The morning we left Port Augusta I brought Khushi for Mr Tietkens to mount. She was one of the best riding camels and my favourite after Mustara, for she was Mustara’s mother. She was happy just like her name and always had a smile for me. Mr Tietkens smiled at me too as I told Khushi to kneel. Mr Tietkens was getting used to handling the camels. He must have been happy to be going west, for after he mounted he sang about going a-roving. It was surprising to find he had such a fine voice. Even Jess Young hummed as he rode by on Sultan. I heard Mr Giles doing his favourite thing: reciting poetry, this time about a fast horse.

Alec rode old Buzoe beside me; she was one of the original camels that came to Beltana in 1866. ‘What plants do you see?’ Alec was so keen on becoming an explorer he thought everyone else wanted to be one too.

‘There is saltbush and spinifex.’ Camels enjoy eating tough spiky plants that other animals would never eat – the tougher the better. Spinifex leaves are like needles.

‘You’ll learn a lot more than those by the time we have finished.’ I could hear the laugh in Alec’s voice.

At mid morning we passed some salt lakes. That’s another thing: camels will drink salty water and enjoy it. I surely wouldn’t.

Everyone seemed excited to be on the road again. So much happened in Port Augusta that it was good to relax on Mustara just to think about it. He was so calm that I could almost sleep on him while he walked behind the string. Perhaps that was why I didn’t see what happened next. Something made Mustara shy – I never saw what. Tommy said later it was a barna, a goanna. He saw it run up Mustara’s leg and jump over his neck. It was too much for Mustara: he bolted. I was sleepy and didn’t have time to grab his halter. I felt myself slipping and grabbed at Mustara’s fur, but it didn’t save me.

I landed in the middle of a spinifex bush.

There I was, in pain and shock while Tommy laughed so hard he fell backwards on Salmah. I wished there was a spinifex bush for him to land in, then he would know what it felt like. Not only has spinifex sharp leaves but long spikes. It was much worse than being thrown off Bill.

‘Saleh!’ Peter Nicholls shouted for Padar. No one could get their camels down quickly enough and the string kept moving. Padar heard, dropped Roshni’s tail rope and wheeled him around. He took the chance of the whole string following him but Mr Giles was ever watchful and rode up to the front on Reechy. Fortunately, Malik, the next in line, followed her.

Padar rode Roshni towards me. I was trying to stand at that point; I didn’t want to be thought a child, not able to rise out of a bush by myself.

Padar ordered Roshni to kneel and jumped down to help me. ‘Have you broken your body?’ His relief made him rough as he started yanking the spikes from my backside. I steeled myself not to cry.

Mustara hadn’t gone far; he came when I whistled, but he was restless and his eyes were wide. Then I found I couldn’t raise my leg to climb onto him. It even hurt to walk, but walk I had to if I was not going to be left there in the scrub.

Walking through spinifex made me feel sorry for the camels. The spiky bushes were making them lose their fur three feet up their legs. I kept as close behind Mustara as I could so the bushes wouldn’t damage my legs. But after a while I hung onto Mustara’s neck for support.

It was fortunate for me that we only travelled six miles. Mr Giles stopped at Chinaman’s Dam where there was plenty of water. Even so I could hardly help Padar do the unloading. Not only did my backside hurt but so did my feet. I wasn’t used to walking in boots, let alone for six miles. Mr Giles noticed and he shouted for Tommy to do my work. Alec helped too. I saw him whisper in Khushi’s ear.

That night I couldn’t even sit at the campfire. I ate my damper and salty dried beef standing, my feet bare and blistered.

Alec wrote the date in my book: Sunday, the twenty-third day of May, 1875. ‘Other than Fowler’s Bay we will not see any other settlement for at least 2,500 miles.’ He was smiling while he wrote, as if crossing a desert would be the most exciting way to pass the time. That was how those Englishmen were: mad for adventure. But was I any different when we started?

It was days before I could ride again. It was a relief when I was able to for then my blisters could heal. I was beginning to see Padar’s point about exploring not being a picnic. We were travelling north along Lake Torrens since Mr Giles was looking for a watercourse he had heard about. We stopped at Bowman’s station and fortunately for me we didn’t travel far since Mr Bowman invited us to eat dinner with him. He also gave us a fat sheep which Padar offered to butcher when Peter Nicholls wanted to cook it. Padar and I eat only halal meat, meat that is slaughtered under the name of Allah. We brought halal dried beef from Beltana in case Padar wasn’t around when game was shot.

It still hurt to unload the camels so Tommy helped Padar, grinning at me as though I was an invalid. It made me feel peculiar for I didn’t like Tommy doing my work. He didn’t know to whisper in the camels’ ears when the loads came off and to tell them to have a good sleep. Padar and I kissed them (not Salmah, the old cow: she spat if we tried). Rani was touchy too – her name means queen – but most of them liked to be kissed and even kissed us in return. Mustara was the biggest kisser of all.

Even though Padar had to take his whip to a bull occasionally, he thought the camels were special. ‘You have to treat them in the right way,’ he always said. I didn’t think Tommy would understand that.

In spite of my injuries I managed to sit on my blanket at the campfire. Mr Giles asked Padar to tell a story. I wondered if Padar would tell how he lost his finger, but after looking in the fire awhile he told a story about camels.

‘There was one and there was none. Except for God there was no one,’ began Padar. I settled as best I could with my sore bottom. ‘The prophet, Rasoul Mohammed, may Peace Be Upon Him, he and his followers were once surrounded by enemies and must hide themselves in a gorge in the mountains. But the enemies camped at the entrance to the gorge. The prophet and his followers were prisoners.’ Padar paused so we’d feel the effect of being imprisoned in a cave. ‘The prophet told his followers to mount their camels. Then he instructed the camels to please be quiet and they all walked silently past the enemies while they were sleeping. When they were clear of the danger, the prophet dismounted and kissed his camel on the lips. The upper lip parted and ever since camels are having hare lips and move silently.’

Mr Giles seemed taken with Padar’s story. ‘Very interesting,’ he said. Then he said it again. ‘Interesting, indeed.’ But Jess Young laughed.

The next day I managed to ride the whole day. It was open saltbush country and we reached a place called Pernatty Creek. Mr Giles smiled at our progress and slapped Padar and me on the back. Jess Young picked up a snider rifle; his arm was healed and he was a good shot. He caught three wild ducks which Tommy had to pluck. But not before Padar raced over and slit their throats to let the blood run free before they died. He prayed, ‘Bismillah Allah u Akbar, in the name of God the Great.’

‘What are you doing, man?’ Jess Young shouted at him until Padar explained our belief about halal meat. Jess Young raised his eyebrows and looked as if he would laugh, but Mr Tietkens was nearby.

‘Let him slit the throats from now on, Jess, or he and Taj won’t eat. And we need healthy camel drivers.’

I watched Tommy by the kitchen tent pulling out the brown feathers; the breeze stuck them onto his hair. ‘Why don’t you skin them, Mr Nicholls? That’s what Padar does. It would save a lot of trouble.’

‘You can call me Peter, boy.’ I looked at him in surprise but his smile was genuine. He didn’t seem much older than Alec; both of them had clean-shaven faces. ‘Plucking be tasting best, Taj.’

I don’t know why I sat by Tommy, picked up the third duck and started yanking the feathers out. Tommy grinned at me, but I saw my wariness reflected in his eyes. I didn’t smile back.

Peter was right about the taste of plucked duck. He spread fat on them before he roasted them in the coals. The skin was crispy and tasty, much better than dried beef. We all had grease dribbling down our chins and we didn’t say a word until Peter asked if we wanted our tin mugs filled with tea or coffee.