Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
to comprehend what it might be like to die of thirst. That's when the panic sets in. Your
mouth gets dry, your tongue refuses to move, your gums grow numb. Your lips, already
cracked and peeling, stick together, sealing your words within. In silence, you look at your
companions - old friends, new friends, trusted guides - and begin to wonder if they feel
the same. I found myself jealously watching the water bottle in Moez's hand. Was he as
desperate as me? Did he have more water? Was Ash keeping some of his secretly hidden
away, a salve against the end? Was Will? Would any of them share with me if I was dry, if
I begged them? Would
I
do the same for them? Such are the thoughts that were taking root
in me as, by the end of our fourth day, we drank down to our last few litres.
It is a myth that camels can go weeks without water. In the heat of the Sahara, they can
barely survive more than four days. We'd watered Burton, Speke and Gordon well before
embarking, and watered them every evening since - but, tonight, there was nothing for our
camel friends. What little we had left had to sustain us humans until we could find a well.
'We need those camels,' said Ash as we ate rations beneath the brilliant silver light of
the moon. 'They're carrying everything. Food, medical kit, all the technical gear. Without
them, we're shafted.'
As I did every time nerves threatened to overwhelm me, I looked to Awad and Ahmad -
but even they seemed subdued tonight. There was no gleam in their eyes, no ribald joke or
song. 'If we don't find a well tomorrow,' I said, 'that's it. Soldiers or no soldiers, we have
to head for the river.'
In silence, our column of men marched across the desert.
I paused, lifting my canteen to my lips, thought better of it, and hung it at my side again.
Moments later, Ash and Will had caught up. They were staring, bewildered, at Moez, who
- as ever, walked contentedly to our rear.
'How does he do it?' Will asked.
'The man's a machine,' muttered Ash.
As he passed, Moez only smiled, looking at the burnt-lobster faces around him. I had
not seen Moez take a drink in long hours and - in contrast to Will and Ash - not a bead of
sweat glistened on his face.
Awad and Ahmad had re-joined the procession, along with the camels, an hour before.
Late last night, Will had pored over his Russian maps and, highlighting a blue dot not far
from where we camped, had sent the Bedouin out in search of a well. But when they re-
turned, their faces told the story: there was no water here; if there had ever been a well at
all, it had long been dry and subsumed by the sand.
'They don't seem to give a shit,' said Will. Perversely, he seemed to be relishing the
thought of a close call with death.
'We'd better not die, Wood,' said Ash.
I wanted to tell him we wouldn't, but I had seen death already on this voyage.
