Being a West Country lass myself, and a horse dealer’s daughter to boot, it was a great treat to escort two cousins, both from Devonshire farming families, into the Saharan wilderness;
they cherished their camels, and relished being out in the open air all day long. Jacqui and Claire were kindred spirits, and can only be described as fabulous fun – we all got on so well, and had loads in common to talk about. Always laughing and smiling, their infectious sense of humour immediately appealed to our Bedouin guides, Adel and Ali. Claire was allocated exactly the sort of camel she had secretly been wishing for – a small chestnut one called Llama. She loves lightweight chestnut horses, and here was the dromedary equivalent. Jacqui rode Lahajah, and the creamy coated Labiar carried the tent and mattresses. My camel, Zeydoun, was his usual majestic self, his smooth summer coat gleaming under the hot sun.

We each drank three litres of mineral water a day, and became addicted to our lunchtime and evening fix of Coca Cola, the essential substitute for the alcoholic beverages with which we fortify ourselves back home. Claire was apprehensive that this sugary drink would harm her beautifully whitened teeth, but all traces of vanity rapidly evaporated in the demanding environment, and that applied to all of us! The heat, flies, strong winds and an impromptu sandstorm were the main challenges we encountered. The star studded nights were warm, and a waning moon floated past the front of our tent in the early hours of the morning. Ali was our earthly super star, anchoring the tent firmly to its sandy moorings, Jacqui assisting him by throwing light onto the various poles, pegs and guy ropes – we always reached the overnight camping places just before nightfall, so a beaming torch was a vital piece of equipment.

Adel and Ali are terrific entertainers, their matinee performances boosted by Jacqui’s ipod, resulting in Adel singing along aria-style with Maria Callas, at the same time conducting the orchestra with great gusto. In the evening, he danced to Ali’s drumbeats and us with him, before collapsing into an untidy heap; dancing on sand is hard work! The next skill to be acquired was singing in Arabic – we did our utmost to follow the words and melody of the chorus, with hilarious results – hard to explain if you weren’t actually there, but our tears of joy were very real indeed. How un-inhibiting to laugh until you cry! The only other people we encountered during our five days were a German couple walking with guides and camels, who expressed their passion for the desert, and a camel herder at Bir Boubacher, a well famous for its prolific supply of water. To our amazement, the herder was wearing pink croc style shoes – he took them off whilst his camels were avidly quenching their thirst from the long concrete trough, but unbeknown to him, a pile of loose (and that is being polite) droppings was dumped into the heel of his left shoe. We have now coined the phrase “pink shoe shit” as an addition to our existing vocabulary of expletives. Hopefully, this cheerful nomad will have hosed down his footwear, rather than washing it in the actual trough of drinking water, albeit camel drinking water……

As we rode away from the well, thunder could be heard rumbling in the distance, an indication of the fierce sandstorm to follow which blew up in a matter of seconds, but fortunately after we had finished our lunch. Adel ran off at great speed to find my black camel before he vanished into the greyish yellow oblivion – visibility was down to a few yards, the wind whipping the grains of sand into our eyes and orifices. Adel returned with a pale, ghostly Zeydoun who was covered from head to toe in a transient mantle of sand.

By early evening, the wind fell as rapidly as it had risen, and we were off on the last evening ride. The sky was a magnificent melange of gold, red and violet, changing colour by the second as the setting orange sun slid out of sight. One of the most touching vignettes on our travels was the ingenious Ali sewing together the soles to the lasts of Jacqui’s trainers. Both shoes had fallen apart on about day three. He produced a needle and cord, and when he ran out of the latter, asked Jacqui to give him a length of blue cord that she had tied around the Ellis Brigham plastic bag containing her sleeping bag and other clothes. The repair was a work of art, and so typical of the Bedouin who make and mend, allowing nothing to be thrown away prematurely.

These particular shoes were about ten years old, had been put away, forgotten about, and perished in the process. But Ali managed to get the last vestiges of vital wear out of them. As a reward for his efforts, Jacqui presented him with her fleece.

There were many more birds on the October circuit, including one that looked like a wren, and at the other end of the spectrum, a huge black raven who would not have looked out of place at The Tower of London. I also saw a swallow on our last day, which also happened to be the day of the mouse! He (or she) jumped out of our handwoven tent as it was being dismantled, and had obviously spent most of the night snuggled up with us, much to Claire’s horror! It then scuttled in a mesmerised fashion to seek out a hiding place under the couched camels, only to leap out of Claire’s saddle as Llama rose to his feet with Claire on board, her screams shattering the silence of the desert! Talking of broken silence, we had managed to cope with each other’s snoring with no ill feeling. On night one, Chez Adel and Najet, where the hottest shower of our whole Tunisian trip was to be found, Jacqui snored peacefully from dusk until dawn – I relaxed with the gentle rhythm of it and slept pretty well, drifting in and out of sleep. Claire not so fortunate, but knows her dear friend so well that no umbrage was taken. I put Jacqui at ease by telling her that her snoring was a gentle lullaby. Claire snored intermittently in the desert, as did I. We all resorted to pain killers for various aches and pains, but survived to tell the tale, and were good at sticking to the daily routine.

Wherever we found ourselves in Tunisia, there was not only the warmth of the sun to soak up, but also the warmth that radiated from the hearts of the Tunisian people who looked after us. I am blessed to have such kind friends out there: the staff who run the hotels, the Dar Faiza in Djerba, the Touareg in Douz, and the Marhala in Matmata; my English speaking brilliant driver Belgacem and his convivial family who live in Douz; and of course the wonderfully hospitable Saoud family in Sabria who take such excellent care of my camel.

On our return to Djerba, where my Camel Voyages begin and end, we picked up a copy of the International New York Times and were overjoyed to read that on Friday 9th October, the Nobel Peace Prize for 2015 had been awarded to the Tunisian National Dialogue Quartet which comprises four key organisations in the Tunisian civil society: the Tunisian General Labour Union; the Tunisian Confederation of Industry, Trade and Handicrafts; the Tunisian Human Rights League; and the Tunisian Order of Lawyers. This alliance, known simply as The Quartet, has acted as a mediator and driving force to advance peaceful democratic development in Tunisia with great moral authority. It was formed in the summer of 2013 when the democratisation process was in danger of collapsing. It has since established, through dialogue and a peaceful political process, a constitutional system of government guaranteeing fundamental rights for the entire population, irrespective of gender, political conviction or religious belief.

We saw for ourselves, especially within the tourism industry, that the Tunisian people face major challenges, but winning this coveted global prize will give them enormous encouragement. This was a high note on which to end the happiest of holidays, and, would you ever believe, there was even a robin, the national bird of Britain, to sing this note for us from his olive tree in the Hotel Dar Faiza gardens……