The Mammoth Book of Travel in Dangerous Places

by John Keay

  So we marched on wrangling towards the distant tent. In half an hour we reached camp to hear that five or six baggage-animals had collapsed from thirst, hunger and exhaustion. One of them was actually sheltering against the sun under cover of the tent at the time, while two or three others were similarly indulged when in due course they were brought in from the desert with the loads of which they had been relieved for a time to let them recover from the strain. The position was just about as serious as it could be and some reconsideration of our plans would obviously be necessary. We were at a crisis of our fortunes, but the battle had yet to be joined that would end at midnight in my own discomfiture.

  My tent had been pitched near the other when we arrived but, after depositing my goods and chattels in it, I hastened to join my companions, whom I found in surly mood and openly mutinous, attributing the debacle of the day to my insane insistence both on embarking upon such an enterprise and on marching through the heat of the day. I tried to be conciliatory in the circumstances and pointed out gently that night-marching would have defeated the whole object of our journey. I went on to declare that at Shanna I had strongly urged the division of our forces and the despatch of all our heavy baggage by the comparatively easy route by the wells to Riyadh or Hufuf, so that we might attempt the waterless crossing with a light and well-equipped party. It was therefore they who had brought about the present disastrous state of affairs by neglecting my advice. I had moreover warned them at Shanna that the journey would take at least fifteen days while they had clung foolishly to Ibn Suwailim’s optimistic estimate of eleven or twelve, and thus had only themselves to thank for the disappointment of their hopes. We had in fact done exactly one-third of the distance in one-third of the time allowed for by me, and there was no reason to talk of abandoning the enterprise. I certainly would not do that. I would go on alone if necessary and they could go back and tell their master that they had abandoned their guest in the desert. And now, I continued, our course is clear enough. We can send back the baggage-animals to Naifa, whence they may either return to the Hasa or rejoin us at Wadi Dawasir by way of Bir Fadhil and the Aflaj. The rest of us could continue the march direct to Sulaiyil, where we should await the arrival of the baggage. The only course was to be firm and unyielding with as much conciliatoriness as possible, but my frankness merely fanned the flames of mutiny as they sat silent and brooding round the embers of the coffee fire. The coffee cups were passing round.

  ’Abdul Rahman, the coffee-man, scion of the dour clans of Dhruma and usually too absorbed in his coffee-making to take much part in the general conversation, looked up with a snarl and jerked out some offensive remark about my lack of consideration for others. I rounded on the assembled company and chid them. I came over to your tent, I said, to discuss the situation with you that we may make plans for the future. I did not come to hear expressions of your ill-temper, and it astonishes me that you should all sit by and let such a remark as that be made in your presence with impunity. I, at any rate, will not stand that from any of you. With that I tossed my untasted cup on the sand and rose to leave the tent. Ibn Ma’addi, doubtless remembering the Sa’dan incident at Adraj, interposed with an olive branch. If you wish it, he said, we will give ’Abdul Rahman a beating for his insolence. No, I replied as I walked away, I do not wish it; I have forgiven him. But if any of you wish to discuss matters with me, he must come to my tent. I come no more to yours. At such a crisis it was obviously undesirable to make enemies gratuitously, while I also reflected that ’Abdul Rahman had probably had a gruelling day of it with the breakdown of the camels. He was perhaps also contemplating death from thirst as a very real possibility. High words and ill-temper were inevitable in such circumstances, and I was full of sympathy for the unfortunate wretches though by no means disposed to yield to their clamour for an ignominious retreat. So I left them to their talking, and fragments of their wild conversation floated over to my ears as I settled down to plot out our whole march from Shanna to this point. I had had no time to do such work during the past five days and it was imperative that I should know roughly without delay our actual position in the great waterless desert. Sa’dan brought me my customary pot of tea and the gossip of the enemy camp, whence emissaries came from time to time to resume negotiations with me about our future movements. By sunset I had finished my task and, as soon as it was dark enough, I made and worked out the necessary astronomical observations to check the accuracy of my compass traverse. Our progress had been certainly a little disappointing though I had discounted such a contingency in advance. Two-thirds of the desert journey lay before us – a matter of ten days, though these might be reduced to eight with a reasonable amount of night-marching. Could the best of our camels do it? That was the great question, while there could be no doubt, whatever, that the baggage-animals must make with all possible speed for the nearest water. There was little to choose in the matter of distance between Naifa and Shanna, but wild horses would not have dragged my companions back to the latter. They feared it as the plague, and there was no reason why their preference should not be conceded. For the camels (and to a lesser extent for the personnel) it was literally a question of life and death. And four of the camels lay there before us in a state of complete collapse. Nothing but water would revive them for further marching, and there was no water to spare if all claims had to be considered.

  Meanwhile the stream of visitors to my tent had enabled me to devise a scheme which was at least feasible and acceptable though not acclaimed with the enthusiasm demanded by our parlous situation. The absentees, Zayid and ’Ali, were to be encouraged to accompany the baggage back to Naifa, while I insisted that Ibn Suwailim should go with my party as guide for he alone knew the general direction and conditions of the march before us well enough to act in such a capacity, though even he had never traversed the desert on any line southward of Faraja and Maqainama. Sa’dan would, of course, go with me, for he both desired to do so and was indispensable for my work, and that made a nucleus of three, to which Salih adhered unconditionally, thus making four. Farraj hedged, torn between fear and greed – and never have I met an Arab so vacillating and uncertain in temper – but eventually decided to throw in his lot with me. Humaid would not be parted from Salih and that made six, while Suwid, who had publicly denounced the scheme as sheer madness, came to my tent alone and very mysteriously to indicate by wordless signs that he too would be included in my party, which was duly completed by the inclusion of Abu Ja’sha, the indispensable handy man. On my part I agreed readily enough to a reasonable amount of night-marching – a concession that I could scarcely refuse in the circumstances seeing that we should in any case have scarcely enough water to see us through to the end, for we should have to spare some for the weariest of the camels and leave the baggage-party with sufficient to bring them to Naifa.

  As the hours passed by with no sign of Zayid and ’Ali we agreed that the desert party should make a start with the first appearance of the moon, due sometime after midnight, as there was clearly no time to be lost. The interval was spent in making the necessary dispositions to give effect to our plans. The available food supplies were divided up and the camels destined for our party selected. In due course everything was ready and I had just completed my star observations when we heard afar off the grunts and chatter that portended the unwelcome return of Zayid and his companions.

  As I had anticipated with dread, all our carefully worked out plans collapsed with Zayid’s arrival in camp. He was quite naturally furious that any plans should have been concerted in his absence, and neither he nor ’Ali was inclined to be communicative on the subject of the day’s hunting, which had at any rate provided no venison. They left it to be understood that they had toiled all day in search of their lost camels and they had a colourable grievance in our decision to relegate them unconsulted to the returning baggage-party. From the first moment Zayid declared himself against our scheme. After the inevitable cup of coffee which enabled him rapidly to take stock
of the situation, as I could gather from the privacy of my own tent by the voluble protests made in the other, he came over to discuss matters with me. He was charming as could be and honey-tongued in his protestations of devoted service. Look you, he said, I cannot desert you thus; I will come with you myself, for my face would be blackened for ever if I left you now to your fate. The way is far and there is not sufficient water and the camels are dead. We will, however, do what you wish. We will perish with you. We will take the best camels and all the water that can be spared and what matter? We will put our trust in God. If God so wills, we will reach Sulaiyil alive, but blame not us if we all die of thirst in the desert. You saw today how many of the animals broke down. They cannot march without pastures to fill their bellies. There are but two or three of them that are fit for the journey. Why, even my mount and ’Ali’s are more dead than alive. But whatever you wish we will do. I have done my duty in warning you of the danger we shall be running, but the ordering is yours.

  The advent of Zayid had clearly changed the situation. He could make or mar our enterprise, and I could not trust him to make arrangements that would give us a sporting chance of success. I felt that I had lost my throw with Fate, and I turned to the only alternative – a faint hope of ultimate success to weigh in the balance against the certain failure of the plans we had made so hopefully. Look you, Zayid, I said, your coming has spoiled my plans and you have turned my companions against me. Either let me go with my men and the camels we have chosen or give me your word of honour here and now. If I agree to go back to Naifa now with all our party intact will you give me your word of honour that, when we have rested and refreshed our camels, you will ride with me again across the Empty Quarter, even to Sulaiyil, as you gave me your word to do at Shanna? That was part of your charge from Ibn Jiluwi, and I warn you that Ibn Sa’ud himself will be wroth with you and the rest of them if you fail in this matter. I cannot go back except across the Empty Quarter. I give you my word of honour to that, oh Shaikh Abdullah, he replied blandly, and the matter is of God’s will. For a moment I wrestled with myself and saw that there was no reasonable alternative to putting my trust in any sense of decency that remained in him. The men were all so obsessed with fear of Zayid that they could do nothing on their own initiative. Salih and Farraj, who had solemnly given me their hands in token of loyalty to the afternoon’s bargain, cut but sorry figures in their sudden and complete collapse. And in the few moments that remained before a final decision was reached I listened to a loud altercation proceeding in the rival camp. He cannot go, I heard, without a guide; so let Ibn Suwailim tell him straight out that he will not accompany him. Rise Salim and tell him that we may get back to the watering without delay. And a moment later Ibn Suwailim was led into my tent by Suwid, repeated his lesson like a child and went his way.

  Thus it was finally agreed that we should all return together to Naifa and that the baggage-train should start off as soon as the moon had risen. Of the whole nineteen of us, I alone was unhappy that evening, while the rest set about their remaining tasks with a good will worthier of a better cause than ignominious retreat. The Empty Quarter had routed us. We had come about 140 miles – a five days’ journey – into its inhospitable, drought-stricken wastes, and now we were to flee from its terrors.

  TO THE EMPTY

  QUARTER FOR A

  DRINK OF WATER

  Wilfred Thesiger

  (1910–)

  Thesiger, like Philby, was drawn to Arabia’s Empty Quarter and would make many journeys there. But he embraced the sands less as a geographical challenge and more as a test of the human spirit. After a childhood in Addis Ababa and subsequent wanderings in Somalia, Sudan, Syria and the Sahara, he had come to think of the desert as his natural home. After World War II he welcomed a move to Arabia, initially to work on locust control and then to make a series of remarkable journeys. He was particularly interested in how the beduin (bedu) had adapted to their impossibly harsh surroundings, and he was deeply saddened that this unique lifestyle and its values were about to be eclipsed. More than any of his contemporaries, he lived as abedu, suffering the pangs of thirst and hunger with them, enjoying their companionship, and making no concessions to comfort. His first crossing of the Empty Quarter in 1946 was made with just five companions from the Rashid and Bait Kathir tribes.

  After the meal we rode for two hours along a salt-flat. The dunes on either side, colourless in the moonlight, seemed higher by night than by day. The lighted slopes looked very smooth, the shadows in their folds inky black. Soon I was shivering uncontrollably from the cold. The others roared out their songs into a silence, broken otherwise only by the crunch of salt beneath the camels’ feet. The words were the words of the south, but the rhythm and intonation were the same as in the songs which I had heard other Bedu singing in the Syrian desert. At first sight the Bedu of southern Arabia had appeared to be very different from those of the north, but I now realized that this difference was largely superficial and due to the clothes which they wore. My companions would not have felt out of place in an encampment of the Rualla, whereas a townsman from Aden or Muscat would be conspicuous in Damascus.

  Eventually we halted and I dismounted numbly. I would have given much for a hot drink but I knew that I must wait eighteen hours for that. We lit a small fire and warmed ourselves before we slept, though I slept little. I was tired; for days I had ridden long hours on a rough camel, my body racked by its uneven gait. I suppose I was weak from hunger, for the food which we ate was a starvation ration, even by Bedu standards. But my thirst troubled me most; it was not bad enough really to distress me but I was always conscious of it. Even when I was asleep I dreamt of racing streams of ice-cold water, but it was difficult to get to sleep. Now I lay there trying to estimate the distance we had covered and the distance that still lay ahead. When I had asked al Auf how far it was to the well, he had answered, “It is not the distance but the great dunes of the Uruq al Shaiba that may destroy us.” I worried about the water which I had watched dripping away on to the sand, and about the state of our camels. They were there, close beside me in the dark. I sat up and looked at them. Mabkhaut stirred and called out, “What is it, Umbarak?” I mumbled an answer and lay down again. Then I worried whether we had tied the mouth of the skin properly when we had last drawn water and wondered what would happen if one of us was sick or had an accident. It was easy to banish these thoughts in daylight, less easy in the lonely darkness. Then I thought of al Auf travelling here alone and felt ashamed.

  The others were awake at the first light, anxious to push on while it was still cold. The camels sniffed at the withered tribulus but were too thirsty to eat it. In a few minutes we were ready. We plodded along in silence. My eyes watered with the cold; the jagged salt-crusts cut and stung my feet. The world was grey and dreary. Then gradually the peaks ahead of us stood out against a paling sky; almost imperceptibly they began to glow, borrowing the colours of the sunrise which touched their crests.

  A high unbroken dune-chain stretched across our front. It was not of uniform height, but, like a mountain range, consisted of peaks and connecting passes. Several of the summits appeared to be seven hundred feet above the salt-flat on which we stood. The southern face confronting us was very steep, which meant that this was the lee side to the prevailing winds. I wished we had to climb it from the opposite direction, for it is easy to take a camel down these precipices of sand but always difficult to find a way up them.

  Al Auf told us to wait while he went to reconnoitre. I watched him walking away across the glistening salt-flat, his rifle on his shoulder and his head thrown back as he scanned the slopes above. He looked superbly confident, but as I viewed this wall of sand I despaired that we would ever get the camels up it. Mabkhaut evidently thought the same, for he said to Musallim, “We will have to find a way round. No camel will ever climb that.” Musallim answered, “It is al Auf’s doing. He brought us here. We should have gone much farther to the west, nearer to Dakaka.” He
had caught a cold and was snuffling, and his rather high-pitched voice was hoarse and edged with grievance. I knew that he was jealous of al Auf and always ready to disparage him, so unwisely I gibed, “We should have got a long way if you had been our guide!” He swung round and answered angrily, “You don’t like the Bait Kathir. I know that you only like the Rashid. I defied my tribe to bring you here and you never recognize what I have done for you.”

  For the past few days he had taken every opportunity of reminding me that I could not have come on from Ramlat al Ghafa without him. It was done in the hope of currying favour and of increasing his reward, but it only irritated me. Now I was tempted to seek relief in angry words, to welcome the silly, bitter squabble which would result. I kept silent with an effort and moved apart on the excuse of taking a photograph. I knew how easily, under conditions such as these, I could take a violent dislike to one member of the party and use him as my private scapegoat. I thought, “I must not let myself dislike him. After all, I do owe him a great deal; but I wish to God he would not go on reminding me of it.”