1000 words from the desert nagore telleria   Sahara People's campsites, Algeria. Volunteer paradise. Amaia went with almost nothing. A solar panel, tins of tuna, medicines, sweets and balloons. She was wearing something like a bathing suit. Some of the veterans were wearing new stockings that they had bought cheaply in order to leave behind. Like throwing peanuts to the monkeys at the zoo? She just wanted to see the kids that in summer came to drink all the water at Itzurun beach, in their own natural habitat. She was no Lady Di, she just wanted to be a foreigner dressed up in Melfha. Zaim. 27 years old. The same years his parents had been in the refugee camp. He's from nowhere, because refugee camps aren't made for people to come from. He has a gymnasium in a tent given to him by ACNUR. His Koran was the following: he tried to cop off with one out of every four foreigners who went there. He was king in the open spaces and he had an cohort as well, Brahim, who was like the lady-killer of the small summer spaces to be found in Toledo. He only started trying when he sat down on a carpet. The poems he wrote down on cigarette packets and bits of iron would sweep anybody off their feet. Once he had put aside his crutches and sat down, he didn't have polio anymore. He knew where his operative turf was and he sought his Haima as quickly as possible. And tea. Always three little fires. As bitter as life itself, as sweet as love and as soft as death. Zaim needed Cyrano de Bergerac by his side, really. But he had gone to Toledo to collect the new weights and he had to use emergency measures. Land Rovers up and down, teas passing from hand to hand and the stars disappearing into the Haima. He strode between tents as the darkness gave away lost angels, and he tried his utmost with Amaia. He paused then, and logically reasoned with a few calculations of probability to calm himself down. If there are so many of us in the world and so many languages, there was a chance of us meeting. Fair enough. To finish off his sums he cursed Ala for giving him Arabic instead of Spanish.
Amaia's holiday spot was a documentary. There were goats who ate tetrabrik packs and flags of the Western Sahara. The women caressed each other, the children went in search of water on coming out of the Madrassa, desert roses... she bought all those elements in a package holiday.
On the way home, in the lorry that crossed the desert like a mechanical bull. The documentary was over. No more imagining that the instructions for the sun panel were filled with words of love. But she knew that one day, when the kids had gulped down all the water or when Zaim was from somewhere, she would return.
She had met a Palestinian from Gaza in the USA on her previous holidays. She was one of the women dressed in black that were involved in the second Intifada. The last letter she had received bore an Israeli stamp and it mentioned the word communist. She wasn't exactly over the moon.
The letter spent a long time in formold. She then met a Moroccan tourist in Bilbo. A translator. It was too much to pay to not love Mohamed VI, she said. Hot, the Sahara People were very heated as well. You could see straight off that they liked sex: body hair, enough space between their legs to fit a crutch like Brahim's, or the green eyes. Amaia was watching the film in black and white. She needed instructions.
Insha alla.

He has a gymnasium in a tent given to him by ACNUR. His Coran was the following: he tried to cop off with one out of every four foreigners who went there.

Hello my love, how are you keeping?
As I write this letter, my sweet thing, I am overcome with the desire to be with you. I miss you terribly. I love you so much. Your love is a part of me. Every time I see you, tears of joy roll down my cheeks. All my wounds are healed. Your honeyed scent still surrounds me.
I would do anything to be by your side. I would lock myself away in your heart. My love, without you, all that is sweet disappears from my life. I will surely go mad in these days without you near. As I sit and write this letter I know I will never ever forget you.
I miss the days we spent together and I beg that the days till we meet again fly by as quickly as possible. When you left three times yesterday, I cried my eyes out. I want to be your only love until the day I die.
You never do know when ill luck will strike.