The SUV accelerated on towards Iqbal and the others, far on down the track.
After that first time, it was never as hard again. Rashid fell off once, taken by surprise when Hamlul skittered nervously away from the bigger camel that Amal was riding, but he landed in soft sand, and as no others were running behind him he was in no danger of being trampled. He even felt better for his fall. The thing he’d dreaded had happened, and he’d survived it. He wouldn’t be so scared again.
The training intensified. Haji Faroukh often came out now to watch the camels run. The boys were given helmets to wear, and little radio receivers that fitted into pouches on their chests. Abu Nazir no longer had to shout at them through the open windows of the SUV as he drove along the race track beside them. His urgings and curses were transmitted straight to each boy’s radio.
The loud voice from the transmitter had startled and confused Rashid the first time he’d heard it.
‘You get used to it,’ Iqbal said.
To his surprise Rashid found that he was good at running camels. He’d learned fast to find his balance and use the whip. He’d thought at first that he would only be able to manage Hamlul, but he wasn’t so different from the other camels, after all. Only Khamri, the biggest and strongest camel of the uzba, was hard to ride. She was bad-tempered and wilful, prone to lash out with a hind leg in a kick, or snap viciously with her powerful teeth. All the boys were afraid of riding her.
As Rashid became more expert, he noticed how the other boys rode. Puppo was so small that he could do little more than cling to the back of his camel like a monkey. He always rode the smallest camels, who would be slowed by a heavier jockey. Amal was frightened all the time. He was the worst rider, always tense, unable to catch the camel’s rhythm. He jolted along in a miserable huddle, only daring to use his whip when Abu Nazir yelled at him through his headset.
Rashid had expected Iqbal to be the champion of them all, to ride with grace and confidence, coming first every time, and he was surprised when, after only a few training sessions, he left Iqbal trailing at least a length behind. He felt triumphant and beamed at his hero, expecting praise, but Iqbal turned his face away, his mouth set in a tight line, and Rashid, without quite understanding why, almost wished he hadn’t won.
There was still a little edge of fear every time the camel he was riding shot forward into a fast run, and sometimes, if things went badly, or if he was riding Khamri, the fear lasted till the end of the ride and he felt shaky and sick as he dismounted. But often there was a thrill of excitement too, moments of sheer exhilaration, when he felt as if he was flying like a bird.
Two weeks before the first big race day of the season, Khamri went off her feed and began to cough. She was separated from the other camels in a small pen on her own and the vet came out from Dubai to look at her. Abu Nazir stood leaning on the iron rail, watching the vet inspect Khamri’s watering eyes, while Haji Faroukh and Syed Ali walked across to join him.
‘What’s the problem?’ Syed Ali called out anxiously. ‘Is it serious?’
Rashid was busy nearby collecting up dung and putting it into a sack. He heard the vet say, ‘Can’t be sure till I’ve given her a proper examination. Wait till I get my bag from the car,’ and understood the words ‘examination’, ‘bag’ and ‘car’.
‘Khamri’s always been a tricky one,’ Syed Ali said. ‘I’ve never had a camel that’s given me more trouble.’
‘Yes, but she’s a potential winner,’ said Abu Nazir. ‘She’s got the aggression. She could win you the golden sword this season, if she’s on form.’
‘How is she performing in training?’ asked Syed Ali. ‘Which boy’s riding her? Can they manage her?’
Rashid began to pay more attention, trying to understand, edging closer to the huddle of men as he looked for droppings in the sand.
‘I’ve tried them all out on her,’ Abu Nazir said. ‘It ought to be Amal. He’s the heaviest. But that child’s a wash-out. Needs a good thrashing if you ask me.’
Haji Faroukh had been standing back respectfully, but now he cleared his throat.
‘Since he had the accident—’ he began.
‘Accident!’ scoffed Abu Nazir. ‘We organized proper treatment for him and the hospital’s signed him off. Cost us a fortune! He’s a skiver, that one. He’s putting on weight too. I’m sure that crafty Sudanese boy slips them too much food.’
‘No, sir, he can’t. I keep a firm hand on all that side of things,’ Haji Faroukh said earnestly. ‘We can’t cut their diet back any further. They’re growing boys, after all.’
‘Growing, that’s the problem,’ grumbled Abu Nazir. ‘Still, I have heard - in other uzbas - there are ways of dealing with it. Electricity treatment for one.’
Rashid shivered. He knew what electricity meant.
‘What do you mean?’ Syed Ali turned a troubled face to him.
‘Shocks. It stops the growth rate. Keeps them obedient too. Quite a useful deterrent to lazy, cheeky boys.’
‘So painful though, sir, wouldn’t it be?’ Haji Faroukh said, shaking his head.
Abu Nazir shrugged.
‘Kids of their kind don’t feel pain. Anyway, they soon forget it.’
‘No.’ Syed Ali was shaking his head. ‘I won’t permit that sort of thing. Not on my uzba.’
‘Look, cousin, you want to win the golden sword or not?’ Abu Nazir said impatiently. ‘There’ll be no chance at all with overweight jockeys.’
‘There must be other ways of keeping their weight down. Use your judgment, my dear fellow, but no cruelty, please.’
‘It’ll have to be laxatives then,’ Abu Nazir said discontentedly. ‘Only two weeks to go. And we’ll have to sweat the weight off them. Get them running laps, Haji. You’ll have to see to it.’
‘How’s Yasser doing? Shaping up all right?’ Syed Ali asked, after a pause.
‘Very well, sir.’ Haji Faroukh seemed relieved to change the subject.
‘Yes, he’s got quite a flair for it,’ agreed Abu Nazir. ‘He’s our best hope for a good win. If we can get Khamri fit in time, I’ll team her up with Yasser. They might even pull off the big one.’
Rashid, hearing the name Yasser, was listening even more intently.
The vet had finished his work. He let himself out of the pen.
‘Nothing serious,’ he said, closing his bag. ‘She’s got a cold, that’s all. Blanket her up at night, keep her nostrils clear, feed her well and let her rest for a day or two. Should be fine next week.’
The men began to walk back slowly towards the guest house.
‘Interesting rumours about these new changes to the law,’ remarked the vet, handing his bag to Haji Faroukh to carry.
‘Changes? Affecting racing?’ Syed Ali asked, surprised.
‘Haven’t you heard . . .’
They had reached the guest house and Syed Ali was politely ushering the vet inside. They would be settled in there for hours now, Rashid knew. He couldn’t hear their conversation any more. In any case, he was no longer interested.
They think I’m good, he told himself with pride. But a second thought made him shiver. I’ve got to ride Khamri in the big race.
11
As the first big race day of the season approached, Rashid could almost feel the tension crackling in the air of the uzba. Under Abu Nazir’s eagle eyes the boys’ diet had been cut back even further, and they had been sent out on long runs, forced to go on when they flagged with agonizing touches of the electric prod. Weakened by exhaustion, as well as the laxatives that had sent them running to the toilet, they had no energy for football, but flopped down wearily in their shelter whenever they had the chance.
The day before the race, the camels were as restless and irritable as the men and boys. Their stomachs had been purged, they had been given no food and were hungry and hard to handle. Irritated by her muzzle, Lashmi had lashed out at Salman with a blow that would have broken his leg if it had hit its mark. Salman had jumped aside, but
a little too slowly, and Lashmi had caught him in the back, sending him spinning into a fall. Salman had been hobbling about all day, angry with himself and everyone else.
Evening came at last. The boys flopped down wearily in their shelter, too tired to play. Puppo was holding something in his hand, rubbing it on his cheek and crooning a meaningless string of words.
‘Shut that noise up!’ Iqbal burst out suddenly. ‘You’re driving me crazy!’
Puppo stared back at him and sang louder than ever.
Iqbal lurched forward and grabbed Puppo’s hand, prising his fingers open.
‘What have you got? What are you doing?’
A shiny metal buckle fell out of Puppo’s hand on to the sand.
‘That’s mine!’ Iqbal said indignantly. ‘You nicked it off my bag.’
Both boys lunged for it. Iqbal got there first and snatched it away.
‘It’s not! It’s mine! I want it!’ yelled Puppo.
‘Little thief, little thief, little thief,’ chanted Iqbal, waving the buckle high up, out of Puppo’s reach.
Puppo’s face was red with rage and he flailed his arms, hitting out wildly at Iqbal.
‘I’m not a thief! I hate you!’
‘You are a thief, Puppo,’ Rashid said, looking sideways at Iqbal. ‘It’s Iqbal’s buckle.’
Iqbal was holding Puppo away from himself by the arms. Puppo was trying to kick him. He lost his balance and fell in a heap on the ground. He gave up trying to fight and filled his lungs with shuddering breaths, preparing to bellow.
‘Puppo’s a thief! Puppo’s a thief!’ chanted Iqbal nastily.
Rashid began to feel uncomfortable. He looked at Amal, but Amal seemed unaware that anything was happening. He was sitting on his heels, his hands clasped between his knees, his shoulders hunched, rocking. Rashid wished Iqbal would stop baiting Puppo.
‘You can have my sandals if you like, Puppo,’ he said. ‘They’re too small for me now.’
Puppo was getting his breath back for a second roar, but he stopped to think about this offer. He rolled over, picked up a playing card that had become separated from the pack and flung it at Iqbal. Iqbal ignored him. He had turned on Rashid, his eyes sparkling with aggression.
‘Think you’re so clever,’ he said, in the same hateful, teasing voice. ‘Mister Clever Clever. Think you can win all the races.’
Rashid’s heart began to hammer.
‘I don’t! I never did!’
Puppo, distracted by this new quarrel, had fallen silent and was watching the other two, a slick of snot sliding down from his nose to his mouth.
‘Mister Know-it-all,’ spat Iqbal, his face screwed up tightly. ‘Me and Amal, we’re better than you. Won loads of races, haven’t we, Amal?’
All three boys looked at Amal, who went on rocking, taking no notice of them.
‘I know you have,’ Rashid said, bewildered. ‘I’ll never be as good as you, Iqbal. Not ever. I know I won’t.’
‘You don’t know anything.’ Iqbal looked away from him and bit his lip.
Rashid saw that for some reason the tide of anger was draining out of him.
‘I do know you’re better than me,’ he said humbly.
‘Yeah, but you’re going to win, aren’t you? Everyone knows that. You’re going to ride Khamri. I heard Haji Faroukh say,’ said Iqbal.
Rashid shut his eyes and shuddered. He didn’t want to think about it.
‘I don’t want to ride Khamri. I hate Khamri. She’s scary. You can ride her, Iqbal. I’ll ask Haji.’
‘Ask Haji?’ scoffed Iqbal. ‘Are you crazy?’
He had been staring angrily out of the shelter but now he glanced quickly at Rashid’s unhappy face. For a moment their eyes met. Iqbal looked away first.
‘Khamri’s not so bad if you get off to a good start,’ he said reluctantly. Rashid held his breath. He could see that Iqbal’s mood was changing. ‘You have to be careful at the beginning, that’s all. You’ve got to watch out for the barrier.’ He frowned importantly, resuming his role of guide and mentor. ‘It goes up when the race starts. You’ve got to watch out and duck underneath it. Don’t let it catch you or it’ll knock you off the camel. Might even knock you out. Might even kill you, if it hits you in the neck. That’s the worst bit. The start. Getting out under the barrier.’
Rashid let out a sigh of relief. He had hardly heard what Iqbal was saying. He only knew that the quarrel was over, and that Iqbal was his old self again, taking the lead, telling him what to do.
The buckle had slipped out of Iqbal’s grasp and was lying in the sand. Puppo’s hand was creeping towards it. Iqbal noticed, snatched it up and dropped it on Puppo’s head.
‘Take it, you silly baby,’ he said. ‘Who wants a stupid old buckle anyway?’
Puppo pulled the buckle out of his hair and held it in a tight fist, staring at Iqbal, not sure whether to thank him or to object to being called a baby.
They were distracted by Amal, who was creeping into the sleeping hut. He lay down in a corner and turned his face to the wall.
Rashid slept deeply that night, in spite of his anxiety. He was woken by a shake from Salman.
‘Here, put this on.’ Salman was holding out an armful of thin, brightly coloured clothes.
Sleepily, Rashid struggled into a tight fitting silky top and a pair of light cotton trousers. The others were silently dressing too. They staggered out into the dawn light, and Iqbal led the way to the kitchen.
‘Is that all?’ Rashid said, looking down at the half piece of bread that Salman had given him before running off to join Haji Faroukh in the camel pen.
‘Yes, and you don’t get anything else all day when you’re racing,’ Iqbal said.
He spoke in his old superior way, and Rashid nodded, relieved that last night’s quarrel seemed to have been forgotten. He couldn’t bear the thought that Iqbal might turn on him again.
‘Muzzles! Harnesses! Saddles! Helmets! Get on with it, you lazy kids!’ Haji Faroukh yelled across at them.
With automatic obedience, the four children trotted to the store and emerged a moment later, their helmets on their heads, their arms laden with ropes and cloths.
‘What’s that stuff?’ Rashid said, nodding at the pile of thick webbed harnesses that Iqbal was carrying.
‘You have to wear one,’ Amal answered unexpectedly. ‘They put a rope through it up your back and tie you on to the camel.’
‘Oh.’ Rashid’s face brightened. ‘So you can’t fall off so easily?’
‘Supposed to be. But when you do fall off you get dragged along the ground and can’t roll clear,’ Amal went on bitterly. ‘And all the other camels coming along behind stamp all over you.’
He looked as if he wanted to be sick.
‘Get on with it! Hurry up!’ Haji Faroukh called out. ‘Late already! Abu Nazir will be at the race course by now.’
Iqbal and Amal were putting their harnesses on, folding the velcro shoulder straps in place. Puppo was standing with his arms raised, waiting for someone to do it for him.
‘Do it yourself, Puppo,’ snapped Salman. ‘You not a baby now.’
Rashid put on his own harness, copying the others, then he bent down to help Puppo, who was struggling with his straps. Puppo pushed him away.
‘I do it. Not a baby any more.’
Haji Faroukh had forced Hamlul, Lashmi, Duda and Soudani to kneel. Amal, Puppo and Iqbal mounted, and their camels rose with protesting groans.
Rashid hopped on to Hamlul, relieved that at least he could ride his favourite camel as far as the race track. The harness felt strange and itchy, but he hardly noticed it. His stomach was fluttering uncomfortably and his mouth was dry. Salman was attaching another camel to Hamlul’s bridle. He would ride Khamri in the rear.
It was a relief to be outside the uzba on the familiar path to the race track. The camels were settling down. It was still early, and a cool breeze was blowing eddies of sand and thorn twigs across the ground between the palm-frond fe
nces.
They rode out into the open ground, and Rashid could see, streaming in from all directions across the desert, strings of camels, their saddle cloths fluttering, their tiny riders’ bright plastic helmets glinting in the sun. Far away, on the flat horizon, the skyscrapers of Dubai shimmered in the haze.
Rashid had ridden round the race track so often during the night exercises that he had thought every metre of it was familiar, but the place looked different today. Dozens of white four-by-four vehicles were parked near the start of the track. The camel owners, each man dressed in a white dishdash and black-roped headdress, were standing together in knots, touching their chests in courteous gestures as they greeted new arrivals, while their masouls and trainers led the camels into the starting pen.
Rashid picked out Syed Ali and Abu Nazir, but he wasn’t interested in the camel owners. He was scrutinizing the other small boys riding in on their camels, recognizing a few that he’d met at Friday prayers. Guiltily, he realized that he was half hoping that Shari wouldn’t be there. His last sight of Shari, through the gap in the palm-frond fence, had upset him so much that he almost dreaded the thought of seeing him again.
There was much more noise today than usual. A generator was clanking, and car engines, reversing into the parking places, added to the mechanical roar. Camels were groaning in throaty resignation. Flocks of pigeons fluttered, pecking at dung.
Haji Faroukh led his string of camels to an unoccupied corner of the holding pen and jerked on one bridle after another to make the camels kneel. He and Salman set about muzzling them, and, their mouths covered, their backs swathed with blankets, the camels sat quietly, subdued.
All around the holding pen, masouls from the different uzbas were eyeing each other and their camels with wary friendliness. Some, like Haji Faroukh, were wearing the shalwar kameez of Pakistan, but there were Africans here, and Indians as well.
Iqbal had been watching Haji Faroukh walk across to talk to someone he knew, and he took the chance to slip off to the side of the holding pen where a knot of boys had gathered. Puppo followed on his heels. Salman had been watching Khamri. The big camel was more jittery than the others, twisting her head from side to side. Salman took hold of her bridle and squatted down on the sand beside her to keep her calm. Amal sat on his own some way off, pouring rivulets of sand rhythmically through his fingers on to his big toe.
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