Blogging 101 — Who is that man on the camel, part two
Man on Camel (Cont’d.)
Slight correction from Part One:
To pick up, I was travelling with two Americans across North Africa. At this point, we were heading south along the Nile to see the Aswan Dam and the Valley of the Kings, whose treasures had been moved to save history from the flooding the dam could create.
But en route, were running out of daylight as we sought a place to camp for the night. We came to a spot where we could cross a canal. We found a spot right there, beside the road and on the canal bank.
We fed ourselves and took to our beds and settled down to do a little letter writing (me) and reading (Walt and Paula).
“Well.” Walt sighed. “here come our usual visitors.”
“They’re a little late,” I commented. “They usually come before we finish eating.”
“And often before,” Paula recalled.
Indeed, we never camped anywhere across North Africa, however isolated the spot, but we were in the company of visitors when we woke up. So, actually, these folks were a bit early.
The visitors were two young men, who took a darn good look at our setup, crossed the bridge all the while looking back at us, and disappeared into the darkness. We settled back in.
But soon the men returned – with three others, and the procedure was repeated in reverse.
One of them leaned over the hood of the Land Rover and spoke to us. We all had to strain to peer at him in the dim light. Any conversation soon sputtered out, as the men were quite vociferous if not outright rowdy, and we were glad we had the water behind us. Eventually they drifted off, laughing and boisterously shoving each other like playful kids.
Soon, tired from a long day’s journey and things having quieted down, we decided it was time for sleep. I went round the Land Rover to collect our cover blankets and my kit.
They weren’t there.
We’d been robbed!
End Part One
Man on Camel – Part Two (short version)
Sometime in the middle of the darkness, something woke us up. I rolled over and reached for the knife I had stashed under the mattress. But a very strong hand grabbed and held my wrist. I looked up and out. An old man was staring down at me.
The old man quietly, gently, showed my my knife and signaled to hush and be calm. I have no idea what invisible force was at play, but this did put me at ease. I looked around. We were surrounded. They’d been so quiet that Walt and Paula were still asleep.
As I was a farthest from the Land Rover in the order of vehicle, Walt as transport protector, Paula, then me as perimeter watchdog, The old man had singled me out. We soon established that the people accompanying the old man consisted of his rather large family.
The asked for water. We provided water and the old man signalled that we all drink. We all drank.
Somehow I was able to understand the old man’s communications, and he mine. He signed that they knew we’d been robbed. He “said” that they knew who had done it, and that the culprits were not of their people but were from a different village.
Then he signalled for us to wait. Another signal brought a relative out of the night and produced an apronful of cucumbers. These he offered us, with some warm host-like warmness, and urged us to eat. We did. Skins and all.
I communicated that we intended to go to the police in the morning. We all understood the word police. Again the old man signalled to wait, signalled to his family, and another woman appeared with an apronful – this time dried dates. These, too, we ate while signalling to each other, this time regarding the theft.
I imitated snapping a photograph. They all nodded, smiled and uttered sounds and laughter of understanding. But it was not a camera that had been stolen. In my kit, other than clothing, silver jewellery I had bartered for, and other personal things, were my most prized possessions, my photographs. And a $1,500 Zoomar camera lens – on loan from a friend.
To be cont’d.
