‘Right! It’s time to join the rest of the expedition!’
I stared. Mr Landells was back again. But I hardly recognised him. He looked so fine in robes instead of his usual clothes! Instead of his hat he wore the biggest whitest turban I had ever seen, and a long coat that sparkled in the sun. But he still had his hip flask attached to his belt. As I watched, he swung his leg over Landa’s hump and signalled to him to rise.
‘Hut, hut, hut!’ he cried, striking Landa with his whip to make him go faster. I strode after him, the strange weight of my pack swaying on my back, down the track in the park around the corner and—
And then I stopped. For I had never seen anything like this in all my life!
More humans than I had thought there could ever be in the world! The whole road was lined with them. Some blew noises through strange metal things, and some banged drums and others clapped their hands and yelled.
There were our wagons and horses (phut and phooey!), yoked to the wagons and pulling with all their might, for these wagons were heavy. More horses were ridden by men, too.
Truly, it was the biggest caravan the world has seen!
But where were our sheep? Where were the women to make the fires and bake the bread? Surely a caravan this big needed women! Where were the children to collect our dung?
Why was it so noisy, too?
And why so many horses, when they had us good strong camels?
I spat. Not at any person in particular. Not even at the horses. Just a general spit at the foolishness of all this noise and bustle…
It was all too much to take in.
The horses in front of me began to walk, pulling their wagons or trotting beneath their riders. Oh, the indignity, to have to stare at horses’ tails, instead of striding out in front!
Mr Landells signalled to Landa. He began to walk. So did I, stepping along the road with my nose in the air. The crowds stood back and cheered.
So there I was, with my strange load on my back. My world, which had felt so crooked and out of shape, seemed almost right again. I was in a caravan…
And now, it seemed, our caravan was on its way at last.
CHAPTER 19
The Camel’s Story
Melbourne, 20 August 1860
But although our caravan was big, it was not a very good one. I had hardly got into my stride before one of the wagons broke.
Why did our caravan need big wagons? A caravan just needs tents and carpets, some flour and a pot or two.
Truly, the ways of humans are strange.
We all stopped while the wagon was fixed. I was irritated that I’d had to break my stride, but I hardly deigned to turn my head to see what all the fuss was about.
We started off again. But I was beginning to feel less happy. I didn’t like the smell of the horses pulling the wagons. Nor did the horses like the smell of us. They squealed and twitched their tails and tossed their heads. I was so annoyed I broke away, and chased a man who blew a whistle at me. The crowd scattered as I lunged! But just as I was about to pick him up with my strong teeth Dost Mahomet grabbed my rope.
Phut! And phooey too!
Two more wagons broke, which led to more yelling and more fuss. And so we stopped again.
But I endured it all without complaining (much).
At last we set off yet again. But now the horses were really spooked, with us camels stalking so close behind them. I snickered to myself and aimed a spitball at the hindquarters of the one nearest to me. It splattered as it hit and the horse reared, its rider almost falling off.
Finally, just as we were leaving the houses and all the yelling humans behind, with a good smell of grass in front of us and even a horizon I could see, a man rode up on a horse and called for us to stop again.
I ignored him, of course. What camel pays attention to a man on a horse? But Mr Landells called out, ‘Yes, Mr Burke.’
I chewed my cud and waited, while all around me people yelled and horses shied, and this Mr Burke yelled as he tried to organise it all.
Then finally we were off again. But this time we camels strode along one side of the road—with me leading the pack camels, of course—and all the horses on the other, with Mr Burke riding his horse Billy between the two lines.
Horses! I spit upon them all.
There wasn’t time to walk far now, for the sun was sliding down the sky. But at least we travelled far enough to get away from all the houses, though there were still too many for my liking and the road was hard from cart wheels and hooves.
We camped by a small, muddy creek that wound its way between the paddocks. (Paddocks are the way men divide parts of the world and that is all I am going to say. It is too complicated an idea for a young camel like you to understand.)
We camels were put to graze on one side of the road, and the horses with the wagons on the other. But when I headed down to the creek to drink, Dost Mahomet held me back so that the horses could drink first! Oh, the shame of it! The indignity! I spit upon those horses, I do indeed!
But I held my temper. I didn’t bite or kick, or even spit, except once at a horse who dared to stare at me too hard. I told myself that horses were weak beings and needed water more than us strong camels, and this was why they had their drink before us.
At last Rajah and the others and I could drink our fill. The water tasted good, too. I couldn’t remember when I had last tasted running water that smelt of soil and rock and sunlight, not of a bucket or rain barrel. Then Dost Mahomet and the others gave us some grain—not much, for there was grass, and there were even a few bushes for us to graze on.
I’d already scouted around. The best grass was on the horses’ side of the road (phut and phooey!). So I headed over there, as fast as my hobbles would let me.
Dost Mahomet grinned, as though he had expected exactly that. ‘None of that,’ he said to me. He grasped my lead rope and led me back to the camels’ side. ‘Here you are, Bell Sing, back where you belong.’
So I began to eat. Fresh food at last, good grass and leaves! They tasted different from the ones at home. But good. The sky above and the world below, and tomorrow I would walk in a caravan again.
Yes, life was getting back to normal at last.
CHAPTER 20
Dost Mahomet’s story
Moonee Ponds (outskirts of Melbourne), 20 August 1860
It was not a good start to the journey. The wagons broke. Men got drunk and fought. Mr Burke fired three of them, and hired four more even before we had left the city that first day. Ha, I thought. Men like those would run from the bang of an empty gun.
We had only made it to the outskirts of Melbourne by nightfall, when we had to camp. Esau Khan made a special fire for the four of us, just beyond the tents. After our sunset prayers we had approached the big fire where the other men in the expedition sat, cooking their meat on sticks above the flames. But one of the men yelled something at us—words I didn’t understand. It was clear they didn’t want us at their fire.
I thought of the way we had all sat together each night on the way to Karachi, even though we were men of different lands and faiths. But this was Australia. Things were different. Perhaps, I thought, it would be better for us cameleers to have a fire to ourselves. We could cook our own food there, and make sure that it was not pork, and had been killed properly, as Allah requires. We could talk freely without being overheard.
For already there were things that worried me about this expedition.
I squatted by the fire and took the hunk of salt beef Belooch passed me. Simla sat beside me and nibbled on a small piece of bread.
‘What do you think of it all?’ Belooch asked us softly.
Esau Khan coughed before he answered. I hoped that now we were away from the city the good clean air would cure him.
‘Most of the men are drunk!’ he said. ‘And how can an expedition have a leader who does not even know not to mix camels and horses? Any child in a caravan can tell you that.’ He shook his head. ‘I tried to
tell Mr Burke, but he yelled at me to go back to my camels.’ I glanced at Esau Khan in the firelight. I had seen Mr Burke slash at him with his whip too. But I would not embarrass my friend by saying so.
‘The wagons are overloaded, even with the extra three Mr Burke hired before we left,’ said Simla. He glanced over at Mr Burke’s tent and shook his head. We could see Mr Burke sitting there grandly at his big polished table, a giant candelabra filled with candles that flickered in the evening breeze. ‘They even have brushes to flick the dandruff from their coats! What does a caravan need with things like these?’
What caravan has a leader who hasn’t even worked out which way to go? I thought. But I didn’t say it. I was still afraid the others might decide to leave.
‘Think of our wages,’ I said quietly. But inside I was thinking: It is worth anything to be part of an adventure like this.
CHAPTER 21
Dost Mahomet’s story
Bolinda, 23 August 1860
Simla left our expedition at Bolinda three days later. His face was thin with hunger, for he had had nothing but bread to eat since we left Melbourne, though he had worked as hard as any of us.
Simla had tried to talk to Mr Burke, to ask him to advance him wages to buy a sheep or goat that he might slaughter, so he could eat too. But Mr Burke just waved him away. Even Mr Landells just slapped poor Simla on the shoulder.
‘You’ll just have to make do, boy,’ he said. ‘If it’s good enough for white men it should be good enough for you.’
It was strange, I thought. Back home old Uncle spat at Hindus, and called them ‘fish eaters’. Here, among strangers, Simla was our friend.
So Simla said goodbye to us. Tears ran down his face. He had come so far, with so much hope. Now it had all been for nothing.
I watched him trudge back along the track to Melbourne. It was raining, a sharp gusty rain that spat in our faces and left us shivering.
Now there were only three of us.
CHAPTER 22
The Camel’s Story
Travelling north of Bendigo, towards the Murray River, August 1860
It was good to be part of a caravan again, even one with so many (phut!) horses, and even with all the rain. Luckily there was so much mud that the horses and the wagons could not keep up with us and travelled behind.
Sometimes Mr Landells yelled at us, especially when he had drunk a lot from his flask. Mr Burke yelled too. Yells are an indignity, no matter who is hurling them at you.
But I was among the grass and trees again, away from the buildings and stinking river, and far away from that swaying sea. There were plenty of delicious shrubs to chew, and plenty of things to see as well—cattle and sheep, which are boring, and towns where we were cheered again, though there weren’t even any stalls where I could nose out dates or apples.
But there were interesting animals too, big new ones that hopped on two big back legs, and left strange droppings among the grass. They were scared by such fine animals as us, and kept out of our way.
And now I could smell something more.
Rock and sand ahead of us, a far horizon and winds that blew forever. They were still a long way away. But we were heading there.
It smelt like a land that I might learn to love.
Most days were spent just with our caravan, the grass, the wind, which was how things ought to be. But on other days humans ran out of their buildings and stared and shouted at the sight of such fine camels. At other times we saw humans with dark skin and no hats or turbans on their heads. They didn’t live in villages, but strode across their land as confident as camels. Once, a few men and a young boy ran right up and pulled my tail, then stood back laughing as I turned and hollared.
‘Bunjip! Bunjip!’ the boy yelled.
‘Get out of it, you thieving savages,’ shouted Mr King. He rode over to the boy and raised his whip.
But Mr Wills rode up on his (phut!) horse. He reached into his pocket and smiled, and threw some sparkling things down to the little boy. ‘Not a bunjip. These just big sheep. You know—baa baa.’
The dark-skinned people stared, then laughed politely, their eyes still wide at the sight of my magnificence.
Ah yes, those days were good, even with the horses.
CHAPTER 23
Dost Mahomet’s Story
Travelling north of Bendigo, towards the Murray River, August to September 1860
It was hard work now. Twenty-seven camels to load and unload, and to hobble, and only three of us to do it all. None of the others helped us, except for Mr Landells and Mr Wills, who would help take the camels to water.
The three of us woke before dawn. First we cleansed ourselves and prayed. Then each camel had to be fetched in, for even a hobbled camel can travel far if they smell good eating. Everything had to be packed and loaded. Then at the end of the day it was all unloaded again.
The other men tended the horses and loaded the wagons, put up the tents and lit the fires. Mr Wills took notes and measured the way we’d come. Mr Burke rode his horse and yelled a lot.
Most of the men rode horses or in the wagons. Mr Landells rode a camel. Dr Beckler’s horse was busiest, dashing here and there as Dr Beckler shouted that he’d found new plants. Sometimes old Dr Becker rode a camel. I had to make it kneel each time Dr Becker wanted to slide off to collect his lizards or beetles. But mostly he rode in one of the wagons, sketching the country as we went.
Dr Becker’s sketches fascinated me, but disturbed me too. Allah forbids us to make images of His creation. Yet I found myself drawn to where Dr Becker sat with his charcoal and his paper, turning the world around us into lines that plodded like camels, or laughed like men.
‘You like to try it, ja?’ Dr Becker offered me the charcoal. But I stepped back and shook my head.
Yes, it was hard. But the land was rich, with good grass and trees. The stars above us swirled in strange new patterns. There were people of the land, too, which no one had told us about. They had black skins and wore few clothes. At first I thought we had been given guns and knives to help protect the caravan, just as we would have at home, and waited for the black men to steal up to us at night to cut out throats.
But the nights were the most peaceful I had ever known.
I was learning the sounds of the bush now. There was a bird that laughed at dawn, almost as though it were calling the three of us to prayer with a cry of delight in the beauty of Allah’s creation. When I heard thuds in the night now, I knew it was what the black men called a wallabi, which was like a small kangaroo. Once I saw thirty or more kangaroos leap across the skyline, almost the colour of the sand.
It was strange, but for the first time I thought of what it might be like to stay here forever, to walk from horizon to horizon.
The land was not paradise. The people were too unfriendly to anyone who was not like themselves. But this was also a land that had not known war. One day we passed a camp of shearers, on their way to work. They slept in the open, with no need of a lookout to keep them safe. Only one had a firearm, and that was to shoot the ducks along the creek. (There were so many at every waterhole that Belooch shot three in the time it takes to breathe three times, and Dr Beckler caught a fish so large it fed ten men, though I refused to taste it.)
There is work here, and good money, I thought, as I trudged beside Bell Sing, for anyone who could walk their caravans across the drylands. This country was so vast that a thousand camels would not be enough to bring supplies to the towns and farms here.
This is a land of plenty, I thought. It is a land of peace.
I would go home, of course. My family was there, blood of my blood, and voices of my heart. I longed to have men of Allah about me again, to be one of a hundred voices raised in prayer, to dip my hand once more into the common bowl of rice and goat and eat with men of my own kind. But I would never be sorry I followed Mr Landells to this land, with its white trees like ghosts. I will tell my grandchildren about this, I thought. They will call me ‘the o
ld man who left his heart in Australia’.
CHAPTER 24
The Camel’s Story
The Murray River, September 1860
At last I smelt a river—a proper one, the sort that travels a long way and knows its business, that floods at times, filling pools that then dry slowly when the rains stay away.
Finally we reached it and began to walk along the bank. I liked its trees, with large trunks dappled cream and grey and small grey-green leaves, singing of deep roots and branches that loved the sun. I drank the river’s scent and thought, Yes, this is good.
That first night by the river I dipped my nose in and drank. Ah, young camel, this waterhole may taste sweet. But a river has a story of all the lands it has passed through. Surely this river had the richest story in the world.
I drank deeply, loving the rich scent. For the first time I thought, If only I were not tethered, not hobbled. If only I could follow this river to find the source of all these scents. If only I were free…
I had never thought anything like that before. I had accepted that it is a camel’s fate to walk with men. But I had seen so many new things now. And this caravan felt wrong.
Still, the thought disturbed me. I put it away, in the back part of my mind. But from now on it would wriggle out again. Once you think things, they can never truly be put away.
CHAPTER 25
John King’s Story
The Murray River, September 1860
We’d just set up camp by the Murray. Not bad country, except for the pests. The flies crawled in your eyes and up your nose. Your chops were crawling with them as soon as you took them from the fire. The mosquitoes bit through everything except our boots. Even the ants stung, and were big enough to eat out a horse’s eyes. They fascinated old Becker, who even admired the country’s scentless flowers. But I was used to vermin from India.
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