by Bear Grylls
‘Pete,’ he said conversationally, ‘could you bring the knife from the bag?’
He heard Peter get to his feet and rummage in the rucksack. A moment later the knife was pressed into his hand.
‘Geez.’ Peter stood next to him and stared down at the scorpion. ‘Is that dangerous?’
‘No,’ Beck said. He passed his friend the torch. ‘Just lethal. Keep the light on it.’
He had to move around so that his shadow didn’t fall onto the scorpion. It sensed he was in front of it and stopped. Again it raised its tail in warning.
Toxic as a cobra . . . the magazine had said. Paralysis, convulsions, cardiac arrest or respiratory failure . . .
Beck lunged forward with the stick and pressed the scorpion’s body into the ground. Its pincers clawed helplessly at the air and its tail jabbed venom into the dry wood. Beck leaned down and, with his other hand, sliced off its tail with the knife. Then he cut off the head and pincers, and proudly held the body up for Peter to see.
Peter kept the torch on it and stared at it in round-eyed horror. It still twitched and its legs waved feebly for a moment.
‘And what do we do with it?’
‘Only eat it.’
‘You’re kidding . . . ’ Peter’s voice was faint. ‘I thought we were only stuck in the middle of a desert with no water and food. I didn’t realize this was I’m a Celebrity, Get Me Out of Here.’
‘Nah, this time you eat the scorpion and don’t win a prize!’ Beck carefully put the scorpion down on a rock. ‘But they’re full of protein and nutrients.’
As carefully as a surgeon, Beck cut the creature in half. Some of its insides leaked out in a pile of goo. He used the knife to scrape it all back into the creature’s shell and held one half out to Peter. Peter took it gingerly and looked at it with exactly zero enthusiasm. He had even stopped shivering.
‘Comfort zone?’ Beck reminded him.
‘Comfort zone,’ Peter muttered.
Beck winked, opened his mouth and popped his half of the scorpion in. He deliberately closed his mouth and crunched, keeping his eyes on Peter’s. He saw the resignation appear there, closely followed by determination.
‘Right . . . ’ Peter muttered, and followed suit. His face twisted as he bit down on the scorpion’s shell. He swallowed with an effort, gulping loudly as he got the chewed mass down. ‘It has a certain . . . something. But no one is ever going to call me a scorpoholic.’
‘Well, there’s plenty more where that came from. Now let’s make a fire.’
Peter’s enthusiasm was transformed. ‘Now you’re talking. You’ve got your fire steel . . . ?’ he asked eagerly.
‘Um’ – Beck clenched his teeth – ‘not exactly . . . ’
Beck’s fire steel was one of his most treasured possessions. It consisted of a short metal rod and a flat piece that looked like a blunt razor blade. They were mostly made of magnesium and steel, and when they were struck together they gave off sparks. With the right tinder, the fire steel could light fires in the jungle or the Arctic. Beck had used it all over the world.
Except that, right now, the fire steel was back in their hotel room. Beck even knew exactly where it was: on his bedside table, between the lamp and the alarm clock. He could picture it perfectly.
‘I thought we were going swimming, so I left it there,’ he said. ‘Funny, I didn’t expect to be stowing away on an aeroplane and hiding from diamond smugglers.’
‘So what do we do?’
‘You gather firewood. A good pile of sticks and some kindling – dry twigs, old palm leaves, that kind of thing.’ One good thing, he thought: at least out here, everything would be really dry. ‘Use the torch whenever you reach for something – and poke around to make sure there aren’t any more scorpions nearby. And meanwhile I’ll try and make some fire.’
And so the boys set about their tasks, though Peter was slowed down by watching Beck at work. There was just enough light, and Beck had done this so many times before that he could do a lot of it by feel.
Beck was making a fire drill – one of the most ancient ways of making fire.
For the base plate he looked around for a chunk of wood about thirty centimetres long and as wide as his hand. There wasn’t anything that exactly matched his requirements so he used the axe to lop a bit off a larger piece. It was thin, just a couple of centimetres thick. Near one end of this he used the knife to cut a notch into the wood. Next to this he cut out a small depression.
After this he had to make a drill and a bow. The drill was easy. He chose the straightest branch he could find, about a centimetre in diameter, and trimmed it to just over half a metre long, shaping the two ends into blunt points.
The drill was going to rotate rapidly in the small depression he had cut in the base plate; the friction would generate enough heat to make an ember.
To make the drill rotate he needed a bow – a bendy branch about twice the length of the drill. He cut a small notch at each end so that he could tie a length of parachute cord from one end to the other. He leaned on the bow to bend it, then tied the cord to each end so that it was stretched taut. The whole thing looked a bit like a child’s attempt at playing Robin Hood. But this bow wouldn’t be used to shoot at bad King John.
Finally he needed a hand socket. One end of the drill would sit in the base plate; the other had to be held by him and he didn’t want to drill a hole in his palm. He found a small piece of wood that fitted comfortably into his palm, again with a depression cut into it to take the drill end.
‘How are you doing?’ he called to Peter. Peter had assembled a fine pile of shredded bark, dried-up stems and leaves and some larger pieces of wood.
Beck nodded approvingly. ‘Cool, Peter. You know, we could really use some good dry dung,’ he went on. ‘That makes excellent fuel. Smelly, but excellent.’
‘Yeah, well, don’t look at me . . . ’
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
‘OK, let’s give this a try.’
Beck used the knife to pry a slab of bark off the tree and set it down on a flat rock. This would be the ember tray; the part that held the very first embers. On the tray he piled a small handful of tinder up into something like a bird’s nest, using his fingers to create a small hole in the middle.
Next he positioned the base plate next to the ember tray. A chip of wood propped it up at one end so that the tray slid under the notch. Peter sat the torch on a nearby rock so that its beam shone onto the base plate and tray. Beck then twisted the drill once round the taut bowstring, making the bow even tighter as it held the drill in position. Peter held the plate steady as Beck carefully put one end of the drill into the depression. The other end of the drill fitted into the hand socket which he held in the palm of his left hand.
With his right hand, Beck pulled back gently on the bow. The tight bowstring gripped the drill and slowly turned it. He pushed forward, more firmly, and it spun round in the other direction. Beck began to move the bow back and forth, back and forth, in a smooth, constant motion, while he pressed down on the hand socket so that the tip of the drill was pressed firmly into the base plate.
‘You can just do this with a stick and a base on their own . . . ’ he murmured, concentrating on the bow. ‘You roll the stick between your hands. Not as good as this way, and you get blisters . . . ’
After that, neither of them spoke for a few minutes while the drill bit spun round in its small hollow. Beck knew it would be hot to the touch, like having a cigarette pushed into your hand. The friction of its movement would be boring out a fine layer of scorched wood dust.
‘Look – there!’ Peter breathed. Very thin tendrils of smoke were rising up from the end of the drill, barely visible in the torchlight.
‘OK, a bit more . . . ’
Another couple of minutes and the smoke had grown into a much thicker layer. The wood dust would be fine and scorching hot.
Beck stopped and laid down the bow. He tilted the base plate and tapped it gently so that th
e glowing embers trickled along the notch and onto the tray. He then carefully tipped these embers into the middle of the pile of tinder.
‘Come on, boy,’ Peter muttered, as if willpower alone could light fires. Beck fanned the embers gently with his hand. Even blowing at this very early stage could be too much. They glowed a bit more fiercely and the kindling started to darken. Now Beck started to blow, puckering up as if he wanted to kiss the small pile. More wisps of smoke curled up and at last Beck saw the unmistakable flicker of flame licking across the dry wood.
‘Yes!’ Peter exclaimed, a triumphant hiss beneath his breath.
Beck swiftly put the flaming bundle on the ground and started to add to the pile. Small twigs; slivers of dry bark. The crack as something in the fire broke in the heat was one of the best sounds ever, gradually spreading with the flame, consuming the pile as the fire grew. The boys huddled around it eagerly. With the fire on one side and the rocks on the other, still radiating warmth, their little camp suddenly became much more pleasant.
Another few hours, of course, Beck thought, and their little camp would be hell on earth. The rocks that were warming them so nicely faced south. There would be no shelter there when the sun was high – just heat and more heat, beating down on the sand and reflected back.
But they would have moved on by then.
‘OK.’ Beck reached for his rucksack. ‘I think we’ve earned one of these, don’t you?’
He pulled out one of the tins of fish, and Peter’s face lit up.
‘Oh, yeah! If it gets the taste of scorpion out of my mouth . . . ’ His face fell. ‘But they pack tuna in brine. Salt water. We can’t drink that out here.’
‘This is spring water. It says on the label. No salt.’ Beck worked the tin opener around the lid. ‘I love tuna, and man, am I hungry!’
‘Even better with mayo!’
‘You know, generally you want to avoid eating if you have no water. Eating fills you up but it also uses up precious fluids. You shouldn’t eat meat without at least a litre to go with it. But with these’ – the lid dropped off and Beck held up the tin – ‘we can eat and drink at the same time.’
And that was exactly what they did. They passed the tin back and forth between them, picking tuna chunks out with their fingers, then lifting up the tin for a sip of the precious water. It tasted fishy, yes, but not salty. Beck could almost feel it soak into the dried-up tissues of his body. It gave them refreshment they badly needed, reviving them for the next stage of their journey. They could press on for a few more miles, even after the sun came up, before they had to settle down to wait out the hottest part of the day.
‘This is—’ Peter suddenly gasped and choked and doubled up. A chunk of food shot out of his mouth onto the sand.
‘Hey, Pete! You all right?’ Beck thumped him on the back and Peter breathed deeply a couple of times.
‘That went right down the wrong way. And it was solid.’
He poked the lump of food with one finger, then picked it up. He brushed fragments of tuna off what looked like a small pebble.
‘There are stones in the tuna!’ he said indignantly. ‘I almost choked.’
‘Let’s see . . . ’
Beck took the pebble off him and held it out to the firelight. It felt smooth between his fingers, almost soapy, even though Peter had brushed all the food off it. And it seemed to gleam, just a little, in the flames.
‘So that’s how they do it,’ he murmured. ‘That’s how the smuggling operation works. They put them in the cans.’
Beck was holding an uncut diamond.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
‘That’s a diamond? Let’s see!’
Peter took it back and studied it while Beck picked up the tin and poked around inside with his finger. There was still some fishy water at the bottom, which he was careful not to spill. He dug out three more pebbles like the first one.
‘I told you the diamonds would be hidden in the tins,’ Peter said smugly. ‘But I thought they twinkled.’
‘Only after they’re cut and polished.’
‘I wonder what it’s worth?’
‘Exactly nothing,’ Beck said bluntly. ‘We can’t eat it or drink it.’
Peter gave him a sidelong glance. ‘I wasn’t thinking what it’s worth to us. What’s it worth to Mrs Chalobah? What’s it worth to Sierra Leone? You remember what she said to us about using the diamond trade to help the country develop?’
‘Well, yeah, but she’s back there and we’re out here.’
‘So we need to let her know where the diamonds are, don’t we?’ Peter put the diamond down and felt for his camera. It was still in its pouch, hanging from his belt. ‘I’m going to film it.’
Beck just smiled and rolled his eyes.
‘No, really.’ Peter looked sternly at him and Beck saw his determination. ‘Put it this way. Even if we . . . you know . . . even if’ – he swallowed – ‘even if we don’t get out of this, they might find our bodies and they’ll get the camera. We need to let them know how the diamonds are getting out, so Mrs Chalobah can stop it.’
‘Yeah,’ Beck agreed after a moment. ‘I guess you’re right.’
He let Peter do the filming and record a brief explanation of what they had discovered. Beck kept quiet. He didn’t want to voice his own thoughts out loud. The fact was, if every tin had a layer of diamonds in it, then they had less food than he had thought . . .
While Peter was doing that, Beck gathered up some fresh wood and kindling for the next night. They might not find any further on along their way. He put it into his rucksack along with the bow and drill. By the time they had finished their tasks, the sky was greying out and there was the tiniest hint of red to the east. Dawn couldn’t be far off. They had rested, warmed up and eaten. It was time to move on.
Peter seemed to read Beck’s thoughts when he saw him studying the sky.
‘How much further?’ he asked, carefully stowing the diamonds away in the rucksack. Both boys hoped they could get them back to their rightful owners.
‘Probably just a few more miles before it gets too hot. But every bit counts. We have to press on.’
‘Yeah,’ Peter said heavily, ‘I know.’
‘Some tricks you ought to know . . . ’
‘Go on, my fine desert nomad!’
Beck grinned and kicked sand over the fire. He picked a charred lump of wood out of the ashes near the edge. It hadn’t burned for some time and had cooled down. He spread the charcoal onto his fingers, then handed the piece of wood to Peter before rubbing his fingers beneath his eyes.
‘You know you see sportsmen – American football players – with dark smudges on their faces? It reduces sun glare that reflects on your retina. Next best thing after a pair of aviators.’
‘Yeah, I always wanted to try the Goth look . . . ’ Peter started to rub the charcoal on his own face.
‘Plus, we’re going to cover up our faces even more than yesterday afternoon. Just a slit to see through.’
‘Suits me.’
‘And . . . ’ Beck was grinning widely – so much so that Peter stopped rubbing and looked suspiciously at him.
‘And?’
‘When did you last pee?’
Peter frowned. ‘What are you, my mum? Don’t worry, I’ll go before we start.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Beck assured him, ‘you will.’
Peter started smearing charcoal over his face again, still keeping one suspicious eye on his friend.
‘In fact,’ Beck continued, ‘we’ll both go. In our boxers . . . and wrap them round our heads.’
The rubbing stopped. Peter stared at him with an expression that could have frozen a leg of lamb. ‘What?’
‘It’s moisture – it evaporates – it keeps us cool . . . ’
‘Can I just say, without the slightest shadow of a doubt and with all my heart, no freakin’ way!’
‘Way.’
‘We pee on our boxers and wrap them round our faces?’
; ‘It’ll have to be our boxers because they’re cotton and they’ll absorb the moisture. It’ll just run off the silk parachute material.’
‘You are kidding . . . ’ Peter’s eyes begged him. ‘Right?’
Beck said nothing and his friend looked resigned. ‘Distance to comfort zone . . . growing!’
Beck passed him the can of tuna. It still had some water at the bottom. ‘Drink up,’ he suggested.
They packed up the camp, then took their trousers and boxers off. They exchanged looks silently before putting their trousers back on, then turned their backs on each other and got to work.
‘When we get out of this, I am so not telling my mum about this bit,’ Peter muttered.
‘What, you’re not going to film it?’
‘Stop it.’
Nothing happened for a long time.
‘Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,’ said Beck, when the long silence grew too embarrassing.
‘Stop it!’
‘Sorry.’
‘OK,’ said Peter after a further wait. ‘I’m done . . . ’
He turned round to see Beck already putting his boxers on his head. Both boys burst out laughing. ‘Do I look as ridiculous as I feel?’ Beck asked.
‘Yep.’
They laughed again, and Peter followed Beck’s lead.
‘My comfort zone is now so far away,’ he said as he put his pee-soaked boxers in place, ‘that light from it will take about a million years to get here.’
‘It’ll stink,’ said Beck cheerfully, ‘but it’ll work.’
‘So,’ Peter said, and Beck could hear the determination in his tone, ‘off we go . . . and I hope to God no one spots us like this!’
Beck was looking at his watch. ‘Remind me which way is north . . . ’ He already knew but he thought his friend could do with a little practice.
‘Hold on . . . ’ Peter went through the procedure with his watch again and pointed due south. ‘That way.’
Beck tried not to sigh. ‘A hundred and eighty degrees wrong.’
He knew what Peter had done. The halfway point between the hour hand and twelve o’clock only gave you the north–south line. Next you had to work out which was north and which was south. The sun rises roughly in the east, so north has to be that end of the line.