I’ve always been falling. Off things. Into things. With things. Out of things.

My gallery of bruises and scars – visible and invisible, old and new – profile my countless forays in the art of falling.

So when I was clambering onto the camel (Rita I’m told), tumbling off was also in equal opportunity.

I had one foot on, left arm clinging onto the harness, trying to loop my other leg over in the most graceful way possible. And Rita was grunting very insistently the whole time.


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