Camel Rider

by Prue Mason

  ‘What an idiot I am,’ I say to Walid. All that long night wasted going in a circle.

  I’m tempted to head back to the Bedu huts and wait out the day, but what if that man’s still there? Or Baggy Pants? Or the mountain villagers?

  I try to haul Humphreda around, but she absolutely refuses to move. I kick her. She sways her neck around and shows me her yellow teeth, but still won’t put one foot in front of the other.

  ‘What’s wrong with this camel?’

  ‘Maaye. Jamaal awiz maaye.’

  Walid says something to me, and then takes off down the dune. Towards the Bedu camp.

  ‘Hey! Where are you going? We can’t go that way. We’ll get caught.’ He doesn’t take any notice. ‘Are you just giving up?’

  I can’t believe Walid wants to give up. Not now. Not after everything we’ve been through. I know it’s not going to be easy travelling through the desert in the heat of the day, but we’ve got the camels and we’ve got plenty of water. But he seems determined to go back to the camp. I can’t let him get caught by himself.

  ‘Okay, Humphreda, you’re going home.’ I don’t need to kick her. She takes off at a trot, down the dune. I pray that there’s no one around. At least I can’t see the car.

  All is quiet and still. But what if they’re hiding? Waiting for us. I’m so scared I want to slip off Humphreda and run off into the desert, but I can’t let Walid face the danger on his own.

  When I ride into the yard, after Walid, it does seem deserted.

  Walid has slid off the back of his camel and is letting it drink deeply from a water trough. Humphreda trots over and puts her snout in as well, snuffling up the water.

  ‘Jamaal awiz maaye. Ba’d ehnaa ruh!’ he says.

  ‘The camels need water to travel so far in the desert. Without it they too will die.

  ‘Don’t you know this, Ad-am?’

  Walid points at the water trough and then back towards the desert. I finally realise that he’s only come back to let the camels have a drink.

  ‘But they’re camels. I thought they could go without water for days.’

  He shakes his head as if I’m an idiot and lets the camels take their time drinking. The one good thing is that with all the adrenalin pumping through me, I’m ready to get going again. As soon as possible. I’m hardly feeling tired at all. We fill up the eight empty bottles with water – four each. The water is slimy because it’s from the trough, but it’s water and we’ll need every drop we can get.

  ‘We’ll put them in the backpack, but it’ll be too heavy for you to carry,’ I say to Walid. ‘I’ll strap it to Humphreda’s neck in front of me.’ After being without water on that first day, I feel better if I’ve got plenty of it close and handy.

  I squint towards the sun. It’s white hot already, and a haze is forming over the mountains. It’s going to be hellish in the desert, but what else can we do?

  At least I’ve got the navigation figured out now. We’ll have to travel by day, because if we keep the sun behind us in the morning and then in front of us in the afternoon we’ll always be heading west.

  One good thing is that after her long drink Humphreda seems happier as we set off again. Up and over the dune, we plod off into the Empty Quarter. Again.

  God, I hope we come across one of those oases or else we’ll be goners.

  Allah, it is hot! This is truly a Hell on Earth. It is a good thing Ad-am took out some of his clothes from the bag, for these I have draped around my head to save myself from the burning sun. But Ad-am is crazy, for he is throwing off his clothes.

  ‘You must wrap something around your head to stop the fierce sun from sending you even more crazy,’ I say to Ad-am.

  ‘It’s too hot to put on more clothes.’ I guess Walid is trying to tell me to cover up. He’s worse than my mum.

  By 10.00 am the day is shimmering. It’s so hot the camels have even stopped grumbling. The sun is burning my back and arms and legs, but I can’t bear having any clothes on even though I know, this time, I’ll blister for sure.

  We jolt on for another hour. Or is it two?

  My head is thumping. Salty sweat stings my eyes. My lips have cracked from the sun and from licking them so much. Now I can’t even get any saliva in my mouth.

  We’ve been careful with the water so there’s plenty left. I get one of the bottles out and take another sip. Just before I pass the bottle to Walid, I see something ahead.

  ‘A town! Thank God! Walid! Come on!’ I kick Humphreda hard and she takes off. I drop the bottle and what’s left in it spills. It doesn’t matter. We’ve found an oasis.

  ‘La, Ad-am!’ I think he is being taunted by the magic of the sun and the desert.

  It must be an oasis. I can see the whole town. The square white buildings, a mosque with tall minarets.

  Then, it vanishes.

  ‘Where did it go?’

  All I can see now is an escarpment about four metres high and a few blocks of stone against the vertical, reddish surface.

  Mirage.

  I thought mirages were only meant to be of water. I can’t believe I was fooled by a trick of the atmosphere and a few old stones. I could have sworn I saw buildings. This is the final straw. I feel the anger welling up inside me and then I lose it. What’s the point of trying to stay calm? When my head feels as hot as this, I’ve got to let it all out somehow. I’m so mad I kick Humphreda as hard as I can. She’s had enough of me, too, and does a sort of sideways swerve around nothing. I can’t hold on.

  ‘La!’ Ad-am is falling. And that bad camel is running fast away. Too fast. With the camel, all our water has gone! But I cannot chase this camel. I must help Ad-am. He lies so still.

  The sand beneath my feet is burning, but Ad-am’s head is hotter still and his skin is dry.

  He still breathes. Praise Allah! But he needs water or he will die. I am remembering Yasub, who ran away into the desert after Breath of Dog gave him a beating. When he came back after Zohr, in the afternoon, his head was hot and his skin too dry, but Breath of Dog said that he was bad so he did not deserve any water. Soon, Yasub was dead.

  I run to the bottle Ad-am dropped on the ground, but all the water has spilled out and has vanished into the sand.

  We must follow the tracks of the other camel and find her. But she might be far away, and, without water, Ad-am could die soon. Then, I am thinking and remembering one time what Old Goat did to a camel to make it give up water.

  I will try this.

  ‘Do not look at me so,’ I say to this camel, as I hold my camel stick tightly. ‘It will not be hurting.’ But this one knows I am not being truthful.

  With difficulty I open her jaws. She is groaning and trying to bite. I jab the stick, hard and quickly, into her gullet. She chokes and coughs and sicks up water onto this shirt. Now I can wrap it around the head of Ad-am and make him cool.

  I sort of come to and find that Walid has wrapped a damp shirt around my head.

  I’m still burning all over. I need shade. I need water.

  ‘We must find good water, for surely you are dying,’ I say to Ad-am. He is too red and hot and dry. ‘We will follow in the tracks of the bad camel and try to catch her. It is our only hope.’

  Walid drags me up onto his camel, in front of him. It’s good he’s holding me on because I feel really sick. Am I motion sick or have I got heat stroke? Maybe both. I just wish all the swaying would stop.

  I shut my eyes to stop the blurriness.

  ‘Aiee!’

  Walid screeches and I open my eyes. We’re on the crest of a dune and nestled in a valley below I can see a little oasis.

  ‘It’s only a mirage,’ I mutter. This one’s even better than the last though because, although it’s not as large, it’s got a plantation of date palms. I shut my eyes. I don’t want to be fooled again.

  But Walid thinks it’s real, and so does the camel. It snorts like it’s happy.

  We charge down the dune, swaying madly, and I open my eyes agai
n. I wait for the dusty buildings to turn into stones. They don’t. It’s only when I feel the slight drop in temperature as we reach the shade of the date palms that I truly believe it’s real.

  I know for sure when I see Humphreda. She’s got her nose stuck in a falaj, one of the water channels used to irrigate the date palms. Trust her!

  As my eyes adjust to the shade after coming out of the glare of the sun, I see men in purple-tinted thobes, the robes the Bedu wear. They’re gathered around the camel, waiting for us.

  None of them look that friendly.

  Then I see him – that black beard and the scowl.

  It’s Humphreda’s owner.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  SUNSET AT THE OASIS, DAY THREE

  My skin feels like it’s shrunk. It’s too tight for my body and – I knew it – I’m starting to break out in blisters. These ropes that the Bedu have tied us up with feel as if they’re scraping my skin off every time I move a muscle.

  I don’t know why they’ve tied us up. They’ve put us in this storage shed, which is made from mud bricks that are about half a metre deep. There’s no way we can escape. There’s a thick wooden door – that looks like it’s been made to withstand a charging tank – and no windows, only a tiny breeze hole, which has even got bars on it. It’s so small, even skinny Walid wouldn’t be able to get through. And, from the loud jabbering that’s going on outside, we’re being well guarded.

  I roll over on the dirt floor to try and get more comfortable, but it feels like someone is pricking me with a thousand needles. It hurts so much I want to cry. But I’m not going to. I’m almost thankful for the pain because, while I’m concentrating on that, it stops me thinking about what’s going to happen to us now.

  I try to smile at Walid.

  ‘We’ve got to stick together. Whatever happens.’

  ‘Now surely we will suffer the punishment of Allah for stealing,’ I tell Ad-am. ‘After Mahgreb they will judge us. I will pray to Allah to be merciful but, even if He is, I am sure the men will not be, for stealing camels is a terrible deed.’

  Through the breeze hole I see the sky redden as the sun sets, and sure enough, the next thing we hear is the wail of the call to sunset prayer.

  As Walid kneels down, facing the red sky, and mutters his prayers, I say a few prayers myself. Surely these men will see that we weren’t really trying to steal the camels. We had no choice. If only I could speak Arabic and explain it all properly.

  I’m so busy trying to think up a plan, I don’t realise the prayers have finished until the door swings open.

  A shaft of light enters first, slanted like in one of those pictures from the Bible when God is talking to someone. A sandalled foot with dirty toenails comes through the door, and a hand carrying a lantern.

  I suddenly feel as if I’ve been magic-carpeted back about five hundred years.

  The lantern carrier is the Imam. He’s the local holy man. I can tell by the way his beard has been left to grow, like a wild bush sprouting off his chin, and he’s got that I’m-one-step-closer-to-God-than-you look.

  He starts going on at us. All the other men, led by Humphreda’s owner, crowd into the small room. Our man still looks angry. He waves his hand in the air and speaks loudly.

  Walidun. Jemaal. Inshala. These are the only words I can understand. Everyone is talking too quickly and loudly. But the Imam is loudest of all. He goes on and on and on, like he’s lecturing us, just like our headmaster back at school. Then I hear Walid gasp.

  I look over at him, and for somebody who should be brown he looks awfully white. I look over at the owner of the camels. I see he’s grinning, showing sharp yellow teeth and making a chopping movement with his hand on his right wrist.

  Suddenly, I’m not burning all over. I’m cold, and I feel my insides starting to turn to water.

  They wouldn’t.

  Would they?

  My brain feels numb, and the only words going through my head are ‘eye for an eye, tooth for a tooth’.

  I clench my fists hard, and close my eyes tightly to stop any tears leaking out.

  Just then, the men in the doorway turn, as if someone else is coming. They all start talking at once, like they’re explaining to someone new what’s been going on. I hear the words walid and fuloos – ‘boy’ and ‘money’.

  Suddenly, the whole atmosphere in the room changes. From anger to excitement. Next thing, the Imam holds up his hand and everyone shuts up.

  He says something to the camel owner. It’s a question. The man frowns and, after thinking for a while, he holds up four fingers. He begins to talk and wave his hands about. The others are nodding.

  I think I know what’s going on, but I don’t want to get my hopes up. I look across at Walid to make sure. He’s not frowning; he definitely looks happier.

  I can’t believe it, but it seems to be true. Someone is offering to pay for our camels – which should mean we’ll be free. But why would someone out here, in the middle of nowhere, want to help us?

  The crowd at the door makes way for someone.

  Into the room comes …

  ‘Breath of Dog!’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  NIGHT AT THE OASIS, DAY THREE

  It takes hours of haggling and endless cups of coffee, but finally the men come up with an agreed price and everyone seems happy.

  Except us. What’s going to happen now? I don’t want to think about it.

  ‘Ah, walidun – boys – I am being happy to be paying your debts and to be making you be free,’ Baggy Pants says in his broken English. He smiles and looks at both of us like he’s Mr Nice Guy as he pays out a wad of dirhams to the Bedu.

  ‘Now I can be looking after and taking you to your good home.’ He comes over and pats me on the head. I hate people patting me on the head. I’m not a dog.

  Why are they paying for us? It cannot be for me – they must want Ad-am, for Breath of Dog is talking to him nicely in English. They will get good money for selling him to the dalals. I will not let them take my friend. I will not go quietly.

  ‘I’d rather be dead or wandering forever in Hell on Earth.’

  ‘Yay, Walid!’ I say, as he shouts and spits at Baggy Pants. The smile almost goes for a few seconds as Baggy Pants’s eyes glitter, but he strokes his long, drooping moustache and looks around at the gathered men. He shrugs.

  ‘Walidun,’ he says, in a way that makes the other men nod and frown, like they think we should be grateful to this man.

  Ah, Allah! Now Breath of Dog will be shooting me for sure, but I am thinking of a plan …

  Luckily I’m too busy thinking about how much pain I’m in to worry much about anything else. I wish Baggy Pants would loosen the ropes. At least that would ease some of the pain. I ache all over and my lips are blistered so it even hurts to talk, but more than anything else, the rope scraping my arms feels like someone is continually giving me a Chinese burn. But he doesn’t untie us. I guess he doesn’t want to take any chances on either of us escaping.

  ‘Now to be taking you home,’ he says again, as he picks me up first and throws me over his shoulder. Then he grabs Walid and holds him under his arm. He’s a big man – he can carry us both easily.

  I clench my fists hard to stop myself yelling from the pain of having my raw skin scratched, as we make our way through the crowd of men and out of the building.

  It’s dark outside. I’ve no idea what the time is now. With my hands tied, I can’t even look at my watch.

  From my upside-down view, I see the Toyota truck. I notice it’s got four brand-new tyres.

  Next thing, we’re being shoved into the back and Old Orange Beard is looking over the seat at us and grinning. His scraggly beard is still coloured with henna, and he looks like an old, toothless billygoat.

  ‘Bait – home,’ he says in his high-pitched voice, and taps me on the head with his long camel stick. He starts to cackle.

  I wish they really would take me home. I’m suddenly flooded with ho
mesickness. I’d even be happy to see my sister. But now I know there’s not much chance of me ever seeing my family again. Look what they did to Walid. This time I know we’re done for.

  Baggy Pants stuffs a rag into my mouth. It tastes like it’s been used to clean an engine. He throws an old blanket over us that smells like sweaty armpits. Where will he take us now?

  My mind starts to race with possibilities. Each worse than the one before. Will they just dump us somewhere in the desert? No, not likely after having shelled out all that money. They’ll want some return.

  Maybe we’ll get sold on the slave market – we’ll end up having a limb lopped off and we’ll be put to work begging on the streets in India. Or, maybe, I’ll be forced to ride camels. I’m small for my age. They use small boys as camel jockeys.

  Walid is wriggling and fidgeting under the blanket. I give him a sharp jab in his back with my elbow, but it doesn’t stop him. My head feels as if it’s going to explode, and the blanket is prickling me, hurting my sunburned back even more.

  I need to keep my eyes tightly closed to hold back the tears, but it gives me something to do and helps me stop thinking.

  We seem to drive for ages. I try to count the time so I can keep track of how far we’ve travelled, but my horrible thoughts and the pain of my burning skin keep distracting me.

  I notice that the roads have become smoother now. We’re not jolting around so much. We must be close to a town. Maybe Abudai.

  A chink of light comes in through a hole in the blanket. I wriggle around until I can peer through it. I see buildings I recognise. We’re on the southern side of Abudai.

  Suddenly we pull up. I get the fright of my life because I see the face of a soldier looking through the window into the truck. We must be at a checkpoint. Wow! There still must be a war going on. But who’s in charge now? The soldier has got a small moustache and is wearing a red beret. Is he a local or a Mafi? I can’t tell. All their uniforms look the same.

  The soldier asks Baggy Pants some questions. It’s all in Arabic. Baggy Pants passes the soldier papers. The soldier asks more questions. Baggy Pants answers with a grunt and the soldier waves us on.