The relentless heat of the sun ricochets off the ochre dust, the air hanging heavy. From the unblinking stillness, a shard of scent escapes: a wisp of smoke, a cleansing clutch of aromatic herbs. Slowly, they coil themselves into a cicada-chorus of fragrance – delicate, harmonious and completely in tune with the earth. The faintest breeze rustles through the underbrush, a billy of tea hums on the campfire and, for just a moment, time stands still.