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The Birds of Djerba
- University of Ottawa Press
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Ángel Mota 143 The Birds of Djerba I’m on a boat from Sicily to Tunisia. I drift away with the colours of the waves. The sea and foam draw me into the apathy of the cerulean sky. The south swallows me up, its lure draws me to Africa—as if the sugar of the sea were a respite from my haste, from my desire for knowledge. But the shrieks of the seagulls, and above all the churning of those merchant ships that pound the sea almost to ruins, remind me of my purpose. I’m supposed to begin my newspaper reporting on the geographical sites visited by Ulysses in the Odyssey, precisely with the beach of the Lotus-Eaters. And that, if I’m to believe the archaeological and historical research of a certain Victor Bérard, is located in Djerba, south of what was once the fearsome city of Carthage. Shakily, I disembark from the ship in a beautiful port. This must be the city of Tunis. I spend two days drinking mint tea in the old medina and in the Arab-French streets of the Second Empire. My conscience tells me it’s time to get to work; I’m being funded. On the third day, after having breakfast, I take a bus heading for Cap Bon. I reach a chaotic tourist port and there I ask an old man to take me to Djerba. He insists he can’t take me that far in such a small boat. I offer him a considerable sum of money. We travel for hours on a quiet sea. We follow the coastline, nevermovingveryfarout.Theoldmangivesmewatertodrink. At twilight we gradually approach the shore. “Where are we? Is this Djerba?” “Almost, we’re close; first we’re going to my town. We can rest there and tomorrow I’ll take you.” With the motor at full throttle we approach terra firma. There’shardlyanybeach.Theoldmanquicklythrowsoutarope tied to a few stones, which acts as an anchor. With successive throws, he brings the boat close to the rudimentary port. He nimbly disembarks. Immediately he holds out his hand to me. Disconcerted, I take it. “This way,” says the old man. “We have to climb the whole cliff on these stone stairs, up to the summit of the mountain.” Cloudburst 144 “Okay, I just need some more water.” Every step is covered in brush and myriad ants. As time wears on, I take repeated breaks. The old man climbs with supreme agility. We reach a blue and white town where the houses are arranged vertically, from the very top to the very bottom of the hill. Every stairway leads to a door of a different shape and design, one with stars, others with folding screens, some with squares. “Wait for me in the plaza. Just keep going straight ahead and you’ll find it. I’ll be right back. I’m going to buy water,” the old man tells me. He walks on up the street. My eyes follow him till he’s lost from sight. Only then do I look down the slope. The still, green sea is drowsing, and in the background, like two joined hands, loom the twin peaks of a mountain, the one I saw from the boat. What place is this? I search for some inhabitant, the voice of someone to inform me. Little by little I realize that I may not be alone; all the inhabitants have locked themselves indoors. As I walk along, I see bougainvillea, climbing plants on the walls and orange and lemon trees. I persevere in trying to find someone. To no avail. One dove, then another, an owl and several other different birds start to appear on the flat rooftops, around the patios of the houses, and still more perch on the trees, then in the street. I watch them with curiosity and follow the cobblestone paving without knowing where it will take me. There is no traffic on this tiny cobbled road. I begin to hear a chant. I gaze up high, above the white and blue houses. I discover a minaret. The chant is an invitation to prayer. The mosque seems to be close by. I hurry along a twisting path. I can’t see anybody. It’s as if the imam were nothing more than a voice inviting to prayer as a mandatory recitation, made only in the hope of warding off oblivion. I decide to look for the old man; he was...