Aux Chameaux

Earlier this week, I broke a promise that I'd made to myself long ago.

Actually, I did much worse than that. I also broke a vow I'd made to just about every known deity in the Heavens, including God, Jesus, Allah, Vishnu, Buddha, Confucius and L. Ron Hubbard.

It all dates back to the summer of 2002, when I was traveling by camel across the remote nether-regions of Southern Morocco, in search of fine-woven tapestries, crystalline geodes of amethyst, and of course frankincense. The trip took two days, and not long into the journey I decided that riding a camel was one of the most painful forms of transportation imaginable. By sunset on the second day, the pain in my inner thighs was so intense that I could barely walk, my once-manly strut having been reduced to the awkward stumble of a drunken sailor, or the pathetic stagger of a newborn fawn struggling to retain its balance during life's first steps. Not long after my final dismount, I swore to all the celestial bodies that I would never, not ever, climb atop one of those animals again.

6 years on.
Well, it seems that I'm no wiser for my added years, because when I arrived in Jaisalmer (a town once famous for the silk trade and now a tourist hotspot blah blah blah), I decided that it would be a good idea to make a second attempt. This time? A 3-day, 2-night camel safari in the Great Thar Desert, near India's Western border with Pakistan. It would be my chance to prove myself that back in Morocco, I was just being a wuss.

But let's not go insulting camels. There is nothing inherently wrong with them at all. No. In fact, they are the ideal beasts of burden, built perfectly for the harsh conditions of the desert. Able to travel for several days with no food or water, they will quite happily transport a large amount of cargo, human or otherwise, through hot, barren landscapes, all the while maintaining that goofy grin on their camel-y faces.
Moreover, they are also very docile, and will tolerate being decorated in the traditional manner, whereby colourful bits and bobs are placed all over their noses, necks and bodies. Pimp my camel. Those rice-rocket owners back in Canada would approve.

My camel, Charlie, was a fine specimen indeed. Of the nine on our trip, he was the most handsome by a longshot, much like his (extremely modest) rider. Young and stealthy, he exhibited a respectable top speed and good acceleration, though his stamina was certainly in need of improvement.
The race began on the morning of the first day. We set out from a Hindu temple just North of Jaisalmer, heading due West on a loop that would take us over many kilometres of sandy dunes and rocky salt flats. A Lithuanian rider, his camel race-seasoned and strong, immediately took the lead, leaving us all in his wake. Charlie didn't seem too phased by this early display of ambition, but as time passed by, it was clear that the lead camel would be tough to catch.
The race progressed, but Charlie seemed reluctant to make for the pole, preferring instead to lead the camel peloton. I tried my very best to motivate him, coaxing him with sweet nothings and giving him gentle lashes with a stick, but after two days we were still placed in the middle of the group.
Then, on the afternoon of the last day, while the sun shone hot from its pedestal in the sky, Charlie suddenly found his wind, and together we made a push for the finish. There was a lot of ground to be made up, and as we approached the finish line (a bit of sand near the side of the road where a jeep was waiting to pick us up), Charlie exploded with a kick and finished a respectable 2nd. All Ethiopean marathon runners would be proud. I know I was.

Okay, okay. I know it wasn't a race. Really, I'm not crazy, but when you do nothing but sit on a camel and stare at 360 degrees of yellow sand for three consecutive days, you need something to keep you occupied. Call it my competitive nature.

I'm sad to announce, however, that the whole experience was, in general, still very painful. To ride a camel pain-free, you need the flexibility of the average pre-pubescent female Romanian gymnast, and since I'm none of those things, I suffered. Still, you have to hand it to our safari guides. Each one of them was an unschooled local, yet they all spoke respectable English and tended to our every demand. The food they prepared was excellent (if you like spicy potato and cauliflower for 9 meals in a row), their care for the camels was attentive, and the beds they prepared for us were comfortable. There was even a guy who would walk 6km each night from his village to bring us cold beer.

As Charlie and I pushed for the finish line, I had one of those surreal moments that I only seem to get when traveling in strange places. One of the guides, striding along beside me, erupted into a traditional Rajasthani folk tune, his scratchy voice resonating through the hot air, bouncing off the horizon and reflecting off the sky, such that the whole world seemed filled with the piercing, tranquil notes. I didn't understand a single syllable of what he was saying, but the pain in his voice seemed to indicate a lost love, or perhaps a thousand lost loves, remorseful moments of a life spent in a remorseful place.

I lost my watch in the desert. Fitting. Out there, time is meaningless anyway.

Dear Vishnu: I promise I won't ride a camel for another 6 years. But if I do, I want it to be Charlie.