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LIVING & TRAVEL	After five harried days in the horn-honking maelstrom known as Cairo, I looked forward to resting in Aquaba. I had heard that the Jordanian resort nestled on the Red Sea is a fine place for a traveler to catch his breath. I was misinformed. The recent peace treaty between Israel and Jordan has transformed the once-sleepy town into a sprawling construction site, as developers have raced to throw up hotels for the busloads of tourists pouring across the border from Eilat. I would have stayed in Aquaba, were it not for two Australian backpackers I met at a Bureau de Change. The pair diagnosed my "frazzled New Yorker Syndrome" and prescribed an overnight stay with the Bedouin of Wadi Rum, the nomadic sheepherders who fought alongside T.E. Lawrence (a.k.a. Lawrence of Arabia) during the Arab Revolt. If Lawrence could hide out with the tribe he described as "native of no country, lovers of no private plot of land," then so could I. The next morning I hopped in a taxi for the hour-and-a-half ride. Within ten minutes of driving, Aquaba vanished -- replaced by mile upon mile of flat, gray desert. Except for the sight of the occasional freight train hauling black mounds of phosphorus to Aquaba, the landscape varied little. About an hour into the journey the driver stopped his Mercedes, pointed to a giant red rock exploding out of the earth, and announced, "The desert changed here." Soon, towering sandstone cliffs, colored myriad shades of red, lined both sides of the highway. The driver dropped me off at The Wadi Rum Guest House, a greasy spoon where daytrippers hire local Bedouin guides for forays into the desert. The chief of the sight-seeing cartel, Atila, was a spindly 20 year-old. Masses of black curls poked out of his red and white kaffia, the traditional Arab head-dress. When I told him my wish to spend a relaxing night in a Bedouin camp, Atila flashed me a stare that said "crazy American," but still offered me a bed at his family's compound.
"You have two choices: car or camel."	"You have two choices," he said, "car or camel. Car is better." But camel was cheaper, so after a bit of wrangling we agreed on a price of $50 for a two-day camel rental, a guide and a place to sleep. Atila then barked out an order and a slight boy, perhaps 10, perched atop a camel several times his size, briskly rode over. Atila grabbed the reins and hissed at the beast. The camel, whom they called "Camel," struggled against his master's firm grasp, but eventually collapsed his legs beneath him, and lay down on the fine, pinkish sand. The boy leapt off, and I replaced him on the goat fur saddle. With a sudden lurch Camel stood up and hoisted me into the sky. Atila then handed the reins to the boy who led us away from the guest house. We passed the collection of boxy concrete shacks that comprise the town, a small general store, and the local desert patrol station. The desert patrol still wear ornate uniforms and daggers, but no longer ride camels. These days they drive Land Rovers and patrol smugglers who make their fortunes by delivering scotch to the teetotaler Saudis across the border. Lawrence's words hung in my mind: "The fidelity of road companions was most dear to Arab tribesmen. The guide had to answer to a sentimental public with his life, for that of his fellow." But I had second thoughts about entrusting a ten-year-old boy -- whose knowledge of English consisted of "You buy Coca Cola" -- to lead me into the unknown. Using the tone of a strict grammar school teacher, I directed my pint-sized pal to turn back to the Guest House.
I enjoyed the slow bumpy ride, even though I nearly fell off Camel.	For an additional ten dollars Atila agreed to accompany me to his family's camp, as long as his uncle Salam could return me and Camel the next day. It was now about noon, and the sun beat down with ferocity so we stocked up on extra bottled water and started off. I enjoyed the slow bumpy ride, even though I nearly fell off my mount when Camel lunged toward the ground to munch on some tufts of olive-green desert scrub. We trod through the sand for about an hour before reaching an uncommonly smooth rock carved with simple human figures. Atila said that the inscriptions were the work of the Nabateans, an Arab tribe that ruled the region over two thousand years ago. This tribe created Petra, the famed "lost city of Jordan" that was sculpted from similar sandstone. Atila would gladly have walked the entire way, but I felt it only fair to share the legwork, and asked him to trade places. He looked surprised -- his thick eyebrows disappeared into the fabric of his kaffia -- but he took me up on the offer, and soon I was marching through the sand. Late in the afternoon, we reached camp; four ramshackle tents surrounding a chicken-wire corral holding sheep. Atila deposited me with his uncle, Salam Lafi, and quickly left. Salam looked 75 but was 52. He had two teeth left, and his weathered face -- a jagged nose and deeply-lined skin etched by the sun -- resembled the rocks that surrounded him . He gripped my arm and ushered me into a small tent crafted of striped cotton blankets, branches and burlap sacks marked with "VIETNAMESE LONG GRAIN WHITE RICE WEIGHT 50 KILOGRAMS GROSS." A few thin mattresses on the sand encircled a fire burning on a stone hearth.
Many Bedouin treat their tea like a member of the family.	One of Salam's nephews, a doughy adolescent named Saoud, joined us. At his uncle's urging, Saoud draped a long brown robe -- normally reserved for sheiks -- on my shoulders and poured chai (tea) for three. Most Bedouin don't drink alcohol or coffee ("coffee is the drink of the Turks," sniffed Salam); they treat their pots of muddy, heavily sweetened tea like a member of the family. Word spread of my arrival, and soon a boisterous brood of Saoud's brothers and sisters streamed into the tent. I was renamed "Mistuh," and quickly became the center of attention: a toy to be played with and a specimen to be examined. The mirth-making came to an abrupt end, however, on the arrival of Mohammed Lafi, the family's patriarch. When they first heard the rumblings of his pickup truck, the children dispersed, aware that their chores remained undone. Saoud collected wood for the fire, while his sisters began preparing dinner. Gender roles are clearly defined among the Bedouin -- men rule women. While they don't have to wear the veil, girls must dress modestly and don a black babushka-like head-scarf after puberty. Women here make babies, milk the sheep and cook.
"Eat, eat!" laughed Saoud as as I surveyed the communal iron platter.	Dinner was a raucous affair, held as the wind strengthened and the ebbing sun turned the mountains in the distance a hue of intense purple. The entire family sat cross-legged in the largest sleeping tent, and I didn't have to understand Arabic to know that I was the main topic of conversation. "Eat, eat!" laughed Saoud as I surveyed the communal iron platter of white fluidy glop that everyone scooped up with their right hand. I never quite got the name of the dish. The Bedouin consider it impolite to pick at your food, so I ate heartily, pretending to savor every drop, and drank lots of tea that night. After the meal, Mr. Lafi switched on the TV. I hadn't noticed its anomalous presence lurking in the corner of the tent, but there it was -- a battery-operated black-and-white Sony showing "Dallas." For the first time since I appeared in camp, no one was spoke. The television transfixed the family until Mr. Lafi clapped his hands -- bedtime. I didn't sleep well. The temperature dropped, and dozing in the desert was like sleeping in a frigidaire. But insomnia does have its advantages, as the star-gazing was unparalleled. Eventually I caught a few hours of shut-eye, only to be awakened by a stray black goat intent on eating my notebook.
The quickest way to reach Wadi Rum from Aquaba is car. (one hour, thirty minutes) Taxis are available, but don't hesitate renting a car in Jordan, as the roads are excellent and clearly signed in English. For those uncomfortable with spending a night in a Bedouin camp, The Wadi Rum Guest House rents tee-pee sized tents for about $10 a night. The most temperate months to visit Wadi Rum are April, May, September and October. Wear a hat, use strong sunblock, and drink plenty of fluids whenever you visit the desert, as dehydration and sun stroke can easily ruin your holiday.	In the morning, Salam brought me a cup of milky tea and pointed to his watch. I gulped down the tea, said a quick goodbye to the children, and followed Salam to where Camel was parked. We walked for about two-hours before resting by a few boulders. He gathered a few small rocks and white branches for a fire, then produced from his worn leather saddle bag some salt, a canteen of water and a container of flour. He mixed the ingredients in a metal bowl, rolled the dough into a ball and buried it in the fire. After ten minutes he retrieved the smoky black sphere and threw it against a rock three times. I could hear the echo of the impact. I found some canned tuna in the bottom of my rucksack, and we spread it on the now sandless, warm bread that Salam called arrboud, and ate heartily. "No women, no baby, no car, just desert," said Salam, flashing his near-toothless grin. He put his hands together, placed them by his cheek and lay in the sand to sleep. I followed suit, finally completely at rest. David Wallis has written for "The New York Times," "Esquire" and "George." Illustration by Federico Jordan, a freelance illustrator based in Mexico.