Camel Down

Craig and I had surveyed the first five legs of the route the previous December, following our rider training in Tabuk. I remember vividly standing at the chosen location for Camp 5, staring at the ridgeline across a dried-up riverbed, and saying, “I hope to Christ we can find a way through that”. So, as we rode towards it with a Defender scouting ahead, I knew this might transpire to be a very long day. However, as we reached the top of the ridge and the terrain flattened out, we encountered what turned out to be a large step feature— a mix of stone and sand that the camels could comfortably trot across.

As with most mornings, the copious amounts of coffee Tommo and James consumed in the morning flowed through their bodies at pace - no doubt accelerated by the bounce of the trotting pace. Tommo quickly devised a “pee-amnesty”, whereby any rider up to 90 minutes out could call for a quick stop to dump fluids without catching grief from the rest of us.

Truthfully, it was all done in jest - we were invariably all dying for a pee shortly into a day’s ride, and thoroughly relieved when someone finally cracked and called for a “pee break”. By 10 a.m., the sun had properly risen into the sky, and we could ditch our traditional waistcoats. Sweating had become something of an enemy because if a breeze kicked up, damp clothes could quickly turn a comfortable ride into a cold and clammy one.

By 11 a.m., we’d been riding for three hours across really good ground, but it was striking how empty this part of the route felt; nothing but flat plains skirted by hilly landscape. No proper track, no sign of Bedouin. I found myself wondering when anyone had last crossed this area - because who else but us would have any reason to be out here? My thoughts were broken by Henry on the radio “You guys ready for a coffee?” The consensus was a definite “yes,” and Henry told us they were about ten minutes ahead, so they’d get a brew on. We soon spotted two Defenders in the distance and headed towards them.

By the time we reached the Defenders, Henry and Oliver had made the coffee, and Rebecca had broken out some energy snacks. We discussed the terrain and how happy I was that this was turning out to be a decent stage. I said we’d crack out another couple of hours’ riding in before stopping for lunch, an event that had already evolved into yoghurt, fruit, coffee, and a Mars bar.

We continued trotting for another 30 minutes or so, and then Craig told me, “Hang on, Tommo’s camel has sat down”. After a bit of coaxing, Tommo got him back on his feet while we waited for them to rejoin the group. For reasons best known to Tommo, he’d nicknamed his camels “Keith” and “Chegwin” after a BBC kiddies’ presenter who had some sort of lasting influence on Tommo.  It was Keith who was playing up.

I reflected on Lawrence’s own problems with camels. In Seven Pillars, he had written of his preference for female camels because, unlike males, when they got tired, they wouldn’t quit. Male camels, though capable of carrying significantly more weight, would do exactly what Keith had just done. Unlike us, Lawrence stood only 5 feet 2 inches (157.5 cm), so was clearly light enough not to need the strength of a male camel. I didn’t say anything to Tommo at the time, but I wondered if this camel might end up making our day much longer than it needed to be.

We had about half an hour to go before lunch when Keith sat down again. I looked ahead, and in the distance spotted a huge, lone rock out on the desert plain. Wind and sand had eroded its base, so it looked as though it was balanced on a small foundation. I called up Rebecca and said we’d stop short there for lunch, and Tommo and I agreed he should switch to Cheggers.

Lunch by the rock, quickly dubbed the Hard Rock Café, was deeply memorable. Not least because it offered the only shade in the midday sun. I reflected that Lawrence and his group would undoubtedly have stopped here to rest. While we ate and the camels rested in the shade, Tommo switched mounts, and we could only hope that Keith would recover from whatever was ailing him - be it energy deficit or simple laziness.

As we got closer to camp, Rory asked if I minded if they pushed it out a little further, since we’d made such good ground. I agreed, and by about 4 p.m., we spotted Rory’s flashing lights as he backtracked towards us to lead us into camp.

We passed through an area of soft sand and light shrubbery with no obvious signs of water, before breaking out onto a stunning desert plain. With the sun behind us, we could just make out a speck in the distance that was the camp. We trotted in at pace and arrived with about two hours of daylight remaining, which made it so much easier to get cleaned up and organise the inside of the tents.

Simon had rigged our shower tent, which wasn’t that, but this evening, at least, we’d have time to use a spray bottle to soap ourselves down and remove some of the grime we’d accumulated over the past six days without enough water to wash. As the desert gave us a beautiful sunset, the camels wandered freely but stayed close to camp, sniffing out the occasional grass stem that only their sensitive noses could find. The Saudi in the truck was still with us, so I asked Dawser (our interpreter) to find out who he was. Turned out he was Saudi Federal Police, keeping us safe after the TV interviews. Little did either of us know that he would be redundant starting tomorrow.

The following morning, we faced what was potentially the toughest leg of the Saudi portion of the Trek. We would leave what had been an idyllic campsite and cross into the King Salman bin Abdulaziz Royal Nature Reserve (KSRNR), so vast it would encompass our entire route for the next nine days. However, before we even reached the Reserve, Keith had a few more surprises in store. We weren’t five minutes out of camp, just starting to trot at an “eat ground” pace, when the riderless Keith decided to sit down. This damaged Tommo’s shedad to which he was attached, so we had to stop immediately for some running repairs. Five minutes later? Keith sat down again!

I called Rebecca on the radio and asked her to get the Bedouin owners who had come along to help with the camels to please come out. They were doubtless still around their campfire, finishing off the remnants of the goat they’d dispatched the previous evening.

Within a few minutes, their Toyota Hilux came screaming across the desert plain. They coaxed Keith to his feet, and we set off again. But within a minute, he sat down once more, this time breaking his tie to Cheggers and Tommo. He then developed a limp we hadn’t seen before, and to this day, I think he was faking it. I went over to Sami, the Bedouin leader, and said, “This camel is done. We’re leaving him with you.” He agreed and that was the last any of us saw of Keith. None of us, except Rebecca, were sorry to see him go. He’d turned out to be the laziest of camels and I suspect he paid dearly for that.

We were one week in, and we’d lost one rider and one camel, but the four and nine pushed on, and by 10 a.m. we crossed Highway 15 to be greeted by a team of KSRNR Special Forces Rangers and their Captain, who spoke good English and explained to me that they would accompany us for the remainder of our time in Saudi. He also said that the upshot from the TV interview was that many locals wanted to see us pass by and were asking, “Where are the British Camels?” I knew that although we’d only encountered a genuinely friendly welcome everywhere we’d been in Saudi Arabia, these guys had been assigned to make sure it stayed that way. It was very reassuring to have them nearby, and their local knowledge would come in very handy over the next few days.

The Rangers halted traffic on Highway 15 as we crossed, giving me a clear view of the next ridgeline we’d have to cross. Lawrence had written about the challenges of this area, and since 1917, nothing had changed, apart from the roads. Rory and Oliver (our two former Paras) had ranged ahead to check the route and the alternate route I’d marked on the map. Meanwhile, we skirted the hills, staying in low ground, looking for a re-entrant that would take us up and over. Thanks to Keith, we’d lost about 45 minutes, and now the ground underfoot was mostly sharp stones, so we couldn’t trot the camels except when we picked up a goat track heading in the right direction.

In the distance, I could see the Rangers keeping their distance, and I knew we were paralleling the road about 3 kilometres to the west.  I reflected on how these roads had once been camel tracks, then established minor roads, but now they were four lane highways. The path that Lawrence took, led by Sherif Nasir and Auda Abu Tayi, would have followed this route, which turned out to be the only one through the hills that made this part of the desert one of the worst places on earth to travel.

Rory and Oliver reported back. The two paras couldn’t find a way through. Each re-entrant was a dead end, unpassable for camels and even more so for vehicles. We would have to dog-leg to the north-northwest, stop short of a large wadi at the end of high ground, make camp, and then cross into the sand desert before turning northeast toward the wells at Al Fajr, which was where Lawrence and his team had rested and watered for a few days.

As we pushed on, it became obvious it was going to be a long day. We had to skirt the hills as closely as we could, but on the stony ground, the climbs were slow going for the camels. At times, we had to circumnavigate features that were too steep for camel or man, and with about an hour of sunlight left, we came up against a steep ridge that we’d have to dismount and walk the camels across.

By the time we got across, the light was fading, and we came on to a large black stone plain that stretched on for miles. It formed a large L-shape that we’d have to follow to the next camp. As we turned the corner, we could see what looked like headlights in the distance. They flashed, and we knew that it must be the camp.  However, by now, we’d lost all light and were trotting in the dark, which wasn’t a problem for the camels because they have excellent night vision. However, for the riders, who had now been in a shedad for 11 hours, it mattered whether the lights were 2kms away or 5kms. It was five.

We arrived in camp in pitch darkness, but the support team had put up our tents and placed our kitbags by them. Simon had cups of tea ready. As I lay in my tent, I removed my jodhpurs and cycle shorts. I gingerly felt the blister area of my right butt cheek. Frankly, I couldn’t tell what was skin or what was plaster hanging off.  I’d need to get my camp clothes on (which had been donated by UF Pro) and pay a visit to Ged the Medic so he could cut away whatever it was that was hanging off.

I reflected on how a great day had been followed by the toughest stage we’d had so far. We could lose another camel, and we’d be OK, but the issue was if it was one of the stronger ones, that could be problematic. As far as I knew, I was the only rider in pain, but I knew that wouldn’t stop me. What I didn’t know was that the other riders were hurting too.

The next day, we’d head to Fajr to collect sand that we would reunite with Lawrence’s grave when we returned to England.

Hopefully, tomorrow would be an easier day.

Credit: SFCBF.org