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Published: February 23rd 2022
Fate. Divine intervention. Predetermined paths. Karma. Do I believe in any of this? I do not know. I don’t think I do, but sometimes you can’t help but let your mind wander. Do things happen for a reason? Are we all on this path and what seems like a coincidence is really just something already mapped out for us?
Maybe we are all just supporting cast members in our own version of Sliding Doors. Does it all hinge upon whether or not to catch the train that one fateful day?
I suppose my plot line could be something along the lines of, young boy living in middle America fancies a 60’s love song which sets into motion a trip to Saudi Arabia for his daughter nearly 60 years later. I know, but bare with me.
***
My family has been farming and ranching for generations. My dad, his sisters and my grandparents lived in a small, rural community. My dad and his sisters grew up following strict rules, completing daily chores and surviving on very little money.
Dad grew up surrounded by sisters, but it is
probably his two older sisters he was closest to as they were the ones who were paving the path to adolescence and they were the ones whose friends dad could observe. This is probably how he learned the art of being a teenager.
The family had one car and lived about 10 miles away from the closest town, Wamego, Kansas, which at times could feel like 100 miles. So when dad’s two older sisters wanted to go to a school dance, it meant Granny drove them there, sat in the balcony of the Wamego High School gym and then drove them home after the dance ended.
What does this have to do with a younger brother? He was expected to sit next to Granny waiting for the dance to end so he could then go on about his life. His young mind was able to teeter between bored little brother and anthropologist who was watching all the habits of teenagers in their native setting.
He noted everything: how they dressed, how they asked someone to dance, which ones played it cool and which ones didn’t care. He noticed how everyone danced
to all the slow songs filling the gym floor, but not the same for the fast songs. He noticed the scratchy sounds of the little stereo with old style 45s and how the tunes boomed across the gym floor. He took it all in and processed it through a lens of innocent curiosity.
Sitting in the bleachers of that small, rural school gymnasium is where dad was also a consumer of music. Sitting at one of those school dances in the mid 1960’s is when dad first heard the song,
You Belong to Me by The Duprees. It was a love song that recounted the emotions of someone saying goodbye to their love interest while reminding them they must someday return home after seeing the exotic corners of the world.
The song mapped out adventures such as seeing the “pyramids along the Nile,” the “marketplace in old Algiers” or “a tropic isle.” As this young boy listened, he also started thinking. When most youngsters were thinking of sports or cars, he promised himself he would see all the places mentioned in that song.
Fast forward thirty years and it was time
for an adult man, now a father, to cash in on the dreams of that bored little brother waiting for his sisters to finish their dance.
Egypt was the first place on the list and it was my first overseas trip. I was 17 years old and was in no way cognitively developed enough to understand the fatefulness of this big adventure.
We left our little Midwest community and landed in a place so foreign and exciting I could hardly absorb the overload of senses. We arrived with nothing more than a map and a rental car waiting for us. We had no plans, no expectations and no limitations except that we had to return home in a month.
As we left the airport in our rental car and with no plan, the world opened up to me. As each block passed, we realized we were seeing the world. Cairo looked nothing like home and I suppose that was the whole point.
The clip clop of the donkey carts, the constant bleeps of the traffic, the haze of the pollution, the neon lights on the mosques, there was
no mistaking we were not in Kansas anymore. (I couldn’t resist that one!)
One day, driving across the Sahara Desert toward the Libyan border, in the midst of nothing but sand we spotted camels and it was all over from there. I said, “Dad, are those camels?” And paying attention to the road, he offered an obligatory glance in the direction I pointed. “No, those are oil derricks,” he dismissed. It was at that moment, an oil derrick decided to lift its head just to make sure we knew we were, in fact, seeing camels.
Neither of us knew it at the time, but it was in that moment my life was set on a specific path. Like the singer of that song, I had just fallen madly in love and was about to find out how such a love affair could drag someone all over the globe and back home again.
***
So now we get back to that question of fate. What if my dad had not loved that song? What if our first trip was to a non-camel country? What if he took the trip
without his daughter? The what ifs could bounce around for hours like a heated tennis match. But the big question continues to be: if it were not for that day, would camels still be such a focal point in my life?
The love of camels started a fire in 1992 that did not show any signs of burning out anytime soon and in 2006, my dad made sure it never would. This was when the man who loves big gestures and creating unique memories decided that I needed camels of my own.
When those two camels arrived at Shamrock Farms, stepped off the trailer and into my life, the excitement my young self felt in the Sahara Desert raged with contagious momentum. Over the years that two camel herd has grown into a five camel herd. And that shiny new passport with one lonely Egyptian stamp now holds a collection of stamps of more than 40 countries, with much of the travel being driven by seeking camel information, camel cultures and camel celebrations.
***
How does Saudi Arabia fit in all of this overthinking and what iffing?
Nearly 30 years after unexpectedly falling head over heels in love with camels, my passion still churns. I have an insatiable appetite for all things camels. This hunger results in international travels, spending time with my own camels and collaborations all over the globe in search of more knowledge about camels.
Over a year ago, my interest led me to cross paths with some representatives from the International Camel Organization (ICO), an organization headquartered in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia with the sole purpose of advocating for, teaching about and spreading the culture of camels. The delegation had decided that it would be beneficial for their objectives to have a chapter of camel owners in North America and they were looking for possible members.
I jumped at the opportunity to be part of it and to attend the first meeting, but to be honest when they first asked I wasn’t sure I even qualified as a possible member because I still feel so new to the camel community and inadequate with my small herd. Luckily, I was only being insecure and was quickly welcomed into the association.
This young
camel association became known as the North American Camel Ranch Owners Association (NACROA) and it did not take long for the enthusiasm of the group to begin mapping out big goals for the camels of North America. The camel owners discussed wanting a national registry, hosting camel festivals, promoting camel products, exploring the possibility of importing camels and redefining camels as livestock rather than exotic pets.
We had a busy road ahead of us, but it was sure to be an exciting one and I knew I wanted to be an integral part. One can only imagine how honored I felt when I was approached about being Secretary General for NACROA. Although a new role for me, it is something I take very seriously.
When a letter, sent by ICO came in honor of the Saudi Royal Family requesting I come to Saudi Arabia to attend meetings and events about camels, I could hardly contain myself. I received an invitation, an itinerary and a plane ticket.
As I pondered what was on the horizon at this event, I could not help but stop and think about that little kid version of
my dad, sitting in the Wamego High School gymnasium next to my Granny plotting his dream to see the world and how his road has lead me to Saudi Arabia.
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