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My Camel Dabdoob
 Wablegoble-goble-goble-spit was the sound or groan as I stretched my right leg onto the camel saddle that was way above my waistline - and someone pushed from behind my extreme split, until I finally sat in the right place, in the middle of the Bedouin camel saddle, enchanted with my new friend, Dabdoob.
No, it had nothing to do with heave-ho-ing onto the back of a horse of various kinds, like it or not. I knew horses most of my life. But now I had a new challenge or friend - a gorgeous almost white camel with large toes, one hump, and a limb neck so he could see all around, with a tendency to bubble up his feelings now and then. His name was Dabdoob. That would make someone fall in love from the start. Dabdoob was a real laboring camel, not one that ups and downs for tourist photos, like that one encounters on the deserts near the pyramids for a few coins. Those are like speedy moment relationships. Quickly done. Snap a pose. My fascination with Dabdoob was serious. He was making my last hurrah effort to come true.
My camel’s caretaker, Eid, spoke a bright English and knew how to handle some old woman not giving up on adventure, not yet. The saddle, if you called it that, with its front and back just sufficiently wide enough for my body to fit, was layered with all kinds of wooly and cotton fabrics, not only to ease the bounce and stress on the camel, but to give some comfort from the rock and roll that a camel rider could endure. The prize comfort was the layers of every kind of blanket or warm throw. Through the grace of God, we had stopped in a small village attached to St. Katherine’s Monastery with hopes some Bedouin man might be cooking that day the popular large pancake-like flat bread which Muslims and Bedouins include in their diet, depending on the fire below an upside-down iron dome. Planned for us was a quick stop at a typical home where the father offered to bake for me the fabulous flat bread, rolled out thin, and cooked on an upside down round metal pot, under which there is a hot fire blazing. The quick cooked bread is pulled off and brought to the table to fold up with all kinds of vegetables and mixtures put together by the host. One dips the bread in his or her choice and sighs in delight. Bedouin bread is special.
Along with the bread, there was a spread of all kinds of salads and cheeses. The Muslim father of three youngsters invited us for a tasty meal that had no end, but more important, seeing I was shaking from the cold and there was only a skinny ray of warm sun shining down from the dark blue sky, he brought out his heavy winter coat, mocking a bear or giant wolf and put it around my shoulders as it dragged to the ground. Now when I say winter coat, it was beyond anything I have ever seen in the worst of frozen snow and ice. It was made from bears and wolves and beasts, it seems, (of course there are no bears in that part of Sinai) and not a drop of cold air would sneak itself through that heavy warm treasure, no way. He offered the floor length, oversized warmer-upper to me, which I purchased with no delay, and I sighed with relief, not freezing in the cold air of St. Katherine’s that day. I slept with it every night when it became mine.
 The next morning, I was introduced to my amazing camel, who wore a fancy black bridle thing - with a poof that gave it pizzazz, and his young camel rider named Bassem, tall, thin in a blue cotton Muslim gown and a neatly wrapped turban. He knew the camel language. He knew when Dabdoob wanted to go left when the thought was to go right. Dabdoob knew his task. You knew at once he treasured his camel no matter what step it made. Thank God, there was nothing stretched through the mouth or that might have caused choking or harming Dabdoob. He seemed to hang in there with little complaint, and periodically he’d sort of twist his head to look back at me and do the wobble gobble slobber sound, which could mean sigh, ok, or what is this old woman doing. Camels, the smart ones, know a whole bunch, like where to go when, and above all trusts his master to do what is right, especially in difficult turns or close to the edges of a curve, like when there is some idiot tourist on its hump, trying to get photos, or even take such a huge challenge as climbing Mt. Sinai to see if they could do what Moses did.
But my hat off to Dabdoob. These amazing camels are ships of the deserts, since they can survive with a smile in heat or lack of water or some old lady squinched in its saddle (held together by two sort of poles). Some really work hard, while others are geared to haul on various sizes of mankind, who don’t understand about how to mount or appease a camel trying to get you up with a very radical angle, as the camel gets from his knees, and the rider holding on desperately to the camel’s saddle, stands up first in the back legs - which is a whoop surprise that comes quickly and you just grab whatever you can grab, then the front legs stretch up - if you haven’t fallen over yet. When the sweet camel is on all fours and there is some sort of balance and delight, a whoosh, a wow, a thank you Jesus because you are still straddled in the tough saddle and then the camel’s boss (much like a working elephants mahout ) begins to tie your feet/shoes/boots into some sort of stirrup to give the rider a bit of balance and wow, take a deep breath because the next part is getting along with the movements of your camel. He turns his head now and then, turning to look at this thing on his back, his long eyelashes flickering, and another of those bubbleguggle sounds that really makes me laugh.
It has some sort of charm which probably means “not another one” because it was time to step out and climb the large path from its comfy spot on the hillside to haul this human to the place where, in superb holy blessings, the camels must take one, without stumble, with little complaint, with constant reassurance from its owner/guide, who wears a Muslim style hat and long robe that he needs to keep on keeping on, hiking up this same rock packed climb - which is rather wide with stones embedded in the soil/land/pathway so the trip up Mt Sinai isn’t too painful for both parties. A climbing and packing camel are not the same as those posing for photos by the pyramids, those that usually groan as if to say, not another one, but they have no complaint since they don’t have to move too far too fast or other than just posing for photos with some stranger on its back.
The three miles uphill is a sort of well-kept wide path with stopping points, small shacks, to take tea or coffee along the road. Eventually one reaches the point where the 750 crooked steps face the adventurer. It is not at all secure or safe, but a challenge of slippery rock and no protection, nothing to grab if one slips. Climbers need two climbing sticks. I had one stick, climbed a hundred or so steps to get to the top but was unable to salute Moses who done it with ease back in the day, as he communicated back and forth with the Lord God. How I longed to be strong enough to make it to the top, to praise God and Moses in a creative way. But, for now, at my funky old age, still anxious to take challenges which I should not be taking, as solitude and dusty rock mountain after rock mountain holds on to its earthy claim in Biblical history, that brought us to where we are today. There is still hoped to make something out of the barren tan and brown shades of mountains - it is, still, the only civilization between the Monastery and Sharm El-Sheikh, a swish, wide opened city, with white sand all over and bright blue skies occupying everything above with the dark blue sea below.
I earned at least 100 steps, and the decision was it was too dangerous for my old body, even though I had spent months climbing and hiking 2 to 3 miles a day but on flat safe land, sandy land, parking lots and lake borders. But this was something so beyond my skills, the group decided it was not safe for me. So, I sat on a rock and prayed to God, and thanked him for getting me that far, that my heart and spirit were His, and I was grateful for all the people He had put in my path, but mostly my camel who gurgled and grunted when things weren’t right. Gosh I wish I could have brought him home.
Did I ever get scared - no. Did I ever lose faith in my camel and his caretaker, no. My legs spread wide across what seemed acres of blankets and more blankets, but never felt stressed. I adored the camel - especially when he gave a splatter-spit-gargle-strange sound that might be saying, get me over with this, or he wanted attention from his kindly owner. I don’t weigh a lot, so I don’t think he was complaining about weight. He didn’t get speedy when we were returning to his home. It did do a sudden-er down on his knees - which I got no warning - that suddenly your secure seat is not so secure - and you need to press into the string holding your feet, and then straighten your back, while the camel adjusts his back legs to sit on the ground - the front knees already folded back under themselves - which surely looked painful to me. And I almost wept to leave this charming Egyptian camel, and the two men, one the owner, one the guide who specializes in this brown land of Biblical history.
~ Rev
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audrey@audreytaylorgonzalez.com
www.audreytaylorgonzalez.com
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