Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
THE SANDS OF TIME
Bayuda Desert, Sudan, May - June 2014
T
he town of Atbarah, home to more than a hundred thousand people, straddled the river
two days north of the Pyramids of Meroe. A grey, industrial town, Atbarah was brought
to life by only two things: the seasonal confluence of the Nile and the River Atbarah, the
Nile's most northerly tributary; and the two men who tumbled out of a taxi on the highway
running into town.
We had been tramping for more than forty kilometres under unrelenting sun. Caked in
dirt, eyes to the ground, all I heard was the revving of an engine and a screeching of tyres.
It was the camels who spooked first. Loping nervously to the side of the dusty highway,
they craned to look back. Too late, I did the same. A taxi overtook us in a cloud of sand
and slowed to a stop just ahead.
Out of the door tumbled Will Charlton. As I had known he would, he was here to keep
his promise.
'And look who I found,' said Will as the second door opened.
Another figure staggered into the dust, all teeth and smiles. In a second, I was being
smothered in its arms.
'Ash!' I began. 'What the . . .'
Ash Bhardwaj was as old a friend as Will - I'd known both of them since university.
Ash enjoyed the finer things in life - a modern-day dandy roaming the coffee shops of
East London in tweed jackets and skinny jeans, I'd often thought of him as an Indian Os-
car Wilde. When I'd left the army, Ash had invited me to help him run a luxury ski lodge
in Switzerland - and, on the day I turned up in Verbier to join him, I'd discovered him
standing outside the chalet wearing nothing but a bath robe and flat cap. 'Brandy?' he'd
bellowed, with the biggest grin I'd ever seen. 'It's 9am!' I'd said, but Ash had only rolled
his eyes in disgust. 'I know. We're behind schedule.' I still don't remember the rest of the
month.
