Travelling south in Tunisia, is to go back in time, into a great space of indescribable calm. After leaving the bustling resort of Sousse on the Mediterranean coast, we head for Temerza, a small town on the Saharan oasis, where the Atlas mountains begin and the Algerian border is just five miles away. We are six, in a Land Rover.
Our first stop is Speitla, to see the magnificent ruins of a once powerful Roman city. Further south, the ninth century Great Mosque towers above the city of Kairouan, Islam's fourth most holy place, after Mecca, Medina and Jerusalem. In its simplicity, it is hard not to be moved by its enormously beautiful expression of faith.
After Kairouan, roads recede into camel tracks, past villages where time stands still. Hedges of tall cacti with ripening red fruit line the tracks. Over a wide expanse, barren soil and sand stretch away before us, and always in the distance, the bare sandstone of the Atlas Mountains.
Village life
Children on their way to school wave to us. Our driver tells us some children leave home at six a.m., walking for miles to be in school for nine a.m.. We stop in a village to stretch our legs. Here, there is no electricity, no running water, no work. Old men and young boys sit in groups. Houses shaped like cubes, cringe under the sun. There are no windows to the front of the houses. A eucalyptus tree, flanked by a towering palm struggles in the dust. When asked where the women are, a young man points to the houses and says: "Working." We both nod.
Here, far down in the south, on a road making a beeline for the Sahara, tribal traditions are rooted into every man and woman. If a girl is seen talking to a boy, before his parents ask her parents for her in marriage, she is disgraced. Her family may kill her. However, though set back in time, the sense of remoteness and inaccessibility imparts a peace and ease that is not present in some of the larger oases.
At Temerza, where the Atlas mountains begin, we book into an hotel built on the banks of the now dried up River Hanga. After a short rest, I set off walking towards the Algerian border. It is hot, and I am tired, but I keep on. I know I am getting close when two police cars pull up beside me. A handsome young man jumps out of one of them and I almost push my passport into his face.
"You must go back," he says, adding: "Do not take any photographs."
With that three more policemen jump out of the other car and advise me that it is dangerous to go any further. They then tell me politely to go back to my hotel. Considering myself a sure target for an Algerian bullet, I thank them and head back.
On the way I meet a man who works in the hotel. When I tell him I am from Ireland, he asks: "Comment va la guerre?" I'm astonished. He sees it all on television.
The haunting desert
Next day we drive most of the morning into the desert. Dressed in appropriate gear we set off walking over the wide expanse of sand. It's hot. There is no sound except the occasional small palm leaves twisting in the soft air. It's a sound that gives an impression of being part of an echo of distant hills and forests. Endless shifting sands blew across infinite spaces that hold me spellbound.
We trek further into the desert, in soft sand, towards dunes that reach hundreds of metres high, ever-vigilant for treacherous killer scorpions and sand snakes. The village boy who accompanies us assures us they will not venture out; it is too cold for them. But it's 30 degrees Celsius!
In silence we trek the great space. The sun casts a rosy-yellow sort of light and then changes to a soft blue and mauve. I sit on the sand unable to do anything more than watch the changing colours. The stillness of heat and colour is overwhelming.
Suddenly the sun takes on a furious glow of fiery crimson. Clouds of floating orange wash and shroud us, then change again to a bluish mauve. In the last moments before sinking, the sun seems to grow larger, expanding with scarlet flashes, and finally disappearing, casting a colour of soft pink over everything. It is the most beautiful sight, awesome, unforgettable. All is silent and still.
For many moments nobody speaks. Slowly, we pull away, like passengers in a ship who see the coast disappear and know they will never return to that place again.
Next day, while everyone rests, I set off at dawn, alone into the desert, with a compass and bottles of water. I want to meet the desert people. I search in vain, and am about to turn back, when two figures appear in front of me. Hallucinating again, in the intense heat? Another mirage?
No, they are real, two men carrying buckets to fetch water from the nearest oasis, miles away. We nod to each other. They hesitate. I invite them to sit on the sand, and offer them water which they drink in one gulp. They are young and agile men, but their brown wrinkled angles of bone bear the marks of a life of hardship and drudgery.
A love of freedom
They live against time. With a little French, one of them tells me that the government built houses to "settle us" and adds that they did not even spend one night in them. "We love our life here, the freedom to move when we want to," he says.
Sheep and goats are the staff of life. The Nomads move about the desert where pasture in the line of sand-grasses, cacti and flowers feeds the animals. Some animals are sheared.
The women work on rugs, which are sold in the towns. Other animals are killed and the carcasses, salted and dried in the scorching sun, are stowed away for winter. Sometimes the men get work picking dates. A sense of pride and independence radiates through the clear brown eyes. When I ask about the women, they tell me they are gathering dried palm leaves and dead flowers for the evening fire. It gets cold at night. However the dried camel skin and hair makes the tents cosy and warm. I would have loved to meet the women.
There are no barriers between us. Language is redundant. The two accompany me part of the way. When we part one of them hands me a sand rose, a strangely shaped crystal of pink gypsum, dissolved out of the sand by the dew over the years, and found deep in the dunes. They are overcome when I gave them my two plastic water bottles, and my notebook and pen.