The Island of the Lotus Eaters

I have re-read Tennyson’s “The Song of the Lotus Eaters” more often than any poem in The Oxford Book of English Verse. I can tell that from the grubby condition of the pages. That was the main reason why I went to Djerba. But I had a second one: travel agents were advertising it as “The Tahiti of the Mediterranean,” and I was curious to compare the island where Ulysses’ sailors tried to desert their ship with the one for whose sake Captain Bligh was turned adrift in mid-Pacific.

At a first glance no two places could be less alike. Djerba is flat, whereas Tahiti is mountainous. The narrow coastline of Tahiti is decked with slim and undulant coconut palms. In Djerba there are squat, firm date palms. Tahitians live in bungalows; their rooms open on to wide verandahs; there are no doors to lock. The daughters of Tahiti lie out on mats strumming their ukuleles. In Djerba there are no verandahs. The houses, white-domed and low, with blue painted woodwork, are like pillboxes where veiled Moslem women can be free from scrutiny. Tahiti is bright with flowers, with bougainvillea, with hibiscus, and the white- starred tiaré that scents the night; Djerba, except for a brief burst of color in early spring, is flowerless.

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Alec Waugh

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I have re-read Tennyson’s “The Song of the Lotus Eaters” more often than any poem in The Oxford Book of English Verse. I can tell that from the grubby condition of the pages. That was the main reason why I went to Djerba. But I had a second one: travel agents were advertising it as “The Tahiti of the Mediterranean,” and I was curious to compare the island where Ulysses’ sailors tried to desert their ship with the one for whose sake Captain Bligh was turned adrift in mid-Pacific.

At a first glance no two places could be less alike. Djerba is flat, whereas Tahiti is mountainous. The narrow coastline of Tahiti is decked with slim and undulant coconut palms. In Djerba there are squat, firm date palms. Tahitians live in bungalows; their rooms open on to wide verandahs; there are no doors to lock. The daughters of Tahiti lie out on mats strumming their ukuleles. In Djerba there are no verandahs. The houses, white-domed and low, with blue painted woodwork, are like pillboxes where veiled Moslem women can be free from scrutiny. Tahiti is bright with flowers, with bougainvillea, with hibiscus, and the white- starred tiaré that scents the night; Djerba, except for a brief burst of color in early spring, is flowerless.