Clash of the Humps: The Ancient Tradition of Camel Wrestling

 A rhythmic singsong of the cazgir’s voice rolled over the expanse of the massive crowds. His spirited syllables raised the tension and anticipation of the crowds with talk of the upcoming camel wrestling competition. 

I was quickly immersed in a sea of jostling spectators and shrieking street vendors. Food, drinks, and memorabilia were sold from their stands around the field. Splashes of effervescent color gave the grounds a festive carnival flair. 

The vibrant orange and yellow scarves, the plump bursts of pink cotton candy, and the blood-red candied apples all screamed for my attention.

Thick smoke from the grilled camel sausage stung my eyes, and the savory aroma of lokma, döner kebab and köfte was a reminder that I had not yet had breakfast.

Crowds flocked in droves to find coveted spots with the best view on the grassy terraced hill facing the arena. Many brought their own chairs, grills, and baskets with olives, cheese, tomatoes, and bread. 

By ten in the morning, men were toasting copious amounts of Raki to each other’s health, prosperity, and likely to their successes in the soon-to-start camel championships. 

As I navigated my way through the crowds,  I became increasingly aware that I was not only one of the few foreigners present but also one of the few women.  

Camel wrestling tournaments are held during the Tülüs mating season in the winter and are attended by local villagers and tourists.   

There is nothing as intimidating as standing next to a camel. The sheer stature and size of the beloved beasts are enough to make anyone feel completely at their mercy.  The power and beauty of these majestic creatures are displayed with pure pomp and pomposity before the tournaments.  Proud owners from all over Turkey exhibit their prized camels (specifically bred and trained for these sporting events) in ceremonial dress to celebrate the Yoruk tradition from times past when the nomadic caravans set off on their exodus in regal attire.

My camera devoured the images of the beasts meticulously clad in stately splendor, saddled with vibrant knit tapestries, and  elaborately dressed in decorated regalia and ornate rugs of every color. Their names were sewn on a piece of cloth (peş) and hung on the saddle (havut).  Below the name was the word Maşallah, meaning “may God protect him.”  

Bejeweled necks were draped with garlands of pompoms, and some saddles were adorned with tinkering iron bells that were family heirlooms.  It was captivating to watch them move with such valor and ease despite their long lanky legs.  With graceful gait, they appeared to be sailing in the air. 

Amid the admiring crowds, the camels displayed their glory and appeared to take their celebrity status in stride.  With a hint of egocentrism, they craned their necks and held their heads high (as if they needed to be any taller).

It occurred to me that the camels seemed to be as amused with humanity as we were with them. 

My reverie was broken when a spray of camel saliva (which I later learned is actually vomit) flew across my face. Reality reminded me that these camels would soon be engaged in combat with each other,  and I couldn’t imagine how these gentle giants could become brutal enemies. 

As if on cue, the arena became a somber and patriotic tableau as the Turkish national anthem resounded.   All was still, frozen in a holy reverence with the exception of Turkish flags waving in the wind, one of which bore the austere face of Mustafa Kemal Atatürk, the father of modern Turkey.  His ever watchful gaze could not be escaped, and I wondered if the camels felt his presence as well.

Immediately after the anthem, the crowds resumed their noisy and jubilant activities.  The camels were paraded around the enclosure and taken in to the ring.  Everyone’s attention was focused on the cazgir as he announced the names and distinct qualities of the competing camels. 

The increasing momentum was infectious: the gypsy minstrels’ instruments played relentlessly,  the ethnic zeybek dancers became bolder in their steps, and television crews took their places.  Whistles blew, and fans roared. 

An intense and grueling performance was imminent.  

Two bulls were pitted against each other and provoked by an alluring cow which was paraded around the rival contestants and then led away.  I couldn’t help but notice that the female seemed more interested in the crowds than the male contenders in the ring.  The male camels frothed at the mouth, grunted belligerently, and after several minutes of shuffling their feet, began to nudge, push, and shove, and sometimes kick their opponents.  Eventually their furry necks would lock, and the weaker one submitted to the other.

Incidentally, camels are not built for combat.   Camel wrestling is essentially a struggle for dominance, and judges award for style rather than wait for an injury.  Each competition lasted only ten to fifteen minutes, and most of the ‘action’ was achieved by pushing, growling, shuffling, chasing, biting, nudging, and spitting.  

I was relieved to learn that camel wrestling was a barbaric blood sport; in fact, it was far more comical than ferocious. Winners were declared if a camel sat on his opponent, pinned him down, or chased him out of the ring. 

Being very much the uneducated spectator, some victories were a great mystery to me. While I can’t comment on winning strategies, I can vouch for their captivating

The magical, mystical charm of these camels transported me to a time when the tournaments began on the Silk Road in the Middle East over two thousand years ago.  More than a competition, this event lives on as one of my favorite experiences in Turkey.