The Nomadic Alternative – Page 71

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Each spring the nomads of South West Asia brindle the hills with their herds. Thin lines of animals - sheep and goats, horses and camels - follow the unfurling of the leaves on their journey from winter pastures to the mountains. The nomads are lean and sinewy, burnished by the sun and wind. They do not pause to talk to strangers and scowl at villagers. They fix their hawk-like eyes on their animals, watching for the first signs of sickness - a colic, parasite or fungus, sleeping lightly for fear of thieves or wild animals. A nomad loves his animals as he loves his family, for the future of his children depends on their welfare. The snow streaked flanks of the mountains are calling him. Beyond lie the green uplands of summer.

The women suckle silent babies in the folds of their dresses. Their lithe bodies ebb and flow to the pitching of the saddles, their kohl-dark eyes glued to the road ahead. Showers of gold glisten on their breasts, and they have bought fresh printed calico dresses for the spring migration, brilliantly coloured to match the spring flowers that lacquer the ground. Drenched in the rain or burned in the sun, nomad children are hardened young. Mothers bundle up their two-year olds in a bit of cotton sheet, lash them with pots and pans to a donkey, and allow them to caress a young kid as a plaything - or as a substitute for a hot-water bottle.

The noise of the journey has the quality of archaic music. The insistent beat of the camel bell marks the time; the barely audible 'pad-pad' of their feet and the pattering of sheep and goats contribute to the melody; pots and pans clatter against each other, and mastiffs with black slavering mouths howl at strangers.

Following the known path to the mountains has the excitement of a chase. The travellers plant and replant their feet on the same rocky outcrop, tread the same squashy watermeadows, throw pebbles at the [illegible].