the sign showed that fresh fish was available for lunch. Some grilled octopus perhaps?