Etoile Bay

I meet Ohumed, a young fisherman of Afar origin.

We take a few steps and he shows me an old house from the beginning of the century.

This is the house where Arthur Rimbaud lived.

I already hear the poet’s verses floating in the hot and sultry air.

We reach the port and meet the famous dhows that have traversed these waters for centuries.

I think of Henry de Monfreid, who decided to spend a good part of his life right here, between madness and the illicit.

Embarked on a battered old dhow, the profile of the city disappears behind us, while the Gulf of Tadjoura and then that of Goubbeth el Kharab opens up before us.

Before my eyes is a lunar landscape made up of black mountains brushed by red veins that, with the low morning light, seem to detach themselves to settle on fine white tongues of sand. 

Houmed is my bridge between past and present, and I follow him without missing a single word.

It is said that a long time ago, in the middle of the Gulf of Ghoubbet el Kharab, an island arose; then, one day it disappeared, swallowed up by the waters; all around it remained only a circle of fire.

Suddenly the island reappeared and has since taken the name of Ile du Diable, the island of the Devil.

This place evokes the presence of mysterious forces that in these parts are called Djinn.

The Djinn took over the island and for a long time no fisherman has dared venture into these waters, considered dangerous and damned.

Humed chews khat and drinks tea. His last words mumbled before going to sleep: “The name Goubbeth el Karab in Afar language means ‘the gulf of death’”-

I raise my head and see a carpet of stars.

I think of this little world where the elements of water, earth and fire merge, giving rise to a wild nature of surprising beauty and to a people that still today hands down the legend of the Island of the Devil.

I am where I wanted to be.

The Devil’s Islands rise ahead of me.

Etoile Bay lights up and I am extinguished.