Riding a Camel

There are certain things that you just don’t forget how to do like tying your shoe or riding a bike. Well, I have to say that riding a camel is certainly not one of those skills, but it is definitely unforgettable.

I rode my first and only camel while on a visit to Morocco. At the time, I was traveling with one of my girlfriends from school. We had already taken the ferry from Southern Spain to Tangiers, haggled in the markets for tea and spices and toured the many souks to experience (smell) where the dying takes place for all of the infamous rugs and tapestries. Then this led us to Casablanca to visit the picturesque mosque and on to Marrakesh.

In what seemed like a day long bus ride from Marrakesh through the mountains, we finally arrived in a small town on the line of the Sahara desert. We asked for a guide that would be able to take us for a journey into the desert. We were led to a clay, earthen building at the edge of town where a Moroccan man, father, and owner of various camels spoke to us and one other tourist from Belgium, Jurin (pronounced urine). Within moments, the price was set and all three of us were to leave shortly on pre-selected, temperamental camels with one guide with little to no English skills and food and tea for four.

The owner and guide loaded our backpacks and supplies strategically on the camels, which did not seem at all happy to be taken out of their stables. My friend and Jurin were the first on the camels. I was entirely pleased that I waited to observe. Having ridden horses as a child, I never liked riding, but I was an average rider with enough skill and time around animals to not fall off. Well, if you have never ridden or seen someone get on a camel, it is rather different that just jumping in the stirrups and throwing your leg over.

To ride a camel, first there is a very wide saddle-like seat that is placed and secured on the camel. With the owner or trainer holding the reins and the camel, you sit on the saddle unable to lower your legs around the camel like you would with a horse then putting your feet in the stirrups. You sit rather spread eagle with nothing to hold onto except the front of a saddle. Then, the camel is instructed to rise. It gets up with both of its back legs first, throwing the rider to a face down position while holding on for dear life until the front legs catch up.

All three of us, successfully in uncomfortable riding position, departed for the desert with our guide on foot. To add to the complete camel riding experience, I must explain a little about the gate of the camel. The horse has a stride that one can get used to it is almost like a forward and backward motion that the rider emanates; however, the camel’s gate is not one that is easy to compliment or survive. A camel walks with one of its front legs and the back leg of the opposite side at the same time; thus, providing a very jerking, unpredictable gate, front to back and side to side motion.

The ride of my other two companions ended very shortly out of the compound. They said they wanted to save their behinds. Well, I was stoic and stayed on, but also I stayed as I feared the dismount needed to get down from that damn camel. After what must have been an hour and a half, we could no longer see the compound; we were in the middle of the desert; and my butt was hurtin’. The sun was down, the moon was rising, stars began to explode through the dark sky, and we made camp.

I have never camped without a tent; so, once again this was a first. We laid out blankets from the guide and then arranged our sleeping bags on top. The guide prepared a tangine (typical dish prepared in Morocco with a terracotta dome shaped cooking vessel). It was made with various vegetables and a mixture of chicken and lamb which was cooked over an open fire with plenty of tea to drink. The food was great and only complimented by the incredible sky. Although I grew up much removed from the city lights, I had never and have never since seen the sky so bright with millions of stars. Like most camping evenings, once you have eaten, there isn’t a TV or radio to turn on, so it was goodnight.

I have to admit I felt a little scared knowing that desert bandits could come and take us for ransom, but it didn’t happen that night and we awoke to the most glorious of mornings. I have always loved water and have gravitated towards the ocean and the beach; so, I was surprised to witness that the desert is indeed gorgeous. It is not the water, but the sky that produces that contrast of blue and tan that is similar to the beach.

Needlesstosay, we returned early in the morning, all on foot. No one was willing to torture their bottoms again on those cranky camels. Upon arrival at the compound, we gathered our things, but not before the owner talked with Jurin. We later departed heading back into town, when Jurin shared with us that he was asked by the owner to trade two camels for the green-eyed one (me). I guess I should have been flattered as camels are expensive and I have since inquired that two camels is a very generous price for a young-twenty something green-eyed woman. Luckily, Jurin understood that just because he was in our company, it did not mean that either myself or my friend were his property.

So, it was an evening to remember filled with many firsts whether riding camels or being bartered for a pair of camels where we gained a travel partner for the rest of our Morocco trip, even if his name did sound like urine.

A Christmas Eve to Remember

Yes, the holidays are upon us and another year is coming to an end. The time to think of past holidays, the year in review, and reminisce is here. So, let me share with you a “Christmas Eve to Remember” some ten years ago in Izmir, Turkey.

I was traveling with three seasoned travelers over the winter holiday break. One was a classmate going to school with me in Madrid, but from Indiana. Her name was Chandra. And the other two were Chandra’s friends from Indiana; however, both were Russian born, Katia and Natalia.

We all met in Istanbul and after a few days of imbibing our weight in apple tea, touring many rug shops, taking our first Turkish bath, and sightseeing in Cappadocia, we planned a visit to the port town of Izmir just prior to departing Turkey and continuing our holiday travels in Italy.

With our handy travel bible in hand, Let’s Go Turkey, we found our reasonable accommodations in what seemed to be a respectable area in a hostel called Hostel Duvon. We split up into two rooms, left our bags, and hit the town. After a full day of sightseeing, tea drinking, and culinary experimentation whether a Turkish version of Baklava or Musakka, which resembles Lasagna, we all returned to our hostel to find that the once empty lobby now had many men sitting on the couches smoking and drinking tea. We continued to our rooms and noticed that strangely some of the other hostel guests seemed to be rather moved into their rooms. In particular, we caught a sneak peek of a room with a radio, ample décor, no suitcases, and full closets. It surely did not look like our rooms with two twin beds, stark décor, two large traveling backpacks, and recently washed clothes hanging to dry.

For dinner that evening, we left the hostel walking through the smoke filled room of men. And in discussing some of the Red Flags we had witnessed, we all stumbled upon a place to eat. In Turkey, or at least ten years ago, it was uncommon for a group of young women to go out to dinner together let alone ask for a drink as alcohol was rather limited. However, it was Christmas Eve and we wanted to celebrate. While enjoying the meal, we pulled the waiter aside and asked him about the area that we were staying and specifically Hostel Duvon. He left the table to get the manager who spoke some English who explained that we were staying in a brothel. Yes, you read it correctly, Christmas Eve in a Turkish Brothel. Now, nothing says Christmas more than that.

Ok, so now the tricky decision comes. What do we do? Should we stay out all night in Izmir where is it uncommon to see women out at that hour or be able to find a place that would be safe to catch some cocktails? Could we go back to the Brothel and hope that strength in numbers works and that moving the furniture in front of the door would keep us safe? Or do we do none of the above? Yep, you got it we decided upon another option.

The manager a very nice man, Ahmet, offered for us to stay with him. Ok, four young women, one complete stranger, Christmas Eve, and in a foreign country. We evaluated the plan. No option seemed safe and we just needed to choose the lesser of all of the bad plans.

Ahmet and his friend that luckily owned a car took us back to the hostel where we took our bags and checked out. I remember that the owner was quite upset at us for cancelling our reservation, but who could blame us for not wanting to be subject to such a place. With all of our bags, we could not fit in one car; so, we needed to get a cab to fit four savvy travelers escaping a hostel turned brothel and our bags. After what seemed like one of the most uncomfortable “sardine can” car rides out to the suburbs of Izmir, we arrived at Ahmet’s apartment. It was a rather unkept, cement high rise. There was an elevator, but I don’t remember that it worked.

After walking up various flights of stairs rather unknowingly trusting our new host, we arrived. It was a bare apartment with a Turkish bathroom (yet another story), a small kitchen, and two rooms, neither of which were very equipped. One was his bedroom and the other a living room now turned into our bedroom for the night. As hospitable hosts, Ahmet and his friend with an English/Turkish dictionary in hand began the “conversations” of the evening. And, in the spirit of the holidays, they brought us snacks. Now, there were not chestnuts or egg nog, but walnuts to be cracked and fresh sardines. Yes, whole sardines freshly caught and then fried. They were presented to the four of us as well as the walnuts on a blanket of newspaper covering the center of the living room floor. I guess that is as “family style” as you can get. Surprisingly enough, this was the first time that I had eaten a whole fish with bones and all. What I do remember is that they were absolutely delicious. This is a tremendous compliment as I am not a fish person.

The night was long with stories in a language never spoken before English/Turkish/sign language. However, the night did have to come to an end and Ahmet was gracious enough to give us various blankets. I remember that it was cold in the apartment and that he did not have a heater so the blankets were needed; however, there was something about them that was just foul. Yes, they stunk. The closest thing I can describe it as would be barnyard.

Regardless of the stinky blankets and being in a stranger’s house, it still seemed like a better place than being prey in the Hostel Duvon. By the way, you start to become immune to the spell by morning and yes, we smelled like barnyard too.

The next day, Christmas, was a new day with new friends. We all safely awoke in not such a strange apartment. In the spirit of Christmas, Ahmet and his friend both helped us find another hotel, this time respectable, clean, and well, not a brothel. We were in Izmir for only a day or two more and saw Ahmet on one other occasion where he took us to a tearoom. We all exchanged addresses and many years later I was still receiving “when come back to Turkey” postcards.

So the lesson to be learned…trust your gut instinct about your surroundings and the people you meet. And, if you go to Izmir, skip the Hostel Duvon.

An Adventure close to home…. I have been “Basel-ed”

For those of you unfamiliar with Art Basel, it is a modern and contemporary art exhibition that is held annually in Switzerland and for the last 7 years has traveled to Miami. Yesterday was my first time experiencing the event in South Florida despite hearing of the fame and celebrity draw. Only now, can I truly attest that Art Basel is a whirlwind of people watching, perplexing art, and lots of shock value. I spent a half day there and left no better than how I felt after running the 2004 Boston Marathon in 80+ degree weather. It was exhausting.

The majority of the pieces involved not only your visual sense to be engaged, but also the inner being…..how do I feel about this piece?. It was clear to me that shock value has much to do with this chapter in Art. You must walk by and then revisit many of the gallery exhibits for you to truly understand…..what did I just see? And, what in the hell was the message behind this?

The PJ champagne was flowing from carts zigzagging the halls and many Ferraris and supped up cars were lining the street; however, the overarching message despite the glitz and glam was that Art is to provoke emotion. Whether you enjoy traditional pieces like a portrait photo or canvas work, those positive emotions are not all that can be addressed. Through daily life, emotions such as fear, disgust, sexual freedom, anger, and prejudice are silenced, but not at Art Basel.

It was inspiring. I left feeling that my senses had taken the test. And now, I feel that I have another creative juice running through my veins. It is evident that if you put yourself in an environment so unlimited that you too become unlimited.

It is with theme of no limits that I leave you with….

Art and Travel have so much in common; they allow deep exploration by crossing boundaries whether physical, mental or emotional.

I have been Basel-ed....