Ursula, queen of the desert

22nd September 2008

I am, at heart, a person who feels happiest in a city. I like street lamps, taxis and the reassuring strains of drunks and traffic at 3am. In the countryside I'm always a little apprehensive about the endless possibilities for bother - animals off the leash, the sudden plunge into thick, boggy darkness, the lack of an underground system.

Over the years friends have periodically announced plans for camping in the countryside. This I have always considered to be beyond the pale; more an endurance test than anything that could be said to pass for a holiday.

I once camped in St Ives years ago - I lasted a solitary sleepless night and then checked in to a B&B. Quite a leap then, perhaps, to go on a walking holiday in the Sahara Desert with porterage by camels and shelter under canvas. In my forties I have decided, though, that I should just do stuff when the opportunity presents. Get out there and take a chance... Lawrence of Arabia is one of my favourite films and certainly the desert seems to be a place a person should visit during a well-lived lifetime. In the lead-up to the trip I bury random concerns under a series of sensible talks to myself. I will be sharing a tent with an old friend, Stuart, who, over the years, has borne my bleatings with equanimity. I want to see Tunisia. The trip is top and tailed with stays in what looks like a lovely hotel and it is only five nights under the stars, weeing in the sand and washing with wet wipes. How bad can it be?

We begin our trip in Jerba, an island in the south of Tunisia not far from the Libyan border and linked to the mainland by a Roman causeway. Our hotel is as pretty and comfortable as promised, but, sadly, we aren't there for very long. Delays to our flight mean our group of six checks in at 2.50am and by 9am we are on our way to the edge of the desert with our guide, Mohamed.

Douz is an oasis where the road runs out, tour buses pull over and there is not much to see but sand - mile upon mile of dunes.

We arrive late in the afternoon and Mohamed is worried about the weather. Will there be a sand storm? If so, he recommends waiting until the next day to start walking, when better conditions are promised. I am euphoric (an extra night in a proper bed, oh joy), the rest of our hardy party less so. After intense discussion weighing up pros and cons, assessing wind direction, Mohamed decides we will hit the road after all. I am distraught but try not to show it. It turns out to be an odd and unnerving thing - just striking out in to the middle of nowhere for what now seems no very good reason. As we hit our stride I feel less discombobulated and tune in to the talk, which is of camels - they rule in this part of the world and owning them indicates wealth and status. The white ones are the most expensive (as much as 2,000 dinars or £890) and throughout our trip I mostly keep a good distance from the three who are travelling with us. The guides handle them carefully and with respect. Nobody pets them.

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