RSS 2.0 FeedThe Iron Camel That Got Swallowed By The Sands
Salaam alaikum. It is by the will of Allah, praise be to Him, the creator of the universe, that we gather here tonight to hear the stories of our tribe. Sit here in front of me all you whitebeards, spread your robes and relive with us the glories of your youth and of our past. And you children join your parents behind the honored elders that you may learn of our tribe's splendid history and of our laws. All you married, but yet without issue, take your place in the rear; there you are to listen not explore new possibilities for the secret games you will play later tonight. So pay heed for we of the Berber tribes know that it is the bright light of our past that will show us our duties and obligations in the days to come.
Abu, heap more branches on the fire so the flames will rise to counter the setting of the sun. This is our winter oasis, and the chill may cause discomfort to the two visitors from the south who sought shelter with us tonight. They are traders of the Tuareg tribe, travelling to the great market in Fez to sell their artifacts of gold and carvings of ivory. Tomorrow we will view the beauty of their craftsmanship and purchase that which we find pleasing. At the time of my youth, the men of the Tuareg wore blue veils when amongst strangers. It was said that when they removed their veils, young maidens would swoon on seeing their handsomeness, and enemy warriors would flee on seeing their fierceness. So it was said.
It is our custom that when we have guests, the children may choose the tale to be told. Tell me, children, what story would give you delight and tether your wandering minds?
"Oh, storyteller, storyteller," the children cry out in unison, "tell us the tale of the Iron Camel That Got Swallowed by the Sands."
Ah, yes, that, too, is one of my favorites; so, enchallah, I will tell it once again.
It came to pass during the second week of Ramadan in the Year of the Great Rains – this was the year 1998 reckoned from the birth of Christ, the apostle of God, although non-believers worship Him as the son of God. In the West the great rains were named El Nino, which means The Baby Christ in the Spanish tongue.
A group of infidels, fifteen in number, came from the lands beyond the Great Western Ocean to this our fabled Kingdom of Morocco. Here they obtained four Iron Camels, blasphemies making mockery of the graceful creatures Allah has fashioned for his desert warriors. They lacked the beautiful two-toed feet of our camels, having in their place four round wheels created of rubber. Each of their beasts was without a personal name such as we give our faithful animals, names that express affection and respect. Their creatures were all named Land Rover, and it was so inscribed on each of them.
They traversed the Mountains of Atlas and crossed the wide sands to visit this oasis and our encampment, here to wonder at the greatness of our way of life and to gain enlightenment and inner peace. They did not know that one can ride his mule to Mecca on the Hajj but the animal will return thence, not as an honored pilgrim but only as a weary mule. So, too, these visitors would return to the West, still unbelievers, no more tranquil than before they came and not understanding what they learned.
It was their custom to first visit the tent of Fatima, who at the time was unmarried and living with her widowed mother. There the visitors would gaze in awe at the magnificence of our tents and the beauty of the Bedouin costume. They would be served a traditional lunch and be instructed in our tribal customs, foods and our way life.
But, back to the story. The Iron Camels arrived, each carrying about four infidels in their bellies, where the travelers breathed the foul fumes of the netherworld, not the wholesome air that Allah bestows on a man astride his camel. The four beasts were driven by members of our faith who had lost their fine Bedouin sight and instinct through associating too much with the non-believers. They did not recall that Daya means lake and that our encampment is named Daya Climatae after the small lake which existed many years ago and was now partly reborn, nurtured by El Nino.
The first of the Iron Camels began crossing Daya Climatae with the others in line behind, when it lurched and slowly, with great grinding of teeth and growling, dug itself into the sand to a depth of over one hand-span. The driver tried to force the beast back only to cause a storm of sand and a howling of the creature. The visitors, in great fear, scrambled out of the beast's belly and ran back to where the others had gathered, while the drivers rushed to free the animal. There was much pulling, digging and shouting of instructions from all, but to no avail. The unbelievers all entered the remaining Iron Camels, and the drivers, led by our tribesmen, took them to our nearby oasis and to the tent of Fatima.
The drivers returned hastily to help free their entrapped beast. Most of our tribe followed them to the place that became an arena for the battle to come. Here they would cheer and jeer and wager on the outcome. It had become a tournament between the intruders with their trickery and mechanical devices and the believers with their resources of nature and the blessing of Allah.
In the arsenal of the infidels was a strange contrivance they called a winch. It was carried around the necks of their Iron Camels, and it contained a long rope of iron and an evil spirit, a Jinn, which used the rope like a fisherman uses his fishing line to reel in his catch. One of the Iron Camels was brought up behind the entrapped beast, and the hook of the line was attached to its rear. The Jinn began to reel him in, and the battle appeared to be a brief one when, suddenly, with a high-pitched screeching of abused metal, the pulling stopped. All pressed forward to see that a ridge of rock, over a hand-spread below the sand, was blocking the escape of beast.
The Elders gathered together, and our tribal leader spoke, "I recall, in my youth, sitting on a stone ledge, dangling my feet in the flowing waters of a stream and teasing the girls on the other side who sat on a similar ledge facing me. Do any of you have the same memories?" The others also recalled those happy times.
"Yes, this is one of the two ridges of stone that made narrow the small stream that flowed to our oasis. This stream died some years ago, and now only the large stream remains to nurture our groves and pastures. If this be so, then their beast cannot be pulled out of the trap set by the drifting sands, for it will be caught against these rock ledges when pulled either forward or back. The only escape is to pull the beast down or up the path left by the old stream. The rock walls only extend about thirty paces, and the sand becomes a gentle slope beyond."
Our leader continued, "I believe our rules of hospitality do not oblige us to offer suggestions to these drivers as we are feeding and teaching their unbelievers for a fee; it is only commerce that binds us. I think that we should silently wait for their arrogant drivers to plea for our help."
One of the drivers approached; but he did not ask for help, only of the solidness of the ground fronting the beast. They wished to bring around an Iron Camel to drag the trapped one up the farther side. We assured him the ground was firm and would remain so unless there were further rains. The second beast was positioned a short distance in front of the trapped one, and a second hook was attached to its front. The beast was dragged forward, only to be cruelly stopped by the second stone ridge. Again the squeal of torn metal was heard. One of our children looked down and shouted, "They've torn off the beast's nose and mouth." There was great laughter from our side and groans from the other.
They then dragged the poor animal back until it crashed into the first stone wall, and metal was torn from its rear. A child shouted in glee, "Now they've castrated the beast." The other children laughed and made offensive noises.
And so it continued, the drivers in a fury of shame pulling the beast back, then forth, while tearing off its limbs until finally someone stopped the carnage. The drivers, humiliated, returned to our encampment, squeezed the infidels into the three remaining beasts and, with heads down and eyes averted, departed. They left the stricken beast, slowly sinking, soon to
disappear from sight but not from memory.
Later that night the Elders sat around the dying fire with their Tuareg guests, sharing their hookahs and their thoughts. "That was a splendid story we heard this night but if you knew how to free the beast, why did you not negotiate a ransom; would they not have paid a princely sum?" asked one of the visitors.
"In truth, that was considered; but a good tale is beyond price, and a rescued camel does not make a good tale."
Originally published in The Review, 2010