Up bright and early at 05.30. Rush to finish packing the bits that I needed in the morning. A very hurried breakfast as we were running late. Then the pickup for the safari. It was still cold and dark outside, Our guide, Mohammed, introduced himself and the driver, then had our rucksacks lashed onto the top of the van.

What followed next was a bit of shock to the system - we were wedged like sardines into the back of a Nissan patrol. Three people in the back space with hand luggage in a space which was only meant for children. A swift round of introductions was made and then we were on our way. Bev and I found that our travelling companions for the next four days were David, Laura, Paul and Martin.

We headed south through pre-dawn Hammamet and onto the dual carriageway again: our first destination for that day was to be El Jem , a vast amphitheatre. There we were to meet up with the other two Jeeps on the safari. After a bit of re-organisation, Laura, David and Paul kindly agreed to stash our rucksacks in the slightly larger bit of space they had at their feet between we managed to make ourselves a little bit more comfortable. Even so we were extremely glad when we finally got out at El Jem. In the predawn light the landscape which we had missed on the transfer from the airport gradually came to life. There were grove upon grove of fruit trees for quite some distance – hence Hammamet's belonging to part of the region known as the "Garden of Tunisia". Further out the landscape changed to be more flat and broken with the low peaks of Zaghouan in the horizon. It must have been just outside Hammamet that we first saw the olive groves. At this point they spread from horizon to horizon, either side in their uniform rows, broken only by small clusters of buildings right the way down to El Jem.

The sun was still rising so the amphitheatre was half in shadow, so fleeces and jackets were quickly donned.

Mohammed took us into the centre of the arena and gave us some details on construction, capacity and size ranking. It turns out that El Jem was the fifth largest of the amphitheatres still remaining and in better repair than the Coliseum in Rome on which it was modelled. It had also been partially restored with just under a half of one tier of seating reconstructed. After the brief talk we were given some time to have a look around. Bev and I, impressed by the sheer scale of the place and the yellow stonework glowing in the light immediately decided to head upwards. Once we had climbed several banks of rough stone steps into the uppermost terraces we were rewarded with impressive views of the whole amphitheatre and the town itself (not to mention the welcome warmth of the suns rays). Not satisfied with just looking at the top, we descended down into the "basement" of the place.

The tunnels were unlit, gloomy and rough floored and more than a little unsettling. We explored some of the rooms and antechambers, getting more of a feel what it must have been like for the Christians, slaves and criminals who would have been imprisoned here before their final reckoning. There was a faint musky smell of animals, possibly the only reminder of all the animals that had passed through this place.

The group reconvened at the drop off point and found that Martin had found a space in one of the other jeeps. Things were looking up space wise, and we swapped around so Paul and David had the rearmost seats. With the bags stashed in the front, the space was much more comfortable. We continued through the seemingly endless groves of olive trees at least 20 kilometres from El Jem, the only relief being the intermittent clusters of blossom covered almond trees, glimpses of a single track narrow gauge railway and a water pipeline both of which paralleled the road. Since the end of the motorway the road had reverted to single carriageway and we passed numerous other modes of transport ranging from trucks, to well worn tractors and donkey drawn carts.

When we reached Sfax we took the ring road. All of us were intrigued by the concrete channel between the carriageways which slowly increased in size. First of all we thought it may have been a relief road, but Mohammed told us that it was a floodwater channel, constructed after the great floods of 1969. Amongst the traffic several pithy observations were made by us on the fact that the moped riders didn’t seem too bothered by the traffic lights.

We made a brief "technical stop" for the driver at Mahres, a small café alongside the road. We’d passed the sculpture park on the beach just before where the beach sculpture of the "donut man" I recognised from my guide book was on display (p25 in "AA explorer Tunisia"). A short walk from the café and it was possible to glimpse the glittering blue Mediterranean sea in the distance.

Towards Gabes the trees began to thin out and the terrain became more bleak, weathered and flat, broken only by a few small hills to the west. One of the strangest sights on this particular leg of the journey was a town which consisted entirely of the pink coloured butchers shops. There must have been at least a dozen such shops, on both sides of the road, live sheep tethered to poles near the hanging carcasses of their friends. Mohammed explained about the Islamic feast day of Aid el-Adha, a commemoration of Abraham’s sacrifice of a lamb instead of his son Isaac, and this seemed to explain the number of sheep that we saw. Each family was expected to buy and sacrifice a sheep as part of this feast. He also mentioned that the family eat the head first, and that sheep’s head with onion was quite a tasty dish. I was lead to believe that this was some sort of casserole and that the Muslims don’t eat the whole animal.

Once through Gabes we headed inland and upwards, the landscape transforming into an otherworldly bleakness of undulating hills, twisted broken gorges interspersed with palms and terraces.

After we passed through Nouvelle Matmata we were in the country of the Troglodyte cave dwellings. Mohammed pointed out some to us, and once we knew what we were looking for we could spot the tell-tale signs of habitation. Some had small tents at the doorway, others had white painted entrances decorated with the hand of Fatima or fishes in blue (symbols to protect against the evil eye) and still others just piles of rocks around the top of the central open chamber.

Then we get to see for ourselves what it is like inside one of the troglodyte homes. The rooms are like caves carved out of the rock, but made homely by pictures and wardrobes and beds – just like you’d find in any other house. All the rooms come off from a central open chamber. We have our photo taken with the friendly Berber lady who owns the house in the middle of the courtyard.

She’s colourfully dressed with a tattoo on her chin and she looks as if all these people traipsing through her house don’t really bother her that much. We thank her as best we are able and give her some Dinar for her troubles.

Once outside again Bev and I go up to the top of the slope which the house is "buried" in. The rock looks solid but in places the people have laid down concrete to make gullies for rainwater. The Berbers now have electricity and water, previous having to rely on filling a cistern outside their front door. We look around at the terrain and are surprised that people can exist in such an arid and desolate landscape. There is almost no contrast in the hills and everything is yellow and orange and dusty and rugged, with only a few stands of palm trees and the odd scrubby bush for relief.

We move on a climb the hill in the jeep to a view point stop from which we can see the Mediterranean some thirty kilometres away.

There are a few Tunisians here who try to get us to take our pictures bottle feeding some very sweet looking baby camels; despite their cuteness we resist. The group then took lunch at the nearby Hotel El Berber.

After lunch we climb further up the winding roads and dusty hills to the (above ground this time) Berber village of Tamezret. Here was another photo opportunity we could not miss so we race off to find the best position from which to capture on film the higgledy-piggledy collection of yellow and white stone buildings perched on the hilltop.

Despite it being dusty and warm the air smells clean and fresh. Mohammed called us back to the jeeps as we still had further to go that day.

We headed onwards to Douz passing no other habitations or settlements. The landscape was definitely becoming more desert-like, filled with broken gorges worn by rainwater, scattered with scrubby plant growth and even some rippled banks of sand resembling mini dunes. To the north were the Jebel Tebaga mountains which seemed to draw a solid wall defining a boundary on this desolate open space. The road we followed was very much on the edge of nowhere.

When we reached Douz it was a positive relief to see civilisation again, albeit crowds of school children walking four abreast down the middle of the road. After checking in at the Saharien hotel we made our way by jeep to the Sahara door – yes the literal gateway to the Sahara. It was a white wall with a blue edged horseshoe arch set into it, beyond which lay the dune sea of the desert and eventually the Grand Erg Oriental. We passed through the door into a one sided stadium facing the dunes. This was where the Sahara festival was held; site of vicious camel fights and exciting races, sand hockey, greyhound races, music poetry singing and fantasias. The group were taken a little further across the edge of the desert to the camel depot (for want of a better word!) to meet our mounts.

The camels seem fairly friendly once you get used to their strange gurgling song and noises. As a final piece of advice before mounting Mohammed tells us that making a hissing noise is supposed to make the camels stop. Once mounted you hang on tightly to the sofa like saddle with both hands as they lurch into a standing position with you feeling first like you’re going to end up head first in a dune. The ride is quite high, and feels like sitting on a wide, warm carpet wrapped around a giant coffee percolator. I’m sitting on the middle camel in a chain of three, towards the back of the group as we pad off into the dunes on these ships of the desert.

You certainly feel like you’re on a ship as the rolling motion that the camels gait produces could certainly make you feel sea sick. Fortunately no-one has to stop to barf, so the journey continues. There are a few hairy "feel like I’m goin’ head first off this thing" moments when the camels negotiate downwards slopes, but otherwise the ride is quite enjoyable. There is an entourage of locals homing in on us and as we reach the furthest point they descend upon us. Certainly the most charismatic and interesting of these was "Ali Baba" a horseman who posed for a photo standing on his saddle, then took me and then Bev on a brief but breathtaking ride into the dunes at full gallop.

My god! How exhilarating that was, thundering across the sand on horseback and hanging on for dear life.

We stood around in the desert watching the sun sink slowly to the western horizon as the newly full moon rose in the east. The sky was alive with a band of colours on the rim – the pale purple and deep blue of encroaching night and the vibrant gold of the dying sun.

All around the talcum powder fine sand of the Sahara bore witness to this daily, but for us singularly unique, event. It was simply enough to just stand there and let the tranquillity and vast openness of the landscape wash over our senses in a grand euphoric wave.

Once the sun had set, some primal urge had been satisfied, so I fed my camel, also known as Ali Baba, some succulent desert growth, which looked like a miniature jade plant, as a gesture of appreciation. I think he liked it but to tell you the truth it was difficult to tell as I don’t speak camel very well. We remounted the camels, beginning to feel the heat of the day draining swiftly away and marvelling at the silence of the desert. There were no phones, faxes, computers, cars, houses, trucks, planes or trains out here and boy it felt good.

When the team of camels reached the start point again we all dismounted, wary of the pitching forwards and backward this time. So, saddle sore and bandy legged we were ferried back to the hotel where food, discussion of experiences and sleep soon followed. There was one thing that everyone agreed on. It had been one hell of a long but exciting day.

The start was a bit more gentle this morning, it was not too early, but early enough that the sun was not yet up. The hotel was situated in the middle of the oasis in Douz – I remembered looking up at the stars through the palm leaves last night. The rooms were arranged in groups around a pool away from the main building a bit like chalets if the truth be known. We all breakfasted in the hotel dining room and compared notes on sleeping quality and overnight temperatures (which were a bit on the low side!). I tried the dates and a bread which resembled a deep fried doughnut. The figs were delicious, sweet like honey.

Today we only had a short distance to go – to the Douz market. Once there, despite the chill morning air, we found the locals setting up their stalls. The main square of the market is more like Brick lane on a Sunday morning with many stall-holders selling household supplies as well as souvenirs. To be honest it was actually good to see such a market as it was more like the real Tunisia than and artificial space purely designed for tourists. The stalls selling dried goods are the most interesting; with huge sacks of lentil, pulses beans and spices available – including harissa powder of course. But still better than all that was the animal market, just a short walk around the corner. Down some steps into a palm grove which was packed with people, trucks and animals of all species: camels, goats, sheep, rabbits, pigeons horses and donkeys.

This place was the hub of activity in Douz of that there could be no doubt. The smell of animals and their droppings was rich in the air and the hubbub of voices bartering, haggling and selling filled the cold morning air. I caught sight of one man checking the teeth of a goat, and another the quality of the coat on a huge ram. After that brief insight into where meat really comes from we turned back to the main square to browse, only to find ourselves gobsmacked at the vegetables. There are huge mounds, waist high and neatly stacked, of carrots as thick as your wrist, red chilli’s and fist sized bulbs of fennel. The clean aroma of fresh vegetables permeating the market is delicious and crisp.

After the market we head out of Douz and move on towards the salt lake; the Chott El Jerid, passing through Kebli and several other oasis towns along the way. The olive trees, which we had been convinced on day one of the safari covered the whole of Tunisia, were replaced instead with miles of palm groves, sited amidst a lattice work of irrigation channels. The date clusters were protected from being spoiled by rain (optimistically we felt) by yellow plastic bags. The ground beneath the canopy was lush and fertile with grass and yellow flowers sprouting enthusiastically.

The lake, if it could be called that was featureless by comparison, only constrained on one side by the tail end of the Atlas range to the north. With no reference point of any kind those foothills seemed deceptively close. The jeeps were stopped halfway across the salt lake at one of the inevitable souvenir shops, enabling us to get a sense of the sheer scale of the lake: some 5000 square kilometres – all dry since there had been no rainfall in the south so far that winter.

Some pits dug on either side of the road illustrated how the salt had crystallised. Piles of it lay excavated along side. The most comical thing to see there had to be wooden rowing boat.

Paul had rescued a Tunisian flag that someone had apparently carelessly dumped into one of the salt pools. Unable to detach the flag from the stick it was attached to he lodged it in the roof rack, much to the interest of one of the Tunisian stall holders. The local man proceeded to try and sell the flag to Paul, who claiming the right of "finders keepers" was understandably indignant to say the least. However the Arab man had the last laugh as we drove off he simply snatched the flag back. Mohammed reckoned that it was probably a good thing as in some villages we may have got stones thrown at us for showing such nationalistic tendencies.

Driving on towards Tozeur everyone in the jeep witnesses a mild version of the mirage phenomenon – a ribbon of what looks like water hovering just below the horizon. The effect is much more noticeable in the summer when the heat reaches 50 degrees Celsius. I don’t think anyone was planning a return visit when it was as hot as that.

The next stop was Tozeur itself where we meet up with our carriage and horse for our tour of the oasis. David, Laura, Bev and myself share a carriage, a metal frame work with pneumatic tyres, no suspension but pleasantly decorated with multi coloured cushions and canopy. Our driver is a quirky, lively fellow and our horse is named Louise so he would have us believe. He chants it out as we canter along the tarmac road at the edge of the town and then into the main part of the oasis on a bumpy but serviceable track. There are a few interesting moments as he allows us to take control of the carriage, first Bev, then me and later Laura and David.

The oasis is fenced off by palm branches woven into criss-cross lattice. The fertile land is interspersed with concrete cisterns and well heads, as well as ditches and channels. Each palm has its own square of earth separated off by rills and banks. The palms above shelter the plants below and many areas are lush and green with foliage beneath. It is cool and shady with a noticeable lack of dust and the soil is dark and fertile where it has been tilled.

We disembark and follow a sandy path, prompted by the driver and zebra striped arrows. Despite our inherent lack of Arabic we manage to communicate on a non-verbal level, so we stop in a clearing, banana and pomegranate trees all around. We look on as a young lad deftly scales a palm right to the top. Going up looked easier than coming down as the palm bark forms a step-like structure at the base of the tree. The guides try everything to get money from us ranging from photos with puppies to desert rose and even pictures with them! But we have become a little more hardened after the "fleecing" in the desert yesterday. Our driver rejoins us and he seems intent on being the first back to the start of the ride, geeing up the horse to gallop ahead of the others.

From Tozeur we have a short drive to Nefta and the aptly named hotel Bel Horizon. Lunch there is excellent, the higlight being a salad consisting of grated carrot, ¼ boiled egg, tomato, fennel and cucumber.

We have a few hours to ourselves before the next trip, so most people retire to their balconies to soak up the sun, and the impressive view. The contrast in the terrain on the hills above Tozeur is distinct. The palms of the Corbeille lay before us in a valley and the flat horizon of the Chott in the distance provided the perfect backdrop.

After the brief rest it was time for some real 4x4 action in the desert. The place we were heading to was Onc El Jmel or "The camels neck". This was one of the locations for the filming of the Tatouine sections of the Star Wars movies. The ride to the site was bumpy and rough but exciting. We were all whooping with delight like kids every time we hit a bump in the unmade dirt track which undulated through the desert. Along the way we raced a camel to the site as the rider refused to let us pass – but we beat him through superior camel power!

The first location was a small part of the set, tucked in the flank of a large sand dune – I guessed it was one of the scenes from Mos Eisley starport as Luke Skywalker’s actual home was set in one of the troglodyte caves.

We climbed the neighbouring dune and a breathtaking view was revealed. We were truly in the middle of nowhere, with the mountains in the distance and the blue sky all around. Looking back across to where we had climbed from and at odds with the smoothly curved dunes were scattered some huge windswept rocks.

Once again though the merchandisers descended upon us, thrusting desert rose into our hands and trying to get us to ride on their camels. I think that the children were far more persistent than the adults.

Below, by the crumbling set, were a line of little dune buggies.

I knew then what I wanted to do! Unfortunately there weren’t many other takers so it was down to Duncan and I to have a spin. The cost for a lap was high at 10 dinars for a lap – but the buzz alone was worth it. The guys fired up the buggies and off we roared under hard acceleration. The speed and proximity to the ground were exhilarating, I was glad of my shades as the sand was flying. I hit a bump at full speed, jolted through the air and ploughed onwards. Unused to the traction of sand I lost it on the first bend and by the time I had recovered Duncan had passed me. A steep climb after the corner meant the buggies lost a bit of power, and by that time Duncan was a fair way ahead of me and there was no way I could catch up. Congratulations Duncan! There were quad bikes as well but I was low on Dinar so had to pass that by. We shot some photos and had a walk round and into the set, despite the fact that the dune buggy man had parked his red VW polo slap bang in the middle of the "street". I did my quick rendition of the Star Wars "A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away…" and Claire posed for her improvised impression of Princess Leia, which was much appreciated by all.

We drove over to the second and larger set but found it was roped off and guarded by a Jawa (or rather a Berber man that had been given something valuable by George Lucas to prevent anyone from going onto the set). Apparently the film crew had left some equipment there and they didn’t want it getting filched by over zealous fans (so it goes). We probably could have got by (there were enough of us) but he produced a stick when one of the drivers got under the rope and mock wrestled him. Mohammed tried to haggle with him and he eventually got the price for our visit – three of the women from the group. As we weren’t clear if he wanted to keep or just borrow the ladies we settled for having our group photos taken in front of one of the big "No entry" signs.

The best shots we could get without walking around the whole perimeter were of the back of the set. I think I spotted one of the building from the Mos Eisley starport sequence - a round tower, but having looked at the film since I got back to England I’m not entirely convinced.

After the conclusion of our somewhat unsuccessful negotiations we all got back into the trucks and whooped and bounced our way back to the Bel Horizon.

Whilst waiting for the sunset Bev and I explored the grounds of the hotel. As it turned out the sunset was less impressive than the calls for prayer that arose from the town, first one then another until finally at least what could be discerned as about five different voices. The sun vanished behind the many marabou dotted across the ridge on the far side of the Corbeille. The Sufist (or mystical) Muslims believed that the holes left in the sides of the small square shrines allowed the spirit of the holy man freedom to drift out, just like the columns of smoke rising up above the flat horizon of the Chott El Jerid. Not until then had I felt such a sensation of space and tranquillity, simply by drinking in the view. Afterwards we contented ourselves with investigating the small Bedouin encampment replete with animals, as well as an irrigation system.

Today was a more leisurely time for rising, a mere bagatelle at 8am. We had breakfast then met up in the lobby for loading. We headed off through Nefta and towards Metaloui and the Lezard Rouge (Red Lizard) train. Once out of the town the terrain became more open and arid, dry channels making the rough tarmac road dip steeply in places. All that we had for company in this open space were the low lying tail end of the Atlas mountains to one side, a flat horizon on the other. A few scrubby bushes and plants covered and a power line traversed the ground– without that and the road we would have been convinced that we were adrift from civilisation entirely. I was impressed how the few clouds that were present made their mark on the landscape by casting dark shadows on the mountain slopes. It seemed to draw their fluffy whiteness down even closer to the ground. As we came into Metaloui the seemingly unending pale orange dustscape was broken up by the blocky white squares of the buildings, backed by the browny green palm fronds of an oasis.

We reached the station and set eyes upon our next means of transport, the Red Lizard train.

It seemed that we had arrived a bit too late to get the leather seats and were herded into the last carriage of the train, which resembled a cattle truck. The original purpose of the railway was to carry tonnes of phosphate (one of Tunisia’s main exports) from the mines on the other side of the Selja gorges to the processing plants. The unexpected bonus was the fact that the gorges were some of the most spectacular in the country. The train – not sure why I was expecting a steam train (aren’t I a romantic fool) – pulled off with a lurch and a bump and we were on our way. Now, being the naïve tourists that we were we began shooting off film at quite a rate, quite unaware of what lay ahead. Some of the locals waved at us, and we returned the gesture, at the same time taking in the differences in the surroundings. People had dumped rubbish by the side of the track, and a herd of goats were feasting upon whatever they could find amongst the detritus. At one point I was surprised to find a small tent at the trackside, roughly fashioned from green plastic and string. The family whose home it was were gathered around it, and looked up as we trundled past. The seemed like refugees somehow – but from where exactly? As far as we knew there was no internal strife in Tunisia, and we were quite some way from neighbouring towns. I presumed that they were unfortunately just extremely poor. Still, we carried on. As we left the suburbs – if they could be called that we passed under a vast conveyor belt, no doubt used for transporting the ore. Soon we came into the true gorges, and made our first photo stop, just after a long dark tunnel. Below was a huge cleft in the rock, the channel worn by the action of the water. Of the water there was not much to speak of, there had been no rains in the south for the majority of the winter. What liquid was there came from the mines. The waiter from the buffet car came down the track and shepherded us back on the train. There was more to come.

It is worth mentioning the fact that the train was unusual to us, being used to the sliding door, platform only approach of English trains. The carriages each had a mini balcony at either end, which connected to the next carriage and also allowed you to climb down or even – if you were foolhardy enough, walk around the outside of the train on a running-board. On one trip to the back I discovered an observation post; a seat high on a platform next to the brake wheel which afforded a view down the length of train via a series of small dirty windows. Once discovered the seat was occupied by a man and his two young daughters. The rest of the party concerned themselves with trying to find the best position to capture the rugged terrain from. Fortunately we stopped again a little further up the track, and this gave me the ideal opportunity to get the full impression of the scale of these towering cliff tops and jagged gorges. I get the feeling that the engineering project to construct the line must have been quite a gargantuan task.

After the second stop we got flashes of gorges on either side between cuttings and tunnels, but eventually arrived at the turning point in the journey. A small white blockwork hut with blue trim next the to the track announced itself as the station of Selja. Here the engine switched to our end of the train and we had a bit of time to survey the mines. Away to our right were huge machines like oversized conveyor belts gorging themselves on the dusty soil, forming the conical heaps of dirt. To the left were flat topped piles of the spoil. The trucks of phosphate alongside revealed their cargo to be little more than something which resembled coarse coal dust.

Once the train was back on its way to Metaloui we could relax and take in the scenery without the added pressure of having to capture it all on film. It was interesting to see that there were a few locals in the hills as well as some walkers with their guide. I could understand that you probably take in the full effect of the gorges at a more leisurely pace. Needless to say it did not detract one bit from the whole experience by being on the train. It was also interesting to be able to look at again what had impressed us most from the yellow orange rock faces and sinuous chasms. Bizarrely, nearer the town I was looking for a dead cow which I was sure I had seen on the way out. Yes I did see it again, the poor creature. It was miles from any kind of pasture, a stiff dead cow that looked like a Friesian from back in England. I guess they were just not quite as hardy as the local sheep, goats and camels.

Back at Metaloui we piled into the Patrol and Mohammed told us that we had to take a bit of a diversion to Tamerza, as the mineral area was being extended and our intended route was basically being dug up.

On the way up to the mountain oasis of Tamerza we passed another, smaller salt lake, the Chott El Gharsa, which was as equally devoid of water as the Chott El Jerid. The ascent to the oasis was rather spectacular, up a hair raising series of hairpin bends and turns, using the whole width of the road whenever possible to keep us away from that sheer drop. We lunched at the Tamerza Palace Hotel, a popular destination judging by the number of white jeeps that infested that car park like a touristic plague. The hotel was sited adjacent to the old village of Tamerza that was destroyed in the great floods of 1969. The meal itself was strongly influenced by the Algerian cuisine. At that point in the village we were only some 20 kilometres from the border. We had an excellent salad, with the obligatory fiery red harissa and olive oil, of which the spicy grated carrot I particularly enjoyed. The main course was more interesting in the sense of broadening my very western palate. There were chicken and mutton kebab style on spears of palm wood, the delicious spicy mutton sausages, and something called "black sauce", a dark meat in a darker sauce. This had quite an unusual taste. The story of the root was that it was grown in the south east of the country, was ground into a fine paste then boiled to make the sauce and the longer it was cooked the better it tasted. The end product resembled finely chopped spinach and we were for while convinced that it was henna. It tasted sour and strongly reminded me of Hoi Sin sauce. The remainder of conversation the meal was concerned with the origin of the meat – was it chicken, goat or mutton? The dessert was what appeared to be a small lemon meringue pies which were very tasty.

We went out onto the extensive terraces around the pool to find that the clouds that had been gathering had discharged some rain. Unfortunately not the amount of rain that they needed in the south, but just enough to damp down the ever present dust. From our eyrie we surveyed the old village of Tamerza, across the gully where the water would flow when it came.

The only building that still had a complete set of walls and a roof was the mosque. Mohammed told us that despite the devastation the villagers still used it. Studying the landscape later it became more apparent that the gorge walls had been shored up with concrete and weirs had been constructed in order to break down the raging torrents of water that would roar through these channels.

The next stop on the itinerary was a short ride down the road, and consisted of a small waterfall and a few stalls selling various artefacts including the by now all pervasive desert roses.

Not flowers, but natural rock formations found a few meters beneath the dunes, then painted with food colouring to look like flowers. Judging by the amount of it about I say they must have thousands of people out in the Sahara digging it up by the barrow load! It was nice to see a small fertile area of reeds and shrubs perched in the crags amidst the practically Martian landscape. Duncan and I took the opportunity to explore a little way down the gorge, chasing waterfalls I would guess!

Back by the stalls that I met some salamanders who were just itching to have their photo taken with me.

Of course nothing comes free in Tunisia so Bev handed over a Dinar. They were quite docile (I guess that’s what comes off being cold blooded) but they had little spiky claws that reminded me of cats and large serrated tails. As I started to hand them back to the man he asked if I wanted to buy them. The price was 15 dinar. After trying to explain about British customs never letting in animals like that into the country Bev and I walked away. The price then dropped to 10 dinar. Much as I hate to admit it, I would like to have had one of them but I didn’t think it would survive the rest of the safari and the journey back home.

We made a brief stop for photos at the panoramic viewpoint at the top of the twisty mountain road. It was quite a sight, the dead flat plane of the salt lake; contrasting strongly with the rocky escarpments and water carved channels of the mountains. The earlier rain cloud still hung above, menacing us with its dark wispy fingers. What we all first though was dust blowing across the empty salt lake of Chott El Gharsa was more likely to be water from the earlier rainfall evaporating in great sheets from the parched desert plane. One particular detail that caught my eye was a small track that I could see heading off, arrow straight, apparently into nowhere. On the other side of the road, from a small escarpment I could see back to the tiny oasis of Tamerza, now reduced to a green, thumb sized patch of palms clutching to the rounded flanks of the mountainside.

Hanging onto our straps and our seats our driver negotiated the zigzag road back down to the level plain below then a short distance to the village of Chebika. This was another oasis, fed by water from the mountain. They had similarly been affected by the floods of 1969. At that time their houses only had roofs made of palm leaves, which were easily destroyed by the torrential rains. The group were given half an hour to explore the village and the oasis. Bev and I made our way through the abandoned half of the village, avoiding a large pit that the locals were digging – presumably to improve their drainage system. The streets were small, narrow and fairly irregular in layout; just like a smaller version of a medina. Once outside the main part of the old town we discovered a small marabou, constructed from the same rough yellowy blocks and mortar as the houses, but with a small distinctive dome.

Above that were some steps leading up to an impressive narrow cleft in the rocks. Beyond we could see people higher up on the side of the mountain. A few of the group paused to rest in the natural sun trap, but Duncan, Simon and myself had more adventurous souls that day. We trekked on to the low rise where we had seen some other tourists. Puffing and panting (well I certainly was in the mild heat and having been sat on my arse in the Jeep for most of the day) we reached the promontory, and surveyed the village and the salt flat. Although not quite as spectacular as the views afforded from the top of the mountain pass, it was still possible to get the full impact of the open space and bleakness of the desert.

Not satisfied with the small climb we continued determined to see the source of the spring which fed the oasis. One brief and slightly haywire descent later – I think mine and Duncan’s enthusiasm got the better of us on more than one occasion, leaving us with an impossible leap across a gorge or a steep rocky descent – both of which we carefully avoided. Having gone right back to the souvenir stands we followed the steps down into the oasis proper. The contrast between the warm rocky soil and cool shade was quite refreshing. The palms were prolific in the gorge, fed by a man made channel which acted as a path way as well as a kind of aqueduct. After several twists and turns as well as avoiding some persistent children who were desperate to sell their necklaces we found the spring and the head of the stream. Somehow along the way we had lost Simon and caught up with Andrew and Carol. After following a path that wound through gullies we stopped by the small waterfall and took turns taking our pictures; as a kind of trophy to prove that we had found the spring.

On the way back to the Jeeps I relented and bought one of the necklaces. One of the girls tried to get me to take another but I didn’t want it. She seemed quite upset when I gave it to one of her friends, so I overcame my hardened non consumer attitude forged in the heat of many a persistent vendor and gave her a dinar as well. I guess that apart from the dates that are grown in the oasis the visitors are their only other source of income. I must admit that the little handmade fishes and beads on the string did have a certain kind of charm. So, bidding them "bislemah" (Arabic for goodbye) I caught up with the others at the jeep.

Tozeur was our destination for the evening visit to the Dar Cherait museum. I guessed we were on quite a tight schedule as we didn’t have a great deal of time to look around, but Mohammed talked us through some of the exhibits, ranging from huge chi-chas (water pipes) and teapots to displays of traditional wedding dresses.

The courtyard of the museum had a strong Moorish feel to it with its tiled walls, archways and fountain with eight pointed star shaped pool. For a brief moment I was transported back to the Alhambra in Granada. It figured as there were Moorish colonies in Spain and I believe the significance of the star was to commemorate the eight great cities of the empire, lost due to the Christian colonisation.

Once through the museum we emerged into an art gallery where some quite striking paintings were on display. Some depicted scenes from important Muslim ceremonies such as circumcision and weddings and the paintings were colourful and detailed. At one point the gallery was dominated by the largest vase I have ever seen, standing at least 3 meters high. This defied being captured on film as it was either made of metal or ceramic with a highly reflective glaze.

The next place to visit was either the city of Time or the 1001 Nights. Upon Mohammed’s recommendation we visited the 1001 Nights. Although quite interesting in a kind of Blackgang Chine type of way, the evening was getting cold and dark and I don’t really think that anyone appreciated it all that much. There were some moments, namely in the Room of Death (the Tunisian equivalent of a ghost train) where Bev’s ankle was grabbed by an unseen assailant, and Aladdin’s cave where we all had to chant Open Sesame in Arabic for the rock door to open which were quite fun. Other were more surreal, such as the Roc’s egg which had a mirrored interior with a giant yolk and bizarre acoustics and the hall of mirrors with the ultraviolet light which made your teeth, eyes and fluff glow! Other things that deserve an honourable mention were the descent into "Hell" via the throat of a giant snake and the courtyard with the trees with the giant fruit. I guess the designers must have really been into the chi-chas and the wacky baccy that day!

After that we headed back to the hotel for tea, where we were informed of the real time that we would be getting up on the following morning. 4 am wake up call for a 5.15 am departure! Needless to say the bar was empty that night and most people turned in for bed quite early.

0400 hours- what does the Oh stand for – Oh my god it’s early… My recollection of that morning is a little hazy to say the least, but one thing that stands out is that it was cold and dark, the stars casting down their opalescent blades of light from the purple black sky above. Upon reflection some of the more mellower moments of the drive had to be the tape of Islamic music that Mohammed and our driver were listening to. I think it was some Koranic verses being read out, but with that and the dark desert around us I felt serene and as if I was in some other world. As we passed through Metaloui again the town was already starting to come to life, and Mohammed explained that people tended to get up early simply to beat the heat in the summer. Temperatures around the salt lake in particular could reach up to 50 degrees Celsius in that time, and without so much as a cactus for shade you could bet that would be pretty damn hot. Our group were concerned at that temperature whether the tarmac on the roads would melt.

As we drove the sky above the hills in the east began to brighten, and at one point it became clear exactly what the phrase the false light of dawn actually meant. To the west, it was almost as clear and bright as day, with the fluffy white clouds and pale blue sky; but turning back towards the East it was obvious that the mountains were in the process of erupting shafts of golden light volcano like. I believe that we must have seen the sunrise at least five times that morning, and that was not due to hallucinations because of lack of sleep. As we drove the rising peaks of the mountains coincided exactly with the sun, each time eclipsing it just as it had risen so it ended up being like some hilarious cosmic yo-yo. Despite our fatigue and the early hour I think everyone in the Patrol appreciated the humour of the sun failing to get it up.

On we drove, spotting the farm where the Prickly pear cactus ,which the Tunisians seem to use in place of boundary fences, were grown. A little further on we came across a man driving at a tortoise like velocity in the middle of the road. As we passed Mohammed offered a little driving advice from the window in Arabic. I asked him what he had said, a got in reply "Sleep in your bed not in your vehicle!" interestingly enough we stopped further up the road for a much needed break, and the rebuked motorist pulled up no doubt seeking vengeance of some form. Fortunately Mohammed managed to hide inside the café and one of the other drivers ended up at the receiving end of this Arabic version of road rage.

The crazy thing about roadworks in Tunisia is that they just appear without any warning whatsoever. These guys don’t take any prisoners either. No fannying about with speed cameras and miles of traffic cones, no sir not for them. The road literally just disappears from beneath you, as it did on the way into Kairouan. In this case it was major roadworks to introduce bridges made out of hollow concrete box sections. Generally speaking you drive on the right, but on several occasions we found ourselves driving on left often with oncoming traffic, and more often than not through large gullies thoroughly glad we were in a 4x4 vehicle.

The first stop in Kairouan was at the Office de Tourisme to pick up our groups permit and tickets to allow entry to the Mosques. Just outside the office was a camel complete with the ceremonial coverings required for a wedding; this basically looked like a square frame covered with coloured cloths, making it seem as if the camel was carrying a four poster bed on its back. We climbed to the top of the tower in which the tourist office was situated to see the Aghlabid Pools. These were huge open circular cisterns built by the Aghlabids to collect and store water for the city, now obsolete though.

The next destination was the Little Mosque and the Zauia of Sidi Sahab. This was the prophet Muhammad's best friend "Sidi" meaning mister and Sahab meaning "friend" the guide book has it as the "Shrine of the companion". This is where Abou Zamaa el-Balaoui is buried. This holy place was also know as the shrine of the barber as he always carried three hairs of Muhammad's beard with him. What struck everyone about this place was the sheer beauty and intricacy of the decoration within. There were a few courtyards, with the classic slender pillars and perfect horseshoe arches.

The walls were covered in fine tiles of geometric floral patterns consisting of the four main colours important to Islam; Yellow – representing the Koran, White - peace, Blue – Jasmine flower and green - paradise. We were allowed to see the shrine, but being non-Muslims not able to actually go inside. The whole area around the shrine was decorated with fine carpets, all donated as gifts by the families and individuals that use the Shrine and neighbouring mosque. At this point we sampled some refreshing rose water, which could be splashed on hands and face. And so, reeking of flowers we visited the little mosque adjacent to the shrine. An interesting fact was pointed out to us at this point, concerning the status of the women in Islam. The women were obliged to pray behind the men at back of the mosque. This was not due to any difference in how they were regarded but for practical reasons in that the mind is supposed to be focussed on prayer and meditation when inside the prayer hall.

A short ride away and we were at the Great Mosque. This, as do most Mosques consisted of three main areas. The minaret which is a tower where the muezzin calls for the faithful to come to pray five times a day is at one side of the central open courtyard, then there is the carpeted prayer hall.

In the Great Mosque there was a large ornate opening carved into the floor. The purpose of this opening was to collect rainwater into a huge cistern beneath the courtyard, and the small series of steps and niches used to filter out any grit and detritus.

The water was then used for the ceremonial washing of the hands and feet before prayer. We had an opportunity then to look inside the prayer hall. In comparison with the ornate carving and tiles in the courtyard, the prayer hall was surprisingly minimalistic. I suspect this has to do with requiring focus on the task in hand. There was a mihrab, a niche which indicated the direction of Mecca and a mimbar which is a pulpit on a staircase. The floor was covered in carpets, and even the bases of the pillars had carpets wrapped around them to protect the people when they were praying. Mohammed pointed out an interesting feature of the pillars; this was that just below the arches on top of the pillars were large blocks of cedar wood. This was a design feature intended to offer some protection against earthquakes by soaking up some of the vibration should one ever occur.

The next place that we visited was a carpet shop, cunningly disgused as the artisans house. The interior of the building was very ornate with carved balconies, and domed rooms filled with tiles all done by hand.

After the short tour we were led to the shop floor. The salesmen indulged in their usual tactics – you are supplied with mint tea so you feel obliged to them and then they follow up with the hard sell. What seemed to work is if you just said no thank you to them. If you offered any reason to them they would come back again and again; if the carpet you saw was too big they’d come back again with a smaller version. Eventually we managed to prise ourselves free of their grasp and headed back outside.

Souk. At the beginning of our fortnight in Tunisia the mere mention of the word would have us English quaking in our boots. We had envisioned ourselves returning home way over our baggage limit and with empty bank accounts and a house full of tat and carpets. But not today. We were no longer haggling virgins. Okay so we had bought 2 bowls for 20 dinar in Nabeul. But we had learnt. One of the best tricks is to simply walk away. Usually the vendor will follow you and the price will drop by a fair amount. The other thing to remember is that you should never, ever accept the first price that is offered! We strolled up the Avenue Habib Bourgiba, browsing the stores, anxious to be rid of our final dinars so as not to have to change any back at the airport on Sunday. Paul picked up some Tunisian music from a stall. One tape for 2 dinar which didn’t seem bad.

We looked around the Souk a bit more, seeing if we could sniff out any more potential bargains. Whilst we were waiting for David and Laura to select their "free gift" from the man at one of the stalls, Bev, Paul and I spent a light-hearted few minutes trying to get the most number of camels for Laura, acting strictly in the capacity as agents you understand. We eventually got quite a good price offer, as the young man put up a thousand camels, two houses, and a Mercedes. However our negotiations were cut short as a stern looking man marched up to the lad, grabbed him by the collar and marched him off. We guessed that it might have been his dad or employer, but it the end we concluded it must have been the Fun police, as he was causing no harm or hassle to any of us.

A short drive away and we were at lunch, in a large restaurant, which looked fairly clean and busy. The chorba soup was good, as was the brik. However the main course was hampered by lousy meat and rice that didn't seem to have been cooked for long enough.

Once we had finished and settled our drinks bills, Mohammed rounded us up and we were driven to Sahline with the promise of seeing some beautiful models. The men were intrigued, but the women disappointed when the found out it would only be female models. I think someone had requested to buy a leather bag and so we stopped off at a huge leather shop, just opposite a bustling, colourful local market.

Inside the Leather shop we were escorted through to the back room, sat down and plied with mint tea. Then loud dance music erupted from the speakers and the "Fashion display" began. The versatile shop assistants pouted and posed for us whilst displaying a selection of the products from the store. All the jackets seemed to be well made, from good leather with some interesting styles. I think the one that took the most abuse was the harlequin style blouson with several diamonds of multi coloured leather stitched into it. Once the show was over we browsed the racks, then those of us with no budget or inclination to buy formed a protective huddle as the smiling, persuasive and insistent sales men closed in. In the end the only person who bought something was good old Duncan, who took a fancy to a jacket. With the transactions, wallets and purses closed, we climbed aboard the jeeps for what would be the last time, for the short journey to the final hotel.

The end of the safari was at the Hotel Miramar club at Skanes. This was a very nice hotel. In it's huge lobby we said our goodbyes and thank yous to Mohammed and the drivers, taking the opportunity to pass on a handful of dinar as a tip. We were then escorted to our room for the night. I was awe-struck by the sheer size of our room. I think it was a family room as it had a double bed and two singles plus separate toilet and bathroom. This was probably the best we’d been in for the whole holiday.

Still in denial that the safari was actually over, a group of us took a taxi ride into Sousse. Paul, David, Laura, Josephine and Gordon plus Bev and I shared two cabs and arranged to get picked up later. Unfortunately it was windy and cold in Sousse, but we persevered as we hadn't seen any of it before. We looked at the simple yet impressive ribat (a fortified monastery which had been built to protect Muslims from invasion).

Then, feeling a lot more confident than we had been before we wandered through the narrow winding alleyways of the Souk. The locals didn't really stand a chance now as we were haggling like professionals!

The cold eventually got to us and we decided to seek out a cafe for some mint tea. Following Paul’s instinctive navigational nose we headed downhill and out of the Souk, passing the delightful sight of an entire cows head hanging up outside a butchers shop. Paul and Gordon tried to convince Josephine that it was worthwhile photo opportunity for her to pose behind it. She sensibly declined and the photographers had to be content with a picture of her reaction to it! As we wandered down one of the side streets a lowly bleat caught our attention. Wholly confused by the apparently invisible sheep we scanned the neighbouring streets for any sign of an animal. Eventually the sheep was spotted -on a tiny third floor balcony – how bizarre. Then we remembered about the feast day Aid el-Ahda, when the family would sacrifice the sheep. I believe they bought the animals early and kept them wherever they could as the price went up steeply nearer the time of the feast (based on that old principle of supply and demand).

When we reached the harbour we saw that the "rusty" ship that Bev had spotted on the way in was in fact made of wood. After traversing a few side streets we spied a cafe where we eagerly took shelter from the cold wind. We were gratefully supplied with the beverages of our choice and Gordon was pleasantly surprised when 7 drinks came to less than 2 dinars. Damn cheap drinks, but as Josephine found out the cakes were off as the little black things in the display cabinet weren’t olives - they were cockroaches. When the time came for us to meet our drivers to take us back, they came and found us; waiting outside the small, discrete doorway to the local off licence whilst Gordon and Josephine bought some Boukha and Thibarine.

Once we got back to the hotel we had dinner. The buffet tables were filled with a good selection of dishes. We filled our tired and cold bodies with a plentiful repast. I particularly enjoyed their excellent Spaghetti Bolognese, hardly a traditional Tunisian dish, but very tasty! Afterwards in the bar I had my first try of Boukha – the clear white local firewater made from distilled figs - very vodka like neat but not bad with a chunk of ice or some coca cola. Seeking entertainment to go with our alcohol, someone noticed that there was a Belly Dancer show in the bar, so that was were we retired to.

After bingo in the semi-darkness, and the slightly idiotic, but amusing antics of the DJ and our vertically challenged host, we were rewarded by the sinuous and rhythmic gyrations of the belly dancer. She did her best to put on a good show, despite being sabotaged by the DJ stopping her music, and the fact that the lights kept going off. She was unlucky a second time in that both Gordon and David declined her invitation for a dance.

Eventually the alcohol and fatigue tool their toll on me so I headed off to bed.

And that's where I have to leave you good people, hopefully with some happy memories of Tunisia!

If you have any comments, observations or spot any glaring omissions or errors, please send me an e-mail by clicking here.