I haven’t awoken in sub- zero mizzling Cornwall…i have awoken in a large airy tiled room, wrapped tightly in crisp Egyptian cotton…I am 6000 miles away from the sum of my past 23 years and there are no centipedes or scorpions that have wheedled their way in to the fresh folds of my swaddlings. The morning call to Mecca on crackling Tannoy jump starts me from my bed and I run, yes, RUN to the glass- less window and throw open its shutters with as much simple joy as any child. This is the sunrise of a new world, to me, having arrived in the teasing darkness of night. I scan the horizon like a new-born, blinking, breathing emotionally at the sight of the coast of Saudi Arabia and Jordan as their aubergine- shaded mountain ranges ripen with spreading light.
The Gulf of Aqaba stretches before the mysterious land masses, lapping lazily at its shores, full of life, microcosmic and myriad. A mile from the shores of Dahab, a Bedouin fisherman casts his nets from his wooden boat like all Bedouin have for time, and always will, exclusively, according to Sinai law. Below, a Bedouin rakes the foot- printed sands smooth carving suggested pathways, tidying the palm- roofed Arisha, laying colorful rag- rugs and plumping psychedelically woven cushions, ready for early breakfasters and hippy back-packers. Already the salted heat is carried ashore by a subtle and passive breeze. At once, any residual tension and physical pain is but a happily forgotten memory.
Time stands still in Dahab, legendary for this phenomenon. I experienced it for myself on what must have been the fourth or fifth of my ten day stay- my reprieve, my healing. I had to revive my sparse Español to inquire as to the date and time, not that I cared by then, it was more a curiosity of the effects of said phenomenon and to satisfy the maternal responsibilities I can never quite shake….must not miss my plane home. I almost wanted to put ‘home’ within inverted commas, in the first instance; such was the impact of my first taste of a kind of freedom. So here I am in The NOW, my nostrils filtering, identifying and isolating the constituents of Egypt’s breath- ozone, camels, sand, diesel, incense, textiles.
Dahab, originally a Bedouin fishing village, developed from a few beach huts in to a bustling diving resort for adventurous Europeans and Russians, some never returning to their drab and hectic lifestyles, many setting up diving schools or guest houses, mingling congenially with the Bedouin who are renowned for their nomadic ways and genuine love of providing hospitality. I dress quickly in the lightest and most modest of clothes (that may not have seen the light of day for years), lock my room and descend the tiled stairs via the ‘quirky’ bathroom (with the ancient electric shower with suspicious- looking wires) finding myself in a shaded courtyard that opens on to the front of Sheikh Salem house. I realize this is all about finding myself again. I am convinced I would have eventually totally found myself had I been able to stay as long as is required to do so.
The blue water laps at the edge only ten yards from the house and I stride towards its liquid pull, then standing in its fluid warmth, watch my long toes churn the gilded sand that is peppered with flashes of mother of pearl and coral fragments. I note my breathing. I am breathing! The sun stretches parching rays as it rises and already my skin tingles with joy at the rush of melanin to its surface, my whole body happy at the prospect of a good whack of vitamin D and the alien luxury of no demands, no hassles and no worries. Of course, I am alone, but that is how I usually prefer to travel. I later met a man from Barcelona with his girlfriend from Hong Kong and he cooked us the most incredible Paella (with fresh calamari and shrimp bought from the Bedouin) on hot charcoal. It is truly the most ambrosial meal I have ever eaten to this day.
Great friendships are forged around a fire and a meal between momentary strangers, wherever we may wander on this Earth. I stroll along the water’s edge, measuredly making every moment count. There appear to be a few dogs on the sand, I am not sure at this point if they are wild or pets and if so, to whom they belong and I am wary. As I am walking, a large golden dog (I would hazard is maybe an Alsatian cross- Collie cross- a hundred different varieties) bounds up to me wagging excitedly and sniffs me confidently. I look in to her beautiful hot- coal golden eyes and see welcome and her protective instinctual demeanor. She is immediately named ‘Golden- eyes’ in my mind and I say it to her gently and she wags. Golden- eyes trots benevolently alongside my shoreline stroll. She knows I don’t have food with me and she doesn’t look bony so we assume a genuine silent companionship as I tread though the warm sea. We could walk forever.
About the Author: I am an English studies undergraduate, Vinyl DJ 7 producer and single mother to four handsome, creative sons. I live in Cornwall and enjoy literature, gardening and making music when I am not travelling.
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