The protest against labour

Camels are like cats. When resting, they keep their knobby legs tucked and they regard the surrounding with half closed eyes.

Camels are like giant ostriches in disguise. When plodding, the first bobs on, syncopated, and a second one hidden behind the hump, lion dance style.

We move upwards onto the dunes along the spine of the sand. The trail of camels like waves, softly craning and softly landing. With colourful mats on their backs, they are their own flagged castles.

They are unwilling to kneel down and rest when we have stopped, knowing full well that stopping will make restarting harder. And when they are forced to get to their feet, they make a sound like wailing and grunting. From the deepest parts of their gut, a bemoaning of the desert and the endless cycle of labour. Shadows gradually stretch out again like spiders amidst the symphony of these grunting choristers.