Our hostel, and I do say hostel, because hotel is way too generous a term for the places we've been staying lately, was called the Crazy Camel Camp. It's run by a European woman, and the rooms are nicely sized but there are no blankets or towels and the sheets probably hadn't been washed in the last month or so. But hey, I wasn't there for the room, and although our bathroom light didn't work (peeing in the dark is really hard) it was okay with my Delta blanket. We had three girls in our room, and one of the boys' rooms had four men living together -- three students and our bus driver. The majority of the students stayed at the Penguin House, about ten minutes away from the Crazy Camel, which was a considerably nicer-looking building but about the same quality of rooms. It was attached to a pretty decent restaurant where we ate breakfast every morning, and hung out for a few nights on the rooftop, playing Arabic Scrabble (do not do it, it's harder than everyone says).
The first night we were there, a group of us took a trip up into the mountains for a "Bedouin" dinner, involving a camel ride with two barefoot overseers aged eight and seven, both named Mohammed. Camels are smelly and odd, and it is very difficult to take pictures from a moving camel, but as touristy a thing as it was to do, it was pretty fun. Dinner was the most amazing food I've had since I got to Egypt -- normal as far as type goes but miles more savory than what we get at the dorms. Our guide, though, was what made the night. His name was Ramadan and his brother's name was Juma3 ("Friday," and yes, we made the obvious jokes, "What's your name on Monday?"), and while they weren't sure what to make of us at first we had a great groove going as the night wore on. I mean, a group of college-aged white kids, out in the hippie town in Sinai: we obviously could have been the average folks looking for a great time, drinking and being obnoxious, but when we talked to Ramadan and Juma3 in Arabic, not English, I think they were pleasantly surprised. They were also pretty happy when we chose topics like Islamic politics and history, Bedouin culture, and dialect differences between Alexandria and Sinai and the Gulf. Ramadan has a pretty good sense of humor, too. "Bint hindiyya miyya miyya," was one of his great quotes, meaning "Indian girls are amazing." Marriage propositions and other silliness also had their moments, but he only had three camels to his name (Shakespeare, Bob Marley, and Ahmad) and S demanded two hundred. "Miyya miyya, firakh jama3iyya!"
The next day, we split into two groups: one went snorkeling to Blue Hole, while we went on a desert safari to the Colored and White Canyons. We drove over a hundred kilometers per hour through sand, weaving and bobbing and all sorts of other shenanigans, playing "follow the leader" and other games. It was entertaining for sure, although hot as hell. S and Karim were fasting, which was really, abhorrently tough for them -- Karim cracked at two pm or so, taking a sip of my water and then quickly downing an entire Coke in more or less one gulp, and finally happily smoking a cigarette. S prayed, though, and stuck with it, which still amazes me when I think about it. She's more or less the most amazing woman I know, for sure.
We went to Ras Mohammed on Saturday, a national park with some fantastic snorkeling. When I imagined a beach and a snorkeling spot, I had in mind something like Hawaii, because that's what I know. Instead, we found nothing but sand, hot sand, and howling winds, and a very strong current. Good fun, but I was more concerned about not getting sucked out to sea. We changed spots, and I noticed that we had a fellow in a suit and sunglasses accompanying us in the bus. There was a gun under his jacket, I knew, but it wasn't until he walked past that I noticed it was not just a pistol but an MP5. A bit of a shock, but I'm a dork and I thought it was awesome. My joy was short-lived, however, as a friend developed a breathing problem and weakness in her left arm, and another friend sliced open his foot on the reef. We took a trip to the hospital in Sharm el-Sheikh, which was an experience, and then it was time to go back to Dahab.
Saturday night, however, was the worst night of my life. We ate some delicious Indian food and I realized I was not feeling well. I went back to our room and tried to sleep, but the excruciatingly painful gastrointestinal cramps kept me awake and literally in tears. I had to call the residential coordinator at one in the morning, then she had to call a doctor, and I ended up having to receive emergency injections via a very pleasantly painful IV. The whole village apparently came to watch me cry and then man up in front of the doctor, because not only was the residential coordinator there, but the deputy program manager, my colloquial Arabic teacher, an Egyptian friend, and the bus driver all paid a visit to my door. After the injections and some apple juice and crackers, I finally slept until I got kicked out of the room at noon. Then I slept for the rest of the day in another room, and we made our way to Mount Mousa by bus.
I did not want to make the climb up the mountain, and the friend we took to the hospital for chest pains had a bout of vomiting on the bus, so our friend with the MP5 and our bus driver put her and me up in a hotel room for a few hours. They also picked us up the next morning, which was highly entertaining to be escorted in and out of a hotel by a man with a submachine gun. I sat up front on the bus to avoid nausea, ironically right next to our special travel buddy, and managed to surprise him by naming his type of gun.
But all in all, our trip to Dahab was fabulous. I'm bummed I missed out on the mountain climb and St. Katherine's Monastery, as well as what apparently was a great Saturday night at the "Dance Cave," but sickness aside it was a great time. The bus trip wasn't bad, either -- on the way there, I was asleep, and the time on the way back flew by with me being a total dork and my friend (no longer vomiting and now consuming bags upon bags of Chipsy) tolerating my foolishness. And to be honest, I'm pretty nutty, here in Egypt. Go figure.
another truckstop on the way another game that I can play another word I learn to say
another blasted customs post another bloody foreign coast another set of scars to boast
WE ARE THE ROAD CREW
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