By Tim McGhie
Our shadows are getting longer and the reverie of satisfied exhaustion has taken over. We are stocked up with snacks and supplies for the evening. Pedalling slower, we begin to scan the landscape for a suitable camping spot. Dreams of a grassy meadow, facing west to take in the sunset and concealed from the road by a row of trees, jar with the barren reality. Today there will be no stream for bathing nor an ample supply of dry wood for a fire. Reality on the road is a compromise between fluffy pipedreams and toil of difficult miles accomplished.
‘Let’s just clear this town and then find a spot’. The hill past the town continues to rise past a military base to our right, while across four lanes of busy traffic a steep slope rises up. At length we reach the crest of the climb and agree to take a side road up the bank. A car pulls up as we join the road. ‘Where are you going? The road ends in three kilometres’. ‘Um, just resting’, we lie, not wanting to advertise our plans to kip for the night. Camping wild is illegal in Syria, apparently. We decide to push our bikes to the top of the hill, off the road and out of sight, but thick red mud soon weighs down our shoes and clogs up our brakes. Turning around we settle for a less boggy but more exposed spot between blankets of snow.
Stones are cleared and the ground is checked for sharp objects. Groundsheets are spread out and tent poles clipped together. The familiar musty smell of our perpetually moist tents is a reminder of the blissful fall into sleep. Sleeping mats are inflated with a wheeze. Pegs bite into the ground to moor us safely to the night.
Night falls to the sound of our stove and passing traffic. More often than not we are undisturbed, but the occassional visitor comes to investigate our setup. Satisfied by smiles and a broken conversation we are left to our own devices. To the North, a ridge of mountains stands against the night sky with streaks of snow still glowing in the moonlight. We sit between two roads in a field marked out by burned out oil drums. We are clearly visible if you choose to look. In the valley below the lights of guardtowers mimic the constellations above.
Climbing into our tents with the swish of a zip the landscape disappears as we each enter our personal fortress of solitude. Within the membrane thin walls of our castles all understanding of our vulnerable position disappears. We could be on a cliff top in Croatia or a Turkish rubbish dump; on stubble in a French field or beneath the bows of a Bosnian forest. The tent provides a haven against the elements but also the ever changing location. The moonlit nylon glow is a constant against the ever shifting backdrop of continents. A castle, a tent, a home.
Wake in the night to the call of nature. Unzip to a martian scene and stumble over dark Earth beneath a warmthless glare. Orion gives is star jumping. The beauty is too cold for the groggy head of sleepy man. Back to the fortress to forget the Earth for a few more hours. Sound sleep in a little cradle on a big planet.
*thank you Sam!
