Song: “Free” – Rudimental
Assalamualaikum…
The van was oppressively hot, a strangling broil only occasionally broken by the random gusts of breeze that made it through the mass of bodies from the open windows in front. Small tufts of sand spun into the thick air whenever someone stirred. In the distance, ancient ridgelines broke from the arid soil. This was an ocean once. It was impossible to imagine that now.
Everything in this land bowed to the sun, beating down relentlessly on the mud and straw houses. Donkeys brayed for nonexistent clouds. Clothing, always light and loose, sagged downward, desperately trying to bury deep, away from the scorching rays. Nothing dilutes the onslaught. Even the buildings are transitory protuberances, just timid attempts to outlast the tyrannical ball of fusion above.
The last time I had been to Morocco had been with my ex-wife. I hadn’t given myself the space and resources to actually enjoy it. This time, I was determined to sit and drink coffee, do the crossword, and peck at this keyboard until I was sated. And when I was done with that, I was going to find a camel to ride.
That was how I found myself on another goddamn tour bus.
Assalamualaikum…
I have always despised tours. They directly oppose everything that I am trying to achieve. I want to discover the way that things are. It is my favorite aspect of life. So naturally, going on a tour, where every small detail is choreographed and observed, feels like having swarms of insects crawling along my skin. Being herded from place to place leaves me feeling trapped, nailed to the wall, and dissected.
And yet, I had already had a few great tours on this trip so far. I’d made friends seeing elephants and navigating the islands in Thailand. The same thing was true for Ha Long Bay in Vietnam. Even with the herd mentality and brutal proximity to the worst kinds of travelers, those had been great experiences that filled my cup in ways that I had long forgotten about. A three-day trip to the desert in an air-conditioned van, with stops at awesome places and, yes, a camel ride, sounded like a very tolerable means of recreating more of the same.
I was wrong.
I immediately found myself as the odd man out, stuck in close confines with a loud group of American high school students and a family celebrating their son’s fourteenth birthday. Both groups were well-insulated and unreceptive to my initial advances. Attempts at conversation fell flat and suddenly, I was right back in Rishikesh. Ostracized simply by showing up; an outcast by buying a ticket. I rested my head against the window and tried to breathe deeply.
Assalamualaikum…
The circuit was well-traveled, with hundreds of small vans just like ours pulling into the same tourist traps and restaurants. Every meal had assigned seating, and each event was set up for small groups to participate in. I kept looking for other solo travelers and found none. Luckily the family unit took some measure of pity on me and accepted that I was stuck with them. Their kindness was brutal, as I could tell that they were straddled with the weight of my attitude and loneliness. I thought long and hard about simply renting a vehicle and taking off on my own.
But something, deep within, told me to stay. I climbed back aboard the van, over and over, and did my best to smile. When the overgrown children behind me screeched and carried on, I put on my headphones and breathed deeply. There was a point to this. I could feel it in my bones. I just had to figure out what it was.
Assalamualaikum…
Two days passed. I bought packs of cigarettes and was halfway out the van door before it stopped rolling. I couldn’t get alone fast enough, forever feeling like I was crashing someone else’s party. The pre-booked hotels had pools and bars that blasted music I couldn’t recognize from dingy speakers. Everywhere were people trying to prove to themselves that they were different than they were. I went to bed early and woke at dawn. I devoured my brief moments of solitude.
The group quickly became irritated by my constant attempts to get away. I was repeatedly late. The driver was incensed. It didn’t help that it was Ramadan, which meant that he couldn’t eat or drink anything between sunrise and sundown. With sweat pouring from his brow, he would berate me for my selfish ways and throw his hands around till they pointed toward the open door of the idling cage. I would mutter some halfhearted excuse that no one believed, then put my headphones back on.
Assalamualaikum…
I missed Rambo. Fiercely. Seeing these people up close and personal, being in their spheres of codependence and dysfunction, made me realize what was important in life: dogs, space, silence, and peace. I had also come to find that I wasn’t nearly as bad as I’d been led to believe. I longed for winding trails through the American wilderness… I could feel the crunch of shale beneath my heels…
Out the window, the sand seemed to undulate and wave.
Mercifully, we arrived at the real desert. We had sat through dances, listened to local musicians, walked the streets of infamous villages, and haggled with merciless hucksters for worthless knickknacks. A street urchin had even made me a grass horse after I handed him a bottle of water. But those trivialities were all in the past. It was time for the main event.
I was going to ride a fucking camel.
As we approached the staging area the smell began to take hold. We stood awkwardly, swaddled in long, flowing robes, with overpriced telabas tightly coiled on our heads. Lean youths with gaunt cheeks and the weathered faces of old men rudely coaxed the camels to kneeling positions as we watched.
The animals were cowed, but barely. With the rapid clicking of cameras and the nervous chatter of hundreds of tourists pinging across the sand, an undercurrent of malice hung strong in the air. It took a few minutes to realize that it was coming from the beasts themselves. They gnawed the ropes lashed to their mouths and cast long side eye glances at the pale tourists surrounding them. I was suddenly very aware of where I was standing in relation to their back legs.
When it was my turn to mount up, I swung my leg over the humped back and instinctively leaned forward. An image of telaba-clad warriors with curved swords jumped into my mind, but was quickly drowned out by the overpowering stench that arose from the mess of unwashed fur beneath me.
What they don’t show in the movies, with pristinely cleaned and manicured animals, is that real camels are filthier than the most drought-stricken Thai dumpster. Their feces comes out continuously in thick, ovoid balls. Their matted fur seems stapled to their hide. Their strides are long, but their gaits are side to side. This creates intense difficulties when you pair the fact that the trek is through deep sand and dunes, and that the camels are tied together only three feet apart in tight strings of ten or more.
The end result is a long stream of angrily chewing beasts, constantly farting and shitting over themselves, led by simmering (at best) guides who would like nothing better than to watch their mangy animals throw off a hapless rider or two. I settled into the heavily padded saddle and shook the reality from my thoughts. I had come all of this way. I was going to enjoy it.
After a few minutes, I had almost mastered the rolling, swaying movements. I pulled my phone from my back pocket and began to snap photos. I was not the only one. On every side were long strings of tourists, all leaning to one side or another, phones cast out as far as possible. I snapped photos of the Albanian family behind me, patted my camel (Cam L. Schitzpebble), and slid my phone back in my pocket.
What had begun, in my head, as a chance to fully immerse myself in the scathing beauty of the desert, to let the tinny granules pick apart the rotten bones of my soul, had become nothing more than another elaborate tourist trap. I looked from side to side at the surreal beauty of the dunes, utterly destroyed by the tethered lines of idiotically dressed people like myself. I closed my eyes and tried my best to imagine what it must have been like to see these animals in the wild, hundreds of years ago, on the open plains of this broad desert.
Would they have tried to kill me then? Eat me? Or would they have offered me a ride?
I had come to be stripped raw. I had journeyed around the world, throwing myself headlong into troubles and travails that most would never attempt. It was not my first time doing this. But something felt different now.
I was certainly older. Definitely battered and bruised. But also… done. I couldn’t care less about the fucking photos anymore. I still took them. Who wouldn’t? But they didn’t matter. The constant drive to go out there… to see that… to cross imaginary lines for silly stamps and hackneyed experiences… All of it had begun to ring hollow.
I looked down and remembered that I was on a camel. My legs hurt. I imagined that this poor beast’s grapefruit-sized knees ached just as badly. I was ready to get off, in more ways than one. And somehow, that was the most freeing realization that I had had in a very long time.
“You wouldn’t eat me, would you Cam?” I asked, patting the beast’s neck. It rolled its head briefly to the side to look at me. I will die swearing that it looked at me fondly.
“What was that, mate?” The young Australian just in front of me said, leaning back to improve the camera angle. He removed his Ray Bans and Dundee hat to smooth his hair, then tried again. We were so close that I could reach out and swat the phone from his hand.
“Nothing, guy. Just talking to my camel.”
Assalamualaikum…
***
Another awkward party, a morning camel ride, three more uncomfortable meals, and a pack of cigarettes later, the nightmare was over. I’d watched as the desert turned to barren hills, then mountains, then the red brick and bustling streets of Marrakech. I slid the door open to the van and immediately began dodging scooters and taxis. Our tour guide ran around the side, but I already had the back open and my bag in hand. I shook his outstretched hand, surreptitiously passing him a thick wad of bills. I couldn’t hear what he said as I passed into the pulsing crowd. The throng was as heavy and oppressive as the heat. I quickly bought more cigarettes and was halfway through my second when I saw her.
She was wearing a black blouse and skin-tight leggings to match. A stray curl caught the wind and landed directly in her ear, causing her to turn her head to the side. I caught a glimpse of elegant neckline, narrow jaw, and bright red lipstick…
I stood directly opposite from her on the thoroughfare. It was a narrow street, but utterly impassable. The cars, mule driven carts, and motorcycles whipping by might as well have been the rushing flood waters of the Mississippi. The din somehow rose in pitch. I found that I could do nothing but stand there, transfixed by the moment, watching the tornado of fate play out.
A large truck, bursting at the seams with tools and construction material, roared down the road, causing a flurry of horns. The wind whipped up in sharp eddies. She turned from whatever she had been looking at, her deep set eyes squinting in the onrush of dirt and grime, until they were staring directly my way.
Time slowed to the point where I was sure I was in a movie. I kept wanting to smash the rewind button, just so I could see it play out again… but this was real time. When she saw me, her eyes flared and a smile shot across her face.
She screamed in excitement, something I couldn’t hear through all of the noise, jumping up as she waved. A brief flutter rose in my chest. I felt that maybe… just maybe…
But no.
Two weeks before, she had gone off to do what she had wanted to do more. And that was fine. I hadn’t just been waiting around. I had decided long ago to never again be a convenient second option. I deserve more than just a passing glance and idle speculation. I deserve someone who is just as bad at poker as I am, with a terrible bluff and a firm belief that going ‘all in’ is really the only way to win, even if you lose all of your chips in the process. I deserve to be chosen, cherished, and hung onto at all costs.
I stood, stared, and took a long drag. By now she had stopped waving and yelling and was standing there, head cocked to the side, staring back quizzically. The weight of my backpack began to seep through the straps on my shoulders. I flicked my cigarette to the ground…
“Sam!”
I looked down toward the street. A familiar beat up, unmarked sedan was stopping traffic. A skinny man, obviously malnourished, with several sharp teeth was emphatically waving at me from the driver’s seat.
“Sam, my friend! Do you need a ride?!”
I whooped and threw my bag into the open window of the back seat. Horns were adamantly blaring now, and there was cussing in multiple different languages. I looked up to see her shoulders drooping, hands to her sides. She was beautiful then, if only in the way that a flower can be beautiful in someone else’s hand. The wind threw her curls behind her, highlighting her elegant cheekbones and clavicles. How I would have loved to twirl her around, just one time…
“That’s not how it works, darling!” I yelled as I jumped in the car.
“To the airport, my friend!” I laid back in the seat and felt the oppressive heat baking into my sweat-sodden shirt. I reached into my pocket, pulled out two cigarettes, lit them both, and handed him one.
He laughed and took a drag. “You are leaving so soon?”
“I’ve got a book to finish, amigo. Can’t do it here.”
“A book!? You are [a] writer? Will you put Mahmoud into [a] story? Best driver in the world!” He laughed at that, laying on the horn and crossing two lanes of traffic to make a contested turn. Horns blared. Motorcycles scattered in every direction.
“Fuck man, you get me to the airport in one piece, and I’ll find a spot for you.”
He took a long drag, then looked across the car. “You worry about death my friend. God has a place for us. All of us! We are one, in life and death.” He smiled, his mouth bristling with dull, rotted bone.
“Assalamualaikum.” I said. He nodded emphatically. The cars whipped by. Entire cultures, shards and flashes of life, all spinning alongside one another. It was a vibrant painting; an intricately woven tapestry. And I couldn’t be bothered to give a single shit about any of it.
I had finally come to see it for what it was. And I had seen enough. There was only one more thing to do.
