by Steve Reeder
I hoped to hell that the Sultan didn’t have another helicopter on call. With luck he had been on the one I had shot down. If there was any justice in this world, he had been the man on the rifle.
Chapter 18
By six the next morning I was two kilometres into the day’s march. I had food for the day and a chunk of now-dry bread for tomorrow morning. I had come perhaps ninety kilometres out of three hundred and ten.
I walked hard that day, making eighty kilometres by my calculations. I thought I had crossed a road early in the afternoon but it was so old I guessed that it didn’t go anywhere important, so I ignored it. The desert stretched unchanging into the distance.
I drank three litres of water that day. Rationed or not I needed them all, and in any case carrying the container cradled in my arms was slowing me up too much. My other problem was shoes. The sole of the right one was wearing thin enough for me to feel the smallest of pebbles. I tried to walk on the heel of my shoe but gave up when it caused cramps in my thigh.
Three days and I had come roughly half way. I finished the food except for a small chunk of bread and had perhaps two litres of water in the container plus the two in the water bottles. Try as I might, I had been using more than two litres a day. Even if I found Ibab on time, I was cutting it very close with the water.
I watched the sun go down with a feeling of despondency. Would I ever see Michele again? I was unreasonably sad at the idea of not having a chance to introduce her to my parents. How had the team coped at the first race meeting? Had they even gone to Donnington Park? If I died out here would anyone ever know what happened to me or would I just be one more set of bleached bones scattered across the desert sands? With these questions unanswerable for the moment, I drifted off to an uneasy sleep.
The cold winds woke me again a little after two fifteen and I could not get to sleep again. I would have to move and if I couldn’t find some shelter from the wind, then I would keep walking.
Checking the direction of my back trail I took a sighting on a star to the north and started off. I had gone not a thousand yards when I noticed a dry riverbed off to my left some hundred yards or so. Perfect.
The watercourse was not deep, but a bend had cut a slight bank behind which I could shelter. Once down out of the wind I was warm enough to be comfortable. I bedded down and slept again. Another day gone.
The sandstorm hit me just after eight-thirty that morning. It came seemingly out of nowhere and was instantly blinding and suffocating, so dry I could feel whatever moisture was left in my skin being virtually sucked out. The sand got in my eyes, my ears and my nose, choking me. There was nowhere to hide: everywhere was sand being blown at near hurricane velocity, abrading exposed skin. Terrified, I curled up in the dirt, hugging my water container and trying to cover my head with what was left of the food bag.
It blew for seven hours and I knew that this was it. There was nothing I could do but lie there till thirst and exhaustion finally killed me. To move was difficult, and walking impossible.
Bollocks. I thought, what a way to die.
Like most motorcycle racers, I had always considered and accepted the possibility of dying at a racetrack. I had seen several of my friends die: one of them right in front of my eyes. But here, like this. Bollocks.
How far was it back to the dry riverbed? Seven kilometres? Eight maybe? How long would that take to walk in my present condition, if the bloody wind would only stop blowing? Probably too long.
There was only one chance to survive now. If I lived out the sandstorm and found my way back to the watercourse maybe, just maybe I could dig for water. We had done it many times in Southern Africa, but here? I prayed, and I guess God was surprised to hear from me after so long.
Perhaps it worked. The howling wind-blown sand died as abruptly as it had arrived. Was it divine intervention? If so I could now do with some more.
The water in the container had vanished, drunk as soon as I had realized the wind would get it if I didn’t.
Shaking myself weakly, I stuffed the empty container in the now empty bag and set off south, back towards a slim chance a life.
At some point during the next hours I lost all cognizance of where I was or even who I was. I was suffering from dehydration and began to hallucinate about camels, lizards, blondes and lakes of water. Finding the riverbed in that state was a one-in-a-million chance. But find it I did, late in the night.
Fighting an overwhelming urge to lie down and sleep, I took one of the tin mugs in both hands and began to dig. There was no more water in the bottles now: it was this or nothing.
The night was cold but I was hot, warmed by the effort of moving so much loose sand. I didn’t sweat: there was no moisture left in me. Five times I fell into the hole, almost unconscious from exhaustion and each time it proved harder to pick myself up and start again. Sleep, a voice was telling me, sleep and all the pain would be gone. The idea grew more and more pleasant as I struggled to remove the loose sand.
The pile of sand next me was growing too large now; some of it falling back into the hole. I was nearly six feet down and crying with exhaustion and despair when, as dawn was breaking, I felt the first signs of dampness. I clawed at the sand, trying desperately for a mouthful of water. Slowly, so very slowly a small puddle formed. I sucked it up and waited for another to gather. Each was less than an eggcup in size, but it was the sweetest tasting mouthfuls of anything I have ever had before or since. After the sixth puddle vanished into my parched mouth, I curled up and slept. I could do no more.
The blazing sun woke me at noon. The skin on my arms and left side of my face had begun to blister where the sun had caught it fiercely all morning and the pain was incredible. I crawled with great trepidation back to my personal well. There was water five inches deep. I was going to live, for the time being anyway.
Chapter 19
Two days I spent there, at my man-made oasis. I drank litre after litre of cool clear water. I bathed my burning skin and I even managed to wash my clothes. Gut wrenching hunger aside, I was in heaven. A pizza, a beer and a blonde would have been nice though.
My strength was failing from lack of food as I set off on what was a do-or-die march. I had no food bag or water container to carry other than the two one-litre bottles, but I doubted my own survival past tonight anyway. By my calculation I had roughly one hundred and thirty kilometres to go. I was going to attempt it in one fell swoop.
I had set off before the first crack of dawn with my belly so swollen with water it pained me to walk. At least it stopped the hunger pangs for a while.
No longer did I bother to count the number of paces I took. I walked till I needed a rest, checked my heading and walked again. The sun tore at my damaged skin, making a mockery of my attempts to shield it with what was left of my shirt. I made a solemn promise never again to lie on a beach.
On and on I walked, no longer sure of my direction as long as it was generally north. For long periods I walked with my eyes closed against the glare, fearful of “snow” blindness. By midday I could hold my bladder no longer. I had been determined to retain as much of the fluids I had soaked up earlier for as long as possible. I had no idea whether this helped or not, but it couldn’t do any harm, could it?
Now, not many women know this but when men need to have a leak outside they tend to look for a bush to pee behind, or something to pee against. So it felt really strange watching a puddle of urine disappearing rapidly into the sand in the middle of nowhere. Yet as I stood there it began to dawn on me that there was something odd about the patch of sand I was standing on.
It was a road. Well, a track anyway. It wasn’t easily identifiable as such, but traffic definitely travelled along this stretch of sand. Although the track ran more eastwards than north I decided to follow it anyway. I zipped up, and feeling twenty pounds lighter, I turned right and set off, as the first stone worked its’ way through the shredded sole of my right shoe.
It was twilight when I saw the fir
st and only vehicle on the road. No sooner had I sat for rest and a drink of precious water than an old American taxi came hurtling up from the southwest. Seeing me he slowed to a stop thirty yards past me.
I was half way to the vehicle when the driver bailed out. He was shouting angrily and gesticulating wildly, an outraged expression on his face. I had no idea what he was on about, so I showed him the nine-mil. He stopped abruptly.
“English?” I asked.
“Non,” he cried. “Non. Er, no Engleesh.” He backed up against the driver’s door and tried to climb back in. I grabbed his collar and hauled him out waving the gun around in a vaguely threatening manner.
“You drive me to Ibab, yes? I will pay you?” I spoke slowly nodding encouragingly as I spoke.
“Non, no Ibab. Film, yes?” he babbled.
“What the shit are you talking about, mate?” The guy was an idiot. “I want to go to Ibab. British Embassy? Si?” No, wait, “si” was Spanish. What the hell was yes in French?
“No, I drive you for film? Yes?” What was this guy smoking? When I continued to look confused he said. “Travolta? Yes? Make film? Movie?” He grinned and pointed insistently up the road to where he had come from. What the hell, it wasn’t the direction I wanted to go but I was just too tired to argue any more. I climbed in and the driver turned the car around, rabbiting on fifteen to the dozen about movies and airplanes. Travolta’s name kept cropping up till I finally figured out what the shit he was going on about. I stopped listening and ate the half-finished chicken kebab that had been lying on the dashboard. It was cold and greasy and it tasted great.
“What’s your name, mate?” I asked around a mouthful.
“Henri, I named Henri,” he said, grinning nervously at me. I didn’t take offence; I knew that I must have looked a sight.
“Henri, thanks for the lift. Wake me when we get there, OK?” I said and let the motion of the car lull me swiftly to sleep.
Henri stuffed the bank notes into his shirt pocket, politely ignoring the blood stains, and drove off in a cloud of dust, leaving me on the side of the dirt highway. The night was still warm, the air dry and still. There was the usual lack of clouds in the sky.
Twenty yards away on my right was the recently graded dirt roadway leading down to the film company’s encampment. I took a short cut across twenty yards of scrub and rock and joined the newly built road.
The encampment formed a large square with the far side open to the desert. Beyond the open side, perhaps two hundred yards away, was the start of the purpose-build dirt landing strip. There appeared to be three fairly large aeroplanes parked there as well as two smaller twin engine Cessna. I could see no security along the road so I walked as casually as I could up to the main marquee.
At this point I was at the back of the huge tent. There was considerable noise coming from around the front. I guessed, correctly, that there was a party in progress. If what Henri said was true, then this was not an end-of-filming cast party so much as weekly event.
What to do now? If anyone caught sight of me in my present state, the game would be up and I wasn’t sure what their reaction to me would be. My once white shirt would have been refused at an Oxfam shop and my trousers had so many rips and tears in them they would have been a hit at Woodstock forty years ago. The sole of the right shoe had all but ceased to exist.
Off to the right there were several more tents. These were much smaller and I guessed they would be stores for food, costumes, props and so on. Past these were a series of trailers making up the side of the square; accommodations would be my guess. Just what I needed. With the party in full blast they should be empty of people. Unfortunately they were positioned where the folks out front of the marquee could see anyone at the entrances. Tough luck, I had no choice.
I drew a deep breath and sauntered over to the nearest one, hoping that if anyone noticed me they would assume I belonged there. Nobody challenged me as I tried the door to the first trailer. It was not locked. Gambling on there being no one inside, I stepped in and closed the door behind me.
It wasn’t what I would call luxurious so I assumed it was not used by one of the stars of the film. That didn’t worry me. What did prove to be a problem was that its occupant was very obviously a woman. No change of clothes here then. There was however a proliferation of skin creams and moisturizers. These I needed badly. Grabbing a jar at random I opened it and scooped out a handful of light-green cream. I smeared it on my arms, across my face and the back of my neck. It was heaven. The manufacturers could count on me for an endorsement any time they liked. My skin was so hot that the cream literally melted and dripped onto the floor. I slapped some more on and decided to take the jar with me. On second thoughts, I stuck another one in my pocket. It fell straight through, so I tried the other pocket.
I slipped out of the trailer and headed for the next one in line. As I approached I could hear sounds coming from within. I listened outside the door and could hear what sounded like a man grunting, and then a female voice began moaning and cried out “Stan, Oh Stan, Oh Stanley.” I grinned to myself: Lucky bugger. I moved on to the next trailer in line.
This one belonged to a male actor, although he seemed to have more toiletries than I’ve owned in my entire life. The trailer had a shower, and I carefully washed my burnt and battered body in cold water. Drying myself proved too painful so I stood and let the dry desert air take care of it for me.
Standing naked in the bedroom section, I smeared on more cream and then sorted through his clothes to find something to fit me. He was certainly taller than I was, but that was not the problem. He was a skinny gent and none of his shirts would button up. Finally I found a golf shirt that stretched and running shorts that did the same. I felt halfway human again and celebrated by nicking a cold coke out of his bar fridge.
Decked out in clean shorts, golf shirt and sandals, his feet were way too small for me to wear his shoes, I headed for the marquee.
There were fifty people or more milling around laughing and joking in a mixture of languages. I hoped none would take any notice of me. With luck they would be happily intoxicated, after all it was a party. Keeping to the shadows as much as I could, I helped myself to those snacks within reach. It wasn’t health food by any means but at this stage I would take what I could get. There was a sheep on a spit right out front with three chefs hovering around it. The thought entered my mind, but I let it go as being too dangerous. It didn’t take much food to fill me either. My shrunken stomach was soon feeling uncomfortably bloated. I eyed the wine bottles but decided discretion was the better part of valour, as my old mum used to say. Never drink alcohol when you are dehydrated. One beer will put you flat on you back.
I picked up a bottle of mineral water and caught a glimpse of myself in the stainless steel tray. No wonder I was getting some strange looks. Bright red skin shone like a beacon through streaks of dried pale green cream. It was time to beat a hasty retreat. I turned to leave and bumped into the big star himself. John Travolta.
“Shit. Sorry man,” I said, trying to duck around him.
“It’s all right,” he said, “be cool.”
I forced a laugh at his old movie line and slipped off into the night, not daring to look back. He was shorter in real life, I thought unkindly.
I hadn’t got twenty yards when my path was blocked by a large man in uniform. The word “security” was printed across his left pocket. Bollocks.
The next morning arrived suddenly with an insistent tapping on my back. I opened my eyes and found that I was face down in a faintly perfumed pillow. I lifted my head and peeked sideways. It was the Brazilian actress whose name I couldn’t remember. I knew that I should remember her name although no one had introduced her to me last night because, let’s face it, they all assumed that I would know her name: after all, everyone in the movie-going world knew her name. I knew her name, I just couldn’t remember it. And I was sleeping in her bed. When the producer – Ricky someone-or-other – had sugge
sted that I go and get some sleep and to use her bed, I had thought, naturally, that I was going to struggle to be of any use to her in my present condition. But it turned out that she would be spending the night in Darren-the-head-stuntman’s bed. I was both relived and saddened at the news.
“Simon,” she said, “are you awake?” She tapped harder.
“More or less,” I replied, rolling onto my back. Less, actually. It was still dark but a dim lamp barely lit the interior of the trailer. “What time is it?”
“It is time for breakfast, and I need my trailer back.” She smiled sweetly.
“It’s still dark,” I argued, reasonably. “Who the hell gets up at this hour to have breakfast?”
“Those people who have four scenes to shoot before the light disappears.”
She stood up, reached behind her and unzipped her dress. The flimsy garment slid to the floor leaving her naked before me. She smiled at my wide-eyed reaction.
“I am going to shower,” she stated. “You can come back later to use it. OK?”
I had been dismissed.
I reluctantly left her to it and went in search of the promised breakfast. I found those involved in the early start grouped around a long trellis table stacked with pots and plates, everyone grabbing food and muttering quietly to each other. I joined the throng and found a plate thrust into my hands. I nodded my thanks to the cook and he added a modest mound of food. I added a cup of coffee. Looking around, I saw the director sitting at a smaller table with one of the male actors. Catching my eye, he waved me over to join them.
“This is the man who walked out of the desert yesterday,” he informed the actor, indicating me. “Simon, you know Julian, of course?”