Into Aqaba - Job Not Quite Done

Waking up at the last camp felt strange for a number of reasons. The first was… it ends today. By the end of the day it would be all over, and as I lay in my tent pulling on my cycle shorts, ski-socks, jodhpurs and ultra-light boots for the last time I knew on one hand I’d be pleased not to have to do it again (until the next time), but I also knew I was going to miss it like hell.

As I emerged from my tent, there was no tranquil desert, but rather a conundrum of Bedouin Police, their 1965 Unimog, which still worked perfectly, and groups of Gendarmerie that had gathered for our impending breakfast. For this morning, there would be none of Simon’s oatmeal or his weird-tasting egg concoctions, but rather a buffet laid on by the Gendarmerie, especially erected Marquees. The hive of activity was almost harmful to the senses after spending so much time isolated in the desert with our small but now efficient group.  As we packed our kit we gifted our tents, sleeping bags, mattresses, sand goggles and so on to the Bedouin Police, who were delighted to take them off our hands.

Today’s concern for me was not the route; it was all about timings. We had approximately 20km to ride to the final rendezvous (FRV). We needed to be there no later than 2pm, and we would leave at exactly 2.45pm, when the Aqaba police would close the roads for our entrance into the old city.

With that in mind, I wanted to leave us plenty of time so we could soak up this last ride along the river bed and through the chasm that was the only entrance to Aqaba from the “uncrossable desert”. It was the exact route of Lawrence, Auda, Sherif Ali and Nesib, plus their 300 Arabian warriors on horse and camel.

The hospitality of the Gendarmerie was so generous that we could not refuse it, but it took longer to eat breakfast than it ever had during the entire trek. However, by 0930 the four SF Club Riders, Craig, Tommo, James and I were ready to go, and our Bedouin Police Riders and now friends, Mishal, Hayal and Falah of the last nine days in Jordan, would ride with us.

Prior to us setting off, the Police Commander held good on a promise. He told us that if we reached Aqaba, he would present each of us with a Jambiya (the traditional Arab knife) worn by his policemen. These adorned our gun belts today. Also, because we knew in Aqaba we’d be joined by a throng of other Bedouin Police Riders resplendent in their green kandurahs and red shemaghs, the SFC riders wore white, just as Lawrence had done. I chose the same patterned Shemagh as worn by the Sherif; the original is displayed in the museum which used to be his house in Aqaba.

We set off along the riverbed, following a meandering path between small and giant rocks. Steep cliff faces and mountains towered above us on each side, and to the left, elevated and cut into the cliff face, was the rebuilt Hejaz railway, which runs all the way into the city. To our right, high above us, was the main road, and as trucks and cars spotted us, they sounded their horns and waved. Unbeknownst to us, our arrival had been well announced in local media.

After about 5km, the dried riverbed split. This was the point where a flood from the south would meet the northern tributary that we were riding along, before combining and turning west down the chasm that led only to Aqaba.  As we entered this final path, I could only wonder about the anticipation of Lawrence’s group 108 years earlier. They would have been moving slowly and silently, trying to remain undetected before first light and their charge into the port city. There would be no such stealth for us. Highway 80 follows the same route and gradually drops to just above the winter flood level of the chasm. Hence, horns were blowing, and people were waving as we worked our way down the valley, with me glancing at my watch and waiting for my last route marker to appear.

Also today, the Defenders weren’t with us. The route down the riverbed was unpassable for vehicles, not only because of the giant rocks but also because of the anti-smuggling barriers that were periodically installed.

At about 5km from the FRV, the chasm has a sharp bend to the north and passes under the highway. Here, there were more barriers, so we had to dismount the camels, which was convenient for a pee, and to lead them around the obstacles and down a metre-high step, something our super camels didn’t bat an eye about. On the other side, we mounted up, and the mountains and high ground to our right dropped away, flattening into a gentle slope. We rounded the corner as the ground in front of us opened up. This was where Lawrence and the 300 would have started their charge into the back of Aqaba and lose only two men, because the guns faced towards the sea and couldn’t be turned. The Turks of the day were taken completely by surprise and quickly defeated.

In the distance, we could see the buildings of Eilat, across the border in Israel, and closer the outskirts of Aqaba. In between the buildings the stunning blue water of the Red Sea’s Gulf of Aqaba. I said, “There it is, guys, the Red Sea. The last time we saw that was 25 days ago in Al Wajh”. 

Uncharacteristically, Craig said, “Wow, I actually feel quite emotional”. I knew he wasn’t the only one.

Then two Defenders pulled alongside us. Henry leapt out and began filming. It was a beautiful blue-sky day, we’d arrive at the FRV with over an hour to spare, and for the first time on the Trek, I could feel the weight of responsibility for the team’s safety start to lift from my shoulders. Sure, we had lost one rider and one camel in Saudi Arabia to injury, but the team had come through battered, blistered and bruised, yet in one piece and without disaster, which could have happened all too easily.

As we approached the FRV, a piece of open ground just short of the main street into Aqaba, we rode along a slip road, and cars were already stopping to take photographs and cheer us in. At the FRV, there were some 40 camels and Bedouin Police waiting for us. Richard Hammond’s film team were also there and made the most of the spectacle. I was really glad to stop, drink some coffee that Rebecca and Richard had made, and gather my thoughts. I joked that I was going to give up at this point, just 1.5km from the finish line. It still seemed surreal that we’d actually made it.

The noise and melee of camels, riders, support teams, film crews, and crowds overwhelmed our senses, but we started to organise ourselves for entry into Aqaba just before the local police turned up and said they were ready, at precisely 2.15pm.

The Bedouin Police Commander led us out, and the four SFC riders rode line abreast behind him. I felt waves of emotion as we descended the gentle slope of the main street, with crowds growing on either side and cars coming to a voluntary stop to film this one-off spectacle. The re-creation of the “Path to Aqaba”. I said to the guys, “Soak it up, lads, this won’t happen again”. I reflected that just a couple of months before, we four hadn’t known each other, and the other three had never been on a camel. Now we were a band of brothers and probably among the leading British camel handlers in Saudi Shedads (on saddles), and totally confident on their mounts.

Our route into town took us down to the Ayla Circle (roundabout) and, when we arrived, not only were families and friends there to cheer us in over the last few hundred yards as we turned left towards Aqaba Fort, but there was also the Military Pipe Band of the Jordanian Armed Forces. They struck up, took the lead, and marched along King Hussein Street, between thousands of Aqaba residents who had come out to welcome us into the Arab Revolt Plaza, reclaimed land between Aqaba Fort and the sea.  We rode a lap of the Plaza and were then lined up abreast with the Bedouin Police for photos. At 2 minutes before 3pm, we were told we could enter Aqaba Fort and ride up the disabled ramp, then turn right under the ancient portals to cross the finish line. We’d made it.

Families, friends, supporters and locals gathered around us while the celebration of local music and traditional dances welcomed us. The British Ambassador to Jordan, Philip Hall, was also there, which was a great honour for us.

After several minutes, I could tap Shahan on his left shoulder and tell him “Huqq” for the last time. He knelt down and allowed me to swing my leg over to dismount. Rebecca then brought me the last and fifth empty pot for the sand we would collect to take to Lawrence’s grave, and I knelt to gather and fill it. 

We took our shedads off our camels for the last time, and I think each of us was sad to say goodbye to these incredible animals. We’d been so fortunate to ride them; thanks to His Majesty’s generous loan of the camels, I’d experienced the finest camel I’d ever ridden. The riders were then walked to the Sherif’s House, where the Governor of Aqaba presented us with a memento of our achievement and gave us a short history of its origins.

From there, our transport awaited to take us to the Mövenpick Tala Bay, where the owner had very kindly gifted three free nights' stay to the Trek riders and the support team. His kindness turned out to be a stroke of genius, because the dozens of Club members and friends who had come to greet us also booked in there, and we would party the three days away, almost drinking the hotel dry!

During the many hours of idle talk on the Trek, we’d decided to recreate the Ice Cold in Alex scene on our arrival in Aqaba, which Henry directed, produced and filmed while Mike Baker, our fifth rider who had been injured in Saudi Arabia, played the part of barman. It came out really well and marked the actual end of the Trek that day.

What we hadn’t really realised at that juncture was just how much impact the Trek had made, and that we were far from finishing the process. Not only were there the funds we’d raised for our charity and the sands of the Path to Aqaba that we still had to deliver to Lawrence’s grave, but there would also be further celebrations in Jordan a month later and a commemorative dinner in honour of the Saudi Ambassador to the UK in London.

However, for now, and that night, we could drink and celebrate with loved ones and dear friends, and enjoy the bond that will be carried by the Trek team for many years to come.

Later, I’d have my second shower in 25 days, wake up in a hotel bed, unwind, and spend the next two days coordinating with Rory to return the equipment and our magnificent Defenders to JLR. Two days later, we all went home, shell-shocked that we were missing the desert, each other and the hardship. However, the postscript to the Trek was yet to be written and turned out to be stunning.