‘My brother-in-law’s sister’s son met his wife at the camel wrestling. The weather was much like it was today, and he walked by a young woman whose eyelashes were so long they left shadows on her cheeks. He had no way to meet her but was smitten. A few days later he spoke to the milk man and asked if he didn’t have a daughter the same age as the gal with the beautiful eyelashes. Alas no, but his brother did. The rest is history.’
Some people say that the camel wrestling is boring and isn’t it just awful for the poor animals. Well, I don’t think most people other than the owners of the huge beasts attend the event for the sport.
I know I don’t.
It’s to watch the other participants, gape at the enormous camels, and admire their finery that I go. I’m not an athlete but I would venture that calling camel wrestling a sport is pushing the limits. The animals do indeed wrestle each other, if that’s what you would call pushing each others’ neck until either one gets so riled up that he storms away or until one of the referees makes a call. I’ll be darned if I can figure out just how they win, but then again, for me, that’s not the point. They are all male, all frothing at the mouth, as they are ready to do their part for mating season. One really does not want to get hit with a wad of that spittle.
For weeks leading up to the day, camels are paraded around town. The sound of their bells is unique, and can be heard blocks away. Everyone stops what they are doing to come out and see them. It’s not so much that people find it odd to see decked-out camels walking through the cobbled streets of the town, but it’s a general excitement that they exist at all. Often the animals are walked past our workshop as we are en route to the main road that leads to the villages, where many of the animals live. Two days before the big event, Zorba 1 and Zorba 2 walked by The Garbage Ladies. Their names were stitched onto blankets, complete with ‘mashallah.’ I just had to see these two Greek namesakes perform.
And I did. But they were nearly one-upped by ZorBey and Spartacus. Other names, Baris, Onur, Ahmet Bey, well, those you expect. They are common names for Turkish men – Peace, Dignity, Ahmet, one of the many variations of Mohammed. ZorBey, I will never be convinced that was anything other than a variation of Zorba. ‘zor’ means difficult, ‘bey,’ mister, put the opposite as to how we are used to titles in English. But Spartacus, well, I couldn’t get close enough to his owner to ask just where that name came from.
There’s a fee to get into the wrestling, 10 lira, which is an awful lot of money for most people in this region. I would venture more than half get in for free – you know so-and-so who knows so-and-so and so on. The rest, well, it is the outing of the year, so they cough up the dough. Last year I got in for free, and felt so much part of the in-crowd. This year those selling tickets at the gate were not part of my inner circle.
I immediately went to view the camels who were waiting their turn to get into the ring, as it were. Anytime I see a camel anywhere, I can’t help but wonder if something didn’t go wrong in the planning process. They are such awkward animals, knock-kneed, standing in the most bizarre poses, often looking around as if they are slightly stoned. And yet they are magnificent. Their fancy outfits make them seem all the more so, with intricately embroidered bead work on their blankets: Turkish flag, anchors, geometric designs in an array of colors bordered by cowry shells. Each and every beast has an enormous brass bell (one will set you back 200 lira, about $150 US, in the local market) and at least one ‘Mashallah’ somewhere on its body. ‘Mashallah’ is used to keep away evil, to protect, to safeguard against anything bad that could happen, as a blessing or just an interchange to keep the positive just that. One says it all the time, just to be on the safe side. You would never bring your baby in public without some form of ‘mashallah’ somewhere on its being. And you would never send your camel out to competition without being duly protected.
One fellow who owns and entered all six of his camels beckoned me to come over. Whether it was for my sake or the camels I did not venture to ask, but he kept kissing the camel and encouraged the animal to do the same. I asked who did the embroidery, assuming it was the women-folk, and if it wasn’t mostly done in the winter months, when not much was happening in the fields. He and his brothers do it all he said, and mostly in the summer. Shows what I know. I was then taken away by two young boys who were proud of their beasts as well and wanted their photo taken. I love this - they never ask for a hard copy though I show them the digital image. Everyone wants to feel important, somehow. I think I made the right decision by declining to have my photo taken kissing their prize fighter.
I then entered the spectators area to have a look around. ‘Tara abla, Tara abla’ – children from the local school I visit once a week were there, taking it all in from the comfort of an open-bedded lorry. ‘Tara abla, come over here’ – it was a neighbor from up the road, asking me to photograph hi with his buddy from the army. But it was the people I did not know who interested me: The man with a view you could not pay for sitting on top of his truck, fondling his prayer beads, Michelin man right below to protect us all; the balloon seller who asked no fewer than 5 times if I had taken his photo - I had and I showed him; the gypsies who would beat their drums now and again, waiting to be called over to play a song or two. The man with piercing blue eyes proudly holding his 5-day old daughter, wrapped in a camel-wrestling souvenir scarf, was the highlight and no one topped him for depth of smile or depth of my amazement. Fresh out of the oven and the girl has a start on what is to come later in life.
I went back to the camels. ‘I wouldn’t stand so close if I were you, he might give you a good kick.’ Being tethered to a rope did not mean that a large animal ready for action might not lash out. I stood back. I asked and asked after the Zorba brothers. No one knew who I was talking about. Clearly these were new entries and from out of town. I finally found them and asked if they had been in the ring yet. ‘No but they sure are itching to get moving.’ I stood clear of them as well. I was pleased that I found them and glad I did not have to explain why could not get images of Anthony Quinn out of my head.
My nose was full of the smell of grilled camel sausage and raki, my eyes were sore from taking in so much finery in so many colors, my ears hurt from the emcee’s blow-by-blow count of the action in the ring and I felt filthy from the dust of the area. It was time to go home. I walked out feeling like I was part of it all and yet knowing I would never really understand a number of aspects of living here. No matter. I have privileged access to a way of life that is full of joy, color, culture and warmth in ways that were never on my radar but sure are now.
Camel wrestling: it takes the concept of spectator sports to a whole new level.
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