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 Revenge of the Camel
Marzouga
April 9-10, 2006
Camels are grudge-bearing creatures, Myriam tells me. If you harm them in
any way, they will remember it and seek revenge whenever they have an
opportunity.
The four of us (Myriam, Zineb, and Nadir) are lounging contentedly under a
black tent on the terrace of a hotel partially hidden from the highway by
clusters of palm trees. The hotel is surrounded by the steep reddish brown
canyon walls of Les Gorges de Toudgha that resemble the colors of The
Grand Canyon. An intermittent breeze—an antidote to the rising
heat—threatens to transform the dark blue tablecloth of our lunch table
into a sail. A shallow swimming pool, shaped like an arched Moroccan door,
beckons placidly 10 meters away. Except for the wait staff, we’re alone.
My Moroccan traveling companions, who’ve been conversing in Arabic for the
last 30 minutes switch to English to share this perplexing tidbit of
trivia probably so I’ll carry it with me, like a caveat, on our two-hour
voyage into the Sahara this evening. With a smile on my face, I peer into
each of their faces, expecting one of them to laugh. But they don’t.
“I’m skeptical,” I say dismissively to break the silence and Myriam
smiles, playfully irritated that I don’t believe her. “It doesn’t matter
what you think. It’s true.”
“Okay,” I challenge, while wondering what precisely constitutes camel
abuse and if it is indeed a chronic problem in this part of the world,
“How exactly do they ‘get revenge’?”
Myriam turns to her sister Zineb for confirmation. “By sitting on people,”
she asserts, as though the fact is obvious.
I can’t restrain myself from laughing at the image of an ill-tempered man
too careless and slow to avoid such a sluggish trap, which irritates
Myriam even more. “It doesn’t matter how much time passes,” her tone turns
pedantic. “It could be 10 years. They always remember the people who harm
them.”
I mull this over for a while, wondering if she might actually be referring
to the camel guides and not the animals, and offer a conciliatory
response: “I think people, unfortunately, are the same way. But I wish it
were the opposite—that is, that we only remembered those who treated us
well.”
Myriam seems satisfied with my response or perhaps she’s no longer
listening. “But I’m not sure why you’re telling me this,” I say to her
just before I return to the novel I’m reading and the conversation shifts
back to Arabic and what I assume are other topics. “It’s not like I’m
planning to treat my camel poorly.”
We climb into Nadir’s shiny silver Volkswagen four-door and he cautiously
steers the car three hours southeast to Marzouga through an intensifying
sandstorm. The sand blows over the barren landscape and two-lane road
exactly like snow over a frozen highway. In some places, the visibility is
less than 200 meters as swarms of dust act like an immense diffusion
filter over the sun. The lemon-colored light, however, is magical. We pass
through a series of small towns filled with people caught outdoors,
shielding themselves from the relentless sand and shifting winds. The
photo opportunities are endless but we have a schedule to keep. We arrive
in Marzouga around 4:30—half an hour before our intended departure.
We use the time to sip the ubiquitous Moroccan mint tea in the resort’s
restaurant, stock our backpacks with the appropriate provisions (What
exactly should one bring for a night in the desert?), and wrap scarves
around our faces before we meet our guide near a coterie of camels
crouching in the sand.
Before we board, attendants place a thick pad on each camel’s back,
followed by a metal-framed saddle strapped around the animal’s belly and
between its legs, and topped with more pads and blankets. As I watch, I
recall a brief exchange with Zineb 24 hours earlier.
“Joel, we should buy… what do you call them?... diapers for the trip.”
“Yeah,” I joke with a mirthful laugh, “then we won’t have to worry about
using the toilet.”
“No,” she giggles, “because we’ll be more comfortable.”
The guide motions for Myriam to grip the metal handle jutting from the
saddle and climb on. “What is his name?” she asks in Arabic. “His name is
‘camel,’ our guide responds flatly. “We don’t give them names.” With a
sibilant syllable from the guide and a tap of his hand on the saddle,
Myriam’s nameless camel props itself up on its front knees and she lurches
backward, steadied somewhat by her white-knuckled grip on the handle. The
camel duplicates the gesture with his hind legs, pushing her abruptly in
the other direction. Her body jerks back and forth a second time as the
camel lifts itself to a standing position but the whole process, which
lasts no more than three seconds, is amusing to watch. Zineb and Nadir are
next. Once I’m atop my camel, another attendant ties him with a sturdy
rope to the back of Nadir’s camel, tucks a large bottle of water into the
folds of my blanket-covered saddle, and our excruciating two-hour journey
begins.
Our guide leads our chain of camels into the abating sandstorm on foot.
He’s wearing a sky blue headscarf and flip-flops, and controlling Myriam’s
camel with a long rope extended from its mouth like a leash. “Why is he
walking?” I wonder innocently to myself. Thirty minutes later, I discover
a valuable piece of information hinted at by Zineb the day before but
unknown to me at the beginning of the trip: riding a camel is positively
the most punishing way to travel.
For the first 10 minutes, however, the undulating ride, a slow-motion
version of the rodeo bull, is painless and the view, enchanting. The
gold-colored sand dunes sprawl in every direction. But it’s the mystical
glow of the sand-filtered sunset that abruptly ends all conversation. The
only audible sounds are the chronic creak of the saddle and the incessant
wind. We could be extras in a scene from Laurence of Arabia except that we
each paid 350 dirhams (about $40) to be here and we can’t get off our
animals once the director stops the camera. Eventually, I notice the
smooth surfaces of sand are dotted with unsightly black plastic bags, no
surprise in this kingdom of litter, and a trail of camel poop—small black
pellets of identical size—that circuitously lead to our campsite
destination. When Nadir’s camel chooses to poop, which is often, the
pellets plop to the ground like marbles thrown from a schoolboy’s hand.
Sometimes, the stiff wind blows them over the ridges of sand dunes. With
all the time in the world to observe and think, I decide to name my camel
Amos—the first name that comes to mind—and Zineb calls hers Colin
(pronounced “Cohleen” in French) in homage to actor Colin Farrell.
I’m not sure I can adequately describe the sensation of being in the
stirrup-less saddle. When the camel strides on a flat surface, its long
legs and the motion of its chubby torso produce a repetitive whip-like
motion in the rider’s body, like seaweed bending and straightening beneath
waves washing to shore. When the camel climbs, he takes short strides and
the rider’s movement in the saddle is minimal. When the camel descends,
however, he extends his stride, jolting the rider with every awkward step
and making it challenging to breathe. More importantly, the only way to
prevent myself from falling forward is to grip the handle of the saddle
and extend my arms to hold myself in place. Despite the strain of
constantly flexing my arm and stomach muscles, I reach for my camera,
tucked beneath a fold of blanket and attempt to take a few pictures.
A dull ache from the inside of my thighs is the first sign of trouble but
I can’t precisely locate the source of the pain because it’s overlapping
with the chafing soreness of my jeans rubbing against the inside of my
thighs. If there were stirrups (why aren’t there stirrups?) extending from
this saddle, I could stand up and momentarily relieve the twinge of pain
in my thighs, my inflamed skin, and the soreness in my butt. But none are
available. Instead, I grip my left ankle with my hand, and bend my leg so
my heel is touching my thigh. The hurdler’s stretch temporarily eases the
pain in my legs but my butt is inconsolable. I slide back in the saddle
but the general ache continues. Unknown to me, Myriam is experiencing a
similar hell, not from the motion of the camel but from an irritated
sciatic nerve in her left leg that flares up whenever she sits for long
periods of time. Finally, an hour into the trip, she halts the procession,
dismounts, and walks the rest of the way to the campsite.
I should follow her lead but somehow that would be cheating. I gaze at the
others but neither Zineb nor Nadir appears to be having any difficulties
with the ride. Myriam, finally freed from the saddle, strides aggressively
in front of our procession as though she’s about to discipline a
mischievous child somewhere ahead of us. Her face appears drawn and
determined but clearly these are projections from my own grim psyche. In
10 minutes, she disappears between the sand dunes. But there’s no danger
of her getting lost in the fading light and blowing sand. After all,
there’s a trail of camel poop to point the way.
Our campsite finally appears behind a mountainous sand dune, a dozen black
canvas tents arranged in an elliptical orbit around a central palm tree.
We dismount in a minefield of camel dung and advance gingerly through a
flimsy wooden arch past the tents to a rug, table, and footstools spread
out on the sand. A man in a jalaba places a lantern with a candle inside
it on our table and more mint tea is served. We sip the warm, sugary
mixture by the flickering light and then collapse on the rugs, eyes
searching in vain for stars in between the thick cloud cover overhead.
After dinner, Myriam and I climb the base of a giant sand dune and lie on
our backs, savoring the silence of the empty landscape. The wind finally
dies and our ears tune themselves to the subtlest sounds—the clinking of
glasses, the rustling of tent flaps, and laughter—from the camp below. The
almost full moon glows behind the clouds, forming an ephemeral halo in the
night sky. An impromptu drum circle flares up near the central palm tree.
After it abruptly ends, we head to our tents for a much-deserved rest.
As usual, I wake up in the dead of night to pee. I find a flashlight, exit
the tent, and stroll quietly in the warm sand in search of a poop-free
place to relieve myself. I pass a man crouched beneath his tent, the red
glow of his cigarette a firefly in the darkness. And in that instant I
know the journey out here was worth it, just for the fleeting chance to
stand alone in the desert in the middle of the night.
Myriam shakes me awake an hour or two later with the intention of scaling
the big sand dune to watch the sunrise—that is, before she discovers how
difficult it is. For every two steps forward, we sink to our ankles and
slide one step backward. Myriam and Zineb surrender after a five minutes
of futility but Nadir and I persevere to the summit. The sunrise is also
blocked by a thick blanket of clouds on the horizon but we don’t care: the
panoramic view is spectacular in every direction. Nevertheless, our
efforts have put us behind schedule. Zineb calls us down from the mountain
of sand and, 15 minutes later, we’re on the camels, heading back to the
resort for a warm shower and buffet breakfast.
Immediately, the familiar pains of the night before return. I lean back in
the saddle to relieve the pain, but now it feels like a sharp rock
(probably a lump in the saddle) is being pounded into my ass while some
tests my abdominal strength with a series of well-timed body blows. Nadir
turns around after one of my audible gasps and smiles: “It’s difficult,
isn’t it?” His gentle understatement causes a river of hysterical laughter
to flow from my mouth that I can’t contain for at least a minute.
The guide hears our complaints and, without a word, halts our animal chain
and uses his walking stick like a pencil to scratch some advice in the
sand. “Don’t be uptite,” he scrawls in a script large enough for all of us
to understand despite the misspelling.
His words, however, have the opposite effect: they create resentment
instead of relaxation. If I could, I’d jump from my uncomfortable saddle,
seize the stick from his hand, and scratch another sentence below his:
“Next time, I’ll walk.”
Our camels continue to plod clumsily toward the resort and our guide
decides to wield his walking stick like a sword, scratching Arabic
syllables in the sand. Is he angry? Disappointed? Just anxious to practice
his calligraphy? If I could speak his Moroccan dialect, I’d ask him if
he’d like to trade places with me.
"And what about my camel, Amos? Is it my imagination, or is Amos
responding to my complaints, my feeble attempts to get deep breaths of air
into my lungs, by exaggerating his movements, knowing they will increase
my discomfort? Of course I can’t possibly decode what he’s thinking, but
if the warnings from Myriam and Zineb are authentic, I can certainly
guess. “What a whining bastard,” Amos must be muttering in a language only
his three overburdened companions ahead of him can understand. “I swear,
if he ever shows his face in Marzouga again, he’s a dead man.”
Don’t worry, Amos,” the words form in my head. “This is my first and last
camel ride.” I have no intention of retaliating for all of the punishment
he’s inflected in the past 12 hours, but I’m beginning to understand why
an unhappy rider might want to lash out at the beast responsible for his
agonizing journey. Is this the blueprint for a lifelong grudge, with both
camel and rider thinking the other struck the initial blow? Perhaps my
criticism alone was enough to wound his fragile pride and, unbeknownst to
me, a grudge has already formed in Amos’ head. Again, if I could talk to
him, I’d set the record straight. “There’s no need for revenge, my friend
because you drew first blood. Tomorrow, I’ll have a scab on my ass to
prove it.”
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