Constructing Kasun, Educator

Maybe you know that Indiana Jones was shot partly in Petra, Jordan.  You can’t go to Petra and not get that little piece of trivia.  So I began to fancy myself the adventuresome type, scaling mountains like an ibex, a newfound spirit of the adventurer.  Please note that you’ll hear more about this in my next post (which is still on my Vista-haunted laptop… I want a pound of Bill Gates’s flesh when I hit US soil again and sort out all the necessary patches and conflicts for my lack of wireless access while abroad).

We spent the day in the desert at Wadi Rum, a mountainous desert area where after looking for just five minutes you’re convinced the world is fundamentally good.  We watched an amazing sunset atop a mountain peak where rocks shifted beneath our feet as we climbed–no matter for the adventurous type who feels she has claimed the desert to herself.  We then came back down for dinner of grilled chicken and lamb.  The camp was great–clean and quiet.  I watched a fire burn for a few hours and then turned in for bed in the tent which had just enough holes to spot some starlight.  I woke in full daylight and got ready for breakfast (this meant putting on the previous day’s clothes and a quick brushing of the teeth).  We were in a hurry, as we were going to take a morning camel ride through the desert.

In preparation for the ride on the camels, I decided to do some research.  I remembered first a conversation I had had with a religious studies professor from the Fulbright seminar who described a book she had read, written by a woman who did research in the desert and had to buy three camels to complete her travels.  “Nasty beasts,” was the description that stuck with me.  So I asked our driver, Isa, about what the camels were like.  “Well, they are very intelligent, and they always remember who hurts them.  Very different from horses.  You’ll see.”  With this I felt ready enough.  Indiana Jones wouldn’t need more. 

We found our guides at another campsite… Two eight year olds in scrappy, torn clothes.  I thought about child labor laws and then remembered it was Friday, a day of rest in Jordan.  Surely these children otherwise attended school.  That was why they knew at least five words of English to be able to convey concepts like, “Up,” and “Good.”  Besides, the arrangements had already been made, and backing out would have put these two in more of a bind upon returning home.  They stood next to the two camels who were waiting for us.  Camels wait by resting on all fours, their long legs tucked neatly under their bulbous bodies.  The saddles are woolen layers of blankets with two large wooden prongs on the front and back of the saddle to hold on to–no stirrups.  I sized them both up and noticed that the white one looked cranky.  Sure enough, the boys told me to take that one.

I did my best Dog Whisperer approach and talked to the camel.  I think even called him Habibi (Arabic for “my love”) to let him know I meant no harm (I figured it knew Arabic after all these years in Jordan).  I put one leg over the high back of the camel and rested myself evenly on the saddle.  Within a few seconds, I was up, about six feet off the ground, realizing this camel was nothing like the horses I’ve with some degree of confidence in the past.  I was confident my dog whispering had done the trick, so wasn’t really afraid.  My husband mounted his camel, and we began.

The first small hill we ascended and descended, and my camel let out its awful cry which sounds like a woman learning she’s been widowed.  One of the boys rushed over and gestured for me to pull on the underside of a strap of the saddle.  This caused a great deal of dissonance for me.  The camel was screaming, angry, I was on its back, I tried to pull, it screamed harder, the boys were both saying lots of things in Arabic in a hurried pace, the next thing I knew, the camel collapsed itself beneath me, and I was still on top.  I was pleased I had weathered its descent so well.  I guess this is where the Bridget Jones inside me started to take over.

Well, I was a little jarred, but not dissuaded from continuing.  The boys gestured for me to dismount, which I did quickly.  They retied and restrapped the saddle in about two minutes’ time, and they gestured again for me to get back on.  “It’s ok, sure?” I asked, not as confident as the first time I had mounted.  The boys nodded their heads up and down eagerly, black tufts of hair on their foreheads like green traffic lights. 

But maybe my camel somehow sniffed out my lack of confidence, or maybe it remembered that I had hurt it.  Just as I tentatively slipped my right leg across the saddle, he bolted upward before I was on the saddle.  My mind raced between pulling myself, willing myself, to the top of the saddle and jumping off.   I knew the jump would go badly, so I tried to pull my flesh toward the top.  I pulled, neared the top at about six feet.  Then my mind knew that the course had shifted dramatically, and I thought in a flash second, “Land as squarely as you can,” for I was in a freefall for the cracked earth (God’s version of cement) beneath me.

Boom.  It was like a nuclear explosion when I hit the ground.  In my head, the world stopped as the breath left my lungs.  I wanted to wretch from the pain.  The camel screamed and screamed, and I had no words.  I thought, “Is my back broken?”  but then I moved.  I laid on the ground for a few seconds, contemplating the pain, then summoned the strength to sit up.  One of the boys came over with a puzzled expression.  My husband was stuck atop his own camel, unable to come to help.  The pain was so intense, but I was glad also to be alive.  And glad that my back wasn’t broken at all.  I stood up and then doubled over from the pain.  The boys were chattering between themselves, and  I assured Rob I was ok.  Then the boys tried to talk to me, and I gave them one of three words I know for “enough” in Arabic, “Halas.”  They backed away.

I stood up fully and let the air enter my lungs again, the pain beginning to dissipate now.  Not only was I ok, but I was going to get better, I thought.  I think the boys could read my face, so they then spoke to me in Arabic, trying to convince me to continue the ride.  Here’s what I imagine they said:

“Come on, it’s ok.  We fall off our camels all the time!  See this bruise on my arm?  That’s where I actually chose to dive off my camel for the fun of it.  Don’t worry!  You don’t look stupid at all!  If you get back on, we won’t tell anyone how ridiculous you looked, all arms and legs in the air for those two seconds before you hit the ground.  Besides, think of the story you’ll have to tell.  You can’t make this stuff up!”

Their arguments were persuasive, but the source of wanting to ride again came from the way I was looking at my camel.  I both hated and feared it, and I didn’t want to leave the desert with that kind of feeling toward camels.  I know it’s foolhearty, but I chose to continue.  My husband and I traded camels, and we made our way through the desert for the next hour.  I even took my camel without the help of my guide, climbing dunes and circling mountains, looking down of sundrenched sandy valleys. 

We ended up at the Dead Sea in the early afternoon.  My back was sore, and I have a perfectly centered bruise marking the exact landing of my fall.  We set up spa treatments here at the Movenpick, and that proved to be the best remedy for my fall.  This is the best spa I’ve ever been to, a complex of pools and water treatments with a pool on the hillside that looks straight at Israel and the Dead Sea.  From the edge of a pool, I watched the sun set on the mountains of Israel (the opposite experience of seeing the sun rise on Jordan about a week previously), and felt that, again, all is well.

This entry was posted on Saturday, August 18th, 2007 at 12:53 am and is filed under Jordan, education. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.