The tones of Ravel’s Bolero is marching it’s way through my cerebellum. It’s rhythmic march undaunted by time or space. It’s rhythmically making me feel a part of the slow plod of the camels as they walk their slow walk through the heat of the desert. Heat waves shimmering over the sand. The light making strange and elusive patterns in the sky. The camel rocking rhythmically in time with the timpanist in the orchestra. Slowly, slowly they majesty of the desert trader caravan makes it’s way through the hills and valleys of the the desert.
The camels carry the luxuries of the time in the saddle bags slung over their rounded backs. The cotton wrapped around your body, head and face doing nothing to reduce the smells of the animals and the heat of the sun. Slowly your mind starts wandering to the oasis you stopped at the night before. The cool night air a balm on your scorched skin.
Deserts aren’t made for westerners. You look back in your minds eye at the bustle that was the camp. The expanse of dark and starts starting at the horizon, starting up out of the dunes themselves. Nowhere is there such an awesome display of environments that are deadly to man. The desert that would take your life as quickly as you slipping into a daze from the heat. The stars, bringers of light and warmth to their planets. Givers of light and life. Just as quickly they would snuff out your existence. But, tonight you are Sir Lawrence of Arabia… ok, you’re a tourist on a camping trip with so many others.
More than a few different languages drift on the cooling desert air. You turn a full three hundred and sixty degrees to take in the expanse from horizon to horizon. The stars spinning dizzyingly above you. The camp light as the camp fires and torches are lit. Tonight you will enjoy the luxuries of a warm meal and a camp bed, someone else made for you. Tomorrow you will sway in the seat on your camel through the golden sea of sand.