Thanksgiving at the camel market

I would regret it later, but for that moment the camel milk tasted so good.
I was sitting in a dark tent with about 50 camel brokers who were enjoying the shade. The woman who offered me the milk, dipped a ceramic mug into a steaming pot of spiced tea, sweetened with lots of sugar and camel milk. She handed it to me, smiled and said something about my eyes.
I drank the tea and gladly accepted more. It was Thanksgiving after all.
I was in Bebille, in the middle of the largest camel market in Africa.
People come in from Saudi Arabia, Yemen, from the deserts of East Africa to buy and sell camels.
It happens every Thursday. I heard about it at a cafe in Harar and knew I couldn't miss it.
When I stepped off the bus in Bebille, a man said - "The borders are not always what they seem. You're in Somalia now."
And I saw what he meant. The women wore bright, colorful scarfs that fell from the tops of their heads to their ankles. I didn't hear any Amharic spoken, just Somali.
Most of the men had their heads wrapped in scarves against the heat and they all carried sticks to steer and hit the camels until they stood up straight with their necks long for the buyers to see.
The market was really just a dry, dusty field full of camels and people arguing about money.
On occasion, the arguing would end with a handshake, each kissing their own hand as a kind of promise, and then money was exchanged.
I saw a small camel sell for 5000 birr and the largest for 17000 birr (17 birr = $1).
A man with a white beard died red with henna led me through the market and had me take a photo of each of his camels.
Among the crowds, I recognized people from the Afar region where I saw the salt caravan weeks ago. Someone told me that when Afar people meet, the first thing they ask is, "How are your camels?" Before family, before anything else.
I sat in the shade at the market for hours, soaking in the sea of animals and scarves and all the noise. I knew as soon as I walked away, it would disappear into just another memory and I would never see anything like it again.
The thing I've noticed about myself - about the difference between traveling in my 20s and now in my 30s - is that I appreciate it so much more. I understand that it is a gift. A window that will close in a couple months and I will be back in an office worried about my inbox and deadlines and whether we have good art for the front page.
But for now, I'm grateful for every bit of this adventure.

I walked from the camel market back to the center of Bebille and sat in the concrete courtyard of a cafe, in the shade, and ordered a plate of goat meat and injera - a perfect Thanksgiving dinner.