Page 43 of Under the Arabian Sky

“He’s over here! Here he is!”

I jumped out of the car just as one, two, three, four camels came trotting over the crest of the dune, the beasts grumbling and snorting as though celebrating their discovery in their own gruff language.

The first three camels were ridden by strangers, men shrouded in their Arabian garments. But sitting aloft on the fourth camel was Tariq, grinning as he saw me emerge from the Jeep.

I too smiled at the sight of him.

The terrible weight of worry lifted from my chest and drifted away with the sand on the breeze.

He was safe.

My Tariq was safe.

He had saved us both.

* * *

The Jeep was hitched to the four camels like Santa’s sleigh to his reindeer.

The three Bedouins who had brought Tariq back to me now walked beside their camels, shouting encouragement and patting their rumps while their beloved beasts moaned and grumbled and eventually managed to pull the Jeep into motion.

“The camels will tow the Jeep back to the camp,” Tariq told me as we walked alongside the others. “The ground there is much firmer. We’ll be able to continue on our journey come morning.”

“Come morning?”

“Night will fall soon. The Bedouins have invited us to dine with them.”

A grumble from one of the camels gave me cause for concern. “Are the camels alright? The Jeep isn’t too heavy for them, is it?”

“Camels are stronger than you think. The Arab nations were built on the backs of camels. They’ve carried everything from train tracks to telegraph poles across these dunes.”

“And now cars,” I pointed out.

Tariq laughed. “This wouldn’t be the first car that’s been towed across the sand by camels.”

“Perhaps we should get them to tow Cavendish’s car back to his home… or at least a mechanic.”

Tariq shook his head. “I’m afraid that vehicle is long gone. The desert would have consumed it by now.”

“Just like Cavendish,” I murmured.

Tariq took my hand and squeezed it. “Don’t think so much. We have a long walk ahead of us. Just put one foot in front of the other. Sometimes in life, that’s all you need to do.”

* * *

The Bedouin’s camp was hidden in a wide valley between dunes. There was one large canopy in the centre of the campsite, pitched high on several poles, with a dozen or so smaller tents erected around it. Camels were being fed carrots and water by the children of the camp, while several women tended to food cooking over a large firepit under the central canopy. All around, torches dug into the sand flickered with fire, illuminating the site in the dying light of day.

As we entered the camp and several men unhitched the camels from Tariq’s Jeep, a number of women veiled in black bowed their heads and gestured for us to take a seat at one of the many low tables scattered under the canopy.

“Shukrun jaziilan,” Tariq said by way of thanking them for their hospitality.

I did my best to follow suit. “Shukrun… Shukrun jaziilan.”

We sat on cushions while jugs of water and a tall ornate and rusticdallahof coffee were placed at our table.

Soon all the Bedouins gravitated to the large tent, all of them taking a seat, some of them bowing and greeting us as they passed our table.

“Everyone is so kind and generous,” I said. “This doesn’t happen where I’m from.”

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