LAWRENCE

It’s been a long day filled with unusual and interesting places and events. The oasis garden, the dry lake covered in mummified fish, the community gallery/shop where I bought the Berber rugs and the green cloth turban that Mohammed has wound in place for me, the lunch of desert pizza and tangerines in the courtyard of Omar, and now the camel train. If you can call 3 camels a train.

I am first in line, my leg over the saddle, my little back-pack hanging from what I think is called a pummel, pommel/ yes pommel. My feet up on a bag attached in front. Holding onto the pommel and then the camel lifts it rear nearly pitching me over the head of the beast, before pushing up with its front legs. I sit very high, higher than it seems from the ground.

Now the young Chinese girl is up, shrieking and laughing at the motion I had just experienced. Finally her boyfriend, French, Parisian, is up as well and we are off with Mohammed leading on foot. Not the turban tying Mohammed, another one. Up the hill near the village and into the dunes until I see nothing but sand, folded and creased all around me.

Slowly I am getting used to the lurching sway of my camel, seen as well as felt in the long shadows cast by the late winter sun. I block my ears from the inane conversation going on behind me, the only sound. Muhammed is silent as he trudges steadily ahead.

In the long shadows I see my figure, large-headed with its turban. I straighten my spine and hold my head high, feeling like I warrior, a chief, an heroic figure.  Just then Mohammed’s voice breaks through my revery. ‘Madam, madam, carefully lean back, we are going down now.’