Shadow Lines_world

Shadow Lines

Location: Home > world > Shadow Lines

It is January 2002 and I am standing by the side of a dusty, sterile road with my hand outstretched. I am tired, thirsty and covered in a thin layer of dust and grime. Two and a half hours ago an Egyptian military jeep dropped me at here and I have been standing baking under an African sun ever since. I am waiting for someone to show me some kindness. As I stand and hum through my full repertoire of Steely Dan songs I don\'t realise that my life is about to change by one hundred and eighty degrees, and after today nothing can ever be the same. But for now, I have the more immediate concern of getting to Dahab before the sun cooks me to a crisp.

My day began under canvas in the middle of Wadi Rum and hasn\'t looked like improving since that most auspicious of starts. I took a gleaming new catamaran over from the promised land of Jordan and stepped into the searing heat of Africa. For some inexplicable reason, which had something to do with a party of French tourists and a PLO sponsored gun boat being found a la Maria Celeste in the Red Sea, we were kept in the tin shed of a customs hall at Aqueba for half the day. The customs officials wandered amongst the half a dozen or so tourists and scrounged cigarettes whilst I sat on my rucksack and slowly broiled. Once they found out I was English - though with my three week beard and Yassar Arafat style scarf on it was hard to be really sure - they took turns in shoouting, \'Michael Owen\' and \' David Beckham\' at me. By the time they finally let us out the compound, and had assembled the nastiest, smelliest bunch of criminally inclined taxi divers this side of Lagos, I was already in a foul mood and in no mood for the fully pitched battle which comes with trying to get anywhere near a taxi in Egypt so I walked towards the edge of the docks and hitched a ride with a bunch of junivile military recruits who didn\'t really look old enough to shave let alone be toting M16 machine guns. They dropped me at this junction and told me, with luck, another patrol should be along sometime and that, with even more luck, I should make Dahab by dinner time. In the meantime there is nothing to do but stand at the side of the road and dream of ice cold beer and a shower.

From my diary:

The landscape down here was rugged and cruel looking. The horizon was broken by a series of jagged spikes which could have been the gateway to Mordor. The cobalt blue sky was totally free from clouds and emphasised the cruelness of the land.

Eventually a small cloud of dust comes into hazy view. As it comes closer the haze melds itself into an old ford pickup truck which comes to a grinding stop in front of me. The driver points to the back, which is full of boxes of Jordanian oranges and as I jump in and pull my scarf closer to my mouth he guns the engine and pulls away leaving clouds of dust devils dancing in the sun.

Quite unexpectedly we pull to a halt at the side of the road where another car has apparently broken down. The driver jumped out and after a long and heated discussion grudgingly passed the other driver an empty plastic bottle. I imagine the conversation to be:

Driver 1: Oh, Ahmed, this old piece of shit giving you trouble again. Driver 2: Yeah Mustaffa, I think it\'s the same as last week Driver 1: Oh well, here is my plastic bottle, give it a few taps with this and I will pick it up next time I am smuggling citrus fruit from Jordan. I would love to stay and help but I just picked this scruffy English man up from the side of the road and I have to drive him to the middle of the desert and leave him there. Driver 2: That will test his Lawrence of Arabia spirit..

I feel almost overwhelmed with freedom and cheekily set about filling my pockets with oranges and by the time we reach the outskirts of Dahab I have the juice of half a dozen oranges running down my chin. As the driver drops me at the lights he winks at me - perhaps he can see how my life is about to change

From my dairy:

Dahab is, at first, a bit of a shock. At first I hated the town as it was so blatently touristy and there were lots of scantily dressed foreigners running around with henna tats and nose rings (and that was just the guys - the women were shocking). But after a few drinks and a walk around the streets Dahab soon began to work its charm on me.

I find the hotel that Middle East travel-guru (and all round father figure Dr Travel) has recommended me and dump my bags on the stupidly ostentatious bed. Five minutes later, with half of the Sinal desert removed from under my nails, I am sitting on the edge of the Red Sea dangling my feet in the warm waters sipping a well-earned ice-cold beer. For an Islamic country the beer in surprisingly good. The second one tastes ever better and washes the last traces of grit from my mouth. My rumbling stomach reminds me it is time for some food and head off with a lightness of step which always comes from a hard day and a few beers in search of some fish which I am told is a bit of a speciality here in Sinai.

The night is balmy now and the tourists are out in force. Tony Blair is on holiday just down the coast with his family and the Egyptians are basking in the glory that the British press have bought to this dry piece of northern Africa. The sea breeze cools the day and the tang of salt in the air wafts with the smells of a hundred charcoal burners to give the night the feeling of a tropical classic. It makes me feel suddenly homesick and have the overwhelming urge to call the GHG (gold haired girlfriend) back at home. I buy a phone card and wait my turn at the town\'s only phone box wondering what is happening at home.

\'Hey, how are you\' \'Fine. How\'s Sinai? Are you taking care of yourself.\' \'Yes, fine. Any news your end?\' \'Two bits really\' \'Good or bad..\' \'Both\' \'Hit me honey\' \'Well, I need you at home as quick as you can\' \'Why, what\'s wrong\' \'Nothing, except you are going to be a father\'

Houston we have a problem

\'Oh, and KLM have cancelled your flight home. They say the only way you can get a refund or onto the next flight is by going to the Cairo office - good luck.\'

Houston, we really have a problem.

The next thing I remember was staggering into a tourist shop and demanding tea and then stumbling out an hour later with an arm full of gifts. It wasn\'t till much later after I had eaten and was well into my second water pipe of the evening that I was finally able to make

E2-20050437 - 中文版[Provided By Google] -