November 28, 2024
It is already dusk as I search for a wild camping spot I had marked on an app. However, without a functioning internet connection, it becomes difficult to find it. It’s remarkable how much depends on internet access. Leaving the road, I venture back into the sand. Three young men approach, and when I use hand gestures to explain what I’m looking for, they point to a rickety metal frame in the middle of the sand. It seems to be intended as a bed. However, I prefer the comfort of my own tent and move on.
Walking along a rock wall, I come across a small alcove fenced off with metal. I decide to pitch my tent nearby, right in front of the rock.
By now, it’s completely dark, and my tent is unusually difficult to set up. I’ve never struggled with it this much before, but then again, I’ve rarely been this impatient. All I want is to lie down and sleep. Adding to my frustration is the lack of internet, which I had counted on to plan the coming days in more detail. Camping spots can be tricky to find in this region, and the app’s tips from other wild campers have been incredibly useful. Without internet, will I even be able to locate these places? Clearly, today wasn’t a success. Using the last of my strength, I finally force the last tent pole into place.
Suddenly, I’m blinded by a beam of light.
A pickup truck is driving straight toward me across the sand - it must have spotted me. A young man steps out, leading his camel to the fenced alcove, which turns out to be a makeshift camel shelter. After securing the animal, he walks over to me and, in broken English, says this isn’t a good place to sleep. He doesn’t explain why but insists I come with him to a house. He promises to drop his mother off first and then return to pick me up. Although unsure of what to expect, I agree. Reluctantly, I pack up my tent again in the dark.
True to his word, Afzal returns. He mentions something about a tour in Wadi Disah tomorrow, though I can’t follow much else. He takes me to a place that vaguely resembles a campsite, but there are no visible tents. Two traditional Arabic tents are set up - one half-open with a fire burning in the center, carpets covering the floor, and a group of young men gathered around. The other tent, just to the right, is empty with a sandy floor. To the left, there’s a small house, its interior furnished with carpets in the local style.
Afzal asks where I’d like to sleep: in the house, in the tent by the fire, or—after walking about 30 meters away - out in the sand, presumably using my own tent. Since he’s giving me a choice, I point to the house. A short while later, he asks again. Does he not approve of my decision? Communication is challenging - his limited English and my complete lack of Arabic leave us at an impasse. When he asks a third time, I change my answer and point to the tent by the fire instead.
Even among the group gathered around the fire, no one speaks much English. Ironically, three of them are wearing sweaters with English slogans. Starving, I pull out some bread, spread it with peanut butter, and start eating. Someone places a piece of cake in front of me, which I plan to save for dessert. But by the time I’m ready for it, someone else has already eaten it.
No one speaks to me directly, though it’s clear they’re talking about me among themselves. Suddenly, one of them brings over a large motorcycle and gestures for me to pose with it in the background while they take a photo. I have no idea why. Then, unexpectedly, they serve Kabsa - a popular Saudi dish made of spiced rice, typically topped with chicken - and invite me to join them. It’s a gesture I hadn’t anticipated at all.
My emotions are conflicted. While I’m part of the circle, sipping tea and sharing food like everyone else, I still feel like an outsider - disconnected. Despite my repeated efforts to engage, the language barrier, along with something intangible, keeps me from truly connecting. Without internet access, I can’t even reach out to anyone back home for a sense of familiarity or comfort.
In this moment, I’m suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling I hadn’t encountered on this journey before - a feeling I had always wondered about and quietly feared during my journey: Loneliness.
Until now, I’ve often been alone but never lonely - much to my own surprise. But now, even surrounded by others, I feel lonely. It’s as though I’m trapped in a bubble, isolated from the world around me.
Afzal keeps mentioning a tour and money. Using gestures, I explain that my internet - and therefore Google Translate - isn’t working. In response, he provides me with Wi-Fi, allowing us to communicate via text. From what I gather, he wants payment for the overnight stay, though he never states this directly. Is this an official campsite? He also offers to sell me a tour of Wadi Disah the next morning. Initially, he even suggests a camel ride, but later explains the camel is too far away.
In the end, I agree to a one-hour car tour of the Wadi for the equivalent of around 40 Swiss francs, which seems to satisfy him. Paying for the night feels odd, as he had insisted I come with him and didn’t mention money at first. Still, I don’t want to seem like a freeloader. The tour feels like a reasonable compromise - and who knows, maybe I’ll capture some stunning photos in the morning light.
With the Wi-Fi, I’m able to make a brief call to Sofia, which helps ease my loneliness a bit. I also discover why I haven’t had internet access here: my purchased eSIM only works with a network provider that has coverage mainly in major cities, offering poor reception elsewhere. While frustrating, this realization at least gives me some clarity for planning ahead.
I now know that I’ll be able to install a new eSIM in Al’Ula, which should provide better connectivity. Feeling reassured, I start to notice how exhausted I am. Afzal notices too. The others around the fire don’t seem ready to sleep, so it’s unlikely I’ll be able to rest in the fire tent. Instead, Afzal lays out a cloth for me in the adjacent open tent with a sand floor. I do my best, using pantomime, to ask if there are scorpions or snakes here. Had I known how the night would unfold, I might have just set up my tent again.
One of Afzal’s friends arrives and seems to persuade him to let me sleep in the house after all. He gestures toward it, and I try to reassure him that I wouldn’t mind if others join me later. I don’t want to take anyone’s sleeping spot.
In the morning, I wake up alone in the house. The others are wrapped in blankets in the fire tent. Hearing me stir, Afzal prepares for the tour.
