Pee is for Pylon

Waking up on what I’d nicknamed the Mongolian Plain felt good. The previous evening, I’d managed to use a spray bottle to wash down my body, and although it was the chilliest of ‘showers’, it felt good to have a clean set of clothes on skin that had seen some soap.

I grabbed a cup of tea by the fire where Tommo, Craig and James had already gathered, and we talked about the day ahead, during which we would reach the Meegowa Oasis. I’d viewed this area several times from my flights between Dubai and Tabuk, and from 30,000 feet it didn’t look too bad. However, I knew that in reality, a view from that altitude would give little indication of what lay ahead.

Packing up camp that day and preparing the camels seemed a bit easier than usual. I think the thin layer of toxic vegetation covering the ground and lack of dusty sand probably helped. As we set off, the plain stretched out before us, with cliffs rising in the far distance to lead us up to the next layer of high ground.

The undulating but stone-free terrain underfoot allowed us to make good progress, and for whatever reason, all our bladders were holding up well that day — no one called for an early pee-amnesty.

As we neared the high ground, Oliver and Richard had ranged ahead in their Defender to check that the route we’d plotted would allow us to ascend the steep re-entrant onto the next level. It was hard going, but not so steep that we needed to dismount the camels. That day, I was riding Sorpan. He was a large male camel who liked to rumble his saliva foamed lips when letting out a growl to assert his masculinity. At the outset, the Bedouin had warned me he was a biter, and I had him muzzled for the first few days. However, now we were used to each other, and he’d turned into quite the teddy bear — he enjoyed being stroked and made a fuss of. From a riding perspective, he wasn’t the most comfortable, but he excelled at trotting. Once he settled into a pace, it was as if he was on cruise control. He needed very little encouragement and would just push on. I’d already concluded that, while not as impressive to look at as my other camel, Shagra, Sorpan was in fact the better of the two.

The first few hours of the day were generally cool or cold — today, it was the latter — and we were into a strong headwind. As we climbed up the re-entrant, we were flanked by rock faces on either side, and the Bernoulli effect markedly accelerated the wind, which cut through our clothing. It was then that I discovered I must have sweated a little earlier, and my damp T-shirt was freezing onto my body. I pulled my waistcoat tight across my chest, but frankly it did little to help. The entire rider team must have been going through the same experience, so it was just a case of gritting my teeth and pushing on, hoping the wind would eventually drop.

As we crested the ridge, the flanking rocks widened and the wind slackened slightly. For the first time that day, we could feel a little warmth from the sun. When Rebecca came on the radio and asked if we were ready for a coffee break, it was a unanimous “yes”. Seldom had a warm drink been so welcome, and in the lee of the Defender, we managed to warm ourselves.

Once moving again, the terrain became undulating once more, but now with rock and sand. The Bedouin turned up to give me their usual “Shway-shway, Mr Howard”, always concerned that we should go a little slower to spare the camels. They also guided us left of our intended track, which turned out to be wise advice. After one more ridge, the plain opened up again.

By this time, I was looking out for the beginning of Meegowa, which is a massive cluster of crop circles enabled by farmers pumping water from the oasis into huge rotating spray devices. I was also aware that a pylon line passed through Meegowa, which would serve as another marker for our next camp.

It was about 1 p.m. when we stopped for lunch, and seeing three Defenders in the middle of the plain, with a speck of pylons on the horizon, was a welcome sight. During lunch, Oliver mentioned that we were making great progress and reckoned we’d be at camp within a couple of hours. However, Rory reported that it was impossible to go directly to the camp due to fences criss-crossing the farmland. Furthermore, the Park Rangers had told us we could not cross the farms. The only alternative was to reach the pylons and follow the maintenance track, which would take us through the ‘Meegowa gap’ to the camp.

We set off towards the most distant pylon, while two of the Defenders used vehicle-friendly tracks and disappeared from view. As we neared the pylons, we had to pass through a small gully. Craig was trotting alongside me on Begbie when, all of a sudden, he seemed to lean into me and then grab me. I suddenly realised his girth had slipped, and the shedad was rotating to the side of the camel — and Craig was going with it. I grabbed his katam (rein) as hard as I could and pulled both camels to a gradual stop while Craig just hung on. The camels eventually cooperated and, as we came to a halt, Craig let himself drop to the ground, ending up between the camels and just behind Begbie. No sooner was he on all fours than I realised Begbie had begun to pee — right over Craig’s back. I tried to get the words out: “Craig, Craig, he’s pissing on you! He’s pissing on you!” Craig scrambled out of urine range, and the laughter from the three of us looking on was probably heard for miles across the empty desert.

Within a few minutes, a urine-soaked Craig had refastened his shedad, and we joined the pylon path, which — though undulating — allowed us to make good ground. That said, the ride along pylon after pylon through the featureless landscape was stunningly boring, which only served to make a rider dwell on every ache and pain.

After about an hour, with Oliver’s “nearly there” echoing in our ears, we all thought we must be close to camp but needed to stop for a bladder break. Henry and Rebecca were nearby and stopped with us to hand out water and snacks. Tommo asked the fatal question, “How far?” to which Henry replied, “You’ve a bit to go yet”.

“What? Five kilometres?” Tommo asked.

Henry looked at his feet — which we were to learn was never a good sign. “Further,” he said.

“Ten?”

“Closer to fifteen,” Henry replied.

The effect on morale was crushing. We’d thought we were within reach. Fifteen kilometres meant at least another two hours — still all along the pylon track. With about 5 km to go, Shagra, who was tied to Sorpan, decided to give up and became a dead weight for Sorpan to drag. Tommo or Craig would ride alongside to coax him on, but he soon learned to try to avoid them. He was a real pain that day, and this would go down as my least favourite day of the entire trek.

It must have been around 6 p.m. when we finally reached camp, which was in a picturesque sand bowl surrounded by vegetation. On arrival, the film crew from the King Salman Royal Nature Reserve was there to greet us — likely the nicest event of the day.

We went to bed that night knowing that tomorrow would be pivotal. We would turn northwest towards the Saudi border, which lay 220 kilometres away. However, before reaching it, we would have to cross Wadi Sirhan — a place Lawrence had declared he hated.

We were about to find out why.

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Al Fajr, for The Second Pot of Sand, and then no man’s land