It’s complicated: cameleers versus the curmudgeons
The science of human-camel interaction is an inexact one. We control trained camels with a series of rudimentary commands passed down from the legendary Afghan cameleers: 'hoosh' for sit; 'udu' for stop etc.There's also a broad list of dos and don'ts for dealing with them, centred on routine and quietness.
But, just like us, camels are sensitive beings with infinite personality nuances, which has earned them that curmudgeonly reputation. However this is not (necessarily) the case, if you realise that every interaction is a complex series of give-and-takes.
“I'd never connected with big animals before,” says cameleer Andrea Hennings. “But when you load them every day, you touch them, then you form a connection.They are very big animals, but they also have needs just like you.The first thing they like to do is to get a whiff of your smell, check you out. Usually when you walk towards a camel, he or she will lower its head. At first, that can be very scary.” These relationships cannot be rushed either.
“Last year, a new camel just wouldn't hoosh for me.You have to get to know each other. He thought,‘She's new, what am I going to do for her?' Now he knows me and hooshes.”
Appreciation of these pack animals' intense efforts goes a long way to creating a bond.
“Camels are a cross between a good dog and a good horse and they are far superior on both counts,” says volunteer cameleer Charlie Nicholson.“I had a wonderful dog, but he wasn't willing to carry my swag, my water and my rations.”
Some cameleers take a more pragmatic approach to camel psychology.
“When you get to handle these guys all the time, you kid yourself that you make some kind of connection with your favourite camel,” says George Lemann.“But if you haven't got an orange in your hand, it's probably a pretty thin connection.”
After a couple of weeks in the desert, working and walking with them every day, favourites inevitably emerge.
“I've had an affinity with old Sultan since 2010,” says Charlie. “He's mellowed into a groaning old man, as we all do. I fell in love with Gemma, too – she was a lovely camel.”
Getting too close can have its perils. “I don't allow myself to fall in love with them anymore,” says Andrea, “because there were sad experiences before.”
RIP, Sultan, who died late 2019.
In a state of Simpsonian Zen, walking feels neutral. My practical/ ugly hat grows its own personality and becomes part of mine. My perpetually flight-moded iPhone seems like an irrelevance for the first time in its short existence, un-holstered only for memento pics. The oils on my skin rally, as if to prove that showers are a Big City luxury. Little things become big things. Charlie places a ‘green bird flower’ in my hand; it’s deep green with a profile, as the name suggests, which looks like a delicate little bird. I hold it for minutes, think about it for months, conjure it when I need peace.
Andrea carefully negotiates the camels down an oddly familiar dune, the camels jittery because of its gradient. A glint catches my eye in the horizon’s quicksilver lake – a piece of LandCruiser trim. Charlie senses my dismay at reaching the road to civilisation.
“All this nonsense of our so-called sophisticated urban society; it’s all clutter and clatter and clangy – white noise,” he says. “It’s good to get out into this state of mindlessness; just empty the head and let the country talk to you.”
The country has talked to me. And me to it, I realise, often and clearly now. I open the door of the Birdsville-bound LandCruiser to traverse the dunes of a place that from an aeroplane looks like it offers humanity nothing. I shout goodbye to Eddie through the rolled-down window. Engine burbles drown out his reply.
I don’t know when days stop being Tuesdays and Thursdays and turn into a single, surreal billy brew of ritual, circumstance and space.