a journey to Portugal

Day one: 

"The earth is blue like an orange" Paul Eluard

I remember arguing years ago about oranges. My patriotism, if it can be called so, always goes through mystomack. Obviously, the best oranges, for me, were the Moroccan ones. And last week, only when I crossed the border between Spain and Portugal for the first time, an obvious fact  stroke my mind. In arabic, we call the orange "burtuqal".

 "Portocali" in Greek, "portakal" in Turkish, the sweet orange was brought to the Mediterranean by the Portuguese in the XVIth century. As the Mediterraneans rapidly adopted the fruit as their own,  they forgot it had come from China.

Portugal, the Terra Incognita I was to discover during this weekend was from then on wrapped in a poetic haze.

I saw a village overhanging the sea which was conquered solely for the beauty of its landscape, every street was named after a writer, or a poet, and every wall had a story to tell.  I finally hugged a tree, and not just any kind of tree, I hugged a 2000 years old olive tree, imagine now, that you're embracing with all your body a 2000 years old living tree! On the next stop, walking on the beach, there was this strange anchor cemetery. There in the sand, among tall grass, dozens of anchors driven in the ground, reminiscent of all the boats that were born and died on this very shore. The wind was telling us the overwhelming history of fearless navigation toward the edge of the known world while the atlantic ocean lied still, majestic in the silver skyline. 

Day two 

 "Sometimes, when one person is missing, the whole world seems depopulated" Lamartine

I realised a desert island doesn't look at all like what I always imagined. One pictures a Caribbean island with coconut trees (well you gotta eat something) where you arrive after a shipwreck. I wonder why by the way, we keep on thinking of all the things, books, Cd's we would take to this desert island, when we know that we don'tget there on purpose but by misfortune. Anyway, the reality of a desert island is completely different..

We first had to get from Faro to Farol island by Sea Taxi. It is like a cab, but it is not yellow. And it is a boat. 

This first island is so tiny, that we crossed it in 10 mn. Then, to enjoy a better view of the sunset we walked, just like Moses did (yes we can!) through parted waters. Some of us were even so happy to achieve that, that we had the stupidest blissful smile stuck on our faces all the way toward the sun. The mole seemed pretty safe as the ocean was calm, but we saw massive pieces of  concrete that had been torn off the pier by the billows. 

"Never underestimate Poseidon's anger" I thought to myself..

By the time we had ended our promenade on water with a quick snack and beer, the night came in and with her, we made the next step to our final destination. We took another boat, and the brief crossing to the desert island was already predictive of a mysterious and enchanting night. 

A lonely lantern was swaying in the wind above our heads when we came alongside a few stairs. All around it was dark except for a few lights in the distance, and of course the tireless lighthouse beam. From upstairs, I saw the boat go off  and disappear in the dark. One person was awaiting us on the island though. 

On the path to the inland, the stars were strolling around our heads until we saw the house of the island's only inhabitant. No Robinson Crusoe, but a jovial fisherman welcomed us in his magic fishbowl. From outside, the house looked like designed in a fairy-tale. As we walked in,  it felt like stepping into the common household of Professor Sunflower, Captain Haddock and Oliveira de Figueira. Apart the basic furniture (table, chairs, sink and stove) all the rest were bizarre inventions (from luminous alarms of all sort to inhouse periscope through homemade mechanical bin opener) tinkered by our host.  His heartiness made me think he could be one of the magic grandfathers of my childhood tales. Even if I wasn't sure of that, I took good care of behaving very nicely to him.  

As we sat down to enjoy the fisherman's dinner, I was sure of one thing though: being at the right place, at the right time, with the right people. 

So now i can tell. A desert island is not boring at all , it's fun. No need to take stuff like books there. Expect to eat fish, see a million stars, but nothing else, for you never know what will happen there. And the most important: one lonely fisherman can create a whole world. Even on a desert island. 

Day three 

 "I dream. Sometimes I think that's the only right thing to do." Haruki Murakami

No need to say how the night went on with a five liter baby of red Portuguese wine and some home made Ambrosia-like nectar called Medronho. The next day we woke up (already back on the mainland) and our personal fairy took us for breakfast to the beach. We were all a bit tired but happy  in this little cafe by the sea, where time had seemed to stop and no one would bother to dust for years. There we met this joyful (and drunk) Moroccan fisherman that had just got his license to fish. 

We exchanged a few words, and by the time we refused an invitation for a drink,  yet it was time to leave. 

And so now back home, sometimes I dream of burtuqal.