Camels crossing the road somewhere in the GCC.

The air above the asphalt ribbon shimmered, a heat-haze mirage dancing on the edge of vision across the vast, caramel expanse of the Omani interior. Inside the air-conditioned cabin of the Lexus, the hum of the engine and the faint Arabic pop music created a bubble of modern comfort, a world apart from the ancient sands that stretched endlessly to the horizon.

Then, just beyond the distant haze, a movement. A slow, deliberate unfolding from the desert’s embrace. Not a mirage this time, but a solid, shifting wall of ochre and cream, heads held high with ancient, knowing arrogance.

A dozen or so camels, led by an old patriarch with a scarred hump that told tales of countless journeys, ambled into view. Their long, ungainly legs lifted and fell with a languid grace that defied their bulk, each padded footfall dissolving silently into the grit of the shoulder before stepping onto the pristine blacktop. They didn’t hurry. They never did. Their heavy-lidded eyes, fringed against the dust, flickered with an indifference that spoke of millennia of sun and sand, of passages far longer than any human memory.

Brake lights flared in a sudden, synchronized dance. The rumble of engines softened to a respectful purr. Horns might blare for a reckless taxi, but never for them. A few drivers leaned forward, a smile playing on their lips as they snapped a quick photo; others simply waited, a quiet patience settling over the line of vehicles. This wasn’t an inconvenience; it was a familiar ritual, a momentary pause in the relentless march of progress, enforced by the desert’s original inhabitants.

For five minutes that stretched into a small eternity, the modern world yielded its dominion. Carbon fibre and chrome bowed to coarse hair and leathery hide. The whisper of air conditioning units competed with the imagined soft pad of hooves and the low, guttural murmur of the beasts as they sauntered, one by one, across the dual carriageway. They were living monuments, symbols of a heritage that predated every road, every skyscraper, every oil well. A reminder that deep beneath the veneer of development, the desert still held its sway, dictating its own timeless rhythms.

Finally, the last young camel, its fur still soft and light, ambled past the central reservation, disappearing into the wadi on the opposite side with the same unhurried serenity with which it had arrived. A collective sigh, almost inaudible, went through the queue of cars. Engines revved gently, gears engaged, fingers released handbrakes, and the stream of traffic resumed its swift flow. But for a fleeting moment, the soul of the desert had manifested, demanding and receiving its silent, dignified tribute.