Jonathan C. Lewis
Author and Artist
Camelot
A fictional travelogue; four minutes to read.
My camel—decked out in a colorful, hand-woven blanket with tassels—is better dressed than I am. The cedar wood saddle has two pummels, front and back. His or her—I didn’t think to look—livery is well-used, dusty, but he or she wears it with the pride of a British dowager in full regalia. My camel also struts like an English matron.
I’m wearing an outfit put together from an American travel catalogue. I’m in so many shades of khaki and beige, passersby strain to distinguish me from the sand dunes stretching into the far horizon.
For everyday optimism, tourists riding a camel and ironworkers working on skyscrapers are at the top of their game, literally. Both battle gravity. For my money, I have it over an ironworker. A girder is inert; my camel—I really should have asked his or her name—is swaying, rolling, heaving,
Temporarily, I am my camel’s captive, a hostage. I hope my camel likes me—an Arabian version of the Stockholm Syndrome. To be clear, I’m not falling head over heels in love. That would surely hurt, especially the falling part.
Boarding a camel is the most ungraceful thing a tourist will ever do. While the camel kneels, I hoist my left leg up over the saddle cramming my private parts against the forward pummel. When my camel thrusts its hind legs upward, while everyone is yelling, “lean back, hold tight, lean back,” I am pitched forward in a steep, violent, catapulting motion. Only when my camel’s front legs sweep upwards as well, only then does my heart restart.
All of my focus is on gripping the saddle pummel. Atop a camel, my skull is a full eleven feet above the hard-packed sand. Warnings to never step on the top rung of my eight-foot home ladder flash red.
My camel herder and temporary concierge—not a day older than fourteen—is sporting a Bulls basketball team jersey. As my camel lurches skyward, the boy asks, “You like Michael Jordan?” Without lying, I immediately agree. I’d agree to liking Trump if it meant establishing a rapport with this pimpled kid holding the leash to my camel—and a leash on my life.
Camel facts swirl in my head. I summon what I know as if subject matter command of camelogy will miraculously exert its ordered will over my camel. Brain over beast.
Camels are not native to Egypt, but then neither are the 12 million tourists like me. Egyptian camels number a mere 200,000 versus one million free-range, feral Australian camels. The overwhelming majority of camels worldwide are single humped, like a sporty coupe. Two-humped camels are more like stodgy sedans. Because of the long, slow cooking needed to tenderize dromedary meat, Egyptian restaurants rarely serve it.
A camel ride—please, please, Nubis don’t let my camel gallop—is a butt-compressing, spine-twisting exercise in giving up personal control. Like an office trust-building activity, but closer to the ground.
In the middle of my clumsy dismount, suddenly and without asking permission, my camel swoops his or her head, attached to his or her long neck, a hundred and eighty degrees to plant a slobbery kiss on my cheek.
Swoon.
