Riding a camel has been on my bucket list ever since a missed opportunity during my 2009 trip to Cairo. I had been timid, overwhelmed by the aggressive touts swarming me like gnats, in an effort to entice me to climb up on an enormous, groaning, seemingly irritated creature, who was less excited about me taking him for a test drive than I was. Thanks, but no thanks.  I’m good observing from the sidelines. Move along.

Fast forward 8 years later.

An increased level of self assuredness has accompanied me to Cairo, where I stand with my driver, Ahmed, who has kindly negotiated a “fair” price for my 90 minute sojourn into the desert and is ready to hand me over to Abdul, my Camel Man. “OK, my queen, I see you in 1 1/2 hours,” he says as he saunters back to his car for a siesta. Then he stops, turns around and says, “Don’t pay him until he returns you back here, ok? Just in case.”

In case of what?! Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea, after all. I don’t think my Sprint cell phone service works 45 minutes out into the Sahara. My heart and mind races as I think frantically about how long I would survive in the desert. At the current temperature of approximately 108 F, probably not long.

I’m pulled from my disaster scenario by Ahmed draping a headscarf , called a Ghutra, on my head. After folding and adjusting it to provide shade for my face, he secured it on my head by placing a thick, black cord, called an Agal, tightly around the top of my head. Think Lawrence of Arabia. I ask if this get-up is necessary, to which he nods emphatically, pointing to the blazing sun above and then to my face, which I’m sure looks menacingly pale to him.

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“Camel’s name is Michael Jordan,” he states matter-of-factly as our introductions are made. Before I can even formulate a response, my mode of transportation turns his long neck and lets out a cantankerous groan, followed by a bark of sorts. In an attempt at providing comfort and establishing a rapport with my new animal friend, I gently pat his head and murmur reassurances to him. This does nothing to calm him and he emits a loud grunt and shows me his teeth.

Before I know it, I am instructed to put my left foot in the stirrup as I grab the knob, or pommel, on the enormous saddle and hoist my right leg over so that I am sitting on top of Michael, who is 4 feet tall in repose. Ahmed motions for me to lean back and hold on to the other pommel located at the rear of the saddle, a move which is necessary in order to counter the forward motion caused by the camel going from a laying to standing position. After what seems like a violently quick maneuver, I find myself sitting 6 1/2 feet up in the air atop my fair steed, Michael.

That self-assuredness? Long gone. My mouth is parched from fear, not the heat emanating from the desert. My feet dangle precariously from each side, unable to make purchase with the stirrups provided for support, due to my short legs. I squeeze my camel’s haunches with my quivering legs and with my white-knuckle grip on that pommel, Ahmed leads the both of us down a steep hill towards an endless horizon of sand…….