Once upon a time, some wag described the camel as a horse designed by committee. Having now been up close and personal with these animals in Morocco, however, I’d have to say that the joke does them a great disservice.
The camel (or jamal in Arabic) can be calm, gentle, and if well-trained, obedient enough that it hardly needs to be led. And here’s the thing – but for camels there probably wouldn’t be such an important civilisation in the many lands bordering the great Sahara, or at least the interchange of goods and peoples that has made North Africa such a fascinating and complex place.
Indeed, without camels I’m sure the Arabic language would never have become the wide-spread means of communication it is today, ranging as it does from Syria and Iraq in the east, to Morocco and Mauritania in the west, and to the Sudan, Mali, Chad and Niger in the south. The camel didn’t just carry cargo; it also transported ideas.
Not bad for an animal with what appears at first glance to be an unrideable bump on its back, and a face (3-inch-long eyelashes not withstanding) that looks like a less-than-successful prize-fighter thirty years past his prime. In fact, it should probably have a half-finished cigarette hanging sideways out of its mouth…a Camel, of course!
And ask yourself this – what other beast of burden will actually go down on bended knees (all four of them, actually) so that a rider and/or a whole load of gear can be put on its back?
That sort of thing would turn your average mule into a bucking bronco! And even the bravest horse wouldn’t survive very long in deep drifting sand, with the nearest water a good two weeks away.
ooOOoo
The reason for my close encounter with camels was a ride out into the Sahara, starting from the outskirts of a small village called Merzouga. Merzouga has all the attributes of a frontier outpost, since it is, in fact, very close to the featureless border with Algeria.
There’s a single street, unpaved and full of pot holes, and of course a few stores, although they’re really just extensions of mud-brick houses fronting the road.
Lacking signs, you can tell they’re stores mostly by the cans of paint and bags of cement stacked in the doorways, and the owners sitting out front, gazing at the world going by.
You’re also sure to find a bunch of smiling children, followed everywhere by a few faithful dogs. Or to put it more correctly, you’re a bright and shiny magnet, and they’re sure to find you.
To get to Merzouga we had travelled for two days from Fes, up over a cedar-clad mountain pass (with monkeys!), and through a whole range of environments most of the rest of the world would just call “desert”.
First there was dry land with wind-swept clumps of brown grass that looked for all the world like New Zealand tussock. Next up were flat, pebbly stretches that millennia ago might have been shallow lakes, but which now didn’t support either vegetation or sheep and goats.
And finally we came upon an area of real sand, with a liberal sprinkling of large-ish rocks, that somehow managed to still grow the odd date palm and twisted acacia tree.
However, it was only just a few miles before Merzouga, at probably the most desolate place you can imagine for a brand-new, well-maintained petrol station (Afriquia – Morocco’s own brand), that the true Sahara came into view.
There, on the horizon, was what appeared to be some very smooth, low-lying mountains the colour of light orange sandstone.
But as we drove on, the “mountains” revealed themselves to be something entirely different – honest-to-goodness sand dunes, the kind I’d only ever seen previously in a miniature version along a few coastal shores.
In this case, however, they were the great big dry ones right out of storybooks; the gentle, soft peaks Aladdin swooped over in his magic carpet, or the secret places where Ali Baba disappeared with his forty thieves.
These were piles of sand that had been sculpted by huge winds into pyramids, rounded ridges, and little valleys hidden from view. They were “out of this world”, and at the same time (because they were exactly as I always thought they would be), completely “in it”. They were simply wonderful to behold.
Our “trek” was only the smallest of desert adventures, a two-hour camel ride out into the sand just before sunset, and an overnight “camp” in a Berber tent (complete with proper beds).
But it was easy to fantasize that we were heading off on a great camel train to a totally exotic location; some place that sits in the imagination, a place with a mysterious name like Timbuktu.
The camels were so gentle and well-behaved that you could actually think they were being kind to us (maybe they knew we were a bunch of tourists completely out of our depth). They got down on their knees without much prodding, and didn’t flinch when we clumsily swung a leg over their woven-bag-covered saddles.
The only hard part for the passengers, really, was when the camels got up, which necessitated them getting once again on their knees and then standing, first at the back and then, more awkwardly, at the front.
Thankfully the saddles come equipped with what looks for all the world like a set of cut-off BMX handlebars. Without them (or an ancient wooden equivalent), even the most capable of riders might find themselves pitching off the camel’s unwieldy bulge and ending up face first in the sand.
Although we waited most of the day to set out on our journey, the timing of our little desert caravan had nothing really to do with the heat. In fact, following the rain of the previous day (!) the so-called swelter could only manage about 25°C (77°F), and the temperature before nightfall suggested that it would be a very cold sleep out on the sand.
No, we left just before sunset because of the wondrous shadows that the low-angled sun produced on all the humps and bumps. It’s often said that the desert is forever changing, and our ride certainly proved the point. You’d see a stunning view, but then quickly be drawn away to another one.
Eventually, after a few minutes, your gaze would take itself around to the first one again, but you couldn’t be quite sure. You could still recognise the landmarks, but at the same time the light had altered everything else.
It was really magical, and it didn’t take long before I forgot almost completely that I had a loping, 3m tall animal transporting me along.
ooOOoo
Meet Omar, our “guide” on our desert sojourn. I put the word “guide” in quotes because the term in no way does him justice.
Along with leading our jamal train across what appeared to be the pathless dunes to our night’s lodging, he cooked a wonderful tajine and couscous for us on a two burner set of gas rings; dealt in the gentlest of ways with a frightened and therefore badly behaved “junior” camel on his first outing with the big boys; built a small fire by harvesting little bits of dried-out desert plants (spent flower stalks, he assured us); and finally serenaded us along with his mates, using drums and giant metal clappers (krakebs) that looked like over-sized castanets.
Back at the Les Pyramides guest house (the place where you stay both before and after the camel trek), Omar is the chief cook and bottle washer. He may also do the laundry, since one morning a friend saw him hanging out the washing just after dawn.
Most remarkably, however, is that on top of everything else, he is polite to a fault, quick with a joke, and manages to maintain his wonderful smile, even after working a 15 hour day.
Omar is a Berber, a member of one of the nomadic tribes that along with the Arabs became the first members of the Kingdom of Morocco. The distinctive blue djellaba with the gold embroidery that he always wears makes it clear that he’s one of the “Blue People”, the name Moroccans call these descendants of the desert.
Omar went to work full-time at the age of 15, without being able to finish high school, since he needed to help support his elderly parents. He works 12 days straight every fortnight, and only manages to go home on his time off.
He’s 23, has worked in camel tourism from before the time he left school, and is able to converse fluently with guests in at least 5 languages (he says his Italian still needs a lot of work!).
He’s one of the best English-speakers I’ve met in Morocco, even though he’s only ever had two years of formal English study. He gives the impression of being the desert equivalent of a genuine Western cowboy. But he also has an Acer netbook and his very own Facebook page. He is a true hero of the sand.
~originally composed in November, 2011~