Suddenly, we were on the hook for nomad gifts.
I’d opened the door for it in one of my emails to Youssef, who was arranging our tour in Morocco, by writing, “I think we have everything we need, but we’re open to suggestions for any special items you think we should pack.”
I was thinking along the lines of a money belt, or electrical adaptors, or a first aid kit — all of which were already laid out next to the suitcases on the guest bed. So I suppose I was waiting for a pat on the head from Youssef, confirmation that we weren’t just prepared, but actually overprepared for our trip, a ten-day tour of some of Morocco’s best preserved medieval cities, including Marrakesh, Essaouira, and Fez, with a brief sojourn across the High Atlas Mountains, culminating in a camel trek into the Sahara and an overnight in a Berber tent.
Buried in the middle of Youssef’s reply, a paragraph or two after the florid boilerplate greeting we’d come to expect from him, along the lines of, “Hello Dearest Matthew, first of all, you are welcome to Morocco, and more than welcome to our travel services…,” was this interesting little nugget:
“…the weather is very warm and a bit chilly by night, as you know if you like to bring some items for the nomads too as we will have the opportunity to visit the nomads in the desert.”
We were still getting used to deciphering Youssef’s melodious run-on sentences, but had he actually meant to say “bring some items for the nomads?”
I read the email to Shana. “What do you suppose he means by some items?” I asked. “As in, beyond the hard currency we were planning to give them as a tip?”
She arched her eyebrows and shrugged, then went to make the arrangements for kenneling the basset hound.
I knew that expression all too well. It meant: Hey, you asked the question; you figure it out!
Actually, coming up with a proper “thank you” gift for a Saharan nomad was a problem I couldn’t resist: an esoteric question of manners involving perfectly exotic strangers; a subject so far beyond the realm of practical research that penetrating it would require nothing less than a febrile act of imagination.
In other words, while Shana was busy making practical to-do lists involving Euros and anti-diarrheal tablets, I was hard at work daydreaming on the sofa, projecting myself through time and space wrapped in an imaginary headcloth.
“Let’s see,” I thought to myself. “I’m a nomad. I live in the desert. Which is very dry. Super dry. Around me are… camels. Camels and sand. Sand-packed camels, their tufted eyelashes rippling in the scirocco.”
You see how quickly these things can get away from you?
As a matter of fact, the problem wasn’t beyond research at all. Shana had read that nomads need the basics. “Pens,” she said. “I’ve read that they really need pens.”
“Pens?” I asked, incredulous. “We can’t go halfway around the world, ride these nomads’ camels, then give them a Bic ballpoint. That’s just wrong. Also, pens tend to explode in people’s luggage on airplanes.”
Her eyebrows arched. There was that shrug again. “Whatever,” she said. Then she went check on our daughter’s arrangements for her pet hedgehog.
No. We were going to give the nomads something special, something that said, “We may be from a wealthy and powerful country, and we may drink as much water as ten of you desert people, and we may do unwitting things that upset your camels and insult your women; nevertheless, we Americans are a thoughtful and generous people. Here, Brave Nomad, take this gift, this humble gift, of a…of a…”
Hm.
Then I closed my eyes and tried again. I was in the desert. The dunes were cooling all around me, releasing the heat of the day along with a scent of heated glass. I’d dropped something, and now, as my camel shuffled nervously in the sand, I was scrabbling by its feet. If only it weren’t so dark under its belly…
Aha! A flashlight. A good, solid, indestructible flashlight! What every well appointed nomad needs.
A few minutes later, I’d ordered up a few mini-Maglites from Amazon, complete in miniature presentation cases. A bargain at $4.99 each!
But something still nagged at me. The Maglites were small. Kid-sized, really. What if we needed a more substantial gift for our hosts?
I closed my eyes and went back to the desert…
I’m loading for a trip with foreigners. My hands are raw and cracked from endless exposure to the wind. Knotting the old ropes is an exercise in agony; the sisal fibers prick my fingers like needles. If only I had a…
A caribiner! One of those metal loops with a spring-loaded gate, the kind that rock climbers use to belay themselves. I bet a nomad could load a camel lickety-split with a few of those!
Which is how Shana and I found ourselves at REI the next weekend, in the climbing section.
Caribiners — good, solid, weight-rated aluminum ones that can stand up to the Sahara desert — aren’t cheap.
“Really?” Shana said, trying to contain the eyebrows. “Caribiners?”
“It’ll be the greatest gift ever,” I said. “The nomads will love them.”
Well, here’s hoping they do.
As I was picking out the caribiners, a salesman approached and asked if I needed any help. “What will you be doing with them?” he asked. “Rock climbing?”
“Oh no,” I said. “I’ll be giving them to some Berbers in the desert.” Now it was my turn to arch my eyebrows, just to add a dash of mystery.
The saleman looked a bit stricken. He slinked off.
I was pleased. The gift was already a great success.
This column was published in the Perry Co Times on 14 March 2013
For more information, please contact Mr. Olshan at writing@matthewolshan.com
