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I remember the clouds of dust carried by the evening wind, there was always the same flicker of water and the flight of a few large birds. The thin trees, deep green patches trapped in this furrow infinitely earthy, could witness the passage of a Berber caravan through the Kabyle desert. The sky is blue, imperceptibly veiled by this earth that evaporates between the flanks, like the dead rise. From that gaze, I know that the memory of this journey will be the one of the earth, the humble earth of our own steps and of our humanity, a memory of the living earth. The feeling of the earth is a moving chord of life. Suddenly, a deeply buried obviousness, forever in everyone, rises to the surface and grabs us as if we were poor fools, the earth is a wonder where only life matters. It is an unparalleled relief to know that we are continually loved through our connection to the earth. Are we going to make ourselves bitten by a snake ? Are we going to get enough water ? Are we going to find a bus to get out of here ? None of our projections are important, “nothing matters but a matter of life”. This is the maxim that puts into perspective accessories and accidents in our lives, the loss of a passport, “it doesn't matter”, cancelling a flight, “it doesn't matter”, conflicts between partners, “it doesn't matter”. It is not a silly sentence that invites passivity but a fact extremely important that unleashes the action : there is not much that is serious, so keep going. This eruption of simplicity coming from the abyss, from a bottomless pit, unites travelers. We share the importance of life because everyone is willing to lose everything they own to keep a stranger alive. Life brings pain, misfortune, hardship, but also their peace, which is far away to be a simple compensation. We must be thankful to be alive, to thank our parents, our ancestors, to thank everyone and those to whom we forgot to express our gratitude, and especially life itself in its mystery, for life proceeds entirely from life. In the darkness of the night, the old man and I play Cherokee harmonies. I think of the Shire, where little people live so peacefully and so bravely. We talk long, in silence, tirelessly. Our tents are set up, the pot cooks our rice, the rustle of the river is unchanging, and the brown valley becomes silver under the rays of the moon. The light of our fire, mounted in a semicircle against the wall of a long cut of earth, reflects and brightens our faces. Very honestly, it is the greatest fire of my life, an archetype. To tell the truth, the next morning I piled up the thick, gray ashes and threw some branches before washing my pot in the river. When I came back, the fire had started again. All night long, the earth had kept our embers dormant, waiting for us to pay attention to them again, and to offer us her gifts, again. I can't help but think to myself : “For all those times I chopped wood with my thigh, set up circles of heavy stones, smashed my matchsticks, burned my fingers and smoked my eye by blowing into the embers to make the spark fly, for all those times in the cold of the night when your fire was my only vigor, light and heat, I thank you for flaming up like this, for being born again in Phoenix”. Through the fire, shadows move back, drawing faces, heat rises to the cheeks, starting from the feet, the smoke mingles with stars and the flame constantly evolves in a hypnotic becoming. I am happy to write in my little notebook a conclusion to this unforgettable experience: “All is so simple by the light of the fire”. I wish one day to share this memory. I will write a novel about my pilgrimage around the world, Europa, America, Asia, Africa… Tonight, I offer it to the world nomads. Adrien, 22, French