Remote and Forgotten Places by A. Hanson (13 inch ebook reader TXT) 📕

            In the deserts outside of Sharjah during the 1970s there was still little to be found. On the  edge of the vast empty quarter the seemingly endless sands stretched away into the Oman broken only by the  ragged Hajar mountains. These were the sands crossed by Wilfred Thesiger only 20 years before and the mystery of them had continued to capture the imagination of all those fortunate enough to live along the deserts borders.  My father was no exception to this and since our arrival in early 1972 had, at all opportunites, packed us into our cramped pick-up taking us west along the Daid road in to the emptiness.    

          As a family we were pretty well equiped to tackle these kind of expeditions as my father had spent the previous 10 years tramping around southern and Central Africa before marrying my mother in England. After a few years of trying to settle he managed persuad my mother to try life in Africa for a 12 month period.....with promises of an immediate return to the safety of Britain should things not work out. My father chose the destination of our familiy's first encounter with Africa wisely, and we arrived in Durban some months before my second birthday and settled into an apartment along the Esplanade over looking the harbour.

          By the time we reached the Emirates in the early 70's my mother had become a seasoned traveller, and was now often more eager to move on to the next contract, the next posting than the rest of us. The desperate condition of the small Muslim state that was to be our home for the next 7 years, and the shock of confronting a culture still more traditonal than modern was soon overcome, and what originally started as my fathers enthusiasm for remote and forgotten places soon took over as my mothers passion. 

           The Emirates at this time were still 'divided' and passports were needed to travel from Sharjah to Dubai. The was very little in terms of modern or Western conveniences and fresh fruit and vegetables of any quality could only be bought from the British Royal Airforce, but there was a Wimpy bar in Dubai which was a favourite Thursday night treat, due to Friday and Saturday being the weekend. There was no English language school in Sharjah but eventually the formidale Mrs. Gladstone established Sharjah English School in what was then known as the Old Fort (now Al Hisn museum). The top floor of the fort became our little school with twelve children whilst a Pakistani school took the ground floor. At the time the RAF base was quite nearby and a favourite game of our was to play war games with the jets landing and taking off. 

           We lived in a small apartment near the old clock tower looking down onto the only main road Sharjah had at the time. Our flat was decent enough but electricity was a constant headache and clean water delivered by truck once a week, and sewerage (despite local the governments best efforts) flooded down the steet so for my mum keeping us clean and healthy was a constant battle. We were not alone however as a few other Western families had also recently arrived, and there was the shared 'Keep calm and carry on' attitude needed by everyone in such a raw environment. Despite the difficulties of life in the Emirates the people were extremely pleasant and very willing to make allowances for we ill prepared foreigners.

          Our weekends were filled with trips into the desert or to deserted beaches along the endless stretches of coast. Everything had to be taken along as no petrol stations, food suppliers or clean drinking water were to be found beyond the confines of the small urban areas. If we broke down, had an accident, got lost, were set upon by theives, or simply ran out of diesel we were on our own. My parents have always been the most tremendous optimists especially my father and, although not foolish, would risk a trip or expedition recommended against by others. The words “ Of course I know where we are” and “Just trust me” became favorite expressions that my mother and I generally took as signs of our being either lost in the first place, or about to embark on something questionable.

           We had become accustomed to this and in fact these incidents added to our excitement.

          In our encouter with the desert pirates we had taken ourselves and a newly arrived family out along the Daid road looking for a sight to pic-nic. The pick-ups were loaded with provisions for the day and my mother had forced my father into promising no unexpected surprises or detours along the way.  The _____ family were out from the UK on their first overseas contract with a small boy about my age and my parents intended this day out to be a nice welcome for them, as well as introducing their son to a new friend. It was late May and the temperatures in the desert could easily exceed 40c so we carried a large quantity of water not only for ourselves but also for the constatly overheating radiators of the battered vehicles. 

           Leaving early that morning we were mindful of the fact that by eight or nine oclock the heat would be starting to build up. So we had packed extra drinking water and ice in an old military cool box that reminded me of a metal coffin. It was a huge wood and metal thing which weighed a good 50lbs, and had enough storage space to house a small family. It was grossly impractical being impossible to carry around but I think my fathers reasoning was that it in some way added balast to the vehicle as we bounced over broken subca tracks. Still, it would keep things cool even in the most intense heat and served it purpose well. 

             As we left the house my mother handed my dad a tin half a dozen chicken breasts neatly wrapped in tin foil which my dad strapped with wires to the side of the engine block. By the time we reached our pic-nic site the chicken would be done. We'd BBQ burgers went we got there using the hub cap of the pick-up as a 'frying pan' and bury the potatoes down in the hot ash of the fire pit to complete the menu. As disgusting as this unhegenic meal sounds today I still remember it being the best tasting BBQ I've ever had.

           Several uneventful hours after starting out we arrived at the edge of a ragged chain of mountains and there found ourselves a reasonably cool cleft between hills to start our pic-nic. Things were unpacked, umbrellas put-up, and fast melting ice water passed around. In the midday sun the tempratures would easily rise beyond the 40C mark and dehydration was a constant threat. My father took charge of the barbecue and sent me on my usual mission to find dry camel dung which would provide the fuel. The barbecue was made from a small pit that was dug in the ground and then layered with scrub brush over which the camel dung was placed once the flames got going. In all the years since I have never found a more efficient fuel for a fire than dry camel dung which is also odourless and smokeless to boot.  

 The front left hub cap was cleaned with sand, for some reason or other my dad believed to be the only cleanimng anything needed despite my mum's protests, and within a short space the heady scent of sizzeling burgers and roasting meat would be wafting across the sand dunes. If the sun was too hot the children were sent to sit under the pick-up to eat, and as sunbloke basically didn't exist a good parental guide to too much sun was how pink the kids were.  

This was the time when my new friend and I, our camel dung duties finished, could wander off and explore.

 Bare foot, despite the burning sand, and with a wet T-towel wrapped around my head I led my companion up the burnt rocks in search of anything to capture our interest. As most people know who have experienced the desert they are far from barren and lifeless places. Lizards hide beneath ashen rocks, spiders and other insects of every description exist hidden from the sun in a myriad of ingenious ways, birds nest deep in the fissures of rocky precipices or nestled within the cool shade of thorny bushes. On rare occasions when the rains do come the deserts flower in an amazing array of colours, these rare blooms soon fading in the fierce after sun to await another flowering perhaps years to come.

            There was also evidence of the Bedou who lived in these parts as they had done for thousands of years. They were often seen but rarely met. In the remote districts that my father took us to we would see signs of their passing in the scattered waste of their camps, we sometimes came across their encampments; black ragged tents, with children, camels and goats revolving around the settlement like small satalittes. The Bedouin were often armed with ancient rifles picked up here and there, generally old British army service rifles, with fierce looking Kunjas fixed into their belts and preferred privacy to invasion by curious foreigners. My father had had his dealings with the Bedouin and had in fact spent time with them, and in doing so had taught me qa littel about their habits  of respect and I knew that I was to steer clear of being intrusive should I come across them on my small adventures. This particular afternoon signs of the Bedouin were everywhere and I had been told not to wander far.

           My self and my friend rambled away from the barbacue area, up over a small ridge and down into a gully with a flat sand bed at the bottom. It was extremely hot and the heat seemed to be directed at us from all angles as it radiated from the rocks and baking sand. The ridge over which we had climbed blocked off the noise from our families and the infinate silence that one encounters in such places muffled our hearing so that only the sounds of our breath and pounding hearts was heard. Flies buzzed, and the odd tinckle of a goat bell came down from the rocks above. We moved on trying to stay in the shade of the overhangs.

          At the far end of the gully we spotted the remnants of a barbed wire fence with a broken wooden sign hanging drunkenly over it. “Lets see what it says & then lets go back”, my friend said. We were both getting far too tired and hot but not to read the sign would seem a like a failure, we would have nothing report when we returned to base.

          We trudged across the sand and reached the fence. I had to put my now very dry T-towel over the barbs that dragged on the floor so as not to cut my feet and pulled the sign around to read it.

“What does it say, Andrew, is there anything written on it?” My friend asked.

 “Its in arabic, I cant read it but its got this picture on it, look.” I replied.

 We both stared. A blood red skull and cross bones was barely visible on the badly rusting metal plate. After a moments pause both of looked at each other.......

 “Pirates!!” My friend exclaimed, his voice half an