Safaga, Egypt 2014

Noon-ish: Into Egypt's eastern desert I go again. Big 4x4 jeeps. I know, I'm a masochist. Three people allocated for each side bench, unlike some previous squished trips. With no side doors, getting UP over the high tailgate is an athletic and ungraceful adventure in itself. My companion "S" and I settle ourselves to observe the company with satisfaction. Until the sixth passenger is hoisted into the vehicle with the assistance of the driver and our leader. The man is not only tall and broad, he is unfortunately, grossly overweight. He slowly unfolds into place, filling most of one side. His core density is such that his appendages shoot out helplessly in all directions so the rest of us are forced to adapt (scrunch). S does not look happy with the knees of his own long legs around his ears.

The excursion promises a thrilling desert sunset on the return. A perfect ending for a camel ride from the village we are about to visit. Once we have climbed the heights, the route quickly turns off the highway onto a sand road. After an uncomfortable cramped hour or so, I have dèja vu. Yes, there is the lonely tree I remember from last year. Good, we pile out to see if our joints are still working and hear about desert flora. That means we have to make the jeep re-entry. S tries to claim leg space right off the bat but Number Six sprawls opposite, arms and legs akimbo. The third man in our group looks very ex-military and never says a word coming or going.

The familiar Um Dalfa welcoming committee awaits. We can hardly wait to unload. And of course, the customary serving of refreshing mint tea ... with reference to Bedouin courting customs. If a potential bride adds sugar to the tea she serves the young man, it means she accepts his offer of marriage.

... while our leader gives us the introduction to a tour of the village. I am, of course, peering everywhere for the camels. As soon as I can get his attention, he tells us in no uncertain terms there will be NO camel rides. OH! This particular tour operator had a recent incident with a tourist injury, falling off a camel, and so they will not risk it again. My luck! For sure, an insurance company must be involved. Crushed, I obediently resign myself to following the village tour.

The women show us bread-making.

This is the village mosque that I never realized existed in last year's tour.

I have to settle for admiration without being seated on an animal. No sign of Hassan or his mother whom I'd met the year before. Then for reasons unknown, the tempo of the visit accelerates as our tour leader hustles us along to depart.

Minimal time for the crafts display. No time to chat with the vendors and browse the goods or handle the shawls and carpets. Why are we being so rushed? Some women linger, wishing to buy, but tour leader busily motions everyone onward. Few sales take place; not a happy ending for the villagers or us.

The villagers' goodbye song gets short shrift while a couple of stragglers are still trying to pay for purchases. I suspect the tour's timing was tardy from the beginning. What a difference from last year. Once more we heave ourselves into the damn jeep. After five of us take what we think are strategic spots, Number Six is heaved in last, expanding in our space like a full-blown airbag. So much for tactical planning. No-one resents his opportunity for world travel, just could the Jeep Planning have been handled a little better? There is no break for relief on the way back for two plus hours. Long legs are trapped whichever way we wiggle.

Here behind us is the missing sunset of the "sunset excursion." In fact the sunset is never mentioned; no photography stop. Those of us who can actually move our upper bodies try for camera shots through the back window. All in all, this poorly organized tour operator is not recommended. Win some, lose some.

Later, my companion refers to Number Six as a portly man. S is obviously a well-mannered, polite person. Except for the ferociously painful face he made in the recall.

© 2017 Brenda Dougall Merriman

Saint Catherines Monastery, Egypt 2013

My chance to visit storied Saint Catherines Monastery came at last. The illustration above, from a purchased booklet, captures the aura, the mystique, of this holy place ― a pilgrimage site for centuries ― the oldest continuously inhabited monastery in the world.

It's a crack of dawn start to get there, a three hour drive from Sharm el-Sheik deep into the Sinai desert plateau, because the monastery closes to visitors before noon. Travelling the desert one is ever mindful of the long Exodus led by Moses into this land. Situated at the foot of looming Mount Sinai (Jebel Musa aka Mount Horeb), here it's believed Moses received the Ten Commandments. The biblical burning bush is located at this place. Tradition says here Moses met a daughter of Jethro at the well and married her ... Old Testament references are abundant. The prophet Elijah sought refuge here in the seventh century, living in a nearby cave.

Wikipedia.com

Administered by the Greek Orthodox Church, the site holds the relics of Catherine of Alexandria who was tortured (Catherine wheel!) and beheaded for her Christian belief. The official name of the complex is Sacred Monastery of the God-Trodden Mount Sinai. Pilgrims and scholars from the world's three great monotheistic religions have come here even before Byzantine Empress Helena established a church in 330 A.D. Emperor Justinian fortified the site in the sixth century to protect the monks and the Church of the Transfiguration from roaming attackers and looters.

Entrance

Our guide is Amr who came all the way from Cairo on a bus to serve us; he is an archaeology graduate of the American University in Cairo. The inevitable security guy in a suit sits in front of me. Amr gives statistics: of Egypt's ninety-three million population, twenty million are (Coptic) Christians. Sadly for me, Amr says there will be no time for camel riding; he saw me heading for the animals waiting patiently on the road.

St Catherine icon; Wikipedia.com

Saint Catherines library has the world's second most outstanding (after the Vatican) collection of ancient religious manuscripts. The Codex Sinaiticus was discovered here: the oldest, most completely preserved manuscript of the Bible. It's a relief to know that the most important documents have been filmed or digitized. Over two thousand priceless icons of antiquity in the monastery's holdings are no less distinguished. We did not have special access to the library or the icon gallery.

Ladder of Divine Ascent; Wikipedia.com

In the Church of the Transfiguration; Wikipedia.com

Photography is not allowed in the Church of the Transfiguration (by that time I had experienced yet another camera battery fail). We passed through the magnificent original carved cedar doors to the interior. The mosaics and art are overwhelming. St Catherine's reliquary is beside the main altar. Later, outside, we observed Jethro's well, the burning bush, the bell tower (a gift from the Russian Orthodox Church), and a small twelfth century mosque.

The Burning Bush thrives in its greenery

The essential tranquility of the surroundings induces awed respect despite the occasional crowding as one group of tourists follows another. Everything is so well kept. Former Egyptian President Anwar Sadat was notably fond of this place. He wished to be buried at St Catherines but state formality dictated otherwise. Today, a few dozen monks are in residence. For centuries the local Muslim Bedouin have been a loyal workforce, especially in the gardens. Their ancestors date back to the days before Islam.

Some die-hards prefer to begin their visit at midnight in order to climb Mount Sinai ― it takes that long in the dark to reach the top. Their "reward" is an unparalleled sunrise, dreaming of Moses in the face of God.

Saint Catherines Monastery has been well-preserved from potential damage due to its protection in historically troubled times, protection ranging from emperors to the prophet Mohammed to Napoleon. Cataloguing the collection began in the 1960s and continues. The Saint Catherine Foundation supports necessary, ongoing conservation of the precious manuscripts and artifacts. In view of the mindless destruction and desecration occurring today in the Middle East, I have fears for its safety.

Note: Usage rights for external photographs shown here extend to non-commercial reuse.

© 2015 Brenda Dougall Merriman

  

Safaga, Egypt 2013

A visit to the tiny village encampment of Um Dalfa made an interesting contrast with a previous expedition in the Sinai. Our leader is Mahmoud. At the port of Safaga on the north end of the Red Sea, about sixteen people from our cruise ship pile into the usual jeeps for the brutal two-hour ride into the interior. But wait, we get a break. A stop at a tree. It's unusual to see a tree standing alone in the desert. The terrain here is quite rocky underfoot; the landscape always surprises in its variety from one dune or outcrop to the next. We can climb about a bit and acclimatize to the immense space around us.

The villagers are well prepared for us. An inviting shelter promises tea. Waiting for fellow tourists to exit the toilets ― the only permanent structures here ― I'm approached by my driver Hani who wants to beg a cigarette for another driver with no English. The exchange takes a while to interpret because Hani's communications with western women were apparently learned from pickup lines in Hollywood movies. The distraction is fine because socially one rarely broaches the intended subject in a direct manner. 

Our on-site guide is Mohammed who plans to take us to a village home after his introduction. There's no school here, no mosque; the tent homes are all naturally portable for seasonal movement. There's not much around to support a community for long. Most of the men are gone, doing whatever it is they do ― the expected herd of goats is absent, so that's my guess. Or away to pick up supplies. Mainly women and kids take care of the tourism investment; they have taken pains to accommodate us amicably. Subsistence-level living in this particular spot means the women regularly trek with camels over the mountain next door to bring drinking water back.

 

As the others troop off to the selected home, just below that little dip yonder the camels (and the kids) are waiting. Another semi-complicated exchange takes place between me and Mahmoud who introduces me to Hassan, a young man ...

... who is in charge of camel arrangements. They are receptive as I suggest paying for extra camel time, starting with like now. Shockingly straightforward, I know. The jeep drivers creep closer in curiosity. My attempts at negotiating a price elicit obscure responses so I'm going to have to extemporize with the honorarium.

  

There are six camels waiting with their young handlers. I choose what looks like the tallest camel and with it comes a girl small in stature but old enough to be swathed in head covering. We head away toward a small wadi, soon out of sight of habitation. Glorious to be swaying in that unique silence on a comfortable saddle with no thought in mind but to watch the wind sculpting the sand.

"On s'assoit sur une dune de sable. On ne voit rien. On n'entend rien. Et cependant quelquechose rayonne en silence." Antoine St Exupéry, Le Petit Prince.

Eventually in my selfish solitary splendour I realize we have to take turns on the six camels because most of the group wants to try it out. The others begin joining me so I feel obliged to relinquish after hogging one for forty minutes. While we wait we play with some of the kids; we take pictures of them, and hallelujah, some of us find candies in our bags to hand out. Plus more cigarettes to the guys; they are not pushy. Then I get another ride!

Hosting a tour group is an irregular event for these villagers but we have plenty of interaction with them. Hassan is very pleased with his extra camel money and insists I meet his mother who clutches me to sit and have our picture taken. Broad smile behind the veil. Perhaps Mama was the mastermind behind the display of sale items ― a weaving loom with a work in progress stands in the background ― simple Bedouin jewellery; woven scarves; small carpets; camel-wool bags. I'm incensed when I hear someone in our group turning her nose up at the naive crafts so I proclaim loudly, "We want to help support this village!" Thus another small carpet joins my collection.

Hassan and his friends give us a song of farewell; it's an unpolished performance and all the more fun for it. A very good day of memories ... shukran (thank you) for the warm welcome and assalamu alaikom (peace be upon you).

© 2015 Brenda Dougall Merriman

Petra, Jordan 2011

Third time lucky? Who said that?

Half a year after the Arab Spring began, a one-day expedition was a choice of Wadi Rum or Petra. Since the cruise Nazi excursion leader said no camel ride option at Wadi Rum, I chose Petra. Our leader has only one priority: getting us on the bus, off the bus, and finally getting us back on the bus at the appointed time. How many times did we hear this: no bus, no boat, no cruise, goodbye vacation.

Our entry port is Aqaba, still the small town of four years ago, destination of savvy scuba divers. I see further signs, though, of a developing, stand-alone tourist resort. Away we go on a two-hour drive up, up into the mountains, 5,000 feet, how high the desert is here! ... and the spectacular scenery I remember. My heart gives a strange lurch as we bypass Wadi Rum off in the distance; I would rather be there. Turning onto the King’s Highway (the ancient route), there are more villages than I recall.

Not much later, we begin the winding descent into Wadi Musa. Four hours here: allowing almost an hour each way for the entrance walk, not much time to traverse the entire “city.” I tell our guide Talal I’m gone once we enter Petra. No problem, but do not miss the bus departure! The entrance walk itself has no shade for the first half; the second part is rough footing through the wadi leading to the Siq. The return hike needs more time because then it’s uphill and the sun in the final part is blistering. Avoiding dehydration is a must.

Some Bedu continue to return to the caves on a seasonal basis. Once we enter the ancient site, I head myself along the cityscape trail. I’m not sure about the timing for reaching the little museum at the end of the trail. My plan is to have a glorious ride back to the Siq (camels are not allowed on the long entrance walk for obscure reasons). In hindsight I’m sorry I didn’t take a camel both ways within the “city” but was enjoying the lack of tourists compared to other times. The vendor stalls are fewer now, indicative of the sudden tourism decline. Marguerite’s (Married to a Bedouin) son Raami has moved to a different spot.

I’ve been walking briskly for about an hour, pausing here and there to buy trinkets or take photos. Only one or two camels pass me. As usual, many donkey rides are on offer, for climbing the surrounding mountains. It would take a young Olympian to attempt the entire ascent on foot, consuming the better part of the day to reach acrophobic heights like the shrine of Aaron (brother of Moses). 

A youngish guy with a donkey spots me. No, I want a camel, I say. Big mistake to speak up: he will get me one. No, I’ve already seen my destination ahead: the camel station by the museum. The ensuing conversation gets more annoying as I understand he doesn’t want me to reach the camel station. I don’t stop. He quotes US$35 to ride back to the Siq. In my bag I have a sole JD$20 bill, but some American cash. I laugh and say JD$15 .. not telling him three years ago I paid a fair price for a first class ride. He is indignant and we have a largely incomprehensible dialogue about the American dollar exchange rate. The camel station still offers more promise. Onward.

He won’t go away. We do more haggling with me up to US$20 and he is stuck at $US30. For like a forty minute ride? I’m getting a creeping Giza feeling — and I should have stayed with it. “His” camel is nowhere in sight but he has a cell phone and somehow his minion, an older guy, beams onto the spot with two decent-looking camels. More arguing, no attempt at charm. I’m almost at the camel station and he throws in the deal-clincher for US$25. His claim that the camels at the station are reserved for a shipload of tourists is highly suspicious but I cave. Maybe I’m having sunstroke. Donkey boy rides off before I can ascertain any names for men or beasts. 

Via sign language the totally taciturn (let’s just say surly) minion agrees to photograph me. Maybe he’s the actual camel owner for all I know. His photography is adequate as far as it goes but no long shot when the friggin’ camel is standing. 

Away we go with him on the lead camel so this is not going to be a thrilling, independent Zsou-Zsou ride. Where has gone the welcome of Petra’s Bedu people? Worries, of course. The slow economy and political uncertainty have made them desperate and more like the Giza rogues. But this year the Giza rogues, perversely, had more charm.

This little tyke was selling bits of stone, mama hovering in the background. The poorest do not have stalls; they spread their crafts on a blanket or send their children about — more children in evidence than previous times, with souvenirs and strings of beaded necklaces. 

About halfway between the midway rest stop and the Siq, my guy stops and at a silent command my camel folds up. What?!! No, no, I say. I’m not getting off – my ride isn’t over! (naturally, there’s no way I can make this camel stand up again.) Minion then informs me rather clearly for all his want of English that this is how far I get for $25. Looks like payback for not forking over US$35. I am so pissed off. He leaves with the camel. Me not happy with my failed bargaining. Now who’s surly? 

Youngster approaches to offer necklaces, quite the patter. One is cheap but two are cheaper (the chosen one is always the most expensive). He motions to sit down ... perhaps anticipating extensive but mutually satisfactory haggling. Or else he senses my now-vulnerable self-esteem. Why not. A couple more kids gather: a live customer! Maybe this is a kids’ co-op. We settle down with some Cokes. 

They have a few stock English phrases but not much interest in learning more. We struggle to find words for what one necklace is made of. Camel bone seems most agreeable to all. I pay for three necklaces trying to tell the boy I made his day. One of the little girls picks it up, “Make my day!” but I don’t think she has a clue about Clint Eastwood. Haggling is exhausting. She shyly gives me a small stone, striated sandstone, the kind the kids try to sell. It’s a piece of Petra to take home. 

Cruise people have mustered by the Siq entrance for a rest. The heat is taking its toll. Clearly, in the allotted time, they did not get far enough to see all the tombs, especially the higher ones requiring some climbing skills and a mastery of vertigo. Treading the sandy parts of the walk back is even harder than navigating the Roman paving stones. Dodging the careening horse carriages is another hazard.

Photograph by Jean Housen, 2010, Wikimedia Commons
http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/1/17/20100925_petra045.JPG

When I stop to rest where the wadi opens into the sun, an unaggressive young man suggests a horse ride to complete the last mile of this trek. Included in my entrance ticket: who knew?! So I get on the horse, grateful for the relief; photo opp is the last thing on my mind. He’s happy to chat away about “Canada” and the Rocky Mountains and horses (among her multiple activities, Queen Rania sponsors care of these Arabian horses in their senior years). This is more like the relaxed, engaging Jordan I remember. The tip he gently recommended was worth it. My timing is good. Enough to browse the Rural Women’s Co-op Shop and not miss the damn bus.

© 2014 Brenda Dougall Merriman. All rights reserved.

Wadi Rum, Jordan 2008

In the year 2008, visiting Petra was not my last camel experience.

If you could have but one camel ride in your lifetime ~ should you be so inclined ~ I strongly recommend you book yourself to Jordan and the Wadi Rum desert. On a scale of 1 to 10, although considering I haven't been everywhere yet, Wadi Rum is a 10.

 

My second visit to the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan preceded widespread events of the "Arab Spring." Writing of it at the time, I had (and have) faith that Jordan will retain its stability in the unpredictable Middle East. Better scribes than I have written glowingly of Jordan’s magnetism. A relatively new nation, the country includes some of the world’s oldest inhabited sites. It’s not only on the ancient Fertile Crescent, it’s also on the Rift Valley.

If you are into archaeological, if you are into biblical, if you are into cultural, if you are into photography, or just plain scenic awe, the country amazes from the Dead Sea to the Red Sea. Truly majestic.

Wadi Rum desert is in the south; descending into it from a plateau is spectacular, certainly one of the world’s most extraordinary places. We cross part of the railway line famously bombed by T.E. Lawrence in 1917, to access the modest Welcome Centre in the protected area. One of the local women’s co-op handicrafts shop is here. The tiny support village is full of camels.

What do most tour companies offer, encouraged by entrepreneurial young village men? Careening across the sand in a 4-wheel-drive jeep or truck lacking shock absorbers. Go figure! Environmental irony. Camels were not on our tour's agenda but I had persisted.

 

Like most Jordan women, our guide Nadine spurns the hijab. Myself is wrapped up more than she is, against the sun and the possibility of blowing sand. We go well beyond any sign of civilization and on my behalf she bargains fiercely with some camel handlers in Arabic. Nadine does everything fiercely, including telling raucous jokes.

Finally. The others tear off in their kidney-splitting jeep to bash some dunes and inspect ancient inscriptions. I get a couple of hours as Queen of the Desert. 

The arrangement involves a female and her baby who must not be separated. This tells me the colt is less than five years old. The boy who leads me is very serious in his responsibility for the animals. Good thing he’s along because he knows where we are going. All is sandy desert in every direction to the horizon, with gigantic mystical rock outcroppings here and there. If by some flight of imagination I were allowed to trek alone — unthinkable of course — no question I would soon be lost, wandering between one isolated cliff to the next, until someone finds my dessicated corpse splayed across the hump of a steadfast camel.

The boy-who-won’t-tell-me-his-name (not understanding the question) disapproves whenever I lean to touch the baby. Experimenting with saddle positions also earns me scowls and rapid verbal orders. I am so relaxed I don’t even try to decipher. Nevertheless I want to practice the leg-hook favoured by camel police and born-to-it Bedouin. Baby’s hair on the hump — which is as far as I can reach without falling off and disgracing myself — looks bristly but feels soft. Of course! That’s why we humans have cold-weather coats made of camel’s hair.

My guide stops remonstrating with me. I am one with the stately undulation of my steed and her sidekick. “Oh the desert is lovely in its restfulness. The great brooding stillness over and through everything ...”.[1]

We are in the heart of silence. Separation from everything in routine life! No cares. Just be. Another writer put it well: "Breathing is easier out there. There is something particularly powerful about the desert scenery, it extends your horizon endlessly, and cleans your soul like a strong wind, deprives it of everything that’s not important."[2]

Bedouin tribal memory still reveres Lawrence here in places where he camped. “To those bred under an elaborate social order few such moments of exhilaration can come as that which stands at the threshold of wild travel. The gates of the enclosed garden are thrown open... and behold! the immeasurable world.”[3] Yes. “Wild” in that special sense of the unfamiliar becoming a momentary, thrilling gateway.

It had to end. Dismount at a Bedouin camp. Until the next camel experience, insh’allah.

[1] Terry Kelhawk, “Skirts on Camels: Early Women Travel Writers,” The Huffington Post (http://www.huffingtonpost.com/ : accessed 24 October 2010); citing Lilias Trotter, Journal 1885.

[2] Ivana Perić, "I fell under the spell of Wadi Rum," 18 June 2014, Your Middle East (www.yourmiddleeast.com/travel : accessed 27 June 2014).

[3] Gertrude Bell, The Desert and the Sown (London: William Heinneman Ltd., 1907).

© 2014 Brenda Dougall Merriman. All rights reserved.

labels: camels, Jordan, Bedouin, Wadi Rum