Chapter 23

Desert round two

My opinion of the prince changed during the visit. Seeing him work in his government position and watching the power he wielded woke me up with a jolt. He did not have to put up with any of my tantrums, but he did. Whether I entertained him or not I don’t know but I would forever wonder why he allowed me to get away with so much.

We set off back to the desert and I wondered how I would occupy myself there. As we passed close to the Kuwaiti border, I saw a huge plantation. It stretched for more than half a mile. Hundreds and hundreds of date palms stood tall next to each other; the view was awe-inspiring. Later we pulled in to the campsite and several National Guard and Bedouin Arabs encircled us. They greeted the prince as I quietly got out and stood to one side. The prince signalled Mohammed to take care of me. He took me off in the opposite direction of my old tent. As we neared the tent last used by the prince, Mohammed said, “Here, Mark, you will stay here. Prince Mishari will stay in his trailer.” I was left to settle in.

Opening the canvas flap, I leant forward and stepped through. There was a king-sized mattress on the floor. Crisp white sheets and several blankets lay on top. Towards the rear was a large American-style refrigerator, which made me laugh. I opened the door and the light came on. It was well stocked and ice formed on its sides. I noticed the sound of a generator humming away in the background. I noticed another canvas door on the other side of the tent.

I lifted it and found a shower cubicle and portaloo toilet installed. The shower unit had hot and cold running water servicing it. I could wash and use the toilet in comfort now. This threw a different light on the trip. I was as happy as a pig in shit! These creature comforts were the icing on the cake.

I set off in search of the prince to thank him for his consideration. Passing the rear of the tent, I noticed the generator and a large water bowser, which serviced my utilities.

National Guard vehicles were dotted around the encampment. Each one was painted in a dull greyish colour. Several fires were alight outside the Bedouin tents as they sat by them drinking mint tea or Arabic coffee. Tea sounded like a good idea to me, but I had first to thank the prince.

“Mohammed, Mohammed,” I called as I noticed him chatting with a couple of guy’s nearby. “Yes. Mark, what do you want?”

“Sorry I disturbed you, but I need to speak with the prince. Do you know where I can find him?”

“I will take you to him,” he said as he led the way towards three large trucks with massive trailers. As with the other vehicles, they were painted in the same dull, greyish colour. I wondered if they were the command posts or something like that. Getting closer I found the trucks more separated than they had at first appeared. We stopped at the bottom of some steps, which led up to a door in the side of one of them. “You will find Prince Mishari inside.”

“Thanks Mohammed. I’ll come and find you soon and we can have some tea and a chat. Is that all right?”

“Yes Mark, that will be good,” he replied. With that, I walked up the steps to the door in the side of the monster trailer. I knocked and heard the prince answer: “Come in.” Opening the door and looking in, I felt like I had been hit with a baseball bat. Ice-cold air-conditioning enveloped me. Massive and luxurious leather sofas and chairs sat on beautiful, intricately woven Arabian carpets. Crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling. Polished dark wood and glass-topped coffee tables were next to the sofas. On top of the smaller tables by the armchairs, I saw gold table lamps, adorned with crystal droplet shades. The decoration was more exclusive than many of the five-star hotels I had stayed in around the world. Sitting in an armchair opposite the doorway was the prince. “Hello Mark, come in, sit down,” he said. “I love being in the desert,” he exclaimed as he sent a servant off to bring us some mint tea. I could see why; he wasn’t going to be slumming it, I thought. The other two mobile palaces were being used by Princess al-Anud and their children, Turki and Hala. Overall, though, I was more than happy with the tent placed at my disposal and even felt some romanticism about camping in the desert.

After leaving the prince, I went back to my tent and savoured the sights and sounds that engulfed me. Bending over to open the canvas flap, I made sure, I held on to my headdress. After closing it, I tied it down. I felt at ease and yet strangely isolated from the surrounding encampment. The tent was about twenty-five feet square. The ground was covered with several dark maroon embroidered carpets, which overlaid one another. I went over to the mattress, and lay down. I studied the paisley patterned yellow and dark red lining. I took a mental picture of the glorious colours as the sun lit them up. These rare moments would be the jewels I would treasure later in life. I drifted off into a deep sleep only to be awoken by the sound of gunshots ringing in my ears. Catching me unaware, I jumped to my feet and ran out to see what the commotion was all about.

My sandals and headdress were left behind. I found Prince Mishari with his brother, Prince Badr. A silver Colt 45 pistol hung from one of Prince Badr’s hands, while a large bird hung from the other. The shots I heard heralded Prince Badr’s arrival and did not show any special or remarkable marksmanship that would have been needed to shoot the bird from the sky.

“I heard the shots and wondered what was going on,” I said. After being introduced to Prince Badr, we walked over to Prince Mishari’s Mercedes. Majid came dashing over and unlocked the car. Prince Mishari opened the boot and looking inside, I exhaled a large breath as I took stock of the veritable arsenal of automatic and semi-automatic weapons on display.

“Tonight, Mark, we will be going hunting!” exclaimed the prince.

Hunting, hunting! I laughed to myself as visions of us loosing off thousands of rounds from machine-guns at some poor unsuspecting animal flashed through my mind. It would be a bloodbath, a massacre, I thought.

“What are we going to hunt, Your Highness?” I said as I tried to keep a straight face.

“Jerboa, Mark, we will hunt Jerboa.” I felt my knees go weak and my chuckle muscles contort as I tried in vain to catch my suppressed laughter.

“Excuse me, Your Highness, but don’t you think it a little excessive hunting these desert rats with machine-guns?” I asked.

Crippled with laughter, Prince Mishari couldn’t speak. “What’s so funny?” I asked.

“Mark, you idiot, I didn’t mean we would be hunting with these weapons,” he spluttered, as he no doubt visualised the scene which had previously been dancing across my mind. Contorted with laughter, tears streamed from our eyes. The more we thought about it, the more we laughed. That was until a Bedouin brought me back to my senses with his exclamation that I was a ‘crazy Englishman’.

During the early years, I shared several special moments with the prince and thought we got on famously. Once the Bedouin passed by, I started chuckling again. The princes left me to it as they walked back to Prince Mishari’s palatial trailer. I was sure within minutes the joke would be shared with the princess. I set off in search of Mohammed and some lunch. My jaw and ‘chuckle’ muscles were sore from all the laughter, which had wracked my body.

As we sat eating kabsa, a lamb and rice dish, I decided to catch at least one Jerboa during the hunt. As we chatted, I decided to keep the joke I had shared with the prince to myself. I asked what tactics were employed during these hunts. Instead of using automatic weapons, we would be using automatic jeeps. “Mark. We wait until after dark and then set off in several vehicles. We drive with our low beam headlights on searching for Jerboa. When spotted, we put on the high beam headlights. This signals to the others that we have found one. With all the high beam lights on, we light up a large area. Everyone chases the Jerboa and when we get close the men jump out and chase it on foot. If we catch it, then it’s killed by the Halal method. In other words, its throat is cut. When we get back to camp, we throw them on the fire and eat them.” Thanking Mohammed for his enlightenment on the hunt tactics, I set off back to my tent. As the sun began to set, my adrenaline began to rise. I felt a real buzz of excitement and anticipation. I began to long for the moment that I would catch my first Jerboa.

Shortly after this, Prince Mishari climbed into the driving seat of the large jeep. His uncle, Sultan, sat next to him. I sat behind Prince Mishari and Mohammed sat next to me in the other rear passenger seat. As everyone else got into their vehicles, Prince Mishari gunned the engine of our 4x4. An air of expectation engulfed us as we set off to hunt. It was only minutes later when the first Jerboa was sighted. A hail of light shone bright as the high beams of the jeeps flooded the area. I had decided previously to watch the first catch so I could see exactly how it was done. After studying the tactics, I was sure I could catch one. Now I waited with bated breath for the next sighting. This was going to be my catch. Nothing would prevent me securing my trophy. Mentally, I already had a Jerboa secured in my hand. Now all I had to do was physically make it happen.

Without warning, the high beam lights again lit up the night sky. The chase was on. The prince accelerated into the melee. I prepared myself. Moving closer to the door, I placed my hand on the handle in preparation of an early exit. I wasn’t about to let my newfound friends deprive me of my moment of glory. Drawing ever closer to the Jerboa, my heart raced in tune with the V8 engine. I was going to catch it. I could smell victory. Heart pumping, adrenaline flowing, the sweat beads formed on my forehead, I pulled on the door handle.

Prince Mishari swerved sharply to the right as he continued the chase. I exited the jeep a little earlier than expected and landed face down on the sharp sand of the desert. My headdress had come off during the fall and had landed a short distance away from me. I vaguely watched it as it fluttered in the wind nearby. My thobe had somehow slid up around my waist area exposing my long white cotton under trousers. Searing pain shot through the palms of my hands as they contacted the sand. I lay on the ground.

After my unceremonious exit from the jeep and semi-conscious, I slowly became aware that no Jerboa resided in either of my hands.

I was severely pissed off, and became even more so as I noticed several Arab faces looking down at me, laughing and grinning. Then, it had to happen, I heard the phrase “Crazy, crazy Englishman,” emanating from the Bedouin who had dogged me throughout my desert trip. I knew he was right. After picking myself up, with a little help from my friends, I climbed back into the jeep. Everyone was laughing and having fun, probably at my expense. Not being psychic, I didn’t know it would be me who would be laughing the following night.

An hour or so later we returned to camp. Leaving the jeeps, we made our way over to the campfires nearby. As sweet mint tea was served, I marvelled at the bright blue, orange and red flames licking at the logs on the fire. Tiny crackling sparks flew skywards, drifting away in the light desert breeze. I sat on the right-hand side of the prince. Several Jerboas were unceremoniously thrown on to the burning embers at the base of the fire. Neither the prince nor I bothered to eat any of them. Much laughter and merriment emanated from the men sitting around us. No doubt, my hunting expertise was high up on the agenda of their discussions.

After a couple of hours, the prince rose. As we followed his lead, he bade the men goodnight. The prince signalled me to walk with him. “Mark, did you enjoy yourself tonight?”

“Yes, Your Highness, I did. That’s apart from my early exit from the jeep, of course,” I replied.

“I have to admit, I thought you were just a little bit hasty, too,” he said, laughing. After saying goodnight, I made my way back to my tent. I opened the fridge door and scraped some ice from the icebox, and placed it on the palms of my hands to soothe the sand burns. I climbed into bed and the crisp, cold white sheets sent a shiver through me. The nights were freezing and if the wind blew, it cut through you like a knife. I was fortunate to have been given a desert Sheikh’s robe, which was made from heavy canvas material and lined with white fur. This robe shielded me from the biting wind.

I placed the robe on top of my blankets and tried to get warm. My thoughts wandered until I drifted off to sleep.

* * *

“Mark, Mark, wake up, I want to show you something,” called Sultan, the prince’s uncle, from the canvas flap of my tent.

“Give me five minutes, will you?”

“Okay Mark, but hurry up, I think you will like this.” Not happy with the disturbance, I nonetheless dragged myself from my bed. After a quick wash, I got dressed and went outside.

“I know you like new experiences, Mark, so I thought you may like to witness this.” Sultan steered me towards the tent where the cooks prepared the food. Behind it, I saw two camels. One was very young, a baby, I thought. They were both tied up with rope. This rope extended from one front leg to one back leg.

“Mark, we are having the young one for dinner today.” I felt a thud in my heart. I had guessed that Sultan thought I would like to witness the ritual killing of the baby camel. “Mark, do you want to see it being prepared?”

“No way,” I answered and walked away. I was pissed off with Sultan. My guess was that he just wanted to see my reaction to the killing. I wasn’t about to give him any satisfaction. When Sultan caught up to me, I asked, “Who is coming to dinner anyway?”

“Brigadier Cocking is coming. He is English and on secondment to the National Guard.”

An hour or so later Prince Mishari introduced me to this Brigadier. I found him to be a typical British officer who no doubt had attended public school back home. In my opinion, he was stand-offish and reserved.

Prince Mishari told me a bed had been made up for the Brigadier in my tent, as he would be staying the night. I nodded my acceptance, not that I had any choice in the matter. Neither the Brigadier nor I had anything in common, so apart from a few pleasantries, no meaningful conversation took place between us.

I felt the Brigadier resented my being with the prince. It probably didn’t help when Prince Mishari said he wanted only me to go with him while he went for a drive in the desert that evening.

Dinner was a sombre affair. I couldn’t get the thought out of my mind that Sultan wanted me watch the death of the baby camel. This was the second time Sultan had tried to entice me into watching a killing. Their capital punishment, they called justice. But it wasn’t justice, not least because I knew too well that several princes had committed crimes which would have seen them facing the executioner’s sword along with people they had condemned, were their justice meted out equally to all.

“Mark, Prince Mishari wants you to meet him at his trailer,” said one of the National Guard soldiers.

“Thanks, I’m on my way,” I replied.

Arriving at Prince Mishari’s trailer, I knocked the door.

“Is that you, Mark?”

“Yes, sir,” I replied.

“Wait for me by the GMC. We are going for a tour of the neighbourhood.”

What neighbourhood? I thought, as we were miles from anywhere.