Saudi Desert
SAUDI DESERTS
Saudi Arabia is packed with deserts. There is the Rub' Al-Khali, a body of sand twice the size of Italy that stretches the Sahara eastwards into the Arabian Peninsula; the Nefud Desert lies on the opposite side, to the north, below Jordan and Iraq, and in Arabic means “Great Sand Dune”. A third desert joins them stretching latitudinally for a thousand kilometres, it is the Al-Dahna. Finally, along the coast, lies the Persian Gulf Desert, whose surface area is shared with the small states of Bahrain, Kuwait and Qatar, and the southern region of Iraq. All together they form the Great Arabian Desert, which with an area of more than two million square kilometres is by far the largest in Asia.
The best way to cross it is to follow the eastern coast of the peninsula and avoid the absolute desolation of the central area. Imperative to move before summer, temperatures regularly exceed fifty degrees and the sun beats relentlessly down on every inch of body, there is no shade to offer shelter. Radiation and aridity burn the skin and even the eyes are not safe: the glare from the sand is blinding and hurts the eyes even when wearing sunglasses. If I want to have any hope of making it, I have to move now.
I am in Dubai making final preparations. March is entering its second half and I have about forty days before the heat becomes dangerous. Forty days to reach the northern end of the desert and pass Bàssora, Iraq, beyond which rises the Zagros mountain range. Once reached, I will be safe. Four borders divide the piece of land I want to cross: the Emirates, Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, Iraq and Iran. One thousand five hundred kilometres to cover. On foot. A spring excursion.
PREPARATION
As usual I organise the supplies by drawing a table without margins on a sheet of paper. Writing by hand has the power to imprint a rhythm in the head, as if the groove traced by the pen were repeated in the mind. This will be the fourth desert I cross and as I note down the food to be bought I observe the calmness with which the pen leaves the ink on the blank page. Awareness of previous experiences restores a feeling of security.
In the weeks leading up to Dubai I had been recording the amount of water I was consuming on a daily basis, so now I have precise estimates to think about. The forty-kilometre stage has become my standard unit of measurement for the distance and in the ten hours it takes me to cover it my water requirement is two and a half litres. Taking into account also that for brushing my teeth and cooking, with three litres a day I can be comfortable. The basic setup (camping equipment, spare parts, electronics, clothes and so on) is around 20 kg, about ten are food, so the rest of the weight to carry goes to water. Ezio, the buggy in which I carry what I need, can load up to forty-five kilos, so the calculation is soon done: fifteen litres of water, five days of autonomy, at forty kilometres a day that's two hundred without the need to stock up.
I trace on the map the line I will have to follow and take note of towns and petrol pumps. The former are scarce, but service stations are spaced out at a maximum of three days apart. The result is comforting. However, I must take into account that the heat will increase going forward, so I will need to carry more water. I mentally plan to take a few bottles of supplements when I go shopping, they won't reduce the amount of water I will need to drink but at least they will help replenish mineral salt levels and keep my thirst at bay.
Bernat and Amalia, the guys who are hosting me while I am in town, talk about the summer heat they have been experiencing since moving to Dubai. Although the conversations take place face-to-face, they both use the same metaphor: the feeling of leaving home is like opening the mouth of a burning oven and being hit by a gust of hot air. On the insignificant journey from the front door to the car and from the car to the office entrance, the shirt becomes soaked - completely, not just in the armpits - that they have to bring a spare suit to put on as soon as they get to work. For months, no one is seen around.
Time and money make it possible to do many things; in the Emirates, where workers' rights are practically non-existent, their exploitation has made it possible to create an unimaginable city. But even in an authoritarian country with few protections like this, in summer workers are exempt from working outside from ten in the morning to six in the afternoon. It is too hot. The anecdotes give me material to reflect on, but the dream of completing the round-the-world walk will give me the strength to keep going. The physique is trained by three and a half years of walking, and in India I realised that the mind can take the body to further heights. However, one has to know how to get there.
DEPARTURE - HEAT
On the seventeenth of March, I say goodbye to my friends and set off with Ezio in a northerly direction. A new chapter begins: the crossing of the Arabian Desert. It takes three days to get through the metropolitan areas of Dubai and Abu Dhabi, the landscape is the insulting one typical of industrial suburbs, and the journey is boring. An unfair price to pay in exchange for the ease of provisioning. I want to quickly leave them behind and head for the coast. But right away the heat arrives unexpectedly and strikes without mercy. How is this possible? It seems that someone has turned up the thermostat out of spite. Until yesterday the temperature was barely above thirty degrees and only in the middle hours of the day. I haven't had time to mentalise the heat that the mugginess is already making every movement sticky. The asphalt bounces the hot air irritating the skin on my legs and at the end of the leg I find them red and swollen. The smog weighs down my breathing, creating a dense, oppressive cloak.
To protect my head I wear a legionnaire's cap, the front flap of which covers my face by buttoning one side of the hat. In this way the face is sheltered, only a strip of skin around the eyes remains outside, but on the nose the fabric weighs down and breathing becomes difficult. A thub, the long-sleeved men's tunic that reaches down to the feet, typical of the Arab world, is draped over the body. I preferred it to trousers because it lets a breath of air pass in certain areas. Studying the local culture to adopt certain aspects of it brings unexpected as well as pleasant advantages! The only uncovered part, the hands: within two days and despite the sun cream, the back is burnt and the first blisters are forming. I improvise some protection with a bandana and a neck warmer, tying the corners of the former behind my left thumb and twisting the latter around the knuckles of my right hand. Thus harnessed, the heat is stifling but at least I avoid sunburn. At the end of the walk I use some cleansing wipes to remove the mixture of sun cream, sweat and sand, but I soon realise that my skin suffers from the heat and cleansing it is not enough.
During the day I stop twice, mid-morning to stretch my muscles and at lunchtime. I seek shelter in the shadows of the trucks parked by the side of the road and under the overpasses crossing the direction of travel, feeling an immense relief when I unbutton the fabric covering my face and remove my hat. The feeling of coolness lasts for a second, then the heat returns to attack. To protect Ezio and the food inside, I buy a parasol of the kind used on car windshields; it will act as a pair for the umbrella with which I will shade myself during the breaks.
Until now, the food I prepared lasted 36 or 48 hours, depending on the temperature. This time it does not reach twenty-four. I make a bitter discovery on the second day, when I open the tin of lentils cooked the night before and a disgusting smell of fermentation informs me that the meal will fertilise the earth. As I bite into a crisp, juicy apple feeling a secret lust, I take note that it will be harder than I thought. The fear of thirst assails me, a murky, gloomy emotion that anticipates the real need for water. It is imagination that dries my mouth, that makes my throat feel parched even though I have just drunk. If I stuck to the five-litre tank I would not be able to put out the fire, I have already tried; indeed, I would find myself with a swollen stomach and a litre less water. Discarded. Wasted. I take one of the mineral salt tablets and place it between my tongue and palate waiting for it to dissolve. The effervescent effect and sour taste are a pleasant diversion for the minutes that follow.
THE SALINES
Passing the outskirts of Abu Dhabi, a track of land enters boundless spaces. The sun has disappeared behind a thick blanket of clouds and the wind has begun to blow insistently. The dirt track disappears for long stretches into the compact sand, elsewhere it alternates with tongues of asphalt that last barely a hundred metres and lead nowhere. Suddenly, the sand gives way to white salt flats that take over the horizon. The landscape becomes surreal. I find myself mired in mud, with Ezio sinking under the weight of the water reserves. The ruts left by the wheels imprint the wet salt for several centimetres, multiplying the fatigue. Every few steps I look around in amazement, unable to realise how I could have ended up in this trap. I look for dry salt crusts so as to advance expeditiously, those on which the cracks are light and superficial prove to be fairly reliable. I advance stubbornly, waiting for an escape route, and after a good hour I manage to get out of the quagmire and reach a service road that crosses the salt system. Ezio's passage has left narrow corridors on the surface, the only sinuous lines in an otherwise stark landscape.
The road is slightly elevated and allows one to look around three hundred and sixty degrees. The resulting impression leaves me bewildered: had I been teleported to a mountain, I would have the same scenario before my eyes. Snow or salt on the ground, a blanket of clouds above my head, the wind screaming in my ears, pushing indignantly against the direction of travel. The temperature may have dropped twenty degrees since yesterday but the radiation is still strong, the pressure of the sun can be felt on the skin, to which is now added the tingling of the salt carried by the wind. The march goes through the afternoon in search of a handkerchief of land where the camp can be established. To no avail. I give up half an hour before the sun sets, and to protect the floor of the tent from the corrosive action of the salt, I spread a tarp under the basin. Roughly cleaned up, I grab a packet of crackers and a tin of broad beans for dinner. I am too tired to cook. As I think that this is only the fourth day of forty, a bewildered smile spreads across my face. This was the easy desert, wasn't it?
ENTERING THE DESERT
The following days the wind never ceases for a second to howl, pushing stubbornly in the opposite direction. During the night it rages furiously against the tent, which takes the blows groaning and creaking. The structure holds, however, the tensioned guy ropes like violin strings remain anchored to the pegs, and the Manaslu rises each morning together with the traveller it guards. Slowly I enter into the rhythm of the desert, listening to its breath enter my lungs. I thank the wind because it mitigates the heat and every morning, when I poke my head out of the tent, I greet the clouds that for one more day will keep the sun at a safe distance.
Serenity comes by accepting the conditions the desert imposes. I establish a routine, I observe the schedules with precision and with renewed discipline I am able to appreciate the walk and its stops. Awake at dawn, thirteen hours of daylight, at sunset I sit on the air mattress and read from the backlit screen of the e-reader the adventures of Carla Perrotti, explorer of the Sahara and Kalahari deserts. As in the past, as I progress through the desert it descends into me, providing the mirror in which to observe myself. I look around, and material silence becomes space; I look inside, and space becomes silence.
BORDER - SAUDI ARABIA
Boundary is a debased term for the end of one jurisdiction and the beginning of the next, occasionally accompanied by trouble, never with relaxed nerves. In Al-Ain one is checked to do the same things on either side of an imaginary line. Passing papers, money, stamps, trivial questions, visas, passes, goodbyes and welcome. This morning I was in the Emirates, this afternoon in Saudi Arabia, but the desert is always the same.
Living nature in these parts is scarce, quite different from the Australian desert. Over there a large artesian basin supplies water to living species, while here the gold hidden under the ground is black, a colour unsuitable for life.
In one week the only life forms are a snake and a pair of shiny pink lizards with a torpedo-like body, their tails disproportionately small in relation to their torso. Instead of running away, they approach curiously, allowing themselves to be admired for a few moments before becoming intimidated and hiding under the sand. No birds, perhaps because of the strong wind. For the rest, a few dry, stubborn shrubs and an occasional palm tree.
THE OASIS OF AL-HOFUF
After three weeks I arrive in Al-Hofuf, capital of the Eastern Province and commercial centre of the region. The world's largest reserves of oil and gas lie in its subsoil as well as a gigantic aquifer, located right under the city. A local guide reports that the 1.5 million inhabitants living there could survive for fifty years before the reservoir dries up. The reservoir has given rise to the largest oasis in the world, with an intensive cultivation of date palms and various species of fruit and vegetables. I know I wrote earlier about the vegetation being sparse compared to the Australian Outback, but that of Al-Hofuf is the only exception. All around, for hundreds of kilometres, sand reigns supreme.
I am staying with Mohammed, a thirty-five-year-old professor who is involved in a trekking association in his spare time. We are in the throes of Ramadam, during the day he doesn't show up because he sleeps or works, but in the evening we find ourselves chatting and sharing a bite to eat. Iftar is the time when fasting ceases and we return to eating, always in company, sitting on the floor and drawing with our bare hands from huge trays filled with every good thing. Rice and meat are the basis of the Saudi diet, and depending on the spices and the cooking method used, they take different names: kapsa is the basic version, mandi the one cooked under the sand with wood from palm trees. For thousands of years, Al-Hofuf has been the crossroads of intense trade between India, Arabia, Africa and Europe, so it has also absorbed the tastes and culinary traditions of the peoples it traded with.
Al-Hofuf makes for an unexpected encounter. A few weeks earlier Stefano had hooked me up on Instagram, he is a guy from Foggia who had set off on a bicycle from South Africa. He was pedalling in the opposite direction to me, we hoped to catch up along the way for a chat. Once in town I show up and, surprise! it's his last night here. We meet up in a few hours and go out with Mohammed and friends for a bite to eat and the inevitable sweetened tea. Stephen has a lively energy and a big smile and we spend the evening telling our new friends about the months spent on the road. Before he leaves the next day, we exchange good wishes and some information on supply points. On the bike, heading for Qatar, he will cover in two days the distance that has occupied me for a week.
I stay in town a few days, regain weight, celebrate the end of Ramadan wearing a very white thub and the shimah, the red Saudi Arabian keffiyeh held on my head by the egal, a black cord twisted around itself like a snake. Mixing organisation and luck, I manage to spend the occasion in a Saudi family. In a large living room one finds oneself exchanging greetings saying ‘Eid Mubarak’, happy Eid (the name of the holiday) once again drinking litres of hot tea and eating a diabetic amount of sweets and dates. To greet each other, the men shake hands and kiss the right cheek three times. The family is large, for previous generations it was normal to have eight or ten children and each of them has had as many, so I spend the evening shaking hands and introducing myself to an endless succession of Mohammed, Hussain, Ali and Abdullah. The most frequently asked questions are the same as in India: where are you from, are you married, when will you get married, do you have brothers or sisters, what do your parents do for a living. Questions about family far outnumber those about the path, they are probably trying to understand who they are from their roots, or they are simply asking the questions they are used to asking.
LAST ACT
I set off again torn, I could have stayed a few more days but avoiding the heat is a constant thought, I have to move if I want to avoid baking. But luck, at least in the battle against the mugginess, seems to be on my side. The next three weeks, the time it takes to arrive in Kuwait and leave it behind, see a continuous alternation of weather conditions, exceptionally unusual both for the season and the place. The sun beats at forty degrees for days, then comes the wind, always contrary, to lower the perceived temperature, finally the clouds thicken and a storm breaks out. An electrical storm breaks out in the night, with flashes of light ripping through the darkness every second. It is a frightening spectacle because, after all, I am sleeping inside a canvas shell supported by two duralumin poles. In here is the material part of my life, and if the tent were to collapse, everything would be lost: the travel diaries and the pieces of electronics with the archives they store. The night echoes with a mournful sound, the roar of thunder does not follow the light of lightning; a long ethereal hiss, like a tuning fork note, is the groan with which the darkness makes itself heard. The next morning there is a cold wind, it must be twenty or twenty-five degrees lower than the day before. I reach a service station under construction where some workers have their shacks.
The supervisor speaks reasonably good English, comes from the Indian Punjab, and informs me of the weather warning that started yesterday afternoon.
The second part of the desert continues between rain, wind and sun, in an exhausting alternation of conditions. A long fence appears on the right, running for tens, perhaps hundreds of kilometres, spoiling the sense of infinity that the desert would like to communicate. Wire mesh indicates the presence of oil sites. In the middle of nowhere there are extraction and refining plants, and you often see tongues of fire blazing against the grey sky. After seeing them once, their presence quickly becomes tiresome. Along with them appear the high-voltage pylons that bring electricity to the sparse settlements along the coast. One sometimes passes under them and hears the ominous hum of the current passing through them.
At the border with Kuwait everything goes smoothly, in the city I find hospitality again thanks to Couchsurfing, I recover my energy, wash my clothes, do my shopping and set off again. Despite the difficulties, I have kept a good pace and excluding the breaks in Al-Hofuf and Kuwait City I have covered 1,500 kilometres in exactly forty days, from Dubai to the Salwa border, where I am now.
It is the last night in Kuwait, tomorrow I will cross yet another border but somehow it will be different because the stories that are told about the countries where I am about to venture are not all positive. Those who have been there have fallen in love with them, while many others look at them with suspicion and, at times, fear. I can't help but be influenced by them, but during the weeks of walking I have thought long and hard about whether it would be a good idea to venture, alone and on foot, into these sensitive areas. Especially now, given the tensions with Israel, one has to be especially careful what one says and does. In the end I decided to go, moved by the curiosity that the stories about Iraq and Iran aroused. The Gulf Desert is over. Another chapter begins: I am going to get to know Persia.
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