Deserted

"No chappathi, no chai, no woman, no cry..."

The camel guide's little poems make no real sense but he drifts between them and local desert singing with ease. In the wind they are almost indistinguishable and both become strangely haunting. The same wind forces my eyes low but visibility is down to a hazy kilometre of scrub in any direction so it makes no odds. The heat is oppressive (47'C they reckon later) and the wind alleviates this a small but precious amount, wind chill if you will. Between the conditions and the sleepy plodding of my camel my senses are reduced to a small bubble, like having your hood up in heavy rain.

Because of my detachment the well comes up like a traditional mirage, to my mind appearing from nowhere. It is a raised well with a concrete cover and a trough to the side for the animals to drink from. The animals rely on the locals to haul up water to fill it, emphasising the delicate balance of life in such a place. There are several different types of animals congregated at the well but they are almost all disappointingly familiar. There are a few cattle, common to the streets of most cities in India, but skinnier here for not having all that urban debris to forage. Sheep shiver in the shade of one small bush, their desparate panting emphasised by one particular sheep whose bell rings with a forced, steady rhythm. Goats stutter around with their evil eyes while a lone donkey bears a water bag with that sad, empty look that I now suspect is common to all donkeys. Three little birds add a disney touch, bobbing and jumping over each other in the wind and water, but they are overshadowed by the dark swarm of flies around the trough and the general air of burden of the other gathered animals. Our camels are the most exotic presence, with their endearing ugliness, the amazing practicality of their bodies and that unique way they have of sitting, folding their tri-jointed legs in opposite directions.

Alongside the animals there are a few locals from a small village over the dunes, a village of "untoucables", the lowest caste in India. Two men wearing bright turbans, one red and one orange, fill leather water containers draped over the backs of the donkey and a camel. They seem unimpressed by our arrival and the red head squats down on the side of the well and holds forth with one of our guides, using his arms expansively like an Italian. I can't hear what he's saying, I'm still in my own little cocoon and I take advantage of this, using my camera shamelessly. The rest of the locals are grubby kids, watching us curiously from within the security of their goats and sheep, reluctant to smile.

Our guides set to work, Kamal cleans the dead flies from the trough while Mr Seargent refills it from the well. I don't know if Kamal is his real name or one given to him by some of his first lazy tourists which he stuck with for simplicity or as a lasting monument to their (and our) ignorance. At this stage I know he was married by arrangement at age fifteen to a girl aged ten. He now has 3 kids and is only twenty-three years of age despite looking forty. He urges me not to marry. Where Mr Seargent got his name is anyone's guess. The two of them work quickly and seem to pay little attention to the red head. Too soon it is time to climb back onto our grumbling camels and continue on our way.

As we leave, heads bowed, I notice with disappointment tyre tracks on the ground, and the thought of jeeps roaming here makes any remoteness seem fanciful and staged, no doubt a McDonalds is hiding just beyond the dunes. Then I see a camel-drawn water trailer approach and realise with relief that this is the source of the tracks. With my sense of isolation recovered I can surrender again to those simultaeneous feelings of claustrophobia within that limited horizon and agoraphobia of all that windswept emptiness that lies beyond.