They wrapped my scarf around my head, over my visor, under my neck, and over my ears until I looked like one of Ali Baba’s forty thieves.
Then my camel driver pointed to the only uneasy, restless, side-eyeing camel in the group and told me to hop on by the right side, which I did, only to fall off on the left side.
At least I was over the initial hump, or so I thought. My driver then advised, “Hold tight and lean back — the camel is getting up.” Hold tight and lean back? That’s a physical impossibility for a woman with arms of challenged length.
Neither the camel nor the driver seemed concerned with physics, so I lurched forward, sprang backward, and suddenly found myself airborne — feet dangling somewhere in the stratosphere. I was not happy, and apparently, neither was my camel because he turned around and snorted at me.
Sitting astride this mountainous beast, I felt like Narakasura surely felt just before his demise. I tried to strike a pose – you know, the carefree, wind-swept, head thrown back look you see in travel brochures. But I look slumped over and pretty sad in all the photos.
We soon reached the base of a steep sand dune. Everyone went trekking up for panoramic views. I, however, decided to stay back — not because I didn’t want to climb a steep dune, but because I wanted to bond with my camel. Maybe take a few selfies. You know, cross-species diplomacy.
Because I stayed back, I was witness to some suspicious Bedouin exchanges – they were definitely scolding me in their language, but also exchanging and swallowing these tiny lozenges. Do they have any Cameling Under the Influence checkpoints, I wondered.
Meanwhile, my camel had dozed off, and so it noisily declared its rude awakening. As it thumped its way back down the sand dunes, I regretted becoming a lighter weight. With every camel step, I would bounce up and off the saddle and hope to fall back on the saddle and not fall off onto the Sahara. To distract myself and to keep my camel awake, I recited all these rhyming words in rhythm with the bumps: Humpty Dumpty, hrump, bump, lumpy lump, clump, jump (Van Halen), pumped (Up Kicks), rump, Trump…
It was less poetry and more a survival mantra.
Finally came the dismount. Another exercise in “hold tight and lean back,” which I performed with a spectacular lack of grace.
There was lunging, lurching, and whiplash — not the head-thrown-back glamour I was going for — but I did eventually reach the ground.
I turned to pat my camel’s head. “Nice camel,” I murmured — and nearly got my hand bitten off. My camel driver apologized, shrugging. ‘It’s a baby camel, you see, ‘ he said. Wait, what? You had me sitting on a toddler camel? A freaking tantrum-throwing, toddler camel??
That was the last straw!!
Fortunately for both of us, the last straw came later that evening — served over ice in a chilled mojito.
…. from Gita’s Chronicles of Chronically Underwhelming Experiences