Seeking God in the Wahiba Sands

Are you there, God? It’s me; Gary. The one you seem to have forgotten about. I know you’ve always preferred a hands off approach, but I could really do with some of that divine intervention right now. Nothing epic, I don’t need you to turn water into wine. Although I wouldn’t turn down a small glass. Just a little bit of phone signal is all I'm asking for. Please. 

No bars. Useless prick. I think about launching my phone out of the window and into the desert. Maybe I should try Allah. This is his neck of the woods after all. Not sure how he feels about white, middle aged christians from Milton Keynes but it can’t hurt to try. Does he understand English? Surely.

It’ll be dark soon. The last half of a red sun hangs over the horizon and casts golden hues and dramatic shadows over rolling sand dunes. In happier times I would stop and take a picture. Now, standing in a puddle of my own sweat at least thirty miles from anything close to resembling civilisation, natures charms are wearing thin. I need to save battery anyway.

I might as well try the car again. Twenty third time lucky. C’mon baby, you can do it… Nope, fucked. Never trust an Arab my father used to say. In truth I don’t think he trusted anyone after mum left. The rental car dealer in Muscat had grinned like a paedo in a playground when he saw me coming. Fat western tourist with high socks, low self worth, and a fistful of foreign cash he had no idea the value of. 

“Stick to the main roads” He said as he handed me the keys to a Jeep from the 1980s. I figured he’d not wanted sand in the interior, but I’d paid the money and I wanted to see the Wahiba desert with its endless molten seas. I just hadn’t bet on drowning in it.

I pop the hood of the jeep and take a look inside. Ahh yes miscellaneous pipes, metal things, and chambers full of fluids, just as I remember. No idea what any of it means. Maybe that one with a picture of a windscreen wiper has water in, could be useful.

I actually have three litres of water in the backseat which is why I haven’t yet reached screaming hysterics. Not sure how far three litres will stretch though, I’m sweating my tits off. I never saw Bear Grylls drink windscreen wiper fluid, but you won’t catch me drinking my own piss no matter how bad it gets. 

I check my phone again. All I can see on my maps is a lonely blue dot surrounded by a white page refusing to load. There’s a real map in my car, an actual paper one. I felt very adventurous when I bought it, the problem is the lack of a blue dot. 

Maybe I should risk walking back to the road? I could follow my own tracks back for a while. Hope that I can find a route through the valleys of dunes before the wind erases all trace. Isn’t leaving your car the worst thing you can do in a desert? Or was that Jurassic park?

I contemplate what my mum would say when they find my dried out husk of a body holding an upside down map, when a dust cloud appears on the horizon. Yeah that’s definitely a car, I can hear it. Thanks God, never doubted you for a moment. I jump and wave my arms above my head. The dust cloud slowly grows in size and clarity until it morphs into a green Nissan hatchback. How the fuck have they driven that here? 

The car stops three metres from my jeep and two large Arab men step out. I stop waving my arms. Both men are dressed in traditional white robes with matching frowns. One wears a brimless red hat in the style of the region. He says something in Arabic and I shake my head. 

“English?” I venture with my palms raised. Nothing. 

The older one with a beard points at my jeep. 

“Yes. Car broke! Car dead.” I point at my vehicle then make a sideways chopping motion to my neck. Red hat laughs, his face splits and I get a glimpse of poor dental hygiene. 

“Haha. Yes, funny, car dead” I use my talking to non-english speakers voice. It’s worked well for me so far. Red hat is still too busy laughing. He mimics my cutthroat motion, and that sets the both of them off. Pair of jokers, excellent.

The Jeep’s bonnet is still open and red hat saunters over to look inside. He doesn’t look like a mechanic but what do I know. 

“Broke” I say again to him to emphasise the point. The man with a beard takes his phone out of his pocket, types a number and puts it to his ear. Of course he has signal. 

He spits rapid fire Arabic down the phone and never takes his eyes off me. I notice something shiny on his hip. Holy shit, a curved dagger with jewels set in the handle. What does he need that for? Ceremonial maybe. He continues to stare as he talks. Hopefully he’s just telling his recovery driver friend to come save the stupid Westerner. 

I look away and go check on red hat. He’s given up on the Jeep and has sparked a cigarette. I knew he didn’t have have a clue. He makes a drinking motion with his hands. 

“Water?” I make the sign back. “Yes water, I have water.” He points at himself then makes the sign again. 

“Oh you want water?” I say. I give him a thumbs up and go to the backseat to grab him one. I've only got three bottles. What if they can’t fix the car? Should be fine. I chuck him one of my precious bottles. He takes a long pull on his cigarette and then takes a swig. Cheers, that will taste lovely now.

Nice to see you’ve sent me your best angels God. The bearded mans getting very animated on the phone, shouting and pointing at me. I give him a nervous wave and he walks further away. Weird.

I step towards him to offer some water and glance through the window of the Nissan. The interior is decorated in a retro 70s shag-pile carpet that my mum would have loved. What she wouldn’t have loved are the two AK47’s perched innocently on the back seats. My arsehole twitches. I don’t know much about guns, but I’ve played enough video games to know that those things on the back seat are AK47’s. Weapon of choice for Soviet criminals, Jihadi terrorists, and bad guys everywhere. 

Bile rises in my stomach, suddenly their laughter at my throat cut hand-signs doesn’t seem so funny. This isn’t right. They aren’t here to rescue me. I thought Oman was supposed to be a safe country? That’s what Google said. I step away from their car. Shit, shit, shit. 

The man on the phone turns back to me.

“My friends come” he says in a thick accent. So he does speak english. Who are his friends? Do they also carry assault rifles around in Nissan hatchbacks? Are they coming to kidnap me, take me out into the desert, and cut my head off with a ceremonial dagger for their followers on Youtube? 

You’ve really outdone yourself this time God I have to say. I thought Sarah leaving was your way of saying you don’t like me. A beheading by Islamic extremists is quite the statement. I didn’t even want to come here. We were supposed to travel together, before it all fell apart. Now she’s at home giving head to her boss and I’m about to lose mine. 

Breathe Gary, breathe. The sun has disappeared over the horizon and the sky throws up a riot of pink and orange hues. The man with a beard puts down the phone and walks over to his friend. They point from me to the sky. Probably working out how to hide me from the drones. Maybe the CIA are watching now. Should I try and get a message to them somehow? 

The two men are still fussing around the bonnet of my vehicle. I guess they want to sell it. The bearded one takes out his dagger. The flamboyant jewellery on the handle doesn’t detract from the cruel sharpness of the curved blade, and I shit myself. The keys are still in the Nissan, it's now or never. 

I throw myself into the car, slam the door, and start the engine. The two men whip around and shout in anger. No execution today fellas. I wrench the gearstick into reverse and after a dramatic wheel-spin, I’m bouncing backwards down the track with the men in hot pursuit.

Reversing down a narrow desert track, with one eye on your mirrors and the other on a pair of knife wielding terrorists is about as difficult as you’d expect. Now would be a great time for some fire and brimstone God. No idea what brimstone is, but if you could drop one on these cunts, I’d be forever grateful.

The car has less suspension than my Jeep and I’m getting thrown around all over the place. At least I’ve gained some distance. I need to spin it around. I choose what looks like a firm patch of rock by the side of the track and twist the steering wheel. Not so firm. The car’s left rear wheel sinks and with it the final scraps of my courage.

The men are sprinting closer. How can they run so fast in sandals? Abandon ship. I jump out of the car and remember the AK47’s in the back seat. Maybe I can shoot them? Don’t be stupid Gary, run.

I race left up the slope of a monstrous sand dune. My feet sink with each thigh burning step as I labour my way to the top. The agonisingly slow climb gives me time to regret a lifetime of pizza on the sofa and cancelled gym memberships. Why’d you make me like beer and carbs so much God, fuck.

I’m a slavering mess when I make the summit. Behind me the men have reached the car and are scrambling for their rifles. In front of me the dune falls away in a precipitous drop with no clear view of the bottom. Not much of a choice. 

I make the sign of the cross and throw myself down. Sand, sky, sand, sky. I roll and let gravity take me in its unyielding arms. From a forgotten corner of my mind surfaces the image of me rolling down Bluebottle hill as a child, then my head hits something hard. Ouch.

*** 

It's dark when I wake up. I’ve swallowed half the desert and my body feels like I’ve gone twelve rounds with Mike Tyson’s tiger. I sit up. Somehow my phone has managed to remain in my pocket but the dead screen taunts me. The temperature has dropped and I’m shaking; as much from fear as from the desert night chill. 

At least I haven’t been caught by red hat and his friend. This minor victory is rapidly overshadowed by the realisation that I’m alone, at night, in a desert. Therefore facing a longer and more torturous end than one provided by the terrorists. In short, I’m fucked.

Why God? Why are you so gleefully sadistic? Like a big bully with a stick, kicking a blind dog with AIDS. I don’t fight the tears. They’re long overdue. I never thought ‘curl up and die’ was an actual thing but now I can see its appeal. I lie on my back, look up to my tormentor and sob.

The stars do look incredible without any light pollution. Billions of iridescent pinpricks of light shining in swirling patterns from the deep blue fabric of space. I’ll just watch it and drift away. Maybe in death I can finally find peace. 

This is shit, I’m freezing. You won’t even let me die with dignity will you? I stand up, discover I’m missing a trainer, swear, then pick a direction and start limping. 

In the darkness the dunes rise around me like black mountains and I stumble between the peaks, spitting sand from my mouth. Having only one shoe throws my stride, so I chuck the other one and try not to think about the snakes and scorpions.

I walk for what feels like hours. Until the soles of my feet are raw and my legs start to slip on the shifting sands. How long can I keep this up for? I’m sure these dunes are moving. Maybe I'll see something from the top of this one. Is a McDonalds too much to ask for? 

Nothing but more dunes and the shadow of a breeze stirring my hair. It’s easier to roll down. Hopefully my head finds a bigger rock this time.

I reach the bottom still alive and with my mouth topped up with sand again. So much for a Big Mac. I don’t think I’ll get up this time. I’m done. My hand brushes something sharp. A small withered cactus stands alone in the bleakness of the barren desert. Its thorny body stuck up like a middle finger to its surroundings and I marvel at its courage. If this pathetic creature can find a way to strive for life then so can I. 

  I clamber up on broken feet and my heart skips. Through a gap in the towering dunes I see a light. I run towards it and I’m led into an open sandy bowl, encircled on all sides. In the middle sits a tree aflame and I rub my doubtful eyes. A burning bush! A fucking burning bush like the one you sent to Moses. 

I stagger towards its flickering light and the deliverance you have sent me. 

Not a burning bush. Just a regular fire, with several surprised Arab men sitting within a circle of tents as I stumble like a leper into their camp. I can’t see any guns and to be honest at this point I don’t care. I collapse into the arms of a young man with kind eyes, as his friends rush to grab me a blanket and some water. 

“English?” My dry mouth splutters. “You speak english?” 

“Yes I speak english my friend. Don’t worry you are safe here. Please sit and drink.”

Relief washes through me like a biblical flood and I sink to my knees next to the fire. 

“I am Mahdi of the Bedouin.” the man says "You are lucky you found us.”  

Lucky isn’t the word I’d use to describe my day it but I let I it pass. 

“What happened to you?” he says sitting cross-legged next to me. So I tell him my tale and by the time I reach the part about my barefoot journey through the shifting sands, the man is in tears. I add some extra gravel to my voice for dramatic effect. He’s so moved by my voyage he’s shaking bless him. Maybe he needs the blanket.

Wait. That's not sorrow in his eyes, that's laughter. Unrestrained, breathless, belly-quivering tears of hilarity. 

“What's so funny?” I say. My face flushes and I’m grateful for the darkness. 

“You're funny my friend” Mahdi almost falls over he’s laughing so hard. “The terrorist you ran from, the one with the red Kuma, he is my brother Saeed.”

My eyes widen and I look for an escape. I’ve walked into a nest of insurgents.

“Please calm,” Mahdi says “ I will not hurt you and neither would my brother. He rang me today and told me he tried to help a crazy white man who stole his car.” 

Something awkward shifts in my stomach. 

“Wait what? He’s not a terrorist? But what about the guns? ”

“The desert is dangerous. We all carry guns. There are thieves, wolves, and sometimes even crazy tourists who like to steal cars”

My face takes on the shade of a mortified tomato and I hang my head. 

“I’m sorry” I say, and not just to him.

"Don't say sorry to me, say it to Saeed he’s fixed your car and will bring it tomorrow.” 

I remember the fury on the man's face as he chased me with his dagger. I'm not looking forward to the reunion. Mehedi senses my anxiety and reassures me with a pat on the arm. 

“Don’t worry. We Bedouin will always give help to those that are lost. Even our enemies. It is not our place to pass judgement.”

I nod slowly

“Sounds like I have a lot to learn” I say.

From one of the tents a young woman with golden earrings brings a bowel of dates and smiles with shy grace as I take one. Fuck McDonalds, these are delicious. After taking another, I sink into the scratchy folds of my blanket feeling blessed to have met people with such open-hearted kindness. Even if they are still laughing at me.

Maybe you’re not so useless after all.