History of camel: evolution and speciation

The mammals emerged during the Triassic, around 225 million years ago. For 160 million years they were the dung beetles of the reptile world, relying on their small size to stay out of the way of T. Rex. But things changed when earth's collision with a massive asteroid 65 million years ago made life tough for large cold-blooded animals. Diversity of form and function that had been lurking under the saurischian-dominated surface was let loose, and within fifteen million years after the advent of the Age of Mammals the world was populated by a whole new array of exotic and quixotic animals.

On the plains of North America, the rabbit-sized ancestors (the Poëbrotheriinae) of the camel family gradually increased in size in the Eocene, grazing on grasses and forming into herds for protection. By the Middle Oligocene (around 30 million years ago) the family had diversified and spread across the New World and Asia, most of its members of a size and shape similar to modern camels.

The Miocene, Pliocene, and Pleistocene (20m-12tya), the great age of apes, was a time of consolidation and expansion for the camel. Most genii died out in the face of new environmental conditions, but two-- Lama and Camellus-- specialized and thrived. The former moved into the isolated mountains of South America, where it today survives as the llama, alpaca, guanaco, and vicuna. Camellus, on the other hand, was a little more adventurous. Crossing the Bering sea land bridge in the early Pleistocene, it emerged onto the arid steppes of Asia and thrived. As Camellus conquered the Old World, it surely must have encountered the other ascendant genus spreading across the world's plains: Homo.

Source: Wilson RT. 1984. The Camel. Essex: Longman Group.

Music appropriate for desert walks

Lacking any large arid regions of its own, the West's experience with deserts has come only through the lens of other cultures. Whether in the plains of Andalusia, the dunes of southwest Asia, or the pueblos of the American southwest, our view of deserts is tinged with a hint of the exotic. This is obvious with regards to the camel-- how else could such a simple, well-adapted, useful animal be seen as so primitive and foreign?-- but it also holds when we look at western music's portrayal of deserts and their people.

The phrygian modes of Iberian music have lent a 'Spanish Tinge' to jazz, a sound that melts into the semitone scales of the Maghreb and the familiarly stereotyped drums of Africa. Bombastic Arab marches contrast with the honest melodies sung by herders. Epic soundtracks complement the sun-splashed monuments of Utah, and even the tundra gets the balalaika. In western music, the desert is at once overpowering, massive, inspiringly romantic, and simple, foreign, and honest. I like it.

See, for example, Rimsky-Korsakov's Sheherazade, with dissonant harmonies resolving into an unforgettably grand theme. The classic soundtrack to Lawrence of Arabia plays around with the "Turkish March" made famous in Beethoven's 9th Symphony after revealing the famous motif appropriate for its beturbaned hero (note that John William's love theme from Raiders of the Lost Ark, set in arid Egypt, relies on the same hackneyed exotic chord changes as Lawrence's tune). Its composer, Maurice Jarre, exhibits his talent for endlessly repeating a schmaltzy romantic theme in another desert movie, Dr. Zhivago. Elmer Bernstein's rousing The Magnificent Seven and Gabriel Yarre's beautiful but tedious The English Patient show the same trends. And then there is Caravan.

If you can think of more, please send them along!

Tourist stereotypes: introduction

When I first visited India two years ago I was disgusted by most tourists. It seemed to me like everyone who came here was intent on reliving some 1960's journey of spiritual self-discovery, while in fact their Lonely Planet led them to trendy exotic placenames where Indian entrepreneurs, seeing the dependable signs of white skin, poorhouse clothing, and dubious hygiene, sold them bhang lassis made with filtered water that cost three times more than an average Indian family made in a day.

Needless to say, this is a very harsh and over-generalized view that has since softened. Still, there are very distressing aspects of tourism particular to this country. There really are a lot of people who come to India for material renunciation, temporarily forgetting the price of their airfare. Many come espousing New Age spirituality's roots in Hinduism or seeking a yoga ashram, only to reveal that they've never read the Bhagavad Gita and couldn't pick Vishnu out of a crowd (he's the blue one). The carefree egalitarianism of hippies- or even of the most conservative Westerners- is fundamentally at odds with the rigid class system of India, the consequences of which go over the heads of all but the most observant visitors. As I spend more time here, I am beginning to see an even more sinister side to tourism: that most hotels are run my the mafia. No joke.

But my daily exposure to tourists at the NRCC and at the guesthouse have begun to steel me to their faults (just like shacking up with a hipster made me finally accept that I, too, am a hipster deep down inside) and I've even begun to take a perverse joy in hearing their predictable rants and formulaic pontifications. So please allow me to share the enjoyment only a hater can get from the idiocy of his fellow humans in this new series, Tourist stereotypes.

Camel nutrition

I have discovered the best way to pass time at the NRCC when I'm not helping in the lab, working on some stats, studying in the library, or searching Google for naked pictures of Sarah Palin. I stick my head out the door, listen for a moment, and then try to find the camel making the most absurd noises.

Yesterday the nastiest grunting I'd ever heard came wafting over from the Nutrition experiment corral and I enthusiastically made my way over to see just what tricks the Grand Inquisitor had devised for this poor camel. My stomach turned (in sympathy, too) when I realized that the technical team was in the process of collecting ruminal fluid.

In order to extract the stinky yellow juice from an organ located at the bottom of a 80 centimeter esophagus, a garden hose was connected to an imposing air pump coughing out plumes of black smoke. The camel was so doped up on xylazine it couldn't hold its neck up, but it still had the sense to try to bite the hand that choked it. Finally, a few centiliters of fluid were extracted and the camel left to enjoy the rest of its trip.

I wasn't sure whether to cry or laugh at the pitiful position the animal adopted at the end of the procedure.

Eve-teasing

A visit to India of any duration will introduce the westerner, well accustomed to a culture of transparency and straightforwardness, to the mess of social and economic complexity wrapped in red tape that constitutes the Indian way of doing things. The endless difficulties in getting anything done, the futility of individual aspirations and action, and the constant noise and hassle of this overcrowded country result in what V.S. Naipaul calls 'subcontinental patience': a temperament, perhaps the inspiration for the idea of reincarnation, geared towards accepting the chaos around you and doing your best to stay afloat. For me, with my water wings of western ambition, this environment entails little but frustration. Once in a while, the ogling crowd will just be a little too large or the tuk tuk wallah a little too bellicose or the search for the simplest provision too hopeless and I find myself entering a murderous rage, swearing to myself that I will throttle the next idiot who grabs my arm and asks me what my good name is.

Despite my less than pugilistic nature I have been secretly yearning for an appropriate excuse to take out this pent-up anger on a deserving victim, and last week the gods were kind enough to oblige me. Returning from the Dusshera celebrations (to be covered shortly) with two young western women, we were overtaken by a crowd of repressed youth emboldened by the darkness. While I am accustomed to the occasional slap or poke as some kid tries to get my attention, my Y chromosome had blinded me to the disgusting forms this practice takes on when the target is a woman. I realized the boys were trying to grope my companions, and as one rapscallion with a jaunty hairdo and scraggly goatee shoved his hand between one girl's legs my rage overtook me.

After grabbing him by the back of his neck, I kicked out his legs and forced him to the ground. But his friend came to help, and so I channeled two months of no NFL and clotheslined him. I used the boys' ears to arrange them face down and kneeled on their backs. Luckily, the crowd was composed entirely of pubescent boys whose social awkwardness precluded any understanding of their power were they to unite. I knew the police would be of no help (they would probably book me for assault), so I took a more effective route.

After the two women were in a tuk-tuk, I made the ruffians (still face down, now crying) get out their cell phones and call their mothers. Both arrived from elsewhere in the crowd within a few minutes. Careful to turn the side of my face where I had cut myself during the tackle towards them so they wouldn't join in the fray, I explained through a bystander what had happened.

To my sister and other postcolonialists who are aghast at the idea of an over sized white man beating up two Indian boys: violence is a common sight on the streets here and is seen as an OK way to resolve disputes. What isn't OK is the way Indian men treat western women. In any case, my behavior was justified by the mothers' reactions. After the boys stood up, the women took off their left shoes and started beating their sons far more savagely than I had. The crowd laughed and I walked home, telling Jitu that I had tripped over a brick in the road.

Womens

I have now been living at Vinayak guest house for more than six weeks-- and I have yet to learn the name of Jitu's wife.

This is conservative Bikaner's modern interpretation of the timeless Rajasthani (and Mughal) custom of purdah. The Maharajas of the Rajput states would acquire vast harems, and after marriage the young wives moved into a separate wing of the palace where, guarded by eunuchs and served by girls, they spent the rest of their lives until ritually burning themselves on the funeral pyre of their husband (sati). Less prominent members of the community would merely keep their women housebound, and completely covered in the case of male visitors.

Today, the gender egalitarianism of urbanized nomads catalyses trends towards westernization and liberalization, and the lives of women are rapidly improving. Tight jeans and western tees are a rare but unsurprising sight, and among youth female literacy approaches male. But the most resilient customs have nothing to do with outward signs and everything to do with male attitudes.

These are most evident with respect towards western women. There is absolutely no reason for Indian men to think western women are anything but complete whores: movies and TV depict easy flirtation and open sex (see a related observation by my friend Sloan, in Rwanda); most tourists make little effort to conform to public morality (for example, anything but the most fleeting embrace is considered part of sex, and wearing short sleeves is like wearing a short skirt); and I have yet to find an internet cafe whose computers weren't clogged with the nastiest kinds of porn. Next to Indian women, who like the men must stay chaste (and repressed) until marriage at 20-30, 'phoren' ladies are slatterns who will give it up if you just grab 'em in the right way.

So, despite changes, men still like their wives and sisters well-esconsed, even while 'Eve-teasing' any westerner they can and shamelessly exploiting unionized prostitutes.

Khyber: Aryans

The first invaders to pass through the Khyber pass into the Indian subcontinent were Aryans, a Central Asian tribe speaking an Indo-European language related to Latin and Greek. According to one interpretation, their mastery of ironworking, horses, and the chariot allowed them to quickly conquer the advanced Harappan culture of the Indus valley around 1500-1000 B.C.E. The Harappans, who since 3300 B.C.E. had developed a large civilization complete with standardized measures, an indigenous writing system, and indoor plumbing, were forced into the Indian peninsula where they are linguistically and genetically represented by the Dravidian peoples who make up today's southern states.

The Aryans didn't bring just destruction and collapse, however. Their rich literary tradition, well known from the famous Vedas (ie, the Rg Veda and the Upanishads), gave rise to a three-millennia-old poetic tradition that includes the Mahabharata and the Ramayana. Their sophisticated philosophy forms the core of what we call Hinduism, along with many of their gods and myths. Most importantly, their strict approach to social hierarchy solidified into the caste system.

As European scholars gained familiarity with Indian culture in the 18th and 19th centuries, they began to see similarities between Sanskrit, Latin, and Greek and correctly inferred the existence of a common mother-tongue, Indo-European (which also gave rise to Germanic, Slavic, Baltic, Celtic, and many other language families). Later researchers began to find shared aspects of mythology, ritual, and culture (for example: the god of thunder, Indra/Thor; creation myths invoking giants; and a fascination with cows- 1, 2, 3). It was the perception that these 'Aryans' gave rise to the great civilizations of the west that led to the term's adoption by racial supremacists of the late 19th and early 20th centuries.

Lunar cycles

It was a rare night in New York that I looked up and noticed the moon, its brilliance usually surpassed by streetlights or obscured by skyscrapers. Occasionally, I would find its gossamer glow adorning my dorm room when I came home late from a party. In those moments I would feel a close warmth (not just from the whiskey), knowing that untold generations of humans had gazed upon and enjoyed the same spectacle.

I am lucky to have come to a place where the moon's phases are as important as the work week. When I arrived, Ramadan was just beginning and lasted until the new moon at the start of October. That day also marked the beginning of Nauratri, which ended in Deshera nine days later. The subsequent full moon (two days ago) held a ceremony in which a watermelon was left outside all night and consumed in the morning. And the approaching new moon means Diwali.

Milk production and the follicular wave

The peculiar reproductive cycle of the camel evolved so that mating and parturition both take place during the cool season, which here occurs between October and February. This timing ensures an abundance of feed for hungry males spending their time fighting for mates and for new mothers struggling to feed their young. Follicle growth in non-pregnant females is suppressed during the summer, most likely by environmental conditions, but continues nonetheless. Around now follicles begin growing and males begin to rut, or engage in characteristic breeding behavior. Copulation induces ovulation, and gestation lasts thirteen months.

This system has a profound implication for camel-herding societies. Lactation only occurs in females with young, not only reducing the number of females producing milk but also reducing the amount of milk available for human consumption. With most camels weaned at one year, the slow and inefficient reproductive cycle is yet another reason why camels are herded in large numbers.

Flirting with camels

I often give tours of the NRCC to visitors staying at the guesthouse, which gives me a chance to practice my camelology spiel as well as remember what it's like to talk to native English speakers. The other day I stumbled on a particularly apt analogy for how to interact with camels.

Camels are smart and curious, but they are also arrogant and sly. Getting one to like you is a lot like picking up a girl at a bar. It starts with eye contact, the briefest acknowledgement of mutual interest. But you can't stare- that's creepy. Indeed, not looking can be even more effective than looking. Before you even think of getting closer, you've got to completely confident of your success. Subtle clues of body language indicate whether approach is possible.

But, just like last call, in the end one of you has got to get up and walk over to the other, and luckily for tourists camels aren't nearly as picky as women.

Deserts and chess

In my last year in college I had the good fortune to live near three tremendously gifted physicists. Occasionally they would put aside quantum field theory and supersymmetry for a game of chess, and I, with little mind for strategy, was only too happy to observe. The intricacies of their plotting was far beyond me, but I could still wonder at the vast complexity spawned by such a simple set of rules.

Real war, as Robert McNamara so aptly pointed out, is far too complicated to ever be understood by a single person-- hence the term 'the fog of war.' Games are fun because they put the excitement and challenge of strategic competition within the bounds of one individual's intellect. In chess, it is possible (but just barely) to see your will and wit acted out on the board. The number of variables has been reduced to a level where the system lacks the unfathomable complexity of reality.

The desert is a similar system. The dominance of a few variables-- sun, wind, water-- marginalizes all the others. It is simplicity and comprehensibility that grant deserts their beauty, the sublime alternation between life, meaning, and emptiness. In even ten minutes sitting alone in a desert you begin to pick up on cause and effect, on the connections between every element. Soon you start to figure out the patterns of life, and it is only a matter of time before you feel you know the rules so well that you are a part of the game.

Crazy coincidence

Last week I got to spend an evening with a college friend- by total coincidence, he phoned a mutual friend the night before he passed through Bikaner. It's a small world.