Syria: Mistaken identities and the King of the Desert

Ahmad and the King of the Desert wait for trade. Photo / Jill Worrall

Looking for a man in the Syrian desert who owns camels and whose name Is Ahmad (a short version of Mohammad) could be a little like hunting for the proverbial needle in a haystack.

But as my search area was limited to the relatively compact area of the ruins of Palmyra I was confident I would find him. This is Syria's leading tourist attraction and it seems everyone from hotel staff to shopkeepers, ticket-sellers to camel owners is either related by blood, marriage or friendship.

I'd met Ahmad last year. It was late winter in Syria and tourists to the ruins of this magnificent nearly 2000-year-old trading city were reduced to a trickle.

Ahmad, hearing that I was planning to bring a tour group the following year, had been intent on persuading me to take my Kiwis camel riding with him.

Perhaps because it was the off-season and he was bored, Ahmad had also tried out the most impressive pick-up lines I'd ever been subjected to. If you've been a loyal blog reader you may remember this. Ahmad had insisted that when it was time for me to get down from his camel that the beast could not kneel - I'd have to jump into his arms instead. The camel apparently had sore knees.

He also told me he was unmarried because Syrian girls were only interested in one thing... and it wasn't what I'd expected. Apparently they had a fixation with home appliances.

Ahmad also suggested that I abandon my three-star hotel for the night and move into his 1000-star hotel (aka his Bedouin tent).

It was impossible to be offended by his persistence, even when, as he returned me to my almost starless hotel, he made one last attempt as he handed me his business card.

"If you wake up in the middle of the night and you are lonely you just need to call this number and I will be there."

Just how efficient Ahmad's version of room service would have been I don't know. But I had promised him that, inshallah, if I brought Kiwi tourists to Palmyra in 2009 I would seek him out and take my group camel riding with him.

Hence today's search.

Considering camels were once an essential component in the life of Palmyra, it is a little surprising that there are actually very few here now.

The camels that are around the oasis and ruins of Palmyra are almost solely for tourist use and Ahmad has pretty much cornered the market.

But as of first thing in the morning, as my group headed into the spectacular ruins of the Temple of Bel there was no sign of either Ahmad or his camels.

I was scanning the colonnaded street for any sign when a motorcycle puttered up beside me. The rider promptly began to ask me if I'd like to buy a tapestry tablecloth. He pointed to two saddlebags crammed with multi-hued fabric. I said no because I was a bit busy.

"Ah you must be the tour leader," he said.

"Will you tell you group about my tablecloths?"

I told him I would later but my most pressing need was to find Ahmad. Did he know him?

"Of course. Get on the bike and I will take you to him. I am Mohammad."

Mohammad was quiet, unassuming and with a sales patter devoid entirely of off-pat pick up lines. I warmed to him instantly.

So we roared off over the unexcavated section of Palmyra to Ahmad's house, stables and olive grove.

A man appeared in the gateway.

"This is Ahmad," said Mohammad.

I looked at the clean-shaven fit man in front of me. When I'd met Ahmad last year he'd been dressed in a corduroy suit and looked, to put it politely, tubby and with several days' growth of stubble.

This couldn't be the same man. He was also clearly having trouble placing me too.

"Maybe you talked to one of my brothers," he said, staring hard at me. I have six." This was a possibility.

Ahmad suddenly bounded into one of the rooms that opened off the courtyard.

"I know how we can find out," I heard the sound of a computer tinkling into life.

"Come in," he said.

Accompanied by Mohammad and one of the six brothers, I sat on a bed and was shown thumbnails of his brothers.

"No, not that one, or that one."

I paused briefly at a photo of one of Ahmad's camels wearing wrap-around sunnies.

"Maybe that one..."

Ahmad looked at me again.

"I found you in the ruins, I took you for a ride on my camel and told you it had sore knees.

"Exactly," I said, "and then you invited me to your 1000-star hotel."

He grinned. I remember he'd told me that if I didn't return with him to his "hotel" he'd go to the gym. Maybe that explained the new-look Ahmad, or maybe he'd just removed all the extra layers of winter clothing.

Now certain that I wasn't about to have my group hijacked by a rival camel-owner we sorted out the arrangements for the afternoon ride.

Mohammad, who had now clearly decided he was going to be my escort for the day, took me back to my group.

I helped him sell tablecloths, he gave me a ring. I gave him a koru, he gave me a tablecloth. I insisted on paying for it. He gave me another tablecloth. I was now trapped in a gift cycle.

Meanwhile Ahmad assembled a fleet of five camels and my Kiwis were put aboard.

One of Ahmad's brothers was at the head of the caravan, then leading the next two camels was their neighbour's seven-year-old son who apparently loved camels.

Beside me was Ahmad's handsome friend who introduced himself unassumingly as the King of the Desert.

Ahmad meanwhile vanished only to reappear riding one of his Arab horses, galloping around us in tight circles while his horse nimbly avoided pieces of ruined temple and fallen columns.

And riding shotgun was the devoted Mohammad, still on his motorbike, complete with tablecloths.

It wasn't your conventional camel caravan.

- Jill Worrall

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Pictured above: Ahmad and the King of the Desert wait for trade. Photo / Jill Worrall