Delicious Chaos

Note: The Egyptian word for flip-flops is shib-shibs. Except the b sound isn’t really a b, but kind of half way between a b and a p. Imagine saying “ship” but trying to swallow – or maybe kiss – the p.

In the same way as British flip-flops (when we get to wear them) make a flip… flop sound, Egyptian ones go shib… shib. It’s a scuffing sound, the sound of loose toes and flapping heels. That’s onomatopoeia, that is. (My old English teacher would be so proud.)

And I changed my friend’s name in this story.
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Shib…shib…shib…. I’m slap-shuffling down the seafront in Dahab. The sun has long since called it a day, and the evening is well underway. Tourists are perusing and promenading; touts are touting; drinkers are drinking; divers are still diving. I’m aimless, just shib-shib’ing along.

“Izzayek ya habibi?” – How are you my darling?
It’s my friend, Ahmed. I let him know that I’m fine like jasmine, thanks be to God.

“Yalla nishrub shay.” – C’mon let’s drink tea.
I’ve just had tea, don’t really want another one. But I tell him tea would be great. “Bring two Bedouin teas,” he shouts in the direction of the kitchen.

He’s at work, so I sit on a wooden trolley next to the restaurant, beside a crappy bike. The bike has a chain, but it’s not locked up. Why bother?

Shib-shib…shib-shib…shib-shib… – town is busy tonight. Shib…shib…shib… – Ahmed stakes out his territory.

“You after dinner, I think so,” he says to a young couple. The man has dreadlocks; the woman’s shoulders are throbbing red.
“Piss off, we’ve been here two weeks.” Course they have: Dreadlocks isn’t wearing any shoes.
“Have a nice time.” Ahmed’s smile twists as he turns away. It’s a tough job.

The tea is hot and sweet and flavoured with herbs from the mountains. I shlurp it, the sound of bad manners eating soup in polite company. I lean back: the moon is round and bright, like someone’s poked a hole in the night sky and is shining a light through. I close my eyes.

A shifting topography of sound swirling round my head. Snatches of French and German tickling at deep-buried words learned at school; English and Egyptian merging and parting, speaking to me of home; unknown Russian sounds conjuring an alien world of ice and vodka.

Rattlings and clatterings, sizzlings and choppings, curses and orders and laughs. Soft music, not Bob Marley. It’s pianos and whale noises, Pretension ‘n Bass. I wish it were Bob Marley.

The tinkling whisper of water against the shore. Ringtones. The clap-kiss of a greeting. Bikes swishing and dogs barking. A constant shib…shib…shib….

“No no, we’ve already eaten. Thank you.” Ahmed is trying to intercept a fat, pasty-looking couple. Their his-and-her khaki waistcoats barely contain their bulging stomachs.
“Yes I can see that,” Ahmed pats his belly. The man smiles, takes it in his stride. Someone laughs.

I watch Ahmed watching the marks. He’s thin and brown and knotted, skin stretched tight over his body. I always think of a skull on a stick; it makes me feel bad. But he’s a fluid mover, legs loose at the knees – shib-shib – body relaxed and free. Trendy too, in baggy jeans and a white polo shirt. But he sighs as he picks up the cigarette he’s balanced on a flower pot. Draws deeply. His eyes never stop moving.

Shib…shib…shib…. “Excuse me, excuse me, no blah blah blah here. You don’t like? OK take my card.”
“Yeah right, we know where you are, mate.” The response is curt and dismissive.

“Saab, uh?” I say to Ahmed. – It’s difficult, huh?
“Aywa, saab.” – Yes, it’s difficult.

There are too many restaurants in Dahab, and not enough tourists. The restaurants all have the same fish display, and all serve “The Best Thick Shake In Town.” Many staff are not paid a salary, but a percentage of any profits.

“Beep beep, Beep beep,” a local girl on a bike with no bell and no brakes wobbles through a crowd of people. The tourists jump, and glare at her. But the group of four Bedouin talking in the middle of the street ignore everything around them. One is mute, all too common on the Sinai. The conversation is full of gesture and handshake.

Sounds of trundling and creaking as a group of night divers approach, pushing their equipment along the street. Tanks and regulators and other esoterica piled up on an old cart. Encased in black suits, dripping water onto the pavement, the divers seem awkward, out of place. With each footstep they pick their neoprene booties fully up off the floor. They squeak and squelch. They don’t shib-shib.

Ahmed has cornered a group of seven young Europeans. Slim and bronzed, all board shorts and strapless tops and tousled hair. Bright eyes examining the fresh seafood display, looking at dull eyes and fins and tentacles and claws, soft flesh and spiked armour from another world.

The kids shrug acceptance, and Ahmed steers them off the street and into the safety of the restaurant. I’m pleased. I catch his eye and grin. His eyes flicker, but he’s too professional to smile back. He looks tired, black shadows beneath his eyes. He turns back to the street.

The moon peers down, silent.

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