is the story of an encounter that words can hardly describe. I speak rather of visual sensations, smell, taste to talk about this immersion with the world of Berber origins.
Three women living in a small house atop the hill of Ras El Oued. They are weavers, shepherds, Cultivators. They did not find husbands because they had no dowry. While they live there, as formerly, in their cave. In the courtyard, a few hens and a rooster, an oven to cook tabun, delicious flat bread they make me tea with jam and slippery black dates and olive oil. Unforgettable flavor. They do not speak
a word of French but in their eyes that smile like a flame is worth living all languages.
On the horizon the sun is splitting the mountains of Jebel Dahar, iridescent table-like fantasy film, some Berber women in red dress, puffed on the kidneys, a large white veil of English embroidery covering the head, hurrying to their homes. Their approach varies from right to left and splashes of color cladding the last street of the village stops there, suddenly, above the empty, as if the last rainstorm had caused a whole section of mountain in the desert wadi .
The smell of the cake, plated on the wall of burning earth-filled space, delicious taste of warm saliva moistens and already the palace while the rooster began unleashed a series of hoarse cries to greet the sun sinking gloriously behind the mountains.
Inside the cave, the oldest of three sisters sorts a large tuft of wool sheep to draw twisted son to use on the loom for one of these wonderful Killimer that tell the story of their origins Asfour, diamond, symbolic motifs in the first language of the world that their culture was never forgotten.
the west of Ras El Oued, the night grows, quiet, gliding through space like a wind that spreads the silence in the valley, as now looks like tomorrow night and not care, she is queen of the place and the finger on the mouth djins gather for a medley of isolated peaks. The rooster
desperate to lose the light has finally subsided. The Tabuna is cooked. I dip the cake in this black honey and sweet ... and the time has stopped.
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