Coastalsurvey

Yemen – the empty quarter. We were nearing the end of a two week exploration of the coast, looking for (and finding) epic waves in warm water. Now we were heading home. We went the long way, the interesting way, by crossing a corner of the Empty Quarter. Two jeeps, driving across the endless burning waterless sands from Shibam in the east to Marib and then the long climb into the mountains and to the capital San’aa. A long way to go. The tide is definitely out.

Yemeni locals: Bedouin

Now there’s not a lot in the Empty Quarter, as can probably be guessed from the name, and it doesn’t take as much time as you might think for the novelty and romance of driving over the flat, endless wasteland of sand to wear off. We’d even stopped insisting our Bedouin drivers stop at the every mummified camel carcass we went past so we could take photographs, much to their bemusement.

You don’t talk much – open your mouth and you can almost feel the moisture evaporate out in the heat. You drink constantly to replace the sweat pouring out of your body and drenching your clothes.

The adventure and daring of our journey was rapidly being reduced to its component parts: namely sitting in a bouncing rattling jeep while sweating in the 50C temperatures, staring at the glaring, unchanging and unforgiving landscape rolling past the windows and wondering what wonderful shape your board has formed itself into, strapped tightly down in the brain-warping temperature. Driving through featureless desert is very like being on a ship – there are no landmarks, no visual cues, to how far you’ve actually traveled. Only the ticking of the odometer and the buffeting from the uneven surface lets you know you’ve moved at all. Time begins to have no meaning, and distance has no effect. You don’t talk much – open your mouth and you can almost feel the moisture evaporate out in the heat. You drink constantly to replace the sweat pouring out of your body and drenching your clothes. We were getting through anything from five to eight litres of water each, a day. Have we been driving for five minutes or five hours? It all begins to blur in your brain.

One thing that didn’t blur is our stomachs. We’d been driving since before first light to take advantage of the relative coolness of the morning and now the complete absence of shadow or shade in the scorching light told us it was getting to midday, and the rumbling of our tummies told us it was time to eat.

Not a lot of places to stop in the desert, but there are a surprising number of people – Bedouin nomads. Still living in the old way, out in the middle of nowhere with their camels and tents, their only nod to modernity being the Toyota Landcruiser and the Kalashinkov assault rife. Not known for their hospitality, unfairly perhaps, but regardless our driver was local and knew all the tribes around this area. We could stop and he’d get things arranged so we could share their shade and have a bite to eat.

Robbo in the desert

We saw a camp through the haze on the horizon, and drastically altered course towards it in search of some brief respite from the heat … and some food.

We were rather nervous as we approached – although we couldn’t see anyone we knew that we had at least two or three AK47s being pointed at us, cocked and with safeties off. The area we were in was still run on tribal lines with collective responsibility and blood feuds between tribes that could last for decades. Individuals are held to be responsible for any slight committed by any member of their tribe. People had been shot for perceived crimes committed by their great-grandparents years earlier. We were on their turf, no one knew we were here or where we were. If things turned serious, no one might ever know what had happened to us. The assumption would be we’d got lost and perished in the sands. These people don’t mess about. We wound up the windows and sat a bit lower in our seats as protection against high-velocity ammunition.

Our driver got out of the car and wandered over to say hi to the chap who’d come out to greet us. An Arabic version of ‘alright mate’ ensued, and we were motioned into the tent. A grizzled old Arab guy, with one eye and a big beard, was introduced to us as being Mohammed, the boss. With him were his son, straightening up from leaning his AK47 against the tent wall, and his son’s friend. All were done up in full Bedouin gear with the very big ceremonial daggers, called jambiyas, sticking out of their belts.

Nervously we sat down and accepted a tiny glass of hot black tea, and winced at the 15 or so spoonfuls of sugar in it. Our driver and Mohammed seemed to be in deep discussion over whether the Toyota Landcruiser was better than a Nissan Patrol. After a few minutes our guide decided to go in search of some Qat, the Yemeni drug of choice, and disappeared out of the tent. With him gone, our conversation was stilted, us knowing about four words of Arabic, and our hosts knowing even less English – so after pointing and smiling to each other over the pictures in our Yemeni guide book we slowly fell into silence.

Sana'a at night

This point of communication ran out very quickly, and after a short time we all found ourselves sitting there in silence, sipping tea. At about this point I realized I had a slight problem – a combination of the heat, unusual food and the hours of bouncing across the desert had done some weird things to my insides. Now, the desert is a very quiet place. A Bedouin’s tent with some well-armed locals is also very quiet. But I reckoned I could get away with it.

I shifted my weight and squeezed out what I hoped would be a silent and discreet fart. It wasn’t silent, but I thought it was subtle, so I kept cool and looked about nonchalantly.

Sitting next to me on my right was Stuart, and I was suddenly aware of his shoulders shaking. Next to him Pat was taking an intense interest in the horizon with his hand over his mouth. Adrian just looked utterly astounded, as were the Arabs.

Shit. That was obviously quite a bit louder than I thought. I’ve just farted in the tent of some very heavily armed, no-bullshit gentlemen. I knew what to do – blame it on Rob. Managing to keep as innocent an expression as possible, I looked at Rob, sitting on my left. My plan worked, and everyone who’d be staring at me followed my eyes and started looking at Rob instead. Result: Rob’s going to get shot instead of me.

Rob glanced about at everyone. “It wasn’t me,” he said. Everyone’s stare switched back to me. Shit. I had no idea how insulting farting was in Yemeni Bedu society, but I had a strong suspicion it wasn’t a good thing to be doing. Stuart was demonstrating it’s effect on British society by trying to stifle laughs, while Pat and Adrian just had looks of utter disbelief. Should I apologize? Make a joke about it? Nah, I’ll just stay quiet and look as innocent as possible. Maybe someone will think it was a camel or something.

Our driver came back, having scored a big bag of green leaves – Qat, which he was busily stuffing into his cheek. Our chance to escape the embarrassment I’d created, and we told him we thought we better be pushing on across the desert. He shrugged and we said our goodbyes to everyone and piled back into the jeep. The moment the doors closed everyone burst out laughing and asking me if I was insane, breaking wind in the home of men with guns.

Jon Bowen is a boardrider in southwest England. See his site, LocalSurfer, for more about surfing there.