CHAPTER 3
The Camel’s Story
Northwest Indian Frontier, 1854
My mother’s name was Smelly Breath. What camel could want a better name than that? They said you could smell her half a day’s walk away—though I was never that far away from her, not till the end.
My first memory is of standing at my mother’s side as I sucked her milk, which tasted as good as her smell. She was a fine strong camel who could carry burdens across any desert, and even up the rocky slopes of mountains.
We were part of a big caravan, along with lots of other camels, though none as rich smelling as my mother, and other animals, and the men and women of our tribe, and their children as well.
Big humans load you with their bundles. Small ones throw stones at you when you’re tethered, just to hear you grunt. But they will also share their bread with you, or bring you a tuft of grass. And that is my first lesson to you, young one. Humans are like camels, some good, some bad, though none have our strength or our knowledge of the wind. Some are kind and some are clever, and others stupid as a…
Phut. And phooey too. There is nothing as stupid as some of the humans I have known.
Munch, munch, chew, chew…
What was I talking about? Oh, yes, my mother…
My first memory is sucking that good milk till I was full, then nosing round the bushes for something else to taste, just for interest’s sake. Then, when I looked back at my mother, there was Bilhari, with his turban on crooked, crouched between her back legs, squirting her milk into his mouth.
Bilhari looked after us. He had two legs, but only one eye, and not as many fingers as other humans either. He smelt more like my mother and the other camels than a man. It is good for a man to smell of camel. It is a far nicer scent than their own.
My mother stood there while he drank. But I was hungry again. I ran up to my mother and nosed between her legs. Bilhari glared at me with his one good eye and shoved me away.
I squealed. I was young and too small in those days to bite him, or kick him, or even spit in his face.
‘Ghhhhrrrhhhh!’ my mother bawled. It was a wail to chill the mountains. She had let Bilhari drink her good milk. But she wasn’t going to tolerate a man who pushed her son around!
She galloped forward, leaving Bilhari sprawled in the dust. Then she turned round and charged. She seized Bilhari’s arm in her mouth and gummed it, hard.
Bilhari screamed. I scampered with excitement. This was fun!
Bilhari ran a few steps away, as the other men stood around and laughed at the stupid man who had goaded his camel more than she would bear.
Know this, young camel. Men think they rule us, because they lead us by the nose and make us bear their burdens. But a camel needs to make it clear when their rule becomes too much. It was a lesson I would remember all my life.
Grhhmph. Phooey! Munch, munch, munch, chew, chew chew…
CHAPTER 4
The Camel’s Story
Northwest Indian Frontier, 1854
In summer our caravan followed the snow.
What is snow, you say? It is cold and wet, neither of which is good for camels.
Snow sits upon the mountains. No, mountains are not like the big red rocks in this desert. They go on and on, and just when you think you’ve climbed the last one another appears in its place. They reach into the sky, and the snow on top of them is whiter than the clouds.
As the days grew warmer the snow melted into blue-white streams that rushed along the gorges. When that happened our caravan climbed the mountains: we camels and the sheep and humans, and the head man’s horse as well.
Horses! Phut and phooey! I spit upon all horses! I will tell you more about that head man’s horse a little later.
The grass and the bushes grew as the snow melted. There was plenty of food for us camels, and for the sheep who travelled with us. What are sheep? Smaller than men and horses, but with four legs, and more hair and even fewer brains.
The spring torrents surged between the rocks and the wildflowers sprang up through the new grass as the weather warmed.
Then as the days grew cooler again and the grass shrivelled in the cold we walked down the mountains, across the rocky hills, then onto the sandy plains, where grass grew only in the wintertime and shrivelled in the summer. For that is life, young camel. There are times when the grass grows, and others when it dies. But somewhere there is always food and water, if you have the wisdom to find it.
Ah, the joy of walking in those days, with the stars shivering in the sky, and the sweet strong stench of the other camels in our caravan!
I liked the mountains, but I liked the deserts more. My feet understood the language of the sand, could feel the vibrations of the other animals that passed. My nose could smell what had been there months before—another caravan perhaps, or a desert fox. Scents flow forever in the desert. You can smell the far horizon and beyond.
The humans walked beside the camels—all but the very small and old, and the head man who rode his horse. Now and then we’d pass a village. It was interesting, peering inside the strange boxes where they lived. But mostly the world was us, and the ground that stretched up to the horizon far away.
We camels led the caravan, of course, all in a line, carrying the tents and the carpets and flour for the bread, the sheepskins and the leather bags.
The men marched at our sides. Then came the sheep, and then the women and children, picking up the camel and sheep droppings to dry for fuel to cook their food and warm them at night. The droppings of a fine big camel like me will burn for half the night.
Sometimes, when the grass and water were good, we would stop for days, till all the grass was eaten and the bushes stripped of their leaves, and we camels had put on the fat again that we’d lost on the harsher treks.
Each morning the humans rose and said their morning prayers while we camels grazed on the grass and the bushes. The women heated water for the drink called tea and ate their hunks of bread, then folded their black tents and the carpets that they sat on, while the men rounded up the fattailed sheep.
Then one by one we camels were coaxed to lie down and have their burdens strapped onto our backs.
My mother carried little in those early days, for she was feeding me. I carried nothing at all. I was too small, though it must be hard for you to imagine that I wasn’t always the magnificent beast that I am now.
Bilhari milked my mother in the mornings, while she ate the grain and dates he brought her. As we walked more milk came, and at night there was always plenty, even when Bilhari drank some in the afternoons, so I grew large and strong, the biggest and the smelliest of all the young camels in our camp.
Each time another young camel came near my mother gave a special pride-filled gurgle, to let them know that she knew I was so much better than any one of them. ‘Grrrrrffffhhhh!’ she called.
Munch, grunt, grunt, chew…
What was that? No, I was not asleep, you stupid young camel. I was thinking. Thinking is a good activity, as you will learn as you grow older. The sort of thinking I was doing is called ‘remembering’, which is when you see things from the past as clear in your mind as if they were happening now.
What was I remembering?
It was a day like this, with a blue sky, no clouds…You’ve never seen a cloud? Well, you will soon, young camel, mark my words. In a few days the sky will begin to dapple and the air will thicken with rain, and after the rain the land will thicken with grass. Ah, it is a fine sight, let me tell you.
But the day I am remembering wasn’t like any day you will see here. This day was among the mountain peaks. The rock was so hard that our leathery feet made clumping noises when we trotted on its surface. The air was as dry as it is today, but from cold instead of heat.
The head man lifted up his hand to tell the caravan that we’d stop here for the night. He slid off his horse, who nodded wearily, for he was an old horse. Horses do not have our endurance or strength
of character, as well as being…ah, well, enough of that.
The men began to untie the tents from the other camels’ backs, and the women started fishing in the leather bags for the driest droppings to start their cooking fires.
But my mother sniffed the air. When Bilhari reached for her to kneel so he could untie her packs she gurgled, then she gave a cry. She pushed him hard with her nose, so he tumbled over onto the rock.
Bilhari stood up, quivering with anger, for he hadn’t even touched her, or me either.
My mother tossed her head. She flared her nostrils and sniffed loudly. She groaned and butted Bilhari once more.
What was she doing? Trying to talk to a man, of course! Men don’t have our sense of smell, and there are other things about the world they cannot sense either.
At last Bilhari worked out what was going on. He looked at my mother thoughtfully. He patted her nice and hard, so the dust puffed out from her hair, to tell her he understood. Then he ran to the head man. I trotted after him, for I was curious. My mother followed too.
The head man glanced up as we approached. He was older than Bilhari, with a long grey beard and grey hair dangling from under his turban.
‘What is it?’ he demanded.
Bilhari shook his head urgently. ‘We can’t camp here.’
The head man stared. ‘Why not?’
Bilhari shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But Smelly here won’t settle.’
The head man chewed his moustache. ‘Smelly doesn’t like it, eh?’
‘Fhhhhggggghh!’ my mother gurgled, and stamped her feet.
The head man lifted his hand and addressed the camp. ‘Move!’ he yelled. He jumped up onto his horse, who had been standing, horse-like, with no idea that anything was wrong.
Everybody stared. But when the head man shouted an order he was obeyed—just as you should obey me, young camel, for I am the leader of our caravan.
The men loaded the camels up again. The women put their pots away. The children shouted and scooped up the piles that the animals had left in the short time we’d been camped.
Then we began to walk.
Twice the head man held up his hand to stop again, and twice my mother bellowed and gurgled, so he gave the signal to move on.
The third time he held up his hand my mother sniffed the air. She paused and sniffed again, and thought through her feet, the broad flat camel feet that tell you so much of what is happening and what will happen, once you know how to listen.
Finally my mother bent her head and began to graze.
Bilhari let out a great breath of relief. He signalled to the head man and the head man nodded as his women began to unload his tent.
What was going on? Haven’t you worked it out? But I forget, you’ve never known the mountains or the snow.
Well, then, I’ll tell you the rest of the story. My mother had nudged me, right at the beginning, and I listened with my feet as well, so I could recognise the feeling if I came across it again. That is how a camel learns, by watching and listening to his elders.
I hope you understand what I mean.
Well, as I was saying…we camels began to eat the bushes. The sheep nosed at the grass. Bilhari brought a special handful of dates for my mother, for they were her due, and she ate them while Bilhari patted her side and coughed a little as the dust flew out of her hide. The fires were lit, and the burning droppings glowed like earth-bound stars as the darkness grew.
The wind blew cold that night. Nearly all slept in their tents, except for Bilhari, who liked the warmth of the camels better than his women. The moon began to wander across the sky, just like we had travelled across the rock and sand below.
And then I felt it. Not the faint tremor my mother had shown me how to feel before. This was a shaking that started in my feet, then reached my legs—and then the noise arrived, a roar that filled the world, so that the mountains shook and people ran screaming from their tents.
It was an avalanche. The snow piled high above us on the mountain could no longer hold on to the steep slopes. My mother had felt it trembling. Now it thundered down to fill the valley where we’d stopped the first time! But we were safe, even though our world roared and shook.
I have listened with my feet every day since then, just as I have sniffed the sky. I can tell what will happen, young one, just like my mother did.
For if she hadn’t, our whole caravan would have died.
CHAPTER 5
The Camel’s Story
Northwest Indian Frontier, 1855 to 1859
They were good years for our caravan. The rains came and the grass grew. The sheep had many lambs. There were many young camels too, though none as fine as I. I was the strongest, the smelliest and the most handsome. I was the best spitter in the whole camp too.
The only bad luck for our caravan was the death of the head man’s horse. But he was old and he was just a horse, so I didn’t see why the head man was upset. Now every time we passed a village or met a caravan the head man looked at their horses enviously.
I grew taller, and even stronger. I no longer drank my mother’s milk, but nibbled the leaves of bushes as we passed, or munched the grass before the sheep got to it (if there is a more stupid animal than a sheep I have never found it). The women squirted my mother’s milk into big leather bags, which swung from the luggage as we walked, the moisture oozing out, so that at night there was thick curd cheese for the humans to eat, instead of the good milk. But humans always eat in silly ways. They eat the sheep that eats the grass, instead of nibbling at the grass themselves.
What was I saying? Grarrrhhha! I remember…
When I was three years old Bilhari began to train me to carry loads. Some camels, as you will have seen, are trained to carry humans, for humans wriggle so much that a camel has to concentrate on them and cannot carry other things at the same time.
The strongest and the best camels, like me, are trained to carry loads. But it is not just strength you need. A load unbalances you. The heavier it is the harder it is not to slip when the ground is uneven, or the way is steep. Many camels fall when the load is too great or the ground is rough. When that happens, aaaiiii, phut! A camel can break a leg! He’s lucky if he survives.
So Bilhari trained me with just a sheepskin at first, so I could get used to the feel of something on my back, how the weight changed my balance depending on where and how I walked. Gradually he added more weight, and still more.
‘He will be the strongest camel in the world!’ Bilhari boasted to the head man. But the head man only nodded, for he still mourned his horse.
Finally the day came when I had my nose peg inserted. And that is all I want to say about that story.
Why? Grhhmph! You stupid youngster! Think what it feels like when you prick your nose on a thorn bush, eh? Now imagine a thick peg being pushed right through your nose, while you scream and roar and men with ropes all hold you down…For how could they control us, without the pain they cause when they pull upon our reins?
Think yourself lucky you will never have a wooden peg pushed through your nose—not while I lead this mob and take us to safe places, where men can’t capture us and inflict indignities and pain upon our persons. And do not ask silly questions again. ‘What’s it like?’ Grhhmph!
Yes, well. I accept your apologies.
Munch, munch, munch, chew, chew, chew. Phut!
After a while my nose healed. And because I am the most intelligent of camels, as well as the biggest and the strongest, I soon learnt to follow Bilhari’s commands, so I seldom needed anyone to tug at the rein to pull my nose peg and tell me what to do.
Bilhari had been well trained by my mother, too, for a good cameleer is trained by his best camels, just as the camels are trained by him. Bilhari had no need to hobble his camels, as the humans do here. We stayed near the caravan’s camp because we and the men were partners. We were happy—except the head man without his horse.
Munch, munch, munch, chew, chew, chew. Grhhmph. I’m
thinking again, that’s what I’m doing. I am remembering. It is a day I do not like to remember, but it is worth remembering, for it taught me a lesson all of us must know.
It is this: never trust a human. No matter how close you’ve been to them, even if they admire you and slap your rump to show you off to passers by…never ever trust them.
I was five years old, the most handsome and the best-smelling camel in the caravan, as I have been telling you. I carried big loads now, many tents and sheepskins. And when our caravan moved each day I walked in front.
Ah, life was good.
And then it changed.
We were down in the hills now, between the desert and the mountains. There were other caravans nearby, for this was a place where humans met, to trade sheepskins and wives, grain and dates, and bangles for the women.
But this morning no one was packing up the camp. Instead the head man and Bilhari walked among us camels.
‘We can spare this one.’ Bilhari gestured to one of the oldest camels in the caravan.
The head man shook his head. ‘We will never get the price of a good horse for him. Now, if we take Bell Sing here…’
‘Not Bell Sing!’ cried Bilhari.
The head man fixed Bilhari with an eye like stone. ‘A head man needs a horse! It isn’t fitting that I walk while other head men ride. It insults our caravan. And Bell Sing is the only camel here that is worth a horse’s price.’
Horses! I spit upon them! Phut!
I eyed the two men warily. Humans use a lot of words, and it can be hard to find the meaning underneath.
Bilhari sighed. He gave me the tug that means Lie down, so we can load you up.
I groaned, as is proper for a camel who is going to be loaded, just to let the human know the indignity you feel. I did as he commanded, lying on my pedestal, the thick callus that had grown upon my chest, and chewing at my cud while I waited for Bilhari to get on with loading me.
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