The Scent of a Desert Caravan

The journey begins inside a nomad's tent, where the air is thick with ritual and time. A bowl of frankincense burns at the centre, its smoke curling into dark rafters and sinking into the worn wooden furniture around it. The opening is near-identical to the frankincense oil I own - sharp, resinous, almost crystalline in its clarity.

A ghost of sweetness flickers at the edges of the smoke - an imagined bowl of dates and apricots that, unfortunately, feels bone dry, only haunting my sweet tooth with untapped potential to balance the piney incense.

Stepping outside, camels stand ready, their fur dusted clean yet still ripe with the memory of spice and resin. As we move forward, the incense loosens, a faint rose flickers in the desert heat, and the scent of traded spices sways from saddlebags ahead.

By sunset, the air softens into amber warmth. The incense is no longer sharp and austere, but hazy and sun-baked. Only on fabric, hours after spraying, can I detect the faintest flicker of molasses-like sweetness, but by then on skin, Camel has all but faded. Surprisingly fleeting performance for an animal known for its resilience.