A Suffering Bastard In Wadi Rum 

If the moon is with you, do not worry about the stars

Beduin Saying

A century ago, TELawrence described this desert, “vast and echoing”. From within a deep sea of gold & bronze intwined dirt, mountains of sandstone & granite rise as the fingertips of atrophied gods long buried. Survival in Wadi Rum is a game of angles: finding shade within the shadow of dune, huddled in the thumb-print of an elder god, blaspheming against the inescapability of midday sun. Like a footprint swept away at a moment’s gust, life does persist. There is desert fox. Wild hare. And Milly has spoken of night blossoms. When the sun sets, the desert blooms, she’s said. But the sun hasn’t set. Not today. Not yet. 

I’m experiencing euphoria. Could be the dehydration. And, to be honest, my water bottle is partially gin.  The world is tilting towards me, away from the late sun. If I sleep now, I don’t know what world I would wake within. If I wake.

Time is relative; here, though, time is irrelevant. Here, I can hear the crashing waves of my youth and recall my father’s contemplation of a different western horizon. Vast and echoing. Cigarette in hand. Martini within reach. Gazing out to sea. Under a canopy of faraway stars. The gulf between us then not so different as it is now; even with him decades dead. Vast and echoing. As the sun descends, the light plays its tricks, elongating hills into mountains, shining off waves of sea, waves of sand. I think of my father. His age then my age now. What was the old bastard looking for in his westward gaze…?

Tits, likely, innit?, Dash says. 

What?

Dash is blinking out the glare of the setting sun. He’s dressed for a yacht party, bare feet sunk into the desert sands as we watch the close of day in Wadi Rum. His mother and the girls from Manchester are beyond him, sitting on the same sand dune, focused west at the remnants of yesterday. 

Well, it’s tits, innit? Dash says. As your dad’s having a fag, staring into the abyss. Either that or he’s thinking, bloody hell, why are all my children slag?

This is when it occurs to me: I could kill Dash Havisham. Not out of spite. Not out of self-defense. But because; a very just because. Just because it feels natural; my hands are a perfect fit around his neck. In this great open space, death is but a whisper lost in the wind. What sort of justification does murder require here?, in this Old Testament wilderness? Is it even murder?, or perhaps just intentional manslaughter? Have I been in the sun too long? Is this the gin speaking? It would be a righteous murder. Not a rite of passage. Not because I fancy his girlfriend. Not really. Not to cozy-up to his noble mother, Dame Havisham. No. It would be a sacrifice made to this sacred place. It would be one less British playboy. No more than smashing a bug against the sidewalk: a stomp of the foot and a slow slide of the shoe to wipe away incriminating evidence. Not that Dash is a dung beetle. The dude is handsome, a mini-devil in his mid-twenties, a bundle of bird bones and quick-jerk reflexes. One less of him and the world wouldn’t wobble off its axis. Not hardly. 

What do you think your old man’s thinking then, Vic? Dash asks. If not his grand escape? If your old man is half the bastard you are, where might his head be?

Are we going then?, asks Mol, who stands up, brushing the desert from betwixt her thighs. The sundress might’ve been a poor choice. Mol has been sunburnt since the moment she booked this trip. She’s varying shades of pink under golden curls. The sun isn’t scaring off the cold anymore, is it?, she says. My nips are like razors and I’ve no coat and I’ve got to pee, don’t I?

Turning away from the dying sun is the elegant lady, Dame Havisham. Oh loves, she says to us, this is why you must absolutely say yes to anything, innit? Dash, her youngest son & co-traveler, plays devil’s advocate. Yes to anything, mum? Yes to strange needles & heroin, then? Dame scoffs at her son, don’t be daft, Dash! Remember, every setting sun is a sunrise for someone else, she says. Dash laughs, fuckin’ ‘ell, mum!, not very inspirational, is it? Sun is setting on me but rising on some other bloke who’ve I’ven’t a bloody notion of doesn’t do me any good now, does it?

I’m ignoring the British banter as I absorb the fading images of my surroundings. Wadi Rum. Fucking biblical. Moses was here. Lawerence of Arabia was here. Lawrence of Arabia was filmed here. The Martian was filmed here. The latest Dune (though, not the latest Dune Part II) was filmed here. I’ve climbed these stones. I’ve wandered these sands. There is something incredibly spiritual about this place. I haven’t felt this since…

Vic!, she calls my name, shaking me from my dream-state. Vic!, Milly says pointing downhill, the flowers! Oh… I look and I’ll be damned, Milly is right. In the wake of day, where once there was only sand there is now sand carpeted with flowers. Vic!, Milly hurries me down the dune. Just look…!

Milly is somehow Mol’s kin, but I barely believe it. Unlike Mol, Milly hasn’t burned while in the desert. Instead, she’s freckled. Just as the departure of light brought to bloom the desert flowers, the presence of light blooms freckles across her skin. Milly is taller than her boyfriend, Dash, but built similarly slim: toned muscle, enough fat to sit on, a belly just large enough to fit an overachieving liver. Unlike Dash, she’s hazel eyes. And like her Mancunian cousin, Mol, Milly is cold. 

I unwrap the keffiyeh scarf from my head. I no longer need it to shield me from the sun. Take this, I insist. Oh no, I couldn’t, could I?, Milly says waving away the offer as Mol, Dash and Dame lead the descent to the Toyota 4×4 waiting to take us back to base camp. 

The desert, at night, has quickly cooled. Upon reaching camp, I bathe by bucket, scrubbing the grubby bits quick with cold water knowing tomorrow I will be in Aqaba for a proper shower. I’ve been barefoot most of the day, but tonight I opt for socks, boots and a bomber jacket atop the rest of my garb. 

As we’ve dallied, our Beduin hosts have been roasting our dinner underground. Zarb is the traditional shepherd barbecuing method. Dig a hole in the desert, set fire to wood, lower steel plates of food, cover it with a lid and bury it all through the late hours of afternoon. Chicken, lamb, rice, vegetables, the heart of a smarmy Englishman: all cook quite thoroughly in this underworld inferno. 

We usher into our host’s tent. And feast. Hot mint tea is served and served again. After dinner, the shisha comes out. I do not partake. I’ve smoked enough hookah in Amman, Istanbul & Marrakesh to not require any more if I can help it. The Beduin have brought out their musical instruments, the rababa guitar & darbuka drum, and are putting on a performance. The music is enchanting & intentionally repetitious. It’s country-western, but set to the pace of a camel trot. Beduin & cowboys aren’t so different, after all. Our host, Shakir, calls the men of the tent to join them in clapping. Only the men. Croesus, Dash and I are able to keep in synch with the musicians, however, the gawky German travelers who’ve joined-in are less clapping than swatting out-of-rhythm at sand fleas. The chorus of the song is wonderful, passionate and very guttural. I throw my shoulder into my fellow American, Croesus, who is built like a tank, and he laughs at my futile impact. We create a Beduin mosh pit and our hosts are delighted. My Jordanian pal, Yousef, cannot stop laughing. 

After the song, I return to my seat and my pinkish-hued bottle of water. Our Beduin host smoke some intense tobacco and ingest some goddamn scorching mint tea, but they do not indulge in alcohol. My bottle of water might seem innocuous, but it is one-third gin. When Yousef sits beside me, I tighten the screw-cap of my drink and hope he cannot sniff the booze on my breath.

I’ve studied Arabic hospitality with great interest, learning, ultimately, never to dishonor your host. There is a local medieval story about a frenchman known as the Black Prince, Reginald of Châtillon. He was Lord of Krak du Désert, the Jordanian fortress known as Kerak. I’ve had the luxury in previous days of exploring Kerak thoroughly, and alone. I wandered the underground passageways beneath the castle walls and everywhere I turned I was haunted by the headless crusader, Reginald of Châtillon. Reg was a brute. He was a desert pirate, a highwayman and an idiot. He instigated war when peace was more prosperous. From Kerak, he attacked a caravan which included Saladin’s sister. And he refused to return to Saladin the captured booty. Reginald’s testicular-forward anti-genius would later assure defeat at the Battle of Ḥaṭṭīn. Captured alongside King Guy of Jerusalem, Reginald finally came face-to-face with his arch-nemesis, Saladin. But under the tent of the Sultan of Syria, Reginald was protected by the rules of Arabic hospitality. Saladin offered his fellow king, Guy, a bowl of rose-water sorbet. Saladin did not offer the bowl to Reginald. When Reginald took the bowl from Guy, this social miscue allowed Saladin the right to decapitate Reginald on the spot. Such are the rules of the desert. Saladin, after separating the head of Reginald of Châtillon from the body of Reginald of Châtillon, re-offered the remaining contents of the sorbet to a quite distressed King Guy of Jerusalem. Please… refresh yourself, the sultan said with Reginald’s head still rolling. Good manners mattered to Saladin. They do not make sultans like they used to. Fortunately for me, I am no Reginald of Châtillon.  

I take a strong swig of what’s left from my water bottle. I look across the tent and lock eyes with Milly. She nods her head towards the exit. I need no further cajoling. Milly of Manchester and I depart the community tent and go to our individual abodes. I dig into my backpack for my bottle of Bombay Sapphire and head over to the tent shared by Milly & Mol. I sit down with Milly, crosslegged, as she performs her wizardry. She’s learned this mixology recipe while in Egypt. The Suffering Bastard. Legend has it, the cocktail was a recipe from an Italian-Jewish bartender at the Shepherd’s Hotel in Cairo, circa 1942. 30 liters of this hangover cure were dispatched to British troops prior to the Battle of El Alamein to help them halt the advance of Rommel & the Nazis. Milly’s cocktail is a modernized version. Take a bottle of water, drink half the water, drop a rehydration tablet into what’s left, fill the bottle with ginger ale & lime juice & gin, and there you have it: the backpacker’s Suffering Bastard. 

As Milly swishes around the cocktail in my water bottle, I tell her, I could have him killed, y’know? Have who killed?, she asks without a flinch as she focuses on the task at hand. Dash, I tell her. I’ve already arranged it with the shepherds. They’ve a place I can dump his body to never be seen again. And why?, Milly asks as she similarly sits crosslegged before me, why are we killing Dash? For sport?, she asks. Well, I say, there might be some financial gain, but I suppose you should marry the dipshit first. Oh, she says, but my schedule is entirely booked through summer. Shall we meet back here at Khazali in one year’s time?, Milly says before flicking her eyes up to find mine. Slightest upturned smirk in her thin lips. The swinging light-bulb above us sparks a green flash in her irises. She returns her focus to the plastic bottled cocktail, which she hands to me. Have a sip, tell me if it lacks, yeah? 

It’s perfect, I say. My legs are falling asleep, however.

What then?, she asks as I stretch my creaking knees. After we’ve murdered Dash, what then, Vic? Am I to go back to America with you? And what of Dame Havisham? She’d be gutted to find her beloved son has succumbed, wouldn’t she? 

Ehh, I grunt in response. I am fond of Dame Havisham. I wouldn’t want this for her. But she isn’t entirely innocent either. Dame cultivated this hobgoblin, after all, infantilizing the cherub, granting Dash his first tastes of blood & entitlement.

It isn’t tricky algebra, is it, Vic?, Milly asks. Simple subtraction. Brown bread dead, we’re saying, yeah? Dashes to ashes, our boy bites the dust? I might be needing more motivation, yeah?

We could make Dash’s death heroic. We could do a better job of it than he could. It’s a shame there are no more Ottoman outposts to charge like we’re Lawrences of Arabia. We could wring Dash’s neck and drop him into one of the wadi’s great crevices. A hazardous climb took a turn for the whoops!, we’ll tell the press back home. Famous last words of: whoa. Dash would be our brazen, unlucky hero. And no, we wouldn’t have to go back to America. We could barter for one of those Toyotas and drive deeper into Wadi Rum where no one would find us. Setup camp at a spring. Create our own private oasis. We wouldn’t have internet, but we could raise goats. We’d have goat cheese.   

Milly’s focus is downwards as she mixes a Suffering Bastard cocktail for herself. Or, perhaps, she stirs this drink for Dash, the bastard in question. She says to me, not so posh raising goats in the desert, is it? But I do love goat cheese. We have better return to the party, haven’t we, Vic?, before they jaw about us of conspiring to murder. Or other nasty goss, she says with a smirk.

Yeah, I say after a swig of my cocktail. Let’s socialize and be civil. Saladin would expect more of us. But then… Saladin would’ve beheaded Dash by now. 

For more Vic & the Havershams, read the Dead Sea Social Club