Such places it passes through! We follow the glistening ribbons for several hours. My heart quickens as we turn off the main road, and ahead the fairground is engulfed in a swirl of dust. I sit up high on Guluband’s hump to watch people of all kinds: tribesmen wearing the striped turbans of the Marris, the Bugtis in billowy trousers and embroidered vests, mountain men carrying guns of every size and description. Elaborately decorated animals crowd together as far as I can see: bullocks with humps dyed shocking pink, their horns garlanded with yellow tassels, black horses covered by red blankets stitched with cotton puffs and mirrors, and camels so numerous their humps look like part of the hills that stretch into Afghanistan. A small boy in bare feet runs along beside us, leading us to the place where we will camp and buyers will inspect our animals and haggle over prices. Here and there men with rough wooden scales surrounded by mounds of green weigh fodder for sale. Men stand under fringed umbrellas selling cold drinks that sparkle red and yellow in the sun.
