Stop talking to my camel

Since the time I first realized stuff existed out there away from my small town I wanted to go and find it. My curiosity in all things unknown runs at peak capacity twenty four hours on the day.  Wanting to see what is around the next bend has taken me around the world to six continents and back. One such bend was Morocco in 2014 in celebration of my 50th year on earth. I mention Morocco of all places because it was there I discovered something new about myself. Something I can never forget.

I have been afraid before, no big idea there. When I become afraid, my mind races, my heart races, my eyes become wider. I might scream, my adrenaline increases and I have been known to sweat.  When I was young, I used to carry foreboding thoughts of driving off bridges or drowning in quick sand. Crazy thinking I called it. I would find a way to erase the vision from my eyes and carry on.

Occasionally,  there were times that my fear helped me. Like the time when I was nine years old walking home from the neighborhood swimming pool with my younger sister wearing our swimsuit. A strange car pulled up just ahead of us. A man dressed in Army fatigues, that I was fairly certain I had seen at the pool watching us got out of his car and pulled the passenger back rest forward as if making room in the back seat. I noticed him earlier because I wondered why would someone dress like that at a swimming pool?  

Walking on that sidewalk dressed in flowered swimsuit and flip flops, my eyes met his and I knew in an instant something bad was about to happen, very bad. My young sister of seven years old said to me, "Why did you stop singing De De? I need your help with this next part. I can't remember all the words." My heart was racing so fast. I quickly covered myself with my towel from the waist down, even peeing myself a little and took my sister's hand in mine. I pulled at her and told her to walk faster just as we were about to approach the stranger's path. It could not be avoided. Just a few blocks from home,  we were about to be taken, snatched away from everything familiar. I was beyond terrified.

Just as he approached, my sister who at the time was completely oblivious to our dire circumstances, yells, "Look De De!" And slowing down just beside us was a group of my brothers' friends, older neighborhood friends who lived just across our street. One of them yelled while smiling, "Now ya'll know you aren't  supposed to be out here walking alone without one of your brothers. Get in we will give you a ride."

 All future fear I would compare to that moment. In 2014, I visited Morocco with my best friend of thirty years. We had almost cancelled due to the Ebola scare canvasing parts of Africa. As part of the customized itinerary included a camel ride in the desert. I had ridden a camel before in Egypt. Then it had been more of a pose just to get the picture. Riding a camel in Morocco sounded good on paper. I was not scared at first, I just wasn't that interested when the time came. It was the night of my birthday. No one else except our private guide spoke English, so I was pretty sure the camels did not speak English. There were two camels present with a short turban-wearing Moroccan who looked like he could care less about us, the camels, the ride. When we approached, we found the two camels tied together and squatting on all fours each with a bit like something in there mouth attached to the reigns. We were each told to get on the camel's back and hold onto the saddle holster (like a knob sticking up). that was it. No other instructions. My camel, the smaller of the two was in back.

 It was approaching darkness in this desert. I whispered to our guide to please keep the ride short, really short. Sitting atop the camel my fear was bubbling up. My best friend Kim could see it in my eyes. She kept asking you ok? You are fine. I was quickly becoming unfine. I continued just not to ruin the experience for her. Left to my own, I would have come down from that camel and said, "I am good. Let's eat." Our guide dismissed himself and left us with the non-English speaking Moroccan and his camels. Suddenly he brings out a whip and strikes my camel on his back side. The camel clumsily rises to his feet tipping me forward while jerking his front feet, then back feet then back feet again coming to all fours. If one is not holding on tight you will fall on the camels neck sliding down to his face. I almost did. I started screaming, "I don't like this one bit." My hands were sweating, my heart was racing, my mind was bleeding with complete fear. Surrounded by sand dunes, impending desert black, and a Moroccan who looked at me like, "Negro Please!", I wanted down and out of there.

 We rode for nearly 30  minutes. My friend Kim peed herself watching every moment of my terror. She kept talking to me. She kept talking to my camel. I yelled, "Stop talking to my camel! You are annoying him I can tell." My camel it was clear hated my guts. He hated his job too. He hated that bit in his mouth. He hated staring into the butt of the lead camel. My fear could get him hurt.

Every time the reign was pulled my camel would gag and contort throwing me around. As I held on for dear life up and down these dunes, sand blowing into my face, I started to understand his plight. My camel was scared too. He was smaller than the other camel. He was being jerked around. He was forced to always be last, back wind to camel butt.

So at the last bend, I leaned into my camel and whispered. "I am sorry Mr. Camel. Let's both not be afraid. Let us finish strong. No bad memories." I sat up tall and talked my camel back to basecamp. Together we arrived safe and sound. And I swear when it came time to put me down, my camel gently kneeled and allowed me to descend. I winked at him and I think he winked back. Not a word of English needed.