Camel Rider Read online

  It does finally stop and all I can hear is the hum of the airconditioner as it kicks in to keep the house at the constant, freezing temperature that my mum insists on. Sometimes it’s so cold inside and so hot outside the windows stream with condensation, just like it’s raining. Of course, it’s not. It only rains a couple of times a year in the city. It’s great when it does, because it’s usually a big storm and the water is all over the road. Me and my mates get on our bikes and ride through it and make the biggest waves. The best storms, though, are in the mountains in the summer time. There was a picture in the paper, of water taller than me coming down a wadi, which is a dried-up creek bed. I wish I’d been there with my surfboard. It would have been awesome.

  But there’s not likely to be any rain today. Grey light comes through the arched window of my huge bedroom. When we first came to live here, we couldn’t believe the size of the houses and the rooms, but the Arabs like to build massive houses out of all this poured concrete. The walls are really thick to keep the heat out and the cool of the airconditioning in. And you need the space because you have to spend a lot of time inside. As usual, my room’s a mess, but I don’t care. Chandra will clean it up.

  That thought gets me moving. Chandra will be up soon, and I want to make the most of today. I need to be gone before she realises I’m awake. Not that it’s a big deal, really, because no matter what my mum thinks, I do what I like when there’s only Chandra here. But Chandra cries if I don’t do what she tells me. She thinks Mum will tell her off. Really it would be me Mum’d get stuck into; still, it’s easier just to go. That way Chandra’s too scared to tell Mum what I’ve done and I won’t have to see Chandra cry.

  I hear Tara thumping her tail, and I feel her long, cold, black nose on my face. Tara’s my dog and she sleeps in my room. She’s just the right height to be able to give me a lick without having to jump up onto the bed. If I wasn’t properly awake before, I am now.

  ‘Hey, girl,’ I say, as I sit upright. ‘We’re going surfing.’

  I pull on an old T-shirt and my favourite shorts – the pair my mum hates because she says they drag around my bum and dag around my knees. She says I look like I’ve grown up in a gutter or something, instead of having all the privileges other boys my age would give their right arm for, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

  I’ve heard it so many times before. ‘You’re too spoilt,’ she says. Blah, blah, blah. That’s when I turn right off. All I want to do is surf and hang out with my mates. Nearly everyone in our group came here at about the same time when their dads, like mine, got a job with the new airline. We all come from different places – Australia, England, Canada, Kenya, Belgium, Spain and New Zealand, too. When we were young we used to call ourselves the Compound Kids. Now we just call ourselves the Sea Ks, which sort of still stands for Compound Kids but also means Sea Kings. That’s what we are.

  My mum reckons it’s been good for my development to go to an International School with lots of kids from other countries. But when I ask why I can’t stay here, she says I’ll end up an expat for the rest of my days if I don’t know where my real home is. But this is home. And Nigel and Jean-Marie and Bud and Nelson and Jose and Jason are my mates.

  I don’t even mind that it’s so hot here. And it is hot. Hotter than Hell. I’m not supposed to swear. But how can ‘Hell’ be a proper swearword when it’s supposed to be a place? And seriously, even Hell couldn’t be as hot as it is here in summer.

  It’s late August now. But it’s been hot since May and it won’t cool down until October. Most people hate the summer in Abudai because it’s over 40°C every day and it never gets cool outside. You have to live in airconditioning all the time. And I don’t even need to be told to cover myself with sunscreen. You can get burned really quickly.

  I smear the sticky cream all over my face and arms and legs and then put another thick blob on my nose to make sure. I cram the bottle into my back pocket and grab my favourite cap. Mum’s always worrying I’ll end up with heatstroke riding my bike down to the beach and back. The sun does beat down a bit, but as long as we get back before about midday it’s not too bad.

  Apart from the sunburn, I like the summer because it means we get extra long holidays. If I was allowed to stay here, I would still have three weeks of holidays left and then I’d be going into my first year at Abudai Secondary College. That’s where all my mates are going. I’ve tried to tell Mum and Dad that going back to Australia isn’t fair. I’ll have to do half a year more at school than anyone else because school here started in September last year and finished in June this year. Back in Australia they’ll only be halfway through the year. And I won’t know anybody. And I’ll miss Tara. It’s not fair! I want to stay here.

  ‘Come on, girl,’ I call softly to Tara, but she just flicks one ear.

  ‘We’re going surfing,’ I say again. That usually gets her excited, but she still doesn’t move. In the grey light, I can see her outline. Some people say she’s a funny-looking dog, but I think she’s beautiful. I have to admit she doesn’t look like any other dog I know, but that’s because she’s a ‘bitsa’ – with bitsa this and bitsa that in her. She’s got tall skinny legs like a desert dog, a long pointy nose like a wolfhound and a black coat like a labrador. And she’s got the biggest ears. They look like radars. It wouldn’t surprise me if she could pick up messages from aeroplanes flying overhead with those ears. And she’s definitely one smart dog. She knows exactly what’s going on, all the time.

  With her ears up and angled out she looks just like these dog mummies we saw in a museum in Eygpt when Mum and Dad and Sarah and I went over there for a holiday. They say the ancient Egyptians used to love their dogs so much that when a dog died everyone shaved off their eyebrows. How cool is that?

  Sarah bought a little statue of one of those dogs while we were there because she said it looked just like Tara. It does, too, and Sarah took it back to boarding school with her. She said it meant she could have Tara looking after her there.

  Tara is good at guarding. She sits by the gate and watches everyone like that’s her job. I reckon Tara’s great-great-great-hundreds-of-great-grandfather would’ve sat outside some Pharaoh’s temple and kept tomb robbers away.

  ‘What can you hear, girl?’ I ask. Tara suddenly rushes to the door barking like there’s something out there she wants to chase.

  ‘Tara!’ I yell over her barking, to try and shut her up. I don’t need her to wake Chandra up. Or half the compound, either.

  Then there’s a noise so loud it drowns out my yell. It even drowns out Tara’s barking.

  It’s like thunder. But I know it can’t be thunder. There might be storms in the mountains at this time of year, but not here on the coast. Not here.

  Then, out of nowhere, comes a whining roar. It’s like a swarm of giant, angry mosquitoes.

  I know that sound. I was born at a military airbase. My dad was a pilot in the airforce before we came over here. I recognise that crackling noise.

  Military planes, igniting their afterburners.

  Waves of them begin to scream overhead. Must be only about thirty metres above the ground by the noise they’re making and the shuddering I can feel. My ears are ringing. I can see Tara opening her mouth, but I can’t hear her barking any more. I know she is, though. She’s not scared of anything: not firecrackers or thunder. She just wants to protect our family.

  I can’t work out what’s going on. Why would planes like these be coming over so low at this time of the morning? I figure it must be some sort of military exercise so I run out on to the balcony, which faces the outside of the compound. I want a good view of this show!

  They’re coming from the direction of the coast and they’re flying very low – not much higher than our rooftop as they swoop away.

  I recognise the shape of them. Phantoms! But nobody has Phantoms nowadays. They’re really old technology. Nobody except the Sultan of Mafi, who’s in charge of a small country to the south of here. But what are th
ey doing having a military exercise in Abudai?

  Then, from the direction of the desert, I see a scramble of Abudai Tomcats. Wow!

  The Phantoms head straight for the Centra Tower, the tallest building in Abudai. They look as if they’re going to hit about the tenth floor, but they pull up and go over it. And then it’s like bits start falling off the wings. Long, black, egg-shaped bits. I know what they are, but I can’t believe what’s happening.

  The top of the Centra explodes. The noise is huge. In movies things like this happen in slow motion. But all I can see is stuff flying upwards and out, like it’s being thrown up by some gigantic hand.

  It happens quickly. Too quickly.

  Holy Hell! They’re dropping bombs.

  CHAPTER FOUR_WALID

  DAWN IN THE DESERT, DAY ONE

  ‘Halas! Finish!’ A voice is bawling louder than a bull camel. It is Breath of Dog at the doorway of the hut where he and Old Goat sleep.

  I have not taken water for him to wash before prayers. For this he will be angry – and for waking him with so much noise. I can see the darkness in his eyes as he wraps his doti around him, the cloth is tight around his bulging belly. He strides towards us.

  Now, I am thinking, is a good time to run fast away, for with this call to prayer Old Goat and Breath of Dog must stop all things, even beatings, to be saying prayers.

  I dodge under the arm of Old Goat, jump over the heads of Badir and Mustapha who are crying. Like babies, they are – always frightened.

  ‘What is this loud disturbance?’ yells Breath of Dog.

  ‘It is being Walid’s fault.’

  As I run from the yard, I hear Badir and Mustapha squealing like rats. I want to spit on them! I hate them! Breath of Dog favours them because they are small and light and the camel does not feel their weight upon its back, which is why, in the races, they come in front of me. Always they are mocking me, calling out ‘Camel Shanks, Camel Shanks, always in the last ranks’.

  I know my legs are long and skinny and, in truthfulness, looking like those of a camel. But I do not know why, because even when I am so hungry, I do not eat all my daily roti and rice. Yet, still I am growing.

  I do not want to grow and become too heavy on the back of a camel, for then it will never win any race. And I must win. Even just one big race, for then I will earn many dirhams, much money. Then my mama and I can go back to Bangladesh.

  If Babu were alive, we would be there still. After he got the sickness in his chest and died, Mama paid all our rupees to the dalals for buying passports so we could come to this country. They told my mama that if I am a good little boy, smart little boy, then I will learn reading and writing and very soon, they said, I would become rich like a sheikh. I was very proud when I heard this. I promised Mama that I would be the best camel rider in the world.

  ‘Always Walid!’ I hear Breath of Dog snort. ‘For sure, I will give you one hell of a beating after the praying. Too much! You will be crying for your mama.’

  ‘I am never crying!’ I yell. When the flames of anger leap in my chest, then no tears can come. ‘You will never catch me for I am running fast away.’

  ‘Ha!’ roars Breath of Dog. ‘The police will catch you and they will give you one hell of a thrashing and put you in prison.’

  ‘And Allah will cast your soul into the pits of Hell to burn forever for not saying your prayers,’ screams Old Goat.

  ‘I am not scared of police or Hell or anything,’ I yell, but it is not the truth. Sometimes, at night, before I am sleeping, I am being very frightened of the punishment of Allah for not always saying prayers and for being bad like Old Goat is always saying.

  ‘Before you run fast away, see to the camels,’ shouts Breath of Dog.

  The camels! I cannot run away, for then who would care for the camels? Especially Shirin, with her eyes that have the softness of ripened dates. Gentle Shirin, whose name means ‘sweet’. Who would help her when she is ready to calve? Very soon, she will need me to carry soft hay for her to lie on when she brings this new calf into the world. As I think of Shirin, the redness of my anger soaks away, like the water in the sands.

  I will untie the hobbles on Shirin so she can move more easily, so she can find the sweetest grasses further away. Breath of Dog will be angry. He never unties the hobbles, for he says the camels will roam too far. But already he is angry, and I will get a beating so it is no matter. I know Shirin will return when I call her.

  Every morning, the camels greet me with eagerness to be freed from the pen where they are kept at night, but as I pull back the gate of woven palm fronds they are looking in the other direction, towards the desert.

  ‘My beauties! My pets! My gentlenesses! My joys!’ I call. Shirin, who is the most special to me, turns her long neck and snickers, but there is a fearfulness in the sound. I run to her.

  ‘What is wrong?’ I ask, as I reach up and scratch the bumpy knob on her forehead. ‘Is this calf making a pain in your belly? A small walk and sweet grasses will help.’ I rub her stomach. So big now is the calf inside her that her skin is stretched too tightly. She moans softly as I kneel down to unbind her feet, but the knots are tight. Finally, I release her.

  ‘Ah, there. Thank Allah!’

  As I say this, there is suddenly a noise of tremendous greatness. The air shudders. Above my head, too many aeroplanes come flying. So close. My ears hurt with the crackling roar. They fly towards Abudai like giant bats.

  All the camels are startled, but they are hobbled so cannot move far. All except Shirin. She kicks up her feet and runs away over the dunes.

  ‘Shirin! La! No!’ I yell, and run after her. She is too heavy and there are many holes in the ground – she will trip and break her leg.

  ‘Allah, have mercy!’ I hear Old Goat behind me. From the direction of Abudai I hear a rumbling, and the earth beneath my feet shakes. At the same moment, I see Shirin lurch forwards.

  ‘Allah! La!’

  Then, as Shirin crashes down, I hear a sound like the snapping of a branch that has been dried by many summers in the burning sun. Her fearful screaming is like a knife wound in my heart.

  ‘This is war!’ I hear Breath of Dog yell. And when I turn away from the sight of Shirin lying with the white bone sticking out from her leg, I see, in the distance, the top of the tall tower of Abudai explode.

  CHAPTER FIVE_ADAM

  JUST AFTER DAWN IN ABUDAI, DAY ONE

  ‘What’s happening?’ That’s our standard Sea K greeting, but everyone in the compound is yelling it now.

  I can hear them as I run down the stairs and push open the big sliding glass doors in our sitting room, the ones that lead straight into the communal garden. There are about fifty people out there already. Most of them are still in their dressing gowns.

  Somebody’s got to know what’s going on. But I look around and listen to what they’re saying, and nobody seems to know what’s happening at all.

  ‘It’s the Iraqis,’ I hear Mr Walker, from two doors down, saying.

  Dumbo. Iraqis don’t have Phantoms.

  ‘It must just be an exercise,’ says Mr Lemere, Jean-Marie’s dad.

  Yeah, right. Some exercise, when they blow the top off the Centra Tower.

  ‘I knew it would happen one day.’

  ‘Is it an invasion?’

  ‘We’ll have to get out of here before they round us up.’

  Mr Bigg, Nigel’s dad, is trying to organise everybody to head off through the mountains to Suman.

  For some dumb reason I think about Sarah. She’ll go green when she hears about this. She’s obsessed with being a journalist. Not long after we arrived, the first summer when it was a bit boring here, Mum suggested she start up a newspaper in the compound. Sarah got right into it. She called it the Compound Network News – CNN. She used to go around and try to dig up interesting information and she’d interview people and stuff. Dad even made her a special press badge with a string and everything. She thought it was pretty cool and wore it ar
ound her neck just like the reporters on TV. This’d make the CNN headlines for sure. Hell, it’s even going to make the real CNN news. ‘Centra Tower Bombed!’ is a bit more interesting than ‘Missing Cat!’ or ‘Hot-Water Tank Bursts in Number 3!’

  Then I see my friend, Jason, who lives three doors down. He’s in his jocks and a singlet and he’s shaking although it’s not cold. Jason’s a Kiwi. He and I are the only Sea Ks here right now. His mum doesn’t like to go home at this time of year because she says New Zealand’s too cold. But my other friends – Nigel, Jean-Marie, Bud, Jose and Nelson – are all away for the summer.

  Jason’s not, like, my best friend or anything. He’s a bit too much of a show-off sometimes, but he’s okay. I go over to talk to him, hoping I don’t look as white as he does.

  ‘Hey!’ I say. Then, at the same time, we both say, ‘What’s happening, man?’

  There might only be the two of us, but we’re still Sea Ks; we’re still cool. Jason grins, but his eyes look frightened. Then, I can’t help it, I start to giggle.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ he asks. I can’t reply because I don’t really know. It’s nothing and everything. Crazy things. I point to Mr Bigg who’s bossing everyone around. He’s just wearing his boxer shorts with little devils on them and his stomach is hanging in rolls over the waistband. Jason starts to giggle, too.

  ‘And look at old Mrs Vane,’ he splutters. ‘You can see her black lacy nightie underneath that leopard-print thing she’s got wrapped around her.’

  Then, in the distance, there’s a rumbling noise.

  ‘That’s tanks,’ Jason says, sounding half scared and half excited and all know-it-all. Like he’s the only one who can tell what the noise is.

  ‘Yeah, I know … ’ I begin to say, but there’s a volley of shots that sound really close. We can hear men shouting in Arabic. Mrs Vane screams and starts to cry loudly, and that sets some of the little kids off. Somebody else swears and says we’re all going to die. Then everybody starts either yelling orders or asking questions.