After the dinner, when the French couple, the only camp guests (I didn't really consider myself a regular guest) retired to their hut, the 32-year-old Saeed disappears. He returns with an arguila. "I know why you're called Said," I comment. He smiles. His name means the happy one. This time he made me happy.

He worked for 15 years in the army. He used to drive a big tracked machine, but it was not a tank. His contract ran out, now he drives tourists around the sand sea and helps in the camp. He brought his 15-year-old son along. Mohammad wanted to see the desert and his daddy's workplace. They drive-off to check the neighbouring camp. I stay alone with the shisha, my thoughts and the camera. The camera which I only manage to adjust for the tenth shot in order to have it all sharp, well lit and, above all, without the shisha nozzle shadow.