Tunisia: One Hump or Two.

It's a very touristy thing to do, to ride a camel. For years my proud if somewhat pretentious boast had been that I'm a traveller rather than a tourist. Tourists are after all, vulgar, ignorant creatures - all beach-burning, tabloid reading, day-time plonk-boozing, non language-learning, culturally disinterested philistines. But sometimes you just have to go with the flow. Toss your Archaeological sites guides and your ancient myths dictionaries aside and burn your cultural aspirations along with your newly beached buffed body and book an organised tour which will include an opportunity to ride a camel.

The pursuit of the humped one. The one humped camel: the dromedary,(Camelus dromedarius ), only ever found in the Arabian deserts. Not the two-humped camel: the bactrian (Camelus bactrianus ) an Asiatic animal. On this day the double humper wasn't  making an appearance. Not even guesting. There was to be no Camelus bactrianus at today's show - this was strictly to be a one-humped affair. This was not good news for the nervous. This was not good news for me. I had imagined myself straddled comfortably between humps - no sex please we'er British -  on what I guessed would be an accommodating flat bit in the middle of the camel's back. Thoughts of front hump hugging for additional security added to my image of safety. A hump to the rear, if you'll excuse the terminology, one of God's clever little tricks this - a satisfying and convenient back rest.

The dromadary: 'humpus singluarus.' Why would anyone wish to ride one? Who was the first person who took a look at the triangular growth on its back and said: 'I reckon I could sit on that thing quite comfortably and, if needs be, cross a desert?' But someone did, and they do, and it had now become my lot to try it out.

At the preparatory station various attendants fussed around me like deviant tailors swaddling me in all manner of wraps and gowns in the hope of an authentic Lawrence of Arabia  look and no doubt a generous tip.  Once dressed, together with about twenty or so others, I was self consciously guided out, squinting against the sun, and taken towards a flotilla of grunting, chomping, and unless I was very much mistaken, flatulent beasts. I began to think that I'd made a big mistake and that the cowardice that had always served me so well in the past should have been allowed to prevent me from coming. Why the hell was I being brave - these things were huge, though I had to admit they seemed serene enough resting on their knees like young tots in front of the telly with their carpet-clad backs and wooden handle bars making them look like giant, moth-eaten toys.

That image changed though when a huge brown one, the colour of a 1970's settee, decided it had had enough time on its knees and started to suggest that it wasn't really in the mood for another trundle around the same old stretch of sand, and seemed intent on sabotaging the sabulous schlep that we'd all signed up for. Right on cue, during the health and safety brief -  which consisted of assorted Arabs affecting painfully unfunny gurns and stiff gaited limps to show what would be our destiny should we fall off -  the animal dragged itself up and grunt-roared from an alarmingly foamy mouth showing this sandy micro-world of which I was a temporary part, a couple of  rows of brown, quite surprisingly sharp looking teeth.

There was more than an element of farce about what followed as the herdsmen struggled to tame the beast dragging at its nose and whipping its quarters whilst spitting Arabic hack-hack, ack-ack sounds back at it whilst skillfully avoiding its stamping feet and snapping jaws. Still it roared, seemingly wanting to make a break for it, a bid for freedom, an escape from the tyranny of their beast masters and their whips and legions of daft tourists (like me) with all their nervous giggles and fake-friendly pats.

For a while the scene reminded me of one of those cartoon comic scraps, when everyone pitches into a melee which is depicted as a cloud of dust with the odd hand or foot poking out from it. Under our shocked silent faces the camel was brought, gradually and sulkily, under control - only a bit of scuffed up sand and a few herdsmen rubbing oil into their superficial wounds to show for this little act of defiance. Once the hubbub had died down one of the guides shouted out in passable English: "Who wants to go with the turbo-charged one?" There were no takers.

By now my nerves were as frazzled as my neck - even with the eight yards of scarfing and turban windings around my head and neck - enough to essay an escape from a tower Rapunzel style should the need arise. Soon I found myself  looking longingly in the direction of the bus that had dropped us off as, one by one, victims were being paired of with their camel equivalents - no-one looked all that happy. I felt vulnerable and abandoned. I actually felt a bit tricked because I was on holiday and right then would have rather been doing anything, anything other than being steered and cajoled towards the next available camel - most of whom looked pretty pissed off, if not quite as psychotic as the dark brown fiend we'd all met the moment we got off the bus. This was going to be a trial for me. I knew it.