‘Do you have any children?’ I was asked by one of the guests.
‘No,’ I replied, ‘I am not married.’
Shocked, they immediately insisted on finding me a wife. I bring a goat to dinner and go home with a wife – now that is hospitality.
Our worlds are very different, and, not surprisingly, they were as interested in me as I was in them. Well, maybe not quite as interested, but they were polite enough to ask me about where I am from and what I do. I was impressed by their confidence: they didn’t seem at all threatened by the modern world. All was, as it had been for a thousand years, until we heard the ringing of a mobile phone belonging to one of the visiting guests. While much of their tradition harks back to ancient times, they are not averse to technology and have embraced it faster than many in the West.
It had already been quite an eye-opener, and in one of the most inhospitable landscapes on earth, I had been treated like a king.
But, as you can imagine, this treatment was not going to last. I had to earn my keep and was expected to join the women in their chores early the next morning. At dawn the women of the Al Amri family were already hard at work. I was supposed to join them and I knew that they were looking forward to giving orders to a man. Samta, who wears a burka that resembles a medieval battle facemask was definitely the boss and took charge of organising everyone. The women have a lot on their plate. Cooking, cleaning, weaving and childcare are exclusively women’s duties. Samta and her daughters are also responsible for taking care of the small herd of goats which provides most of the family’s food. Nothing keeps long in the desert heat, so milk is made into cheese and every week or so one of the goats is slaughtered for meat.
It was not yet six o’clock and of course I was late for my first day. The goats were already off to graze, and I reckoned I might be in trouble. Samta gave me a ticking off. Most of the hard work had been done and I had failed myself and my tradition. ‘You are lazy and fat,’ she scolded. ‘The Bedouin people eat less and they work hard. You eat more, sleep more and work less.’ She had a point.
Bedouin women start to wear the burka in their teens, and remain veiled to all but their immediate family. Tashla is 25 years old and is Al-Amris’ eldest daughter. She is very beautiful and beguiling, maybe more so because of the veil, but good manners forbade me from making any comment on her appearance.
Although her life sounds quite restrictive, she takes a different view: ‘I have more freedom here than the women in the city. They are just sitting, watching TV. It’s a very boring life compared to ours.’ Certainly, compared with the life of an urban Muslim woman in many Arabic societies, she was right. Tashla is already married with one child, but is happy to continue living with her parents and siblings, and they are delighted to have her and her young family with them.
Perhaps the person who said the most about this family was nine-year-old Salima. She has Down’s syndrome and was fully involved in family life, an integral part of their daily activities. She is cared for and celebrated for everything she is and everything she wants to be. It was uplifting to see that a big heart in a big family can go a long way. They may have had little in the way of possessions, but they still had great riches.
I wasn’t the only one avoiding the chores that morning. The other skiver was the youngest in the family, little Mohammed, who, at age 12, drove their truck around the desert and was easily a better driver than me. From behind I could hear a car horn excitedly hooting to get my attention. It could only be one person.
Mohammed loves the desert, and which 12-year-old wouldn’t, if it means that they are allowed to drive the family’s prized pick-up truck? He sings while he drives, and I was glad to spend only a little time in the car with him: he is a better driver than singer. A cheeky, outgoing chap, he would be well able to handle himself in any playground from L.A. to Lisdoonvarna.
‘In town the Police would catch me, but here in the desert I can do as I like.’ Here, Mohammed has a degree of freedom afforded to few. It occurred to me that, in a society that I had perceived as oppressive and restrictive before I arrived, the dominant theme appeared to be the liberty afforded by their lifestyle.
The family cooks on an open fire and the task to find wood generally falls to Siad, the eldest brother at 19 years of age. I joined him on his search. As far as the eye could see, there was only sand, and yet Siad assured me that there was wood out there. I couldn’t believe the effort involved. We spent two hours hunting for sticks, just to cook a single lunch. When you do come across scrappy pieces of wood, they splinter easily and are so dry that they seem already barbecued. The wood fires in seconds. ‘I don’t think my body was made for this,’ I told Siad as we trudged on through the sand, each of us with a camel on a leash in tow and a stick whip in hand. It was like climbing in deep snow high up on a mountain, but the temperature was oh so different.
Siad gave me my first lesson in camel training: ‘Salivate, and then, from the bowels of your mouth, deep from your throat, utter a guttural spit – Hiccccchh.’ And, lo and behold, the camel knelt on command. Race meetings tend to sound like a gathering of emphysema victims.
After my roasting in the midday sun, Siad’s father, Salim, invited me into the main room of the house for a traditional Bedouin power snack of coffee and dates. We exchanged world views. He is a wise man and every opinion he expresses is considered and delivered slowly and calmly. He is, in essence, very cool.
Salim earns extra money from breeding and training race camels. They can be worth a fortune and are a big investment for the family, so they are very well looked after. We went to see one of the family’s prized camels, who had an irritation in a delicate area. Mohammed tried to hang on to one end of the beast, while his dad attended to the other with a special ointment. I had heard that they feed the camels honey, quite a delicacy in these parts, and I expressed my surprise to Salim. He explained: ‘The diet that we give to our camels is much better than we give to ourselves. It is part of our culture. You’re not a real Bedouin unless you’ve got a camel.’
And of course I wanted to experience life as a real Bedouin. So, Salim had a plan: he would going to take me to the sea to trade dates for dried fish, and on the journey he would train me in the art of camel riding, so that I could say I had experienced the authentic Bedouin lifestyle. Although, to be honest, to this day I have a feeling he might just have done it for his own amusement.
But the idea had started to take root in his mind, and I was powerless to stop it.
Every so often, the Bedouin gather for camel races. These huge events, often attended by thousands, are a celebration of their culture and a chance to show off by displaying the latest fine specimens for sale. These gatherings are big business and a great chance to socialise and share gossip. Samta had decided that to become a true Bedouin, I needed to race a camel in a real race. I thought that this was moving the goalposts a little. Perhaps it was revenge for my earlier laziness. But it was a huge honour to be allowed to race one of their camels and I’m a sucker for races anyway. If I didn’t destroy the family’s pride or kill myself, it might just be my moment of triumph! That’s what I told myself.
I think they really wanted me to succeed as an ambassador of sorts for them, but that was before they saw me on a camel. It took nearly two days of trying before I could even get on one properly.
Training began with the basics:
‘To go straight, just do nothing,’ I was told.
‘It’s hurting in all the wrong places,’ I shouted back, as my camel took me in circles. ‘I haven’t had children yet,’ I pleaded.
Two-year-old children ride camels here and my performance didn’t even match that of a toddler. If I was to immerse myself in Bedouin life, then this had to be my lot and the camel would have to become my friend. In the end they lifted me onto the camel and pointed me in one direction. One camel will follow another, so there is only so much that can go wrong.
My intensive training as a camel racer would come
in the form of the week-long trek to the sea and back to trade the family’s dates. This would be a challenge for me in so many different ways and for so many different body parts. Not many have crossed the Arabian sands relying on a lavender pillow for salvation, but I confess that I did. Now I am keen on my pastels, but lavender was in fact a random choice of colour. The pillow had been left in a car by one of the film crew. As my need was greatest, I commandeered it. It was the only relief I had for my backside, which would be brutalised by an over-acquaintance with an uncomfortable camel over an unforgiving terrain.
Irish men of pale complexion are not built for 50°C and indeed have no place travelling in the company of anything lavender, but this was my lot and I was beginning to savour it. I felt there was a little hint of the Special One, Lawrence, in the deserts of Oman as I travelled with the Bedouin on a hallowed camel trek to the sea, to trade dates for fish and gossip. Clearly, I was getting carried away with the romance of it.
The sight of it was less romantic – a red-tinged white Irishman with a lavender pillow, slumped over like a drunk on a menopausal camel. My eyelids were sweating and my bum was still unforgivably sore. There was no relief from the sun, the camel or for my posterior for eight merciless days. We slept in tents and warmed ourselves at makeshift fires. The backdrop was stunning as the wind blew the sand, shining like crystals, into the light of the crescent moon.
For days the traveling continued. The sun’s intensity was crippling. I would have had my bum amputated if it had been possible. Physically, I was just hanging on. Psychologically, the disappointment of seemingly getting nowhere for hours on end was very difficult. I was certainly holding up the journey to the sea, but they were a forgiving bunch.
I think Salim was beginning to regret his decision to train me for the race, though.
‘You,’ he said, laughing, ‘would make a very good camel.’
He was referring to my sense of direction. Left to their own devices, camels will wander aimlessly, following each other to nowhere in particular. They don’t have a compass in their heads and they don’t sense that they have lost their way. Instead, they will continue wandering on the same path until they are rescued by a herdsman. Although I try to pretend to my kids that I have an ‘explorer’s gene’, that I would have been at home with Shackleton in the Antarctic, the truth is that I am lost without sat-nav. This was the one thing I finally found I had in common with the camels.
‘You see, Mr Camel, we are like brothers: you are lost without the Bedouin, and I am lost without my producer!’
Camels also have poor sight and smell. Often, they can be practically standing over food and water and not notice it. I don’t share this trait with them, however. No matter how lost I get, I don’t miss a meal!
Eventually, Salim announced that we were not far from the sea, and that there was a Bedouin camp close by. We couldn’t get there soon enough for me. A ramshackle Bedouin encampment appeared on the horizon out of the desert. I felt like we’d just discovered the Emerald City. We were obviously a bit of a pull for the local kids, not many of them having seen a delirious Irishman before.
While we stuffed our faces with dates, an old man told us how their traditional way of life has been improved by technology. In oil-rich Oman there is now access to fine medical facilities and most of the water close to the towns is supplied by public hoses and is transported to homesteads in barrels. The Bedouin have mobile phones and even satellite TV in some parts. The window onto the wider world has opened more than ever for them, but still their daily chores and simple lifestyle remain largely unaltered.
The dates were covered in a carpet of flies, but I was obliged to eat them as a mark of respect to our hosts. I drank more coffee with three sugars, and took four paracetamol to dull the pain. I could have done with a drink but there was no alcohol openly on sale within a thousand miles. In its absence, the only kick to be had in this abstemious area is from tea or coffee, which in desperate circumstances, is sometimes made with camel urine. Alternatively, if you cannot find a co-operative camel who will urinate on command, a fine brew can be still be had by removing well-masticated cud from the camel’s mouth and squeezing the water out of it to get some liquid.
Once more we headed off in the direction of the sea, now just a couple of miles away. We’ve all heard of the mirage that magically appears out of the shimmering desert to tantalise the unfortunate delirious traveller. As we ran down the hill towards the beautiful blue ocean, I was half expecting that it would evaporate before my eyes. But we had in fact arrived at our destination and the sea was real and reassuringly wet.
Just reaching the sea was enough for me, but the reason for coming was to trade our dates for fish and it was getting late. Salim looked after the business and we loaded up our bounty of fish to take back to the family.
That night, we were treated to the greatest light show the ocean has to offer. As billions of plankton crashed onto the shore, they glistened and shone, turning the barren and naked coastline where the Arabian sands meet the sea into something more like the electric Miami shoreline.
Days later, smellier, hungrier, sunburnt and very saddle-sore, we finally made it back to the compound with our consignment. These days in the saddle had boosted my confidence hugely. Even so, I still wasn’t keen on the idea of racing a camel. I dropped hints to the producer, but he wasn’t unduly concerned about the health and safety risks involved, and my pleas fell on deaf ears. Pride wouldn’t allow me to duck the challenge, so my fate appeared to be sealed.
The Al-Amris wanted to make an impact at an upcoming festival and I had to do them proud. If I could at least stay on the camel for the duration of the race, I hoped that I could earn the Bedouins’ respect, and in some small way say thank you to my hosts.
In many ways, the desert doesn’t allow you to get stressed. Everything is as everything was and you simply have to deal with it. But in this instance I felt entitled to panic, as the madness that had possessed my producer, consumed my hosts and horrified me was about to culminate in the humiliation of race day.
Thousands had gathered for this camel-racing jamboree: women in burkas, children running among the camels, and Sheikhs out for the day on this key date in the camel-racing calendar. This race meeting seemed to be a huge event: there was a band, and hundreds of spectators. Guns and swords were on display and there was a carnival atmosphere. Siad told me to do some warm-up exercises. He got me to lie prone. ‘Stretch out,’ he said, ‘and then, while fully extended, roll and stand up. It’s good for your joints.’
I needed more than help with my joints but I did as I was told. A small crowd had gathered and there were giggles as I tried to limber up. I surveyed the scene and discovered why: in the background, there was a group of camels doing the same thing as me and it looked like they’ were imitating my pathetic attempts. (It seems that when the heat of the day becomes too much for the animals, they roll in the dirt.)
Score: Camels 1, MacIntyre 0.
I was beginning to worry that the camels and spectators had all come to watch me fail. I tried to remind myself that this wasn’t about me racing: it was about selling camels. Traders come from far and wide to see racing camels in action and often base their decision to buy on how the animal moves. Buyers come here to do deals on camels for breeding, for farming and to supply meat and milk. But the main attraction remains the spectacle of men on camels racing across the desert sands.
Many of the creatures on display were being treated better than the humans. Around me there were camels enjoying a high-protein food mix, a concoction of honey, dates, milk, corn and cardamom. They often vomit up this ‘go fast’ food before the race, but trainers actually consider this to be an indication that their speed machine is raring to go!
Camels have four distinct gears, each of which carries its own distinctive characteristics, none of them remotely elegant. These are easily recognisable to the experienced observer, but were of course invisible to me. At their fastest, camels c
an exceed 60 mph. The female is the boss of the track and the faster of the sexes.
Champion camels can sell for up to €1 million, as it takes years of training for them to be able to maintain a racing pace so out of sync with their natural gait. The camels become celebrities in their own right and when the four-legged racing legends are flown into the country for events, the local headlines report on the arrival of VICs, or Very Important Camels.
I was so nervous before the race that I couldn’t even get on the animal without assistance. I didn’t ride the camel so much as mount it, my thighs gripping its behind, trying desperately to steady myself. Trust Siad to give me the grumpiest camel in his troupe. It was frothing and salivating and clearly unhappy at having an Irishman clinging to its hindquarters. It was either in heat or had a migraine, either way it wasn’t good news. It is not unheard of for people to be killed by camels, and I wouldn’t have put it past this one to trample me underfoot, given half a chance.
The camels rolled and lurched as they raced, jostling and bumping into each other. At full tilt, they never really appeared to be contained or fully containable. Groups of cars followed the race, with spectators hanging out of the windows and cheering after the animals, fuelling the mayhem and chaos. Camel racing was once the preserve of young Pakistani and Indian boys, aged just six or seven, who were bought or stolen from their parents and brought to the Middle East to begin new lives as jockeys. After an enduring scandal, this practice was ended, and they were replaced with over-18s and, wait for it – robots. Developed in Japan, these remote controlled robot jockeys have now become widely used and accepted. It is quite a spectacle to see a robot straight out of Buck Rogers, riding a camel at high speed in the sands of Oman. They, of course, have no fear; I am unfortunately not programmed that way.
Hitman, Gangsters, Cannibals and Me Page 4
