My hands rested in my lap and left a wet imprint on my skirt. Little drops trickled down my back. The wind ruffled my hair but brought no relief even though the pick-up truck was open on all sides. My pocket thermometer said 40°C, normal temperature in South Tunisia.

The drive from Zafraane to El Fouar through the desert was stunning. A vast expanse of sand, dotted with little green oases stretched in every direction. Narrow, almost invisible tracks, seemingly leading to nowhere criss-crossed each other. No sign-posts, no names, but the driver knew every grain.

The pick-up truck juddered to a halt. I jerked forward and grabbed the iron railing in front of me. This was a mistake. It was not luke warm, not tepid, not mildly hot, but as hot as the wire tray in a heated oven. I yelped and let go, rubbing the palm of my hand.

"El Fouar Hotel." Our driver need not have said this. This was the El Fouar pick-up, and this was the end of the journey. We were the only passengers and had been for the last hour or so. My husband dusted away the thin film of sand on our luggage. Our son said that he didn't want to get sand in his shoes, and that he was not going to budge. I ignored him. Seventeen-year-olds are not the best of company on holidays.

I jumped out onto a sparkling carpet of sand. My lips tasted sandy. Sand scoured my nostril, my ears. Sand everywhere.

"Is this our hotel?" our son asked suspiciously, pointing at a low building of concrete blocks with small latticed windows and a closed door. It had been painted an insipid yellow and blended with the surrounding sands. Our son had hoped against all hopes that finally he would stay in one of these all inclusive resort hotels. He subtly reminded us that the way we dragged him along was pure child abuse. And that it had never been his intention to see all Tunisia.

"Go inside," my husband said. Our "I-hate-family-holidays" son pushed open the door and recoiled in horror. A swoosh of hot air swept towards us. The hotel lobby smelt of trapped heat. Rows of identical armchairs dominated the oblong space. Slants of late afternoon sunlight pushed through the half open windows and bounced off the polished wooden tables. The place appeared to be void of life. We sat down and waited.

A voice echoed through the cavernous lounge, "You're supposed to come at six o'clock.The camels will be ready for you by half-past."

"Camels??? We don't want camels, we want a room," my husband said.

"A room?" asked the voice.

"This is a hotel, isn't it?"

"You want a room? Now?" The voice sounded slightly worried.

A head appeared above the back of one of the chairs. A middle-aged man, rubbing sleep from his eyes rose from his reclining position and came towards us. His dark curly hair contrasted beautifully against the dun coloured walls. He had a long, hollow-cheeked face and dark eyes. He wore a jellabah, a kind of long white dress which protects against the sand and heat.

"You're a group?"

"Erm," I didn't know what to say. "Yes, if you like, a group of three, myself, my husband and our son."

"Where's your guide?"

"Guide? We have no guide."

"You can't travel without a guide. You don't know how to get here."

"We're here."

"How?"

"By pick-up truck."

"Mmm," he nodded. "All by yourselves? You must be thirsty."

"Tea," he shouted towards the back of another apparently empty chair.

Shuffling feet, running water, clincking of glasses, someone started preparing tea. Our son slumped in his chair wiping his brow with his sleeve and looked at me to see if I noticed his misery.

A girl, the same age as our son put a large tray with a round-bellied teapot and gilt-decorated glasses in front of us. Our son straightened, ironed out the creases in his T-shirt and smiled at her. She poured the tea from arm-length height into a glass, looking at our son out of the corner of her eye. She did not spill one single drop. Each time our son tried to make eye contact, she cast down her eyes. She withdrew to the kitchen and our son slouched back in his chair and put on his I-am-miserable face.

At six o'clock sharp an air-conditioned bus spewed out a group of assorted tourists. A confusion of voices, dragging of suitcases, orders for beer, but there was none, disturbed our peace. A convoy of camels arrived. The tourists were helped into the saddle and went to the right leaving behind a trail of ahs and ohs and clicking cameras.

We also mounted our camels. They bent their knees on to the ground. A big step and I sat astride. The saddle was still warm from the sun. The animal rose to its feet with a jerk. My camel driver looked up anxiously and asked if I was comfortable. We drifted to the left . All I could hear was the swish-swoosh of feet through the sand. The western horizon flushed with pink and then the limp light of early evening set in. The first stars appeared and twinkled in the ever-growing darkness.

When we came back our son inched towards the kitchen, but the door was closed.

"Hungry?" the girl's father asked him.

A long table laid out for dinner awaited us and the tour group. Food took a long time to come. Our son had seated himself strategically and watched the kitchen door. His eyes lit up when at long last the girl brought in steaming dishes brimful with cracked wheat decorated with slices of mutton, bright orange carrots and yellow-green marrows. She put the one with the biggest chunk of meat in front of our son and smiled at him. After the meal my husband joined the men smoking waterpipes. I sat under the starlit sky next to my son.

"You'd better start packing your things. We're leaving very early because we want to see if we can stay at Club Med in Jerba.

"Why?" he asked.

Seventeen-year-olds are difficult to please.

 

Marianne Crone lives in the Netherlands. She writes short fiction and travel stories. Some of her stories and travel photography have appeared in online and print journals. She has recently retired after many years of teaching English as a second language and now has enough time to write and travel.