A Man Is Not A Camel

I finished preparing my pack and looked it over. It didn't appear too bulky. Travelling light, it's the only way to go, as the old song said, a long time ago. It's certainly the way I like travelling best. I picked up my water bottle, hefted it in my hand, then put it aside till later: fixing it onto my pack now would make the pack too big and unwieldy, and, especially, too conspicuous. The Number One Rule of Being A Bum is Do Not Attract Attention. So I put it aside till later.

I looked up to the dunes, stretching out black and mysterious in front of me. The track I was going to go down snaked out into the bushes and disappeared beneath the shadows of the overhanging trees.

From behind me came the distant sounds of glasses clinking, voices, laughter, and, especially, music. Live music. Someone singing to the accompaniment of a guitar. Intriguing and attractive. So, on the spur of the moment, I delayed my bush-plans for a bit and wandered off in the direction of the music, a moth to the flame, an unwary traveller drawn to the irresistible sound of fairy music, sucking him into a warp of time and space. When I emerge it will be 100 years from now, and everyone I will have ever known will be dead. Maybe.

I found the pub, the source of the music, had a beer, listened to the performer, had a bit of a yarn with people there, and, having spent an enjoyable little while, returned to my pack, shouldered it, and headed out into the dark unknown. There was no moon, so guided by starlight only I picked my way down a winding track, through a dry creekbed, up and over a series of sand dunes, and, ploughing through sand still warm from the day's sunshine and baking heat, I made it onto the beach. There, stretching out in front of me for many miles, lay an expanse of dark-grey sand, silhouetted dunes off to one side, the distant tumble and murmur of the low tide a long way down the other side. We get big tides here, and when it goes out it sends postcards to remind people that it's away at the moment but will be back eventually. Note for the 21st century: what's a postcard?

I worked my way along the dunes for a long time, putting a good amount of safe distance between myself and any people who may be inclined to cruise along deserted beaches at night to cut throats, rape and rob unsuspecting passers-by, till, having judged it far enough, I scrambled up and over the first line of dunes, navigated through a low-lying swale, and got to my camping spot.

I laid out my bedding roll, stretched out, and looked up at the stars. The Million Star Hotel. Forget about 2, 3, 4 or 5 star hotels. They can all go stick it. There's nothing better, more sublime, than the million stars of the Milky Way. Or billion, trillion or gazillion, however many there may be. I fashioned a pillow out of my jumper, laid back contentedly, and, by the light of my torch, read my book while snacking happily on salted porkbelly crackling, nature's own nutrient- and energy-dense superfood. It was while I was busily licking up the last stray bits of salt with my fingertips that it occurred to me that it might be nice to have a swig of water to wash it all down with. So I went looking in my pack for my water bottle, and it was then that I realised, with a sinking feeling, that I had left it behind.

No water.

As an experienced traveller in the desert, I never fail to very strictly adhere to Survival Rule Number Two: always forget your water bottle. Duh. What an idiot.

So I sat up and scratched my head. I had two choices: retrace my steps through the long dark night to where I had left my water bottle, or stick it out.

I gazed up at the stars to gauge the time. Orion stood mightily above me pulling valiantly on his bowstring, with his sword tucked into his belt, ready to lop off the head of anyone that came up to try to argue the point with him, whatever the point may have been. Scorpio curled its tail menacingly around, waving it idly to and fro, and stared aggressively into the middle distance. Alpha Centauri and Beta Centauri shuffled around each other in embarrassment, trying to keep a polite distance from each other and from the Southern Cross, which was pointing at them with an accusatory hand, and a sneer that said "I told you so".