They say that in Egypt, nothing happens quickly, and it seems that in the land of the Pharoahs, you can't get from A to B without first visiting X, Y and Z. A land of such of such wild contrasts and steeped in ancient history is sure to lead us on many adventures.
Our ferry from Aqaba is scheduled to leave at 1pm. We arrive at the termainal two hours early, as advised, and rightly so, as it is a lengthy business figuring out where to get a ticket from, and where to then get the shuttle bus that takes you to the boat. We are given the Westerner VIP treatmet when boarding, being ushered in front of the snaking line of Arab faces and then pushed upstairs into first class, even though we only have 2nd class tickets. We wait and wait for the ferry to depart, and when we finally begin to move, we realise it's only to turn the ship around in order for the Haj busses and campervans to drive in the back. When we leave the shores of Jordan, it is 1:45...Egyptian time, an hour and forty minutes late. We arrive to to chaos and confusion, a theme that will reoccur throughout our journey in Egypt.
We spend a night in the pleasantly surreal seaside Dahab with it's waterfront bedouin style restaurants and discheveled looking scuba tourists, and in the morning, we are bound for St Katherine, planning to climb Siniai in the afternoon, after all the dawn pilgrims have departed.
We make the mistake of not booking the bus in the Evening, and when we come to check out
we are told that it's too late. A taxi will cost double the price of the bus, but, still
only ammounting to $20 per person, and, short of hitching, our only option.
The previous evening during our pre dinner stroll we were inundated with offers of taxis willing to drive us off into the night when all we wanted was a waterfront seafood dinner.
Now, at 8am, there is not a taxi to be seen, and the manager of the hotel informs us that Egyptians like to sleep late, and that we could be waiting some time.
When we finally find a driver willing to take us, his two mates squeeze into the front seat, and we pile in the back of his ute. He drives off int he wrong direction, dropping his mates off at the Squba headquarters. We then head out of town, where we are dropped on a street corner where another mate, in a taxi, is waiting. Our bags are swapped over, and again, we pile in.
Again, we head off in the wrong direction, to find we are back outside our hotel. Our new driver jumps out and comes back with not one, but three packets of cigarettes. I wonder how many he will smoke during our two hour journey.
As it turns out, the cigarettes, are not for him, they are bribes to be handed over at the police check point, as our driver isn't technically supposed to be operating out side of the Dahab area.
We miraculously arrive in one piece after driving most of the way on the wrong side of the road- our driver listening to his mp3 player and not paying attention to much going on around him.
In St Katherines, loaded up with all our luggage, we get our first real taste of Egypt.
The hassels of the touts and would be guides are constant, and it takes some negotiating
witht he security guards in order to pass through and make the ten minute walk to our
accomodation.
We are staying in the monastery, set between the towering mountains, that has operated for more than 1000 years and is now home to some wikedly bearded Greek Orthadox Monks who float ghost-like about the place in long grey robes.
The pilgrims swarm around us, vying to get into the ancient chapel and be blessed by an
ashen faced monk. They pose for photographs reaching up to touch the 'burning bush', or
at least a supposed relation of the eponymous plant.
Inside the museum are more than a centuries worth of religious iconography, dating back
to 7th century AD. They depict all sorts of gruseome images of crucifiction, of the descent into hell. A distinctly modern looking Moses smiles benevolantly from a huge etching. He looks a bit like Santa Claus.
Just before sunset, we are standing 2285m above sea level looking out over the desert
contemplating the story of Moses receiving the ten commandments in this very spot. He would have had a rough time making his way up here, without the help of carefully laid out switch backs and stone stair cases and an obligatory bedouin guide.
There is a small crowd setting up for the sunset, likely to be waiting up throught the night or the dawn pilgrims who come armed with hymn books and religious fervour.
We are back in the monastary in time for tea, with a whole lot of Orthadox Christians and a few less devout (and less headscarfed) tourists. We eat a simple dinner of soup, salad, stew and rice, with cool green melon slices for desert. We have swapped the brightly coloured cushions of Dahab's beachside bedouin restaurants for stories of flying corpses and reclusive old men, imported from greece, encased in ancient limestone.
'From the ridiculous to the sublime,' says a voice from our table.
But I can't help wondering if it isn't the other way round.
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