The tiny island of Djerba off the east coast of Tunisia is infused with the stuff of dreams. It beguiled Odysseus’s crew and tempted invaders — from Phoenicians, Romans, Spaniards and Arabs to the Ottoman Turks and their state-sponsored pirates. Legend has it that the first Jewish community settled here in the sixth century BC — contemporaries, to their woe, of Nebuchadnezzar. All have left their mark.
Radiating from embowered squares where narghile-puffing men in straw hats while away the daylight hours over mint tea and dominoes, the market of Houmt Souk — the capital — is a shopper’s paradise.
Djerbans, renowned for their commercial acumen, opt for the soft sell. You will be invited into an Aladdin’s cave to “feast the eyes” on tribal merghoum carpets old and new, traditional unglazed pottery from the nearby village of Guellala, Berber jewellery of coral and lapis set in silver, textiles, 19th-century portraits of mustachioed beys, antique lanterns, inlaid mirrors, incense burners …
Bargaining here is a dignified process, and miraculous discounts are rare. Still, I emerged from one emporium clutching my prize and blinking in the sunlight that ricocheted from the white-washed houses, dazzled by the intensity of the bougainvillea — a confetti of purples, lilacs, pinks, oranges and reds.
We walked past iron-studded wooden doors of old caravanserai, now converted to hotels; past the jewellers’ quarter and into the food market where a fish auction was under way. The auctioneer, with a carnation behind his ear, was holding up an eely specimen. A neighbouring restaurant will cook your purchases, seasoned with spices from the adjoining souk, whose pyramids of coloured powder perfume the air with ginger, tarragon, bay, chillies, cinnamon, coriander, rosemary and clove.
All too soon, it was time to leave this land of plenty. A Land Cruiser awaited to take us into the desert. We crossed to mainland Tunisia on the Roman causeway and drove south through kilometres of flat, sandy terrain to Tataouine, on the barren steppes of the Dahar mountains, their dun colour relieved only by splashes of hibiscus, oleander and the odd palm tree. It was a penal colony during French rule, and you can see why. But never would you guess that these craggy peaks and table-top mountains camouflaged such hallucinatory architecture.
The Berbers built their ghorfas — vaulted beehive structures — as grain stores. As protection against Arab incursions, these were fortified from the 12th century onwards, and became known as ksour (ksar in the singular), which abound in the region. Ksar Ouled Soltane, one of the best preserved of these, rises four storeys high, vertiginous steps to the upper floors beginning halfway up the structure, like an impossible Escher drawing — a surreal apparition atop a stony knoll.
Such Luke Skywalker architecture would be familiar to Star Wars fans, who arrive in droves to visit Ksar Hadada, the real-life setting of the fictional planet Tatooine.
The next day, we set off into the Sahara, the rolling dunes of the Grand Erg Oriental and its oases, for the kind of adventure appreciated by those who like their genuine wilderness experience purged of vipers and equipped with air-conditioning and power showers.
After two hours of juddering along the desert path to nowhere, a thin line of pink dunes appeared on the horizon, sandwiched between the greyish sand of the foreground and the unblemished blue rectangle of sky above. It is like driving through a Rothko canvas. Eventually, we arrived at our camp at Ksar Ghilane, a small oasis of airy white tents with mod-cons. Palm groves sheltered brilliant orange pomegranate trees.
An unbroken stretch of sand extends 320km from here to the southern tip of Tunisia, where it merges into the deserts of Algeria and Libya. There is little to do but contemplate the shifting sands and luxuriate in the delicious decadence of a spring-water swimming pool.
When the sun dropped, we transferred on to camels and made for a ruined fort, 4km away, which once marked the south-western boundary of the Roman empire. It is hypnotic, this stately progress over herring-bone sands, aching silence but for the sounds of the wind and our young cameleer singing softly.
We headed north-east to Douz, a town losing its battle against the dusty incursion of the desert. It was the last stop before our crossing of Chott el Jerid, the huge salt lake that bisects the country. Mirages danced on its crystalline, mirror-flat surface.
Beyond the glittering Chott lie the mountain oases. Once covered by the oceans, the region is rich in fossils and sparkling minerals — mica, chalcedony, gypsum, quartz, chalcite — sold at every café.
From my eerie perched high above a dry river-bed, waking to birdsong and the purple-pink mountains beyond the ruined village of Tamerza was reminiscent of early Hollywood epics of the life of Christ. Palmeries and deep waterfalls of tinkling celadon brightened scenes of biblical wilderness: Mides, with its dramatically striated gorge grinding into Algeria; Chebika, chameleon-like against the surrounding cliffs. We reached this village by climbing a mountain and squeezing through a cleft in the rock; and experienced all the awe of Burckhardt discovering Petra.
Our driver, meantime, had made it his mission to find the perfect carpet that I had been seeking — so far, in vain. Tozeur — set in an island of 700 000 palm trees fed by 196 springs — was our last chance before we parted company and I headed for the bright lights of Tunis. Famous for its finger-of-light dates, which used to be bartered for slaves, today Tozeur has a flourishing trade in carpets, which hang outside every shop and drape each busy café.
We visited each carpet shop in turn till we were dizzy with geometric designs of stripes, lozenges and quincunxes, leaving a string of disappointed proprietors in our wake. And then we found it: a Berber flatweave embroidered rug just the right size and shade. Negotiations were leisurely, well-oiled with coffees and courtesies before the deal was done.
Having satisfied the commercial imperative, we took a walk in the Paradise Gardens. They are watered by a 13th-century system of channels so complex that, 500 years later, the French colonists were unable to fathom its intricacies — a reminder, amid the torpor of fatalism, that Arabs were once leaders of the scientific world. Towering palms sheltered trees of quince, mandarin, banana, fig and much else, which in turn shaded a bonanza of flowers.
But every Eden must have its serpent. In the neighbouring Zoo du Desert we found an array of indigenous monsters: bug-eating Varan lizards, salamanders, translucent scorpions, delicately hued horned vipers …
“Its bite will kill you in 15 minutes,” said the handler, baring a viper’s fangs for me to admire. “Just time for one last cigarette.” — Â