The car really is waiting for me, but it turns out to be a taxi: the Bedouin driver is taking an elderly German couple to Saint Catherine. Without much faith in success I make my request. Surprisingly, the driver agrees. And in response to my question about water he hands me a full bottle of water.
Though the four of us chat cheerfully the whole way to Saint Catherine, I keep thinking that the Bedouin may have not understood me and will probably demand money in the end.
The driver, whose name is Suleiman, leaves the Germans at their hotel and turns to me:
“You’re probably hungry?”
I nod involuntarily and the Bedouin orders four different dishes for me in a roadside café. He watches me trying to manage it all.
“I’m taking a group of Romanians up the mountain today, want to come along?” He suggests and adds right away, “Absolutely free.”
I had the earliest wake-up call in my life that night — 00.40. Suleiman came to pick me up at the campsite, where he’d also fixed me up with his friend for free.
The evening before he’d invited me to look at the stone with “Moses’ eyes.” I couldn’t understand what this meant until I saw the enormous chunk of cliff, taller than me, with oblong depressions. Legend has it that this is the very stone from which Moses drew water for the thirsting Israelis. How? Well, how did I manage to meet a tourist guide in one of the most touristy places on the road to Saint Catherine who started taking care of me quite selflessly?
The sky is alight with myriad yellow stars as if a million eyes are following me. Twinkling as if winking. I smile at them in grateful response.
The road leading up to the mountain looks a lot like a busy city street, a bit like the Arbat in Moscow. People move in masses, constantly turning on their flashlights, shouting, screaming, laughing:
“Camels, camels!”
Aside from English the Bedouins here have also learned good Russian. For the Russian tourists who usually can’t speak English.
The group of Romanians is moving too slowly. I overtake them, agreeing to meet Suleiman at the last café on the way, a coffee shop, as they call it here.
Nearly at the top of the mountain there are some steep, tall steps. A young Bedouin overtakes me.
“Can I lend you a hand?” He asks in Russian.
“For money?” I smile, remembering all the stories I heard.
“No.”
I accept his help. At the last coffee shop I say good-bye to my helper and sit down on a bench covered with a colorful blanket, waiting for Suleiman to arrive with his Romanians.
There come loud cries: “Blankets, blankets!”
These are coffee shop workers offering to rescue the tourists from the cold while lightening their wallets.
I’m so sick of hearing “camels” and “blankets” that when some Bedouins ask me where I’m from I answer in an annoyed tone:
“Not telling.”
“From Russia?” One of them guesses. He is strong, tall, and is wearing a headscarf.
“No,” I say, shamelessly denying my homeland.
My attempt to go incognito quickly becomes a joke. A Bedouin with a headscarf comes up to me. I expect him to try to sell me something.
“You don’t have a Russian accent,” says the Bedouin, paying me a compliment without knowing it. “But you’re from somewhere near Russia, no? Where from?”
“I’m not telling.”
“OK, OK. As you wish. Let’s say you’re from the Moon.”
I show my appreciation for his sense of humor with a bright smile.
“Do you work in the café?”
“Yes, this is my coffee shop.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-six.”
“And do you like your work?” I ask expecting him to complain about the endless streams of tourists.
“Yes, I love the peace and quiet. There is no one here during the day.”
I take in his burly appearance, sports pants and a worn grey sweater, and I can’t believe it’s him saying these things.
“What’s your name?”
“Joseph,” he answers. “Would you like some tea? My treat.”
“It’s too expensive here,” I say not having heard his last words.
“My treat,” he repeats.
The sweet aroma of the strong, life-giving drink rises up along with the steam. Once again it saves me from thirst, and once again in an unexpected way.
After I greet the sunrise on the peak, I come down to the coffee shop and Joseph again treats me to a cup of tea. He invites me to come inside the little store. Tired foreigners hurry after their guides while at the same time pricing souvenirs. I am meanwhile sitting on top of one of the most touristy spots in Egypt holding a cup of hot tea. The steam from the tea melts along with all of my silly fears about Egyptians’ incorrect and selfish behavior.
Joseph lives on top of the mountain six days a week, and on his day off he goes down to his village. Today happens to be Friday.
“We can go together,” he offers. “I know a different path. It’s beautiful but not easy.”
“All the better.” I agree without a second thought.
We leap from stone to stone. I look back at Joseph:
“So why aren’t you offering me your hand?”
In touristy places like this Bedouins and Arabs usually try to seize any opportunity to take white women by the hand.
“If you need a hand you’ll ask,” Joseph answers.
I look back at him again with astonishment.
We go to see his brother. Once again I am holding a glass of tea, this time made from hibiscus. His brother then leaves to run some errands and we stay behind to guard his goods.
“Look,” Joseph points to the peak of one of the mountains surrounding us. “There’s a chapel up there. There are a lot of them here. Monks used to go up there a lot to pray. Now they’re almost always closed.”
“So do you pray?” I ask expecting a negative response. In these touristy spots the foreigners often infect the locals with their materialism and Western values.
“Yes,” answers Joseph.
“Five times a day?”
“No, not always. Sometimes I don’t pray for a whole week. I don’t want to lie to you… And sometimes during prayer I think about what I need to buy for the shop. That’s not right either.”
I look back again at this Bedouin who spends six days a week on top of this mountain. But he spends those six days on a mountain that is far from ordinary.
We come out to the start of our difficult journey. Below us, the buildings of the St. Catherine monastery lie like rectangular boxes.
“How long will it take to get there?” I ask.
“Two hours.”
The sun is still high.
“Let’s sit here for a bit,” I suggest.
“All right.”
We sit down on a big yellow rock at the edge of the mountain. I sit face-to-face with the sky. I feel like I’m seeing it for the first time. To the right the peak of Moses’ mountain looks eloquent at us. Everything is seeped in matchless silence. There is not a single sound coming from below, so it seems as if the world below does not even exist. And you don’t feel like going back there, all the possible fullness of life is here, in this proximity to the matchless azure silence. I look back once again at the mountain thinking of Moses and the Ten Commandments. Yes, in this silence you could hear many things!
Ring of oases
Sahara means “desert” in Arabic. This morning I am heading there. On the map the road I’ll be going by resembles the ribbon of a river. But in fact, there are no rivers all around for hundreds of kilometers in every direction.
The first oasis I’ll reach — Bahariya– is indicated on the map by a few little palm trees. But what will it look like in reality?