There is an unidentified intruder, the professor reveals. It is 11pm and we are somewhere or rather nowhere in barren land, considering that none of us actually know the exact geographical coordinates of our location. Actually, do coordinates even mean anything anymore? Degrees, minutes and seconds? What on earth are those? Just a string of code to be entered into Maps right! Death to geography.
The mind drifts. How arbitrary is the fencing, to think of it? Do they charge per square feet? How to correct for uneven gradient? Rent or bought?
Enough about location, geography, topography or what not! Those obviously aren’t the issue here. We are entirely reliant on the tour operators. They brought us in on flat 4 by 4s; we couldn’t possibly escape on skeletal 2 by 2s could we? Endurance racing for the untrained?
You can almost sense the shift in mood amongst the group; like turning on a dime, centrifugal force summons the brain to shift the body’s weight to counteract and maintain balance. Likewise, the news jolts many from the jocular mood, having just gotten dosages of endorphins from raving like unhinged maniacs. The result of 4 months of chokehold by academic work I deduce.
There is a momentary stillness as people start making sense of this new piece of information. The bustle of the jamboree has come to rest. The brain has to adjust. And in this silence I am unperturbed, but feel the galvanic tension in the airspace caused by the magnetic fields generated by (de?)firing neurons of neighbouring cerebrums. Then out of nowhere, the odd pause expires, and clarification ensues.
As questions are raised, we are told that there apparently is a suspicious character in the vicinity. What an exposé. Our lives in peril! In summary, this shady being does not resemble anyone familiar, had avoided eye-contact, and had turned away when the camp operators attempted to engage with him. Only God knows where he is at present moment.
What would this be classified as? Trespassing on private property? Well, there is no CCTV this time. It’s pitch black. It’s cat and mouse without the sense of smell. Without technology we are naked. It’s all very fitting. The dance macabre had been performed.
But there is no foreign vehicle in the surrounding area. No foreign camel either. Bedouinism on foot? Can’t people visit the lobby of a hotel though? Same thing it feels like... Just some curious folk trying to locate the source of inconsiderate noise disrupting the sacredness of the desert night.
I think maybe, a shapeshifter! This creature must have flown in as a Falcon and then transformed into the stereotypical Omani. I suppose shapeshifters can’t speak nor act then. That is their limitation! You can’t have it all, goes the old aphorism. The serene darkness of the desert night becomes the fear of the unseen. This has all the makings of a teenage thriller show! What honour to be on the cast. We are effectively blind, and our fate is sealed! That is, to be taken down and gobbled up one by one in a single neat and swift fashion. Rhythmic spacing of shrill screams that extinguish as soon as they begin: The soundtrack of merciless devouring. We are mere sitting ducks. Panic only feeds this monster.
Surely, this is a security breach. Gate or Fence? Somehow, I just knew that the fence was nugatory, contra G. K. Chesterton. They look like those electric fences used to keep out cows in lush lands. But there are no cows? And I could easily jump over it. Are there desert coyotes out here? I restrain myself from asking. Maybe gate? Well then somebody needs to get fired. I conclude that it is the inexplicable psychological expectation for any compound to have borders. A colonial invention? The chassis of the mind we are unable to rid ourselves of? Or maybe just the reality of limited cognitive capacity necessitating a framework.
Cortisol levels are high and diffident me hides in the shadows and marvels at the spectacle that is unfolding. People are actually reacting! There are suggestions, plaintive cries of concern and highfalutin remarks spouted from within the mob of faintly lit faces by the campfire. Scenarios are being simulated in heads. The common citation is murder or rape. Probable sites being the tents furthest out nearest the purposeless fence and the toilets erected outside the tents. Interestingly enough, theft is scarcely mentioned despite it being the most probable. It seems not to dawn on anyone that either rape or murder would constitute international headline news. Everyone assumes that this unidentified dude is an irrational psychopath. The concept of probability has literally been thrown out the window.
Conjectures are offered as to how someone could turn up with no footprints in the sand, or in other words, undetected. And as the deficient security dawns upon on us, I immediately think of compensation. Emotional harm I will say. Our sole and virgin night in the desert blighted by concerns of life and death. Abominable! 50% refund!
What happened to Sherlock’s “dog that didn’t bark in the night”? Does it apply in this context? The camels neither bleated nor grunted nor groaned nor bellowed, did they? Must be a case of mistaken (un)identity then. Someone forgot their ‘social’ hat?
More ideas are promulgated into the opaque sky and after about 45 minutes, the dominant voices start filtering and grounding the unpremeditated ideas floating about. There was ludicrous talk of sentry. What use is sentry if unarmed? The discussion even side-tracked onto why ghaf trees were planted beside the artificially walled toilets. The fear of overhead peeping toms and clowns descending from the sky onto the nude self is real! For all we know, somebody’s passport is already stolen. Maybe the shapeshifter is the crackling fire right now, and we are his movie. Boom.
Flight says we hightail out of this place and fight says we divide into groups and hunt down this creature. But neither are considered. The plan is to huddle. Strength in numbers! Men on the outside, and women on the inside. A defence formation, designed to thwart the enemy. Men, the default sacrificial lambs. This is the tacit plan, and the hope is that the beast doesn’t actually prefer the female flesh and will be satiated by the generous offering of fine young gentlemen. Thus, boys and girls are to mix in the plush Bedouin style tents. I say, salacious! Heresy!
This is where I disengage. I will take no further part in this theatre, not even as an audience member, and certainly not as a guardian of the opposite sex. I sneak up on a fellow camper and bellow "Open the door!", nasally. She shoots me a hellish look. I guess my throaty impression of a bearded rapist hasn't gone well. I am doleful. Sigh, humourless people. Chuckling on the inside, I excuse myself and retire to my assigned tent in the periphery with my trusted comrade, knowing full well that the real enemy of the night is nothing amorphous but the certain imminent decline in temperature. So, this is how you inject paranoia.
Great hilarity. But much, to do, about, NOTHING. For all we know, we may have just been bamboozled by the custodians of the desert camp; victims of an elaborate hoax passed down from God-knows when, God-knows genius, spooking each successive batch. Tradition, they will say. Brilliant, I say!