I visited Tunisia in 2000 and caught the train from Sousse to El Djem to see their incredible Roman amphitheatre. So, when this month AWC’s Furious Fiction challenge was to write <500 words which took place on a train, I remembered being crammed into that third-class carriage, laughing with the locals about the Sydney Olympics, which were happening at the time, and how you didn’t tend to see that much livestock on passenger trains in Australia.
But, the challenge was also to include something frozen and three three-word sentences, and I didn’t want to write about a train kind of train. So I wrote this:
El Jem
“Ships of the desert is right,” he yelled. “You must feel sick as a dog.”
The words tugged her out of syncopation with the camel’s gait. She jolted
against the padded saddle for a few moments, fingers grasping the bar, then let her spine loosen and picked up her mount’s rhythm again.
Sixty-two. Keeping count was petty, but they’d never finish this trip together if she didn’t make a joke of the way he dumped his insecurities onto her.
The camels were strung in a long train, their shadows etched on the harsh landscape. Each beast was a bulky carriage for one, linked by swaying crescent ropes. The shadow which followed hers was identical in silhouette, until you reached the top and found a rigid block of rider, the only frozen thing under this relentless sun.
“I’m fine,” she called.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
“We could stop…”
“No need.”
She always knew what he wanted, because he told her it was what she wanted, and sulked if she didn’t agree. Like he’d sulked in London when she’d refused to finish their holiday early and in the comfort of a tour bus.
“You’d like it. Everywhere you want. All the sights.”
“But I don’t want the fourteen day if-it’s-Tuesday-this-must-be-Salzburg version of Europe.”
“It’d be safer.”
“Safe is boring.”
“Safe is safe.”
What was the point of backpacking if you had a tour-guide minder the whole way?
Her knee felt suddenly hot and damp and she glanced down to find his camel rubbing its foam-flecked lips against her cargo pants.
“That’s so gross. Keep it back.”
“I can’t stop it.”
“Ahlan sadiqi!’ she called to one of their guides. “Can you stop this camel slobbering on my leg?”
“Almost there, sayyida!” His grin flashed, white as his robe.
Okay, sure. She shrugged. It was only camel spit.
“You were the one who wanted to come to Tunisia,” he called from behind her.
“Yeah.” Sixty-three.
“You wanted to ride camels to this stupid coliseum.”
“Yeah.” Sixty-four.
“What if it’s got rabies?”
“I had my shots.”
His camel moved closer and hers gave a rumbling growl of discontent that she almost echoed.
“I worry about you, babe.”
Oh, that ‘babe’ made it sixty-five. He knew it annoyed her.
“Yeah, but you don’t have to. I’m fine.”
“Look at me, babe.”
Sixty-damn-six.
She twisted to look over her shoulder and found his camel so close it could have bitten off her ear. He was staring at her, holding up a little box with a… No.
“Marry me, babe.”
“Are you joking?”
“I love you.”
“You’re kidding me. You couldn’t have picked a better spot to ask?”
“Better? Like what?”
“The Eiffel Tower? Gondola in Venice? The Viennese fiacre?”
The camels crested a rise and below them lay the plain with the ancient amphitheatre rising from it. She caught her breath. It was magnificent.
“This whole stupid trip was your idea,” he said.
Sixty-seven. The straw that broke the camel’s back.