Only the Bedu could pull off the sheer audacity of living in this blankness, this place without roads, sometimes even names. In a land where time and space seem to stand still, the Bedu are the only constant, earning praise, sometimes even literature, from Thesiger to Lawrence of Arabia. They might not look as poetic today – instead of camels you’ll probably find them in Toyota pickups, like the one we were bouncing about in. We were with Mohammed Wahaibi, in the hardiest type of Land Cruiser the Bedu call abu shenab, or ‘father of the moustache’. At the last outpost before the tarred road seemed to buckle under the weight of the desert and disappear into sand, Mohammed offered us a lift to Ras ar Ruways, an unmarked spot on the coast where fishermen would gather with their catch. There is no road, and we charged northward on the little sliver of beach, tires half-deflated for the sand. You can safely put your map away – this is all blank space on paper. As we skimmed the beach for about half an hour, Mohammed talked of the two things he took most pride in – being a Bedu and driving the abu shenab. And then suddenly, popping out of the blue, we came across up to ten pickups, as many fishing boats, a crowd of fishermen and more sea birds than we’ve ever seen in our lives.

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