It is surprising how close the resorts are to farmland. No sooner had we left Hammamet than we were driving through miles and miles of olive groves, dotted with farm workers shaking down olives and tending to their sheep, all standing out from the landscape in the bright reds and pinks of their traditional Berber clothing.

Our first stop was the Roman amphitheatre at El Jem, appearing on the horizon miles before we arrived. Modelled on and better preserved than the Colosseum in Rome, you can explore the restored seats, climb up to the gods on the north side for a bird’s eye view, or descend into the underground cages where the animals, slaves or Christians were kept before a contest, and where they would have heard all the gory details of preceding fights.

Road quality was unpredictable and major routes could be a long line of pot-holed tarmac, while some of the minor trails were pretty good. Local pedestrians often seemed to have little or no road sense. Trusting their luck to Allah, they poured out of work or school and wandered into the traffic without a care. Mopeds wobbled hazardously into the centre of the road and dogs hovered by the kerb, an ever present obstacle for drivers.

Down the coast road we passed through Sfax without so much as a sign post for Nefta or Gafsa. We altered our route to take in the great salt lake of the Chott El Jerid. With the road hugging the coastline, fishermen sat by the roadside, tempting passersby with their latest catch, while flocks of flamingos and pelicans could be spotted out to sea. We overtook a great rumbling freight train three times, only to have to stop for it at the next level crossing.

Turning inland to the arid landscape of the interior on route 16 from Gabes to Kebili, we passed many roadside butchers. Sheep carcasses hung at the ready, only partly skinned to protect the meat from the heat of the day. Just below stood the rest of the flock, seemingly unperturbed by their fate. They were not tethered and, I suppose, just stayed where they were fed.

Coming into El Hamma, we saw our first genuine camels of the south, tethered on the pavement. How cool that someone had ridden them to town. But as we went on and saw another sitting outside the front of a butcher shop, a camel’s head hanging over the door, the truth dawned. No ships of the desert these, just hapless beasts ready to become a fresh supply of meat.

By the time we approached Kebili it was almost dark. The last light across the white salty crusts of the Chott El Jerid was rather eerie and we welcomed the familiar light of cars in the distance.

On reaching Tozeur it was 7pm and we had had enough, so stopped for the night. Away from the resorts, the Muslim rules apply and beer is non-alcoholic. We ate traditional Tunisian food at restaurant Le Soliel. A delicious plate of olives and fiery harissa sauce arrived on our table along with slices of French bread, and we started with a brique, a kind of Tunisian deep fried pancake filled with egg, cheese, fish or chicken, followed by cous-cous. I was astounded to see two vegetarian options on the menu, but when the cous-cous sans viande came it was topped with a generous helping of lamb gravy.

Having overnighted at Tozeur we made a dawn start for the desert oasis of Nefta. Stopping to ask a group of traffic policemen for directions, we were surprised when one of them said he was headed our way, asked for a lift and hopped in the back. Lucky he did, as even with his directions we were very nearly in Algeria before turning back. Nearing the border we lost hope of finding the dunes, the real reason for our journey. However, in a moment of inspiration, we stopped to clamber up the brush-covered, sandy banks beside the road for a look at the desert and back towards Nefta. Like a mirage, we saw beautiful dunes rising in the distance.

Our French was not as good as we thought. The road we had looked for turned out to be nothing more than a sand track off the main route. An extravagant shining plastic sign pointed to the Café Sable D’Or, itself nothing more than a shack. About 300 yards off the road we saw a gathering of camels and Bedouin guides waiting to take us away. Another serious bout of bartering and we were off into the dunes. The silence of the desert was wonderful. We lumbered up the dunes on our temperamental beasts and the only sound was of soft, padded feet on sand. As we neared the top we caught sight of a Bedouin camp in the distance, in a most inhospitable place. We were all alone in the desert, the only tourists in sight.

But our peace was soon interrupted. A group of jeeps on a tourist safari drove onto the sands, despite being banned for the damage they cause. They sped off shortly after arriving leaving their tracks behind, an all too clear reminder that the heyday of the camel is over.

written by Amar Grover, taken without permission from TNT Mag