In the distance, a complete skeleton of a camel sits in
the vast emptiness, bleached white and shimmering in the midday sun. It
is so perfectly preserved, with its skull resting comfortably on the sand,
and its spine articulated so sharply against the ruler-straight horizon,
that it could have been a sculpture placed there by design. My instinct
says, stop the car and take the shot, you will never see a more perfect
specimen, or a more potent symbol of flesh and blood beaten to submission
by the great Sahara. But I keep silent and just let the silvery ghost etch
itself onto my memory as the car hurries on. All the years of travelling
with a film crew have taught me to sublimate those impulses. Not that it
ever gets any easier or any less frustrating, but I have learned through
previous journeys that this is a television series with a tight filming
schedule, and the priority has to be getting from A to B and completing
the required sequences. The director can stop the car, and the cameraman
can stop if he sees something very special, but it is really not my place
to hold up the convoy. Except perhaps for desperate bodily needs. The skeleton
disappears into the dust cloud of our rear wheels. ‘There will be another
one,’ I tell myself, ‘in better light. The light was real dirt-bag anyway…’
I crack open the window an inch to let in some air, only to be greeted by
a blast of scalding wind. As on most of this journey so far, it is often
a choice between roasting in the drowsy stifling heat with all the windows
up, or being barbecued and sandblasted by letting the full fury of the 130sF
desert in. A few miles further on, we see far in the distance that the camera
car has stopped. As we get a little closer, we can just make out that it
may be a flat tyre situation. I find myself cursing them for not getting
the puncture earlier.
The driver is kicking all the tyres. Nigel is walking away from the car
into the desert, in search of that elusive bit of privacy. Nigel, our ace
cameraman, has worked on every one of Michael’s journeys. He is a gentle
soul and a closet perfectionist; I see him as a kindred spirit and my hairy
English brother. We started working together on Pole to Pole. During which,
on one fateful night in Lusaka, Zambia, I gave him the nickname ‘Quasi’
– after Quasimodo, the Hunchback of Notre Dame – when he destroyed a hotel
elevator that was rude to him with a single kick. Unfortunately, the name
stuck. And now, eleven years on, the name has evolved into a verb, ‘to quasi’,
meaning any act of wanton violence against inanimate objects, and an association,
in which his son Peter, our assistant cameraman, and I are currently trainee
Quasies. |
