Colin Clark: Making memories in the middle of nowhere

It’s only stage two of the Dakar, but the organizers in their rather dastardly ways have decided to throw in a bit of an early curveball.

The 48hr chrono stage, introduced last year in the second half of the rally, was brought forward to the start of the first week this year.

Apparently someone reckons the Dakar might not be quite challenging enough! Oh those devious, mischievous rally planners!

Did someone say drama? Well it’s certainly been designed to give us all an early and healthy dose of that.

Basically, the chrono stage is the best part of 1000km over two days without any outside assistance.

And tents. And army rations. And more challenges than Boutros Boutros-Ghali, the esteemed one time head of the United Nations, faced in his whole distinguished career.

And just like Boutros Boutros, who was always a man to tackle a challenge head on, our crews dived in with joy, enthusiasm and in some cases, misplaced optimism.

I, too, was filled with joy, enthusiasm and optimism as I boarded the happy bus transporting the cream of the world’s off road motorsport journos out to the penultimate break point on the stage.

Two things here, don’t worry about what exactly a break point is – just know that it’s where the crew stop for the night to enjoy their pop-up tents, sleeping bags and army rations. Obviously that’s once they’ve finished fettling their cars themselves ready for the following days adventures.

And the other thing?

Well cream of the worlds off road motorsport journo’s could be over-egging it a tad. There’s a fabulous French journo or two, an extremely polished Pole, an articulate Argentinian, and then the rest of us. More like half-fat cream of the crop. Yeah, I’m sure we’d all accept that.

So back to our trip out to that penultimate breaking point.

How was our very comfy, but very large, coach going to take us into the desert? Turns out it wasn’t. We were heading to a meeting point where a fleet of 4WD trucks were going to ferry us 20 minutes into the hills.

Being slightly impatient I played the old man has seniority card and pushed my way to the front of the queue. Tossing my backpack into the tray of the ute, I jumped in the back with the two aforementioned fabulous French scribes, sang Happy Birthday to one of them (yes it actually was his birthday) and then realized we were being driven to our destination by a child.

How to show your age, eh? Turns out he obviously wasn’t a child, he was actually 19 and had been driving in the dunes and mountains since he was 10. And I tell you what, he could handle that Toyota way better than I ever could – how wrong of me to ever doubt him!

So we arrive at our destination and it’s time for my second shock in just under an hour.

I was expecting basic, but not this basic.

In the middle of a high barren plain between two hills there was a truck, a small truck at that, and three crates. One crate contained tents, the other sleeping bags and the third, army ration packs.

Where are the showers, the loos, the camp fire I asked? They laughed – I hadn’t quite yet grasped the whole magnitude of the 48hr chrono stage obviously.

So I spent a comfortable and informative hour being educated by my French friends on the intricacies of the regulations surrounding this most demanding of stages. The French do seem to love their regulations don’t they? Just as well, otherwise I’d have been completely confused. Well, just a little more confused than I normally am perhaps.

So what was the plan? Why had we been bussed over three hours to this incredibly beautiful spot seemingly in the middle of nowhere? Well, apparently the plan was to sit and wait for the cars and bikes to arrive and then do some interviews, maybe take some photos and then head back to the bivouac in Bisha.

Really? But they won’t be here for at least another three hours I opined. What’re you planning until then? Absolutely nothing – we sit and we wait.

Nah, that’s not for me. So armed with a couple of bottles of water, a tin of tuna and bean salad and a packet of chocolate wafers, I headed off into the distance in search of the track our brave, battling crews would hopefully be barreling down.

I got no more than 500 meters out of camp and then turned around. Seeking out my font of all knowledge French friend, I someaahte earnestly explained my plans.

“Look, I don’t want to sit around here for three hours, I’m heading in that direction to find some action. If I’m not back by 6pm send out the helicopters!”

One thing I learned as a boy scout is that if you’re heading anywhere on your own, always share your intentions with a responsible adult. And being a man of a certain age I fully understand that unforeseen things can happen – even though I’m as fit as a mountain goat. Well, an old grumpy mountain goat with a dodgy back and maybe one leg shorter than the other three!

I have to say, I felt a little sense of pride in my responsible approach and said a silent thanks to my mother who forced me to attend all the boy scout groups when I was a child, which I loathed! Honestly, what proper kid wants to be dib dib dibbing and dob dob dobbing when there’s a football to be kicked around? Not sure I’ve ever got over the indignance of it all.

So off I set once again, a solitary figure wrecking across the dusty but beautiful high plain.

Around two kilometers down the track I decided to stop and enjoy the moment with my hastily put together picnic. Goodness me, tinned tuna and bean salad never tasted so good. I’ve said it before, with food it’s very often the situation you find yourself in that determines the quality of the experience. I’ve genuinely had Michelin starred meals that didn’t give me the satisfaction and pleasure that I derived from my tinned meal and chocolate wafer.

Mountains left and right, a lush wadi breaking the barren sand and scrub strewn plain in front of me and the anticipation of screaming V8 engines about to shatter the solitude. It was almost a heavenly experience. And I enjoyed every morsel.

But it turned out I wasn’t alone.

Another thing I learned when I was a kid, and I’m pretty sure this wasn’t in the boy scout group but it could have been, is beware of strangers bearing gifts.

OK, this is a very sage and sensible piece of advice, but maybe not so relevant here in Saudi. You see, this is the most hospitable of places where strangers are warmly welcomed like feted guests.

The Land Cruiser I’d spotted in the distance weaved its way towards me before stopping.

And two very finely attired gentleman got out – bearing gifts!

A polite welcome and tent boxes and tins they were carrying were opened.

“Please sir, enjoy some of Saudi’s finest dates and these local cinnamon biscuits.”

Oh yes please, I love a good date and can’t ever resist the offer of a biscuit.

So over dates and biscuits, seemingly in the middle of nowhere, I made two new friends. Turns out it was a local Blackhawk pilot and his mate who, just like me, are massive rally fans. We had lots to talk about.

My new buddies left me before the cars and bikes arrived. Blackhawk commitments apparently took precedent, and boy, did they miss an experience.

I’d waited so long that I was seriously beginning to doubt wether I was in the right place. But as the first Mini screamed towards me, I could hear it long before I could see it, it was obvious there was a massive benefit to the late arrivals of our protagonist. The light was just glorious as the sun hovered above the mountain tops, touching everything with a magical golden pink hue. I felt truly blessed to be there, on my own, witnessing such a mesmerising sight.

And then they were like London buses: you wait hours for one and then they all come along at once.

Yeah, not as memorable.

And remembering my self imposed time limit I’d set and not wanting to trouble the search and rescue helicopters, I made my way back to camp – just making it in before the appointed hour.

Cars and bikes were lined up, crews worked to repair 650km worth of damage and I took in the sights and sounds.

A wheel being assaulted by a hammer here, a rim being aggressively forced back on over there, a poor soul in front of me getting a drenching from a displaced oil pipe.

And then there were the somewhat comical efforts of crews, who clearly hadn’t been boy scouts like me, battling to erect their sleeping quarters for the night.

I’m told the army rations were actually quite tasty – as I said earlier, it’e sometimes the situation that defines the satisfaction of the feed.

It was quite a day and I have to say I was exhausted but happy as I squeezed back into the child’s chariot for our transfer to the happy bus.

Just after midnight I fell exhausted into my sleeping cot under canvas. My tent was still doing its best impression of a child’s sand pit but I didn’t care, I’d had an ace day creating memories that will stay with me forever.