He arranged to meet me in the middle of nowhere, in one of these small Turkish villages lost in the Anatolian steppe between Konya and Ereğli. I don't know him, other than through a few video clips that I was given to watch on his slow journey while I was lazing around on Instagram. His face appeared on my iPhone screen. Alexis Jeanson then still had a well-trimmed beard, a beret placed on his head, a staff firmly secured in his hand. A pilgrim. A pilgrim from Jerusalem.
Like him, every year, a handful of them leave everything to reach the Holy Land on foot. More than twenty years ago, I was one of them. Between us, an invisible bond, belonging to a brotherhood which is not secret, but whose number no one knows. I suddenly had the irrepressible desire to get some fresh air. Alexis Jeanson accepted my offer to join him. He sent me geographic coordinates, a schedule. It is up to me to find him without delaying him so as not to compromise, God willing, his arrival in Bethlehem for Christmas.
On December 3, in the early morning, he was waiting for me in a café in Ismil. He already had 5,369 kilometers in his calves, his body sharpened by the road and his cheeks hollowed by deprivation. I arrived directly from Paris, with a full stomach, and empty of any physical activity for ages, after a stop in Istanbul, a landing in Konya and a hitchhiking expedition. Alexis had spent the night there, lying on the ground, wrapped in a fleece blanket, trying to warm up as close as possible to an antique stove. His host was busy rekindling the flame to prepare hot tea. Before setting off, we began to get to know each other, under the amused gaze of the men of the village who stared at us as if we were the first foreigners to venture into their village. It probably was.
After spending the night sheltered from the snow and stray dogs, Alexis Jeanson sets off towards Mount Taurus.
© Raphaël Stainville
Alexis Jeanson is 36 years old. He had always promised himself that he would reach Jerusalem on foot. A dream born when he was 12 years old. Like a seed struggling to germinate, it first rolled around. He became a carpenter, brewer and crocodile breeder in Australia, before returning to France and settling near Tours, as a traveling bartender. Like the desire to “live a hundred lives”, he confides, humming Goldman before puffing on his cigarette.
“Everything but a wandering”
A warm-up lap on the way to Compostela and he sets off towards Jerusalem. He has neither wife nor children. Handed over the keys to his rental. Free. Adventure, “the real one”. There are no marked paths here. No more, the all-inclusive version of the pilgrimage, with room and board. The only certainty is the unknown. “You have to be able to let go. » By chance or by the grace of God.
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A long time ago, Alexis Jeanson made his choice. He is Catholic. It will be his rush towards the origins at the slow pace of a walker who wanders from chapel to monastery, from town to town, according to encounters and sleepless nights. It will be France first, Italy, Slovenia, Hungary in the footsteps of Saint Martin first, then Croatia, Serbia, Kosovo, Macedonia, Greece, Turkey. “Everything but a wandering”he specifies.
The day before, a Turk gave him a loaf of bread. This will be our pittance
We ended up throwing ourselves out into the cold. We had 35 kilometers to go if we wanted to find a village where we could hope to spend the night dry. In front of us, a dirt road taken by rare tractors. Here, no woods, even fewer forests, just a few stray trees which streak the horizon with their starving branches, a few cob houses which recall the presence of men. Everywhere around, the infinity of plowing, the dreary flatness of the beet fields. Especially the snow. The ice that traps the earth before gradually melting to transform it into mud. In the distance, a muezzin's call to prayer pierces one last time, answered by minarets lost behind a hill. Then, nothing more, only silence. Interior prayer.
We tell each other our “wars”. Our experiences of kangals, these chimera-like shepherd dogs. Monsters that protect farms from wolves and threaten outsiders. I give him news from France. He is unaware that Michel Barnier will be overthrown in the coming hours by a motion of censure. The noises of the world indifferent to him. It thrives on the essential. The day passes with the delicate impression that we are standing still as the landscapes seem immutable. We are now walking muddy up to our knees before taking a break. I take out of my backpack a mature Comté and some Gruyère – a request in the form of a plea that he had made before my departure – as if to remind him of the taste for good things. The day before, a Turk gave him a loaf of bread. This will be our pittance.
Like a scent of the Holy Land
We cut across fields, attempting improbable azimuths to tread on the asphalt again and extricate ourselves from the clay that is holding us back. We haven't been walking for fifteen minutes on a country road when a car stops next to us. The driver gets out, followed by his sidekick. The discussion begins, uncertain. Alexis has mastered a few words that allow him to introduce himself, but he will soon have to use a translator. The man becomes urgent, inquisitive. He's a cop. He hands us a badge, wants us to show him our passports. “Are you Zionist spies? » The question is recurring, Alexis assures me. Geopolitics constantly comes into play. Our pilgrim from Jerusalem made the choice in Türkiye to keep quiet about his final destination and only confided this secret after having carefully gauged his interlocutors.
At 36, the man who was in turn a carpenter, brewer and crocodile breeder is honoring a promise he made to himself in his youth.
© Raphaël Stainville
We put an end to this palaver. Alexis walks lightly. I hold on to his bag now, making sure not to get left behind. The rain bursts in, whips our faces. He sings. I grit my teeth. The night has enveloped us for several minutes when we reach a village. We spot a cafe still open. Men are having a living room. Alexis negotiates a lodging while I order lahmacun, a mixture of minced meat and vegetables spread on a thin dough. Akim offers to open a house for us so that we can sleep sheltered from the cold and the snow. It's rustic. Two smashed sofas. A stove lacking heating. A paradise to remake the world before fatigue knocks us out. Tomorrow, we will have to take the same deserted roads, the same endless plains.
However, as the hours tick by, the foothills of Taurus emerge in the distance. The earth rises full of mysteries and promises. Behind these snow-capped peaks where wolves sow terror still hides the Mediterranean. Like a scent of the Holy Land. I abandon him to this hope. I have to go back, find a hypothetical car to try to catch my flight. He almost reaches his goal. More than a thousand kilometers… Once upon a time in the East.
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