PostScript - Camel Festival

You may recall that I spent a weekend at the ancestral farm of a Saudi colleague, attended a wedding reception, etc. The final day of the weekend preparing to return to Riyadh, I was informed that my host wanted to attend the final day of a week-long camel festival in a stadium (as I don't know the Arabic term) along the highway heading south to Riyadh. Although tired and stiff having not slept the previous night, I had no specific plans and having never witnessed any event featuring camels - other than a few when the circus came to the Civic Arena - I was open to a new experience, fortified by a strong cup of Turkish coffee from the Arabic equivalent of a drive-through Starbucks.

After miles driving through the desert on both sides of the road with little traffic and few signs of human habitation, we came to a large portal with a banner in Arabic, announcing (I'm paraphrasing now): "Come one come all! The Kingdom's XXst Annual Camel Festival is the place to be. One entrance fee per automobile and parking is free. Refreshments for the kids." We followed my colleague's eldest brother's SUV across the "parking lot" which was in fact gravel and hard sand receding into soft sand. We headed toward the stadium where the camel competition was being held. Arabic chants (an endless pre-recorded loop at high decibels) provided the background music, not music to my ears but neither Simon & Garfunkel, the Eagles, U2 nor (can you believe it!) Joe Grushecky and the House Rockers were on the play list. However, the shouts, whoops and chants of hundreds of fans driving their (always) white open-bed Toyota and Nissan pick-ups in loops arounf the stadium entrance provided the predominant motif.

We never entered the stadium as that privilege was reserved for competing camels, their owners and entourage. Instead we parked the car and stood with the milling crowd along a pulsating reception line waiting for the herds of camels to take their victory laps around the stadium.  By chance we were positioned favorably on the edge of the camel run which I didn't realize until the first herd galloped past. The largest of the camels were huge, measuring  - at least it seemed to me then as they passed within a few feet of me - nine or ten feet from hoof to top of the hump. Although a camel jockey followed alongside the herd they seemed to be self-directed, running together following an unmarked course in loose squadron formation. The winning beasts displayed ribbons but I saw no trophies or plaques which were likely in the possession of the proud owners. I was told that a prize winning camel would be on the market for at least a few million $US so they led lives of camel luxury. No work, no racing, lots of fresh hay, photo ops and presumably some family time. They are magnificent animals especially in motion.

While the camels were parading, they were pursued by the ever-present white pick-ups filled with young guys (no women were evident, either because this was haram or perhaps this is just a guy-thing) brandishing swords and canes swaying to the chants blaring over the loud speakers. This aspect was a bit frightening - not in terms of personal security - but as a primal display of raw exuberance and unleashed frenetic energy.  After the last herd of camels had passed the scene, A group of young guys approached me to ask if I was English. "No, I'm from the States. "Ameriki?" - asked one who beamed when I affirmed "born in the USA". He had spent a month in a study trip to the mid-West and apparantly this was a source of real pride. In any case, I soon became a subject of interest as the guys wanted to have a photo op beside the Ameriki, even if I didn't fit their preconception. I was told later that the stereotypical American was a tall muscular guy in a leisure suit - John Travolta in his disco days? An how they seemed pleased to have their own and my 30 seconds of fame!

After the festivities wound down we got into my host's SUV and after 5 minutes of forward and reverse maneuvers, it was all too clear that we were hopelessly stuck in the sand. My heart sank as I had little interest in spending the whole day - and certainly not all night - waiting for a tow truck from the nearest city. Suddenly a stranger came over to us, surveyed the scene, offered to get behind the wheel and within two minutes we were free and on firmer ground. An unnamed hero was added to my short list!