CAMEL BLUES by Mr. David Nesbitt

October 12, 2012

From mere nomad to small caravanner took Ghimal from age 17 to age 29. Good progress;  better than most. Tough luck it was when one of his best camels cratered over night, behind the inn where he had made a good deal to haul stuff to Samarkand.

What to do? Lucky break! An auction was due, that very afternoon. Bad luck! Prices were beyond him, until late, when few bidders remained. And none was interested in the last camel that came to the auction pen. He did not expect to win with his low initial bid, but he did, just as the other         attendees returned from their coffee-break, or whatever.

Wow! Back in business! So, off they went. Avoiding the cost of another night under a tough roof, they made tent-camp a few klicks along the route to Samarkand. This was the time to train the new boss how to treat Kamal, an elite camel of camels in his own mind. A thinking camel there…

Maybe only Ghimal knew not that this brute had connived his way into the bad-books of all the local camel-drivers. The truth soon would make itself obvious. Here is how it happened…

The desert days are hot enough to fry an egg, but the nights are crisper than merely fresh,     although they usually won’t freeze water. Kamal the camel knew all about it, and what he would like to do about it. Could he pull it off? Well, here we go.

Letting Ghimal get warm and cozy after      supper, Kamal made sniveling camel noises at the door of the tent. Ghimal wants to know, “What’s all this about?”

Surprise-of surprises, Kamal whimpers, “Oh, Master, the air is too cold for my poor nose; could I but put it for a moment into your tent?  Long pause… … Gimall knew that camels don’t belong even a little inside any tent. On the other hand, this addition to my flock may need extra          kindness, until he feels part of the team.

“O.K., says Ghimal, “but for only five minutes.”  The fatal mistake.

It took about an hour of Kamal begging, and getting, his ears, then his withers, his               hindquarters, and, finally, his entire tail into   Ghimal’s tent. Ghimal’s tent?  Not anymore!

“Oh, Master, we now are so crowded that I will not get the sleep I need to be ready to serve you tomorrow, at my best. I expect you will see the need for you to leave the warm comfort of our tent for my refreshment.” And that’s the way it was. All the way to Samark CAMELS DEVELOP and if this camel could speak English, would he be     saying, “So long, sucker!” or some such?

Some former Beachers probably don’t know that the same kind of words have been directed at their taillights, as they departed their homes    between Woodbine and Kippendavie Avenues. The encroachment has begun. No doubt,            developers paid well for the houses they would raze. The owners might not have seen that the longer homes in the beaches remain of their      traditional form, the higher the values of them may become.

Their worth is not only for the homes          themselves, but also, and maybe more, for the atmosphere of relaxation, only on the edge of the frantic crowding that is destined for   terrain west of Woodbine. Transformation of that ground will be building storage barns for people.

 These will be called up-scale urban paradise of the future. The untouched Beaches, east of Kippendavie, might be saved from that form of devastation. To get the        home-value that the ambience of  the Beaches add, it is not necessary to sell to developers, or to anybody else. Have we heard of renting, or      leasing? Let’s give our “loaf” a shake.                                                                                                                            

Development between Hemlock and Edgewood avenues is a done-deal. If the site of Lick’s        proceeds as planned, the encroachment will be stuffed in our faces, being at a precedent for     developers to cite. Opposition has been more hopeful than clever, or wise. Yet, “Hope is not a plan.” (Robert Ludlum)                                                                             

We can be sure that developers are advised by lawyers, and urban planners, about how to take up the entire Beach, as offshore fishermen wield a seine. There are preventives that could thwart the err merciless graspings, but the developers are aware that Beachers are a polite, dignified, and inherently decent bunch, who prefer to forgive sins of sociopathic avarice. If there is any in this civic affair Beachers don’t see those ills in others, because they are not in them. “It takes one to know one,” and Beachers don’t see connivance that is not in them. Thus, they are ripe to be plucked from the tree of exploitation.                                                                                                        

All is not now lost. We have our own precedent of successful self-preservation from a massive encroachment, not of condos, but of an offshore windmill farm. Where there’s a will, there may be another win. If you want to settle the condo threat, maybe for a generation, or more; give us call at 416-693-6325, or blog us at our website:


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