A Stop in the Desert

(a story)

We were just about to cross the ridge of a small dune when my camel stopped. We'd been on much steeper slopes, but that was hours ago and the day had not gotten any cooler. If we weren't so close I would've stopped, but we just cleared sight of the final ascent. The day was measured in meters now, but how was I supposed to explain that to a tired camel who'd worked all day. He was wrapped up in a wooden saddle, once a fine piece of work, but not mended together with unstripped branches and heavy wire, all protected by a multicolor array of old pads and blankets, most of which had also seen their share of mending. Hanging off to the left of the handle was my food and cooking supplies, on the other side was a feed bag, in sight but out of reach. My bedding was the thick mat that attempted to cushion the constant jolt of a camel hump, all bone and no water. It's tempting to slide forward or backwards, but unless you ride him high he'll sashee you onto the ground. The hump's the only sanctuary from the deep swings of the thighs and shoulders, heightened by the steep terrain and the unpredictable sand which holds for one foot but buckles beneath another producing a rhythmless gait hindering the progress of time.

I tried all sorts of trickery, running starts, tight turns to push over before the other side is plainly in sight, but eventually he let out a bellowing cry and fell on his forearms, sitting on a slope that proved to complicate my dismount. I stayed away from the ridge, avoiding any temptation to go on ahead, and sat in the wake with my back turned away. There were no signs of progress, only a relentless assortment of cries and moans and digging up sand that washed into me, so I pulled a snack out of my bag and climbed back on, waiting atop his hump, my feet dangling just above the sand.

Barry was born in the small village of Hassi Bedi, in the black rock bordering the highest dunes in the Sahara. His dad served in the french army, spending quite a bit of time on route, in charge of a supply caravan, but still managed to run a tight ship at home despite his abscence. His presence only brought about a perfunctory satisfaction, never any praise, but Barry held his father in great esteem, quite proud of his efforts to coloniwe and raise the quality of life for everyone. His departures were always framed in memories with the finely made and well cared for uniform of an officer. His mother was a quiet compassionate woman who managed to make her presence known without even lifting a finger. Her look was a force to reckon with. Her husband always exerted enough pressure that she never had to keep an eye on Barry when he was doing his chores, but as soon as he reached a level of appropriate satisfaction she would butt in, discouraging any extra effort having come to the understanding that her husband's standards were too high to be surprised. Instead she would seemingly effortlessly lead her boy away from the quantitative rewards of hard work, and towards a sea of dreams, evoking a passion to explore art and music. Her style was never of one to take credit, nor to even suggest there is credit to be taken. Her heart was her gift, repaid many times over during those opportunities to watch her boy during those sudden flashing moments when maturity is measurable and the delight of becoming your own teacher bursts onto your face, those rare uncontainable smiles that illicit yet another smile upon realiwing that you're all alone, or at least think you are.

In 1957 Barry's father came home after a long away, and Barry's usual unanswered enthusiasm was replaced with hesitant inquisition, which cloaked the inexplicable fear he felt when his father wame home without his uniform. It was a picture the family had never seen. From the day he started a family, from his first return after he was married, his arrivals had never changed. The image was so clear that the marks of time would vanish for that brief time, the family playing back a cherished memory on top of what they saw. Barry had no idea what to think, nor could he have possibly known, but his father was a constant in his life, the extent of which he never felt until that moment when he considered life without the stanchion that was his father. The fear of an unknown, unbalanced world was so inexpressable that his minds only option was to erupt in a storm of violent, unrelated emotions. Life cannot be measured in time. Years can go by without a blink, yet in a single instant one can skip an entire lifetime and start a new chapter of existence, disconnecting from the memories of the past and stripping away everything that binds you together. In 1957 the French ended their efforts in the region and withdrew, unceremoniously discharging Barry's father. Looking back it is astonishing that his father came back at all. His life was a ball of yarn wound around his career, and without that it became a knot. A knot that only seems to get tighter the more you pull, eventually becoming a lost cause. Barry's father eventually left and never returned - the events between are all but lost. That single moment began when his father came home for the last time, and ended when he left, bridging a gap in his memory as though his father had simply turned around that same day.

His mother became a phantom to him. Her power of guidance was limited to the careful nurturing of a spark and fueling of a flame, but Barry's fire flickered out. She tried to salvage the family, but disappointment was not something she could handle anymore. She had stamped her mark on her child, but that time had passed and the transition was painful and never arrived in time. Barry didn't mean to estrange himself. He didn't really notice; all the anger he carried towards his father left him with little else, a complete consumption that rendered him incompatable with any social interaction. Barry started wandering the desert, occasionally returning, but eventually the idea of a home was all but lost. The first day, he had set out with no intent of returning anywhere, but rather to wait for the sand to rise up and swallow him, but he was born here. Somewhere the memories of every lesson taught out there by his father bubbled up into subconscious inklings that floated him through. There were plenty like him and occasionally he'd cross paths and feign friendship, only to find a need too upsetting to deal with and a harsh exchange would leave him alone again, returning to his ebbing state of satisfaction.

Barry spent a long moment getting by. He ran with all kinds of crowds, good times and bad times, highs and intangible lows. Various addictions had run their course through his body, leaving behind a poorly mended system that quite uncomfortable managed to find a balance. He couldn't sleep much at first, his mind overflowing with thoughts to the point that the only grasp on reality is to pick one phrase that passes by and repeat it over and over until it clears a path and drifts away. Eventually everything drifted away, but the nights remained of little use. He tossed and turned, clenching his stomach as his body reacted however it could, hoping to find an unorthodox approach to a process it had long been unable to perform, yet somehow sewing enough patches to put Barry on his feet by morning. Tired meant nothing after years of restlessness, it was just another thought that passed for a feeling.

When he was a boy, his town was an oasis that extended far beyond the water, past the last remaining trees and continuing as far as the imagination could take him into the embracing arms of the desert. But now the town was as barren as the deepest pits of the Sahara. Since the borders closed, shortly after the French evacuated, work ceased as a reality as a once prosperous town found itself in a remote corner too distant to be considered. Everyone drifted in the current, hoping to pass the time any way possible; work just being one of those options. Barry worked when he could, although survival was long since a goal. He did it now to break apart the monotony, hoping to stumble across a brilliant sparkling instant - a chance to begin again.

Finding myself completely unprepared I quickly swung my hand behind me, just managing to grab a hold of the back rope before I tumbled over as my camel rose up on his hind legs. My poor grip and excessive use of force tore through my little finger, my gloves off from eating. I had forgotten why we stopped and headed over the ridge, and as though nothing had happened, we crossed over the ridge, finishing up the day shortly thereafter.

THE END

P.S. Barry is the camel, OK. So if you didn't get that, and I don't blame you, you should read it again, it's a much better story when you know who Barry is.