Riding the camel train
Riding a camel through the parched Sahara dunes is like riding a mechanical bull that has a banana seat, though a bull that moves in slow motion. Your one-humped ride plods up and down soft dunes of rusty orange sand, surefooted on camel toe. With one hand, you hold tight to a metal handlebar; with the other, you grip your camera, trying to capture the photogenic shadows and silhouettes of the camel train.
After forty-five pelvis- and coccyx-busting minutes, Todd and I dismount our dromedaries at the Berber desert camp where we’ll spend the night with several dozen others in our caravan.
We all lay out on a large square of layered carpets, surrounded by tents. Looking up, we watch planets and stars punch through the black sky. Todd and I listen in as a Spanish couple asks our Berber hosts about desert wildlife.
Our Spanish is good enough that we understand that there are scorpions, but not to worry.