Riddles in the Dust

The sky turned to black. Would he ever come back? They would climb a high dune. They would pray to the moon. But he'd never return. So the sisters would burn. As their eyes searched the land. With their cups full of sand. Tea in the Sahara with you. Tea in the Sahara with you. Tea in the Sahara with you. Tea in the Sahara with you. - Sumner

Ismail asked me if I was ready for my "90-minute camel massage." I said yes, but I would have said yes to anything. What he meant, he said, was that it's very bumpy on the camel and my neck and back would be in for a workout. He told me it was important to hold on very loosely and to let the beast do all the work. I agreed that I would.

At one point we stopped and he negotiated a good price for me to buy a blue turban. He insisted I wear one and insisted it be blue, since blue indicated the "leader" of the caravan. I closed my eyes and let him wrap it around my head.

We drove forever through... nothing, flatland and scrub brush until the horizon revealed what looked like the sillhouettes of mountains, but were in fact sand dunes. It was the Sahara. The closer we got, the more surprising the colors. Pinks and golds and oranges, strange tricks of the light. Romantic and alive-seeming. Pulverized treasure.

Structures started to appear and then organized buildings, small inns and campsites, and little places where you could rent camels and ride them into the gold. Our path took us to a larger one where you could stay the night if you wanted to. It also had a little restaurant and wifi. Turns out the nomads are addicted to WhatsApp.

The program called for me to meet up with some Berber guides, ride with them out to a complex of tents out in the desert, and sleep out there overnight. Dinner and dancing included. In the morning, we would ride back and I would reconnect with Ismail.

To say goodbye, we had tea on some garden furniture plunked down in the sand. The chairs kept sinking in and falling over, which I quite liked. It felt like we were English gentlemen determined to civilize this wasteland. 

Then the camels were ready.

 

I was assigned to a small group of five led by a Berber named Moha. Another Moha! The other four were a pair of couples. One from Nottingham and another from Singapore. They all wore blue turbans as well. Were we supposed to fight to see who the leader was going to be?

Moha controlled the beasts with a combination of grunts and weird slaps from the flat of his feet. They were old and knew what to do. They had numbers and not names. He would give them the foot, and they would "kneel" and they were ready to be mounted. One had a very weird, judgemental eye, milky with age. I didn't want that one. But I also didn't want it looking at me. 

I was third, and I got on with no trouble, but when it rose to its full height there was a dizzying sense of being thrown. I was afraid of being tossed ass over turban, so I held very tightly to the saddle in defiance of Ismail's advice. I don't think I let go for another two hours. I may still be holding on.

The Singaporean girl gave a delighted shriek when it was her turn. We were all up, and we were all off. Moha walked in front of us and it was very beautiful to see his bare feet make tracks in the sand. It was very beautiful to see other caravans in the distance. It was windy, and a turban was blown off the head of a faraway man. It was blue, of course. Watching him wrap it again in the breeze looked like something from an 80s music video.

The camels were sure-hoofed. Strange monsters. I saw one's skeleton once in the Field Museum in Chicago, and it really freaked me out. Beast horse dream horse. When you're riding straight or uphill, it's very comfortable. When you're going down the other side of a dune, you wish you weren't. A bumpy tension. How do people race on them? Go to war on them?

The sand seemed sometimes to have the consistency of pudding. Thick and sticky-seeming as the fatty hooves of the camels trudged through it.

The further we got into the wild, the more overcast it got. I wasn't getting the movie version of the desert. No cactus or cow skulls. You can see in the pictures how the sky was misted with purple. A mini sandstorm rose up and we could no longer see in front of us. My face was pelted with tiny pricks of sand. I had to draw my turban over my mouth. I had to close my eyes. 

It was marvelous, and I won't soon forget it. The kind of strange discomfort you can only experience in that situation. I found it very valuable. It helped the time pass quickly, because my mind was all a'wander with the sensations. 

When the storm stopped, I saw our tents in the distance. 

We got to our complex and Moha kickboxed the camels into releasing us. Within the square grouping of tents, carpets covered the sand. It felt like being in a home with a dirt floor, I suppose. I'm sure there's a better description than that, but that's where my head was. 

The couples retired to their tents and I was given a large one with two beds. Dropped off my stuff and went back out to explore. In the distance, I saw a black and white tuxedo cat pawing his way up a dune. It was... most unexpected. I guess he belonged there more than I did, but it was quite an amusing surprise. I asked a Berber what was up, and he said:

"He come here sometime to fight the scorpion and snake." 

A hero cat! Outside the tents was a pile of skis. I was encouraged to climb up a dune and ski down. So I did. It was incredibly fun and very safe, even for my creaky body. Climbing back up was a hassle for an out-of-shape patty melt like me, but I managed. Twice, anyway. Sandboarding, they call it.

It was getting colder and darker. When the other boys came out to play, Georgie Porgie went back to his tent to read Arab Folktales. I had brought the book for just this moment. Fun stories about lies and tricks, wild sheep that needed haircuts. There was and there was not.

At dinner, (surprise, a tajine!), I made friends with my caravan and with a gang of Chinese who joined us late. Everyone was disappointed that we wouldn't see the stars that evening, and I was too. I mean, you're supposed to be able to lay on your back and see the vast Milky Way. But, it was all clouds. For one night only!

But we told jokes and played bongo drums and did something called "The Camel Dance." There was nothing to drink, so nobody got too crazy. We were all asked to tell a joke, and I dusted off my lame old "What do ghosts wear in their cars?" gag. They liked it.

A Berber told a visual joke that broke up the room. It went: "What's the difference between money and salt?"

I was like, "Well, Roman soldiers used to be paid in salt. It's where we get the word 'salary,' so not much!"

But he kept a blank face and waited for me to stop. As did the gathered international community.

The answer was, "Salt is like this." He held his hand down and rubbed his fingers like he was sprinkling salt on something. "And money is like this." He turned his hand up and rubbed his fingers like he was asking you to pay him.

It was pretty great and I will certainly steal it for a play.

The Berbers had a funny habit of saying "Fantastic plastic" instead of "yes." I quite liked it. Where did they learn it? Will there be tea after dinner? Fantastic plastic. Will you wake us in the morning for the sunset? Fantastic plastic. Will the sky clear up tonight? No.

The girl from Singapore asked me if Starbucks was cheaper in Seattle, since it's "the source." So fun to think about a natural spring of coffee under Pike Place Market. 

Slipped off to my tent to write it all down. And stayed there. I heard drumming until late in the evening. There was some tossy turny as I couldn't get the vision of scorpions out of my head, but that's just travelbrain playing the fool. Drifted off.

Woke up around three with the fullest bladder imaginable. It felt like I had a camel's hump in my abdomen. Staggered out to pee, though I thought about just pissing there on the sandy floor of the tent. The moon was as bright as the sun. It blazed. A few week stars hung around it, but they were poor representatives of the Milky Way.

Left the complex, baptized the dunes, and went back to sleep. A short time later, Moha was clapping outside my tent. It was the alarm to see the sunrise. I kind of liked it. I saw the other Berbers softly clapping outside the tents of the others. I saw the silhouettes of the earliest risers on the crest of the dune, limned in orange.

As I climbed up to them, I saw the cat's paw prints in the sand. He had visited us again in the night. That warmed me more than any sun.

It was, of course, very beautiful as it rose. Like a jewel box being opened in an Elizabeth Taylor film.