from the desert, to the sea, to the Moon
The Moon. Present, unchanging for centuries and yet so different and so new each time. The Moon, though absent from the sky, magically accompanied my journey across the entire longitude of Tunisia in North Africa.
We start from Djerba, almost a satellite of the country. The Sun is already high. The company is numerous but strangely silent. Everyone waits for that spark that can set souls ablaze with passion, accompanying them on the long journey. Women crouched down prepare bread on the stone. The spark arrives almost at the end of the day. We are at the gates of the desert: Douz. Astride the ships, we face the golden sea of the dunes. These animals so phlegmatic, so placid, lead us at sunset into the silence of sand. Before me, shifting mountains of grains scattered by the wind. All around, silence, solitude. On the way back, I turn to the west: the Sun blinds my eyes, I can make out a boy bent over a stone in the garden of silence.
The next day, early, we resume the journey, content with the joy that so much beauty had given us. We quickly cross a crystalline expanse, sparkling under the Sun's rays: the Chott el Djerid. Immense. I look for the horizon. I get lost. Strange tongues of water surface from time to time. Red water. The temptation is strong: I gather it with my hands. Immediately the water dries, the hands remain wrinkled, white. Suddenly a basin of lush green palms: the Corbeille. Nature so luxuriant could only bear as fruit the fingers of light. We are in Tozeur. I struggle to imagine the poetry of famous songs. The walls of the old city shelter us from the hot Sun. The walls of small red bricks hide courtyards of light, witnesses of times gone by. We eat from ceramic bowls the typical couscous with vegetables and chicken. Sunset again. Again the magic of the desert captivates us.
We are aboard powerful off-road vehicles that climb the high dunes: fast descents with our hearts in our throats and then again steep climbs over the dunes and down again, even faster. This strange roller coaster makes us relive the emotions of childhood. Suddenly the last dune reveals a village never seen before. Chalk houses. Domes. Turrets. Antennas. It truly is another planet.
It's still dark as we begin the new day of travel. The chatter of the group about the emotions they've felt keeps me awake. It's dawn. It's market day in Gafsa. The animal market. Cows, sheep, goats, but also hens, chickens, even dromedaries. The Sun is at its peak when we arrive at the holy city. Gigantic basins mark its entrance. I don't feel like a pilgrim. I couldn't be one. I'm wearing the typical habit. As soon as I set foot in the courtyard a strange spell wraps around me. I make my way to the center of the bright square. Hundreds of columns from Roman and Byzantine times adorn the portico that surrounds it. Still pieces of Roman history attached to the walls of the minaret. I approach the prayer hall. The entrance is off-limits. No one is praying. On the floor and on the columns there are mats.
The interior is very evocative too: sheltered from the Sun, almost dark; the magical atmosphere of the niche that indicates Mecca. I lose the spell as I move on to the so-called Mosque of the Barber. The majolica cladding, the plaster stuccoes, the wood inlays make it one of the jewels of Arab architecture. The medina of Kairouan revives me with the merchants, the customers, the craftsmen weaving carpets, the colors, the scents. We're in the fortress. We choose to welcome the night in the prison smoking the narghile.
In Tunis a torrid, muggy climate awaits us. The Sun is veiled. The pleasant strolls in the souks turn into infernal crossings. There's no air, there's no breath. The morning is short on emotions. Once we reach the Bardo, though, a sight never seen before. Before our eyes hundreds of Roman mosaics adorn the walls of this palace. Endless little colored tiles compose the pleasures of life, the flora, the fauna, the myths, the muses. We move through the rooms of the palace. Ever-different images embroidered in stone leave us stunned. It's art in its utmost splendor, without time, without space. The sight of the mosaics takes us back to the time of the Romans. It's Carthage. More than anything else the port astonishes me. A perfect circle. The reconstruction highlights the berths for the boats, the commercial ones but above all the fearsome triremes that dominated the Mediterranean.
In the sky I glimpse columns of black smoke. Screams, flames, moans. Carthago delenda est. High up on the hill the Sun settles on the white houses. It's almost sunset.
We're close to the coast and the scent of the sea grows more and more intense. It's a beautiful sunny day. Along the sandy shores thousands of people. Dressed women immerse themselves in the crystal-clear water. Further on the sea draws back leaving soft sand. We feed on fish cooked over the fire. The flavor is intense, the flesh tender. The sea is generous with the land. It's the last meal. Light filters through the grates above our heads. It's a dark tunnel, dug into the stone. The strong smell of the animals closes our nostrils. As the carts pass, dust rains down from the ceiling. It's time. With a pulley they lift us from underground. For a moment I can't open my eyes. We're in the arena. An immense circus built to honor here the splendors of Rome: El Djem. Thirty meters high, three tiers of seating, up to thirty thousand seats, make it one of the largest amphitheaters in the world.
Why right here? What wealth could this province, so far from the master city, provide? I climb all the steps up to the top tier. I lean out beyond the arches. A stretch of olive trees as far as the eye can see. Thousands, millions of plants that bore the fruit for the precious oil. That's what the empire got from the city of Thyrsus. Roasted meats, wineskins of red wine, percussion music, bows, flutes. The circus spectacle is over. The audience leaves the stands.
The Moon. White, lit by the Sun. From above it watches over us. It follows our path and marks it. We reach a panoramic point on the hills of Matmata. Around us nothing, only the chasing of arid hills, now to the right now to the left. Nothing else. We all imagine the lunar landscape made of the immensity of eternal nothingness. For a moment silence pervades the whole group. Strange houses carved into the rock host life. Narrow, deep tunnels lead us inside. In the middle a great vault open to the sky to let the Sun in. The stone keeps the heat out. Inside, simple furnishings adorn the cool caves. A woman offers us freshly baked bread and with it the oil. Above the entrance the hands and the fish to keep spirits out. From the road we glimpse other craters that hide houses and life. It's life on the earth and in the earth. We try to enter again. Strange doors slide as we pass.
Steel pipes along the tunnels. Fans, grates, antennas. Our imagination carries us again beyond the solar system. Ships on the horizon. The open sea is our last obstacle. We cross it easily. We're back at the starting point. On the map I connect all the dots. A perfect circle. The blank page makes it resemble the Moon.
The mournful singing of the women accompanied by a melancholy music of string instruments, drums and little bells fills my sleep. We're at the end of this long journey. I go out into the dark. The palms greet me, moved by the wind. I follow the brightest star in the sky. I look for the Moon. To my right, behind the clouds, the Sun peeks out. I'm moved at the thought of the beautiful emotions experienced on this land. I leave Tunisia knowing that I will never be able to relive them so intensely again.
Massimo Bernardi
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