Clive's Chronicles I: The Crisis of the Cuppa

The sun over the Sahara was not a benevolent monarch; it was a tireless, unforgiving overlord who ruled with a blinding, brass-knuckled fist. To most of the camels in Ferdinand's caravan, this was just life. They were built for it, these tall, dusty fortresses of the desert. They had the right kind of skin, the right kind of lips, the right kind of magnificent, condescending sneer.

Then there was Clive.

Clive was, to put it mildly, an evolutionary anomaly. He was structurally sound—two good humps, four working knees, and the customary set of thick, velvety eyelashes that looked ridiculous on a creature designed to carry eighty kilos of dried dates. But inside, where the glorious, placid machinery of camelhood was supposed to be running, Clive was a mess of neuroses and over-developed sensitivities.

His current crisis was twofold. First, the heat. It wasn’t just hot; it was the kind of heat that made the very air look wobbly, the kind that smelled faintly of baking clay and regret. Second, the sand. He hated the way it got everywhere. Everywhere. Between his toes, in his eyelashes, and, most unforgivably, under his saddle blanket, scratching an itch he couldn’t reach without risking a major diplomatic incident with the man currently tied to his back, a merchant named Jamal who smelled strongly of turmeric and indignation.

“Honestly, Archibald,” Clive muttered to the elderly, grizzled camel walking alongside him. “Is it asking too much for a few hours of consistent humidity? Just seventy-two degrees and perhaps a drizzle?”

Archibald, a creature whose internal landscape was as flat and featureless as the desert floor they traversed, merely shifted his tremendous weight. His reply rumbled deep in his chest, a sound like gravel rolling down a long, dusty drain. “Clive. You are a camel. In the Sahara. Stop being like a fish out of water. Be a ship of the desert.”

“I don’t want to be a ship! Ships are wet and smell of brine! And they never get to sit down for a decent cup of tea!”

This was the crux of Clive’s dilemma, the internal conflict that put him at odds with his entire existence. Clive craved civilization. He yearned for little things: the soft light of a distant, perfectly arranged living room; the satisfying clink of ceramic on ceramic; a clean, linen napkin. He saw himself less as a beast of burden and more as a patron of the arts, perhaps, or a man of letters who occasionally wore a tweed jacket.

This particular stretch of desert was a character unto itself. It was called The Wailing Basin, a vast, deceptively smooth expanse of sand dunes that stretched up like the shoulders of sleeping giants. The wind here didn’t howl; it sighed, a mournful, drawn-out sound that could easily be mistaken for a thousand ghosts deciding, simultaneously, that life wasn’t worth the hassle. The sun bleached the world a painful white-gold, and the lack of visible life—save for Ferdinand, Jamal, and the twelve-strong line of dusty, weary beasts—lent the place an oppressive, eternal stillness.

Ferdinand, a man whose skin was cured leather and whose eyes held the shrewd patience of someone who had seen too many sunsets, spat a stream of black tobacco juice into the sand. “Hold up! We rest here. Five minutes, before the last ridge.”

A collective, exhausted groan rippled through the caravan. Clive, with a theatrical sigh that was 80% genuine and 20% manipulative, lowered himself to his knees with a series of creaks and groans that sounded like a collapsing shed. Jamal slid off his back, dusting himself off with the kind of meticulous concern Clive secretly admired.

“Ah, Clive,” Ferdinand said, approaching the camel with a worn leather wineskin. He rubbed the space between Clive’s great, bony eyes. Ferdinand didn't talk to the animals so much as at them, in a gruff, practical voice that nevertheless carried genuine warmth. “Still dreaming of a life in the city, eh? Silk cushions and fountains?”

Clive swiveled an ear toward his owner. He didn't answer, but his enormous, expressive eyes held a depth of longing that would have melted the heart of a lesser man.

“You’re lucky you have Archibald here,” Ferdinand continued, tilting the wineskin for Clive to take a deep, thirsty gulp of the brackish, life-giving water. “He may not say much, but still waters run deep with that one. He knows what matters. Water. Shade. Getting the job done.”

Archibald didn't even twitch. He simply stared out at the dunes, the very picture of camel stoicism.

Clive finished the water and then, with a flash of inspiration that was entirely unsuited to his nature or his location, he got his idea.

It was an abominable idea. It was a stupid, reckless, utterly indefensible idea born of severe dehydration and a deeply repressed artistic sensibility.

It was tea.

The problem wasn't just where he was; it was who he was with. Ferdinand was a master of desert survival, but his tea ritual was barbaric. He’d boil water in a blackened pot, throw in a handful of bitter herbs, and serve it in chipped enamel mugs. It was fuel, not an experience.

Clive knew that somewhere, buried deep in the baggage on Kamila—a particularly nervous young female camel three places down the line—Jamal carried a small, priceless tin of imported, Earl Grey tea, purchased in a fit of pre-caravan optimism. Clive had heard Jamal’s murmured, reverent descriptions of the tea's bergamot scent.

Clive had to have it. Not just a sip, but a proper cup. A ritual. He needed the delicate scent of citrus and the soothing warmth of a civilized beverage to counteract the savage vastness of the Wailing Basin.

He slowly, meticulously began to inch toward Kamila. He adopted the look of an elderly animal merely stretching a tired leg.

Step.

“What’s the old boy doing?” Jamal mumbled to Ferdinand, tightening the straps on his pack.

Ferdinand didn’t look up. “He’s Clive. He’s probably contemplating the metaphysical implications of sand.”

Clive was within striking distance. He could smell the faintest hint of something floral and promising beneath the usual stench of canvas and dried sweat. He carefully extended his long, impossibly flexible neck toward Kamila's side pack.

Kamila, who suffered from perpetual desert-related anxiety, tensed up immediately. Her eyes, usually wide with worry, were now saucers of pure terror.

“Don’t, Clive,” she whispered, her voice a high, frantic little whicker. “Please. It’s Jamal’s special blend. He’ll yell.”

“Nonsense, dear girl,” Clive whispered back, using his upper lip—a surprisingly dexterous tool—to delicately unbuckle a strap. “I merely require a pinch. A soupçon. For medicinal purposes.”

He worked quickly, his movements contrasting sharply with his usual slow, dignified gait. He had to show, not tell his intentions. He wasn’t a thief; he was a gentleman borrowing a necessity.

He managed to loosen the flap of a small, heavily stitched leather satchel. Inside, beneath a rolled-up shawl and a small, worryingly sharp knife, was the tin. It was a beautiful, deep-blue tin with golden cursive script. It was everything the desert was not: cool, contained, and elegant.

Clive used his chin to leverage the tin free, tucking it neatly into the corner of his own saddle blanket.

Success! Relief and self-congratulation surged through him, warm and sudden. He started to slowly retreat, trying to adopt Archibald's blank-faced stoicism.

And then, disaster struck.

As he turned, his massive, cumbersome rear end bumped the main water bag slung over Kamila's other side. It was a cheap, poorly stitched skin that Ferdinand had warned Jamal about.

SCHLUMP!

The bag burst, not with a dramatic tear, but with a sickening, liquid sigh. The precious water—enough for a whole day's journey—poured out, quickly disappearing into the thirsty sand.

The stillness of the Wailing Basin shattered.

“My water!” shrieked Jamal, scrambling to his feet and staring at the rapidly darkening patch of wet sand.

“Clive!” roared Ferdinand, his face transforming from leathery patience to thunderous fury.

Kamila began to sob, great, wrenching, guttural sobs that shook her entire frame. Archibald simply tilted his head, his silent judgment more cutting than any reprimand.

Clive stood frozen, the blue tea tin nestled against his flank like the evidence of a terrible crime. He felt the blood rush from his head, his enormous legs suddenly useless. He wasn’t a gentleman. He wasn’t a patron of the arts. He was a selfish, foolish, tea-obsessed camel who had just endangered the lives of twelve camels and two men in the middle of a killer desert.

His carefully constructed internal world of porcelain and gentle light evaporated under the brutal, honest gaze of the Sahara sun.

Ferdinand didn’t shout again. He didn’t need to. He simply walked up to Clive, pulled the tea tin from its hiding spot, and held it up.

“Clive,” he said, his voice deadly quiet, devoid of all humor. “You carry more than me. You can go longer than any of us without water. Your father—he was a legend. He crossed the Great Salt Flats without a single stop. And what do you do? You steal a man’s fancy leaves and waste our life-giving water.”

Clive dropped his head, his great, bony chin hitting the sand. He was beyond apologizing. He was ashamed.

Ferdinand tossed the tea tin back to Jamal, who caught it with a proprietary, relieved sigh. He then took a canteen from his belt, unscrewed the top, and threw a small handful of sand into it.

“This,” Ferdinand said, his voice returning to its normal, gruff rasp, “is what’s important now. We ration. We move faster. And you, Clive, you’re walking the next twenty kilometers without a load. You can think about the beauty of humidity while you carry your own considerable weight.”

He then turned to the caravan. “Pack up! Now! We run to the ridge!”

The caravan scrambled into action. Clive watched as Jamal reluctantly took a small, careful sip from his own water supply, his eyes still narrowed in resentment.

As Ferdinand secured the last strap, Clive looked at Archibald. Archibald looked back. There was no 'I told you so' in the old camel's gaze, just a kind of weary resignation.

Clive, carrying only the vast, aching weight of his own profound guilt, rose to his full, immense height. The dry air was thin against his throat, and the sun beat down, turning his thick coat to a furnace. He put one large, padded foot in front of the other.

The desire for a porcelain cup of Earl Grey was still there, a tiny, ridiculous ember of self in the overwhelming heat. But now, overriding it, was the very real, very urgent task of simply walking, and enduring, and getting to the next ridge.

It was hard, real, miserable work. And for the first time in a long time, Clive didn't feel like a gentleman, or a patron, or a man of letters. He felt profoundly, utterly like a camel. A stupid camel, perhaps, but a powerful, necessary beast of burden nonetheless.

He knew, with a sudden, terrible clarity, that the desert didn't care about his delicate feelings or his desire for tea. It only cared about resilience. And as he pushed forward, his massive frame eating up the distance, Clive realized that perhaps the struggle for survival—even a self-imposed, water-wasting one—was its own kind of profoundly human, deeply satisfying ritual.

He still wanted that cup of tea, though. Dearly.