Not So Simple After All

I wake up full of resentment, head throbbing in tandem with my alarm. I glare at Brian, face down and cruciform on the bed next to me. We went out last night, and—like many old friends who haven’t seen each other for too long—we filled our silences with alcohol. I can hear him snuffling in his sleep as I creep out the door, so I know he’s still alive.

I shuffle along deserted streets, head bent beneath the already considerable weight of the early morning sun. With each step, shards of liquid fire shoot through my temples; I feel sick. Gradually, the space between the pain begins to pulse with an unfamiliar emotion. It dawns on me that I’m going somewhere new, and I realise I’m excited.

Dahab bus station is tiny, but still disorientating if you are not used to the chaos of Egyptian public transport. Ticket for Taba safely in hand, I sip a cup of grainy Turkish coffee, smugly watching the tourists struggle.

As I begin to feel better, I feel slightly guilty. I remember the first public bus I took in Egypt, and it was confusing. I had no idea where to buy my ticket, or even what time the bus was leaving. If the only helpful tourist policeman in Cairo hadn’t taken me under his wing, I’d have jumped on the first bus that came my way, and ended up God knows where.

Chastened by the memory of my good Samaritan, I make eye-contact with a particularly frantic-looking girl. Judging by her passive-aggressive posture and her red shoulders, she is English. “Hey, don’t worry—they’ll announce each bus in English as it arrives,” I offer. She looks at me as if I’ve just asked to share her sleeping bag, and flounces off. At least, she tries to flounce, but her rucksack is just that bit too heavy, and resting on shoulders that are just that bit too burned. She waddles. I shrug.

Half-hour later, and the bus is speeding along a bumpy road, empty of traffic. Rattle-clatter, shudder-shake: it feels like the hop-skip of a triple jump, and I hope we don’t wind up sailing through the air. The girl next to me (not the waddling flouncer) is trying to sell me Egyptian money. She’s exchanged too much, and is worried about being able to change it back in Israel. I explain that I’ve lived in Egypt for three years, and while I would love to buy some Egyptian money, the only cash I have on me with which to buy it is…Egyptian money. She dismisses me as irrelevant, and I turn back to the window.

The low, jagged mountains of the Sinai flash past. Tan coloured and deeply crevassed, they look like the teeth of the local Bedouin, pitted by nicotine and too much sweet, black tea. The first time I met Eid (my guide on many a desert adventure) I was struck by the contrast between his flashing black eyes and his ready smile full of dead teeth. I was captivated by them, didn’t understand how this could happen to someone so young. Later that evening, crouched over a one-log fire, we shared an endless pot of Bedouin style tea, so sweet it hurt. The memory makes me smile, and I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window. Egypt has turned me into a three sugars man, and my own teeth look pretty shabby themselves.

The Bureau de Change wannabe next to me has now decided that I really need to see her photos of the Pyramids. I can’t believe it! Your family and friends must be really looking forward to the return of you and your happy-snaps, I think spitefully. I don’t even pretend to look at them, but gaze out of the window instead. We are zooming up the east coast of the Sinai peninsula, and the view to the right is of the Red Sea shimmering a rather incongruous blue. I can’t look to my left without risking the tail end of the cheesy Pyramid montage, but I know it’s more mountains. The butterflies in my stomach have started beating again. We must be nearing my destination.

All the Egyptians I’d told I was going to Basata had said the same thing, “Basata el Baseeta.” I knew that Basata meant something like simplicity. “Baseeta means, like, easy, or relaxed,” my friend Mogli had explained. “It’s a really cool place, nice and chilled.” On the bus, when I asked the conductor to tell me when we got to Basata, he responded with, “Ah, Basata el baseeta!” and I grinned, appreciating the word play.

Dreamy with anticipation of all that hard-core relaxation at camp simplicity, I barely notice the bus is slowing down. “Basata Camp!”, the conductor screams in my ear. I scramble, leap off the bus while it’s still moving. The last I see of the driver he’s laughing, nudging his mate and gesturing towards the camp whilst yelling, “Basata el baseeta! Basata el baseeta!” Something doesn’t feel right.

As I cross the road and trudge down towards the camp, my heart sinks. The car park is packed with dozens of cars, and the bamboo beach huts surrounded by an invasion of brightly coloured tents. Groups of teenagers are bobbing around in the turquoise sea, like an unwelcome swarm of long-limbed jellyfish. I can hear children screaming. It’s Eid, the festival that marks the end of Ramadan, and Basata is anything but baseeta!

Note: The photo is from flickr Creative Commons, taken by Eman M

This post was originally written as an assignment for Matador U: an online travel writing course I can’t say enough good things about. Luckily, I don’t need to, because ex students Candice Walsh and AdventureRob have written far more in-depth and eloquent reviews than I ever could. You can read Candice’s here and Rob’s here.

These posts might be related:

• Oops! Seems that post was kinda unique!