Two days later, when the Joneses left the encampment, they were fully kitted out like Tuaregs in brand-new clothes. Nigel had a black chèche wound round his head, and cool baggy trousers under a long gandoura. Bianca had one of these too, with a loose knee-length skirt and a white shawl over her head to keep the sun off. Riding a camel was a lot easier when you had the whole saddle to yourself and after the first two days Nigel even stopped feeling sick the minute he got on his camel's back. Their guide was the scar-faced brigand, whose name was Moussa. He turned out to be a very friendly man and they soon got quite fond of him, even though they could hardly understand a word of each other’s language. The journey was slow and quiet, but they enjoyed it. Even at the hottest part of the day, their new clothes protected them from the blast of the sun. They saw plenty of wild life travelling this way: gazelles and lizards in the sand and hawks gliding above. At night Moussa lit a fire and cooked flat loaves in the hot ashes and they slept around the embers, warmly wrapped in their woollen blankets. "How does he find his way?" wondered Bianca on the sixth day, as the nomad pointed out some ruins in the distance. "He hasn't got a map or anything." "I suppose he uses the sun," said Nigel vaguely. "Anyway, he seems to know where he's going all right. I wonder if we're near Algeria yet?" When they made camp that evening, Moussa pointed back the way they'd come and said simply: "Mali." Then he pointed to the sand at his feet and said something they didn't catch. "Algérie?" asked Nigel and the nomad nodded.