Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
Our cameleers were waiting - dignified old Rajput men carrying
moustaches like the photographer's but lighter, counterbalanced
by the regal, intricately tied yellow turbans peculiar to the region
and emblematic of the Golden City. A sense of history, and a pride
in it, run deep here, each man full of family tales about chivalry,
about valour in war.
Leaning at forty-five degrees to support his bag of equipment,
Bentley looked as if he might weep when he saw the camels.
'We
ride
these things?' he croaked.
I couldn't imagine a worse punishment for a man in his condition
either, but I just nodded cheerfully. We arranged for a cameleer to sit
behind him - supposedly so that he'd be free to take pictures, but
really to make sure he didn't faint and plummet to the ground.
He gasped in horror as the camel raised its hind legs, dipping
drastically before straightening up onto all fours. These cameleers
knew their job, though, and knew their camels so well that they
could identify them from footprints alone if necessary.
It was a perfect morning for a caravan, if you were able to enjoy
it. 'Hoppy,' our guide, rode in front, and trundling ahead of him,
soon out of sight, was a camel-drawn wagon with supplies. In the
low, bright sun, we composed a vibrant and timeless image: the
handsomely dressed Rajputs, the camels covered with appliqué
blankets in riotous colours, their saddles huge exotic contraptions
of leather and brass. The tiny silver bells around their necks sparkled
with saffron light and jingled - a practical reassurance to desert
travellers that companions were not far behind.
The camels had an elegant rocking gait. Watching the one ahead,
I found its big oval feet unusually charming as they squashed down
onto soft, thick pads, taking curiously light and dainty steps with long,
shapely legs that had the fur on them decorated with carefully shaved
zigzag patterns. Haughty beasts they were, however, regarding
passengers, drivers, and all passersby with a measured disdain.
They liked to trot occasionally, too, perhaps to prevent the
normally soporific rhythm from putting them to sleep the way it
did their riders. They're not called ships of the desert for their charm,
I suppose. And all ships have to weather out the odd storm at sea.
The desert is nothing if not an ocean of liquid stone.
