Syria: In charge of a tour group - and 16 camels

Heading into the ruins at Palmyra. Photo / Jill Worrall

Will it be useful to add to my CV, I wonder, the title of honorary Bedouin camel trekking manager?

A dearth of camels in New Zealand might limit my career opportunities here but it's always nice to know that should I want a career change I have a back-up job in Syria.

My new title was thrust upon me at short notice not long after I arrived in Palmyra, in the Syrian desert.

Palmyra is Syria's top tourist attractions with its spectacular ruins, funeral towers and Arab fort.

First-time visitors arrive with a sense of great anticipation ... I arrive needing to see a man about some camels.

If you've read this blog for a while you might recall my earlier meetings with Ahmad, the local Bedouin entrepreneur who owns a fleet of camels and jeeps. For those who have not: Ahmad on our first meeting tried to lure me away from my hotel with promises of a night in his thousand-star hotel (a Bedouin tent) and, with the aim of getting me to leap from a camel into his arms, refused to make the animal kneel down.

Since these events we have become friends and last year my first ever group of Kiwi travellers to Palmyra declared that their camel ride with Ahmad and his helpers was a tour highlight.

But this year I had a problem ... I'd lost Ahmad's cellphone number and on our first cruise through the ruins on the tour bus there was no sign of him or his camels.

My guide talked of finding someone else but I wanted to stick with last year's winning formula.

Which is where Mahmoud, the tablecloth salesman, rode back into my life - not on a camel mind you but a small motorbike.

Mahmoud had helped me find Ahmad last year and miraculously he puttered up beside me just hours before I needed to find 16 camels.

"I have been waiting for you for a year," he said, "get on the bike and we will find Ahmad."

Ahmad was lounging in his courtyard, surrounded by various brothers and cousins. We had tea and made arrangements for the afternoon's camel ride through the ruins and the neighbouring oasis gardens. Every now and then a young woman tourist would drift through the yard.

"You haven't got married yet I see"" I said to Ahmad.

The first time we'd met he'd told me he was not interested in marrying a Syrian girl as they were only interested in one thing ... home appliances. He'd prefer an overseas bride.

"No it is still the same situation," he said grinning as a blonde Swedish woman waved at him.

Mahmoud drove me back to find my group so I could give them the good news about their camel ride.

"You will not walk anywhere today ... I will look after you," he told me.

"Tomorrow you will come to meet my mother and my sisters and my brothers."

Oh dear. I told him I was probably old enough to BE his mother.

That afternoon, Mahmoud, undeterred, chauffeured me to the start of the camel trek. Outside Ahmad's courtyard 16 camels stood or sat, chewing reflectively. Half a dozen men and boys lounged in the shade nearby. I asked the oldest where Ahmad was.

"He said he will be late but you know what to do and that you are in charge."

There was no time to argue as my group was arriving. I assigned camels (and their Bedouin minders) to the best of my ability, which when it came to matching up man and beast was decidedly limited.

The camels bellowed and groaned as they always do, a few of the group decided once they were two metres above ground that they didn't fancy it either. One camel wandered off while no one was holding its lead rope - its passenger giving squeaks of alarm - and my camel didn't want to stand up at all. This was possibly because Mahmoud had declared he would ride with me so that he could help with navigation. Clearly the camel thought we'd exceeded her weight limit. Undaunted Mahmoud hopped off, made the camel stand up and then vaulted up behind me. Miraculously we were now organised.

We set of through the ruins. Our caravan was an impressive sight - so much so that we began to attract not only other tourists keen to take photographs but local Bedouin keen to make a late afternoon sale.

The most enterprising was the man on the motorbike who stopped just ahead of us and offered cans of drink. Mahmoud bought us both one each so we road along Palmyra's colonnaded street in the wake of Emperor Hadrian and Queen Xenobia swigging colas; Mahmoud even managed to smoke at the same time.

As the sun was setting and we were preparing for everyone to dismount, a jeep roared up - Ahmad in his Ray Bans waved cheerfully from the passenger seat - my group waved back enthusiastically.

"Everyone looks happy," he yelled to me.

"Next year you are in charge again."