We leave the Dead Sea hotel to drive south 5 hours to Wadi Rumm via Bethany on the Jordan River where Jesus was baptised, near the mountain where Elijah ascended to heaven. The river here is barely 10 metres wide, the water murky brown, the river shrunk as water is taken for irrigation on both sides, also causing the dead sea to shrink and become saltier. On both sides of the river pilgrims dunk themselves and a screaming baby fully three times in the holy, but wholly unappetising, water. A lone Jordanian soldier with machine gun sits on the wooden fence on our side, a barbed chain stretched in the water at the opposite bank aims to deter anyone swimming to the Israeli side, which has more upmarket white stone steps and a lone Israeli guard appears at the upper terrace, machine gun over his shoulder, a wide grin and fingers in a V peace sign. If only.

The long drive is worth it as by late afternoon we are in true Lawrence of Arabia country in Wadi Rumm, tall clefted craggy hills rising steeply from red sandy desert. We climb on to 10 flatbed trucks, 3 or 4 abreast on long benches on each side, and career off into the desert. After a few hundred metres there is an ominous metal clanking and crunching under our truck, we screech to a halt and the Bedouin driver sinks into the sand to investigate. The other trucks gather round, in the midst of an incomprehensible Arabic exchange I pick out the word crankshaft, which sounds serious, and indeed we are squeezed into the other full trucks to continue.

Halfway some of us get off to ride the rest of the way on camel. A first for us and I might have chickened out if Martin hadn't made an executive decision to feel the fear and do it anyway. Despite tales of ill-tempered camels, spitting and biting and catapulting you off as they rise and sit, these camels have the same calm temperament as the Jordanians. I was hoping for a baby one but you can't tell how tall they are till they stand, which mine does before I have time to worry about staying on, yet I do. We are strung in 6 camel chains and in the late evening light our shadows stretch across the sand like Christmas cards of the wise men. I never quite figure out the rhythm of the rolling camel gait, with frequent lurches due to stones or pot holes and grip the pommel with white knuckles and clench with my thighs till they ache but I begin to relax into one of the most fantastic and magical experiences ever as we ride for 40 minutes across the desert to the Bedouin camp to watch the sunset behind the hills.

We eat dinner in tents yet with tourist comforts, flushing western toilets carved into the rock, electric lights, toilet paper, running water, better than many, fridges full of cold drinks and a bar. Large pieces of lamb and potatoes are cooked for 5 hours over coals buried in the sand in metal trays, like trolleys without wheels, and covered in foil and a heaped cone of sand. If a sandstorm were to blow the cone away you might never find where you had buried your dinner. We watch them uncover the food and after dinner dance with the Bedouin men (as ever in Jordan no women guides, waitresses or hotel staff) in traditional dances in a circle, like Israeli or Greek dancing, admire the many stars in the dark sky, identified in the middle of the desert by the app on someone's ipad, then drive 2 hours to Petra.