Lewis of Arabia-Part I

At 6:45am, my sisters and I left my apartment to meet a representative from the Travel Agency that had booked our trip to the desert. I had planned the trip in advance, paid for everything, and was excited to have a stress free experience in Egypt. As much as I resisted it, I had surrendered myself to being a tourist in the city that had become my home. I figured all I had to do was get us to the agency by 7:00am, and from there we would be in the hands of experienced Bedouins who would take care of us for the next three days. Looking back, my naitivity regarding the concept of a stress free trip in the desert seems almost cute. Almost.

At 7:00am, we met our friendly agency representative outside of the office, but instead of escorting us to the awaiting caravan of friendly Bedouin, he piles us in a cab and we all head to the Central Cairo Bus Station. Our representative, who is shy and wears braces, quickly explains that we will be taking bus number 5 to Bahriyya, where we would be met by another friendly representative. Before I could even process that our expectedly private transportation to the desert had somehow turned into the public bus and all its delights, the shy adolescent was gone in a flash. Don’t get me wrong, the buses in Egypt are fine, very well run in fact. But this was the first time I had splurged on a tourist package, so I was slightly disappointed that my fancy package somehow started off as my budget trips did, on an East Delta Bus. We found our seats in the front of the bus, with me and Markell together on one side and Frances sitting next to a nice Algerian woman. Frances practiced her French while Markell and I planned out futures, and every once in a while I shocked the bus by breaking into Arabic to defend our seating assignment. After stopping at half a dozen desert towns in the middle of no-where, we finally reached the end of the road, and luckily our stop, Bahriyya. I was crossing my fingers that whoever was meeting us would be there, would be anticipating us, and would know that we had paid ahead of time. I dreaded the possibility of dragging my sisters into the middle of the desert, vulnerable to the vultures of eager hostel owners who prowled around the bus, waiting for foolish little sisters who somehow messed up the reservation. Luckily, my fears were allayed, the boy with braces spoke true, and I easily found our friendly representative. We piled into a beat up old Land Rover which, unbeknownst to us, would become the ill-fated vessel for our safari, and headed into camp.



Camp was a dusty hostel/restaurant which resembled an old west saloon without the swinger doors, booze, or bar fights. It was the meeting spot for groups before they went out on the trek in the desert, so it was here where we first laid eyes on the motley crew who would be our travel companions. Please note the names have been changed to protect the innocent and guilty. There was Tom, the laid-back loner from Minnesota who was on a Fulbright scholarship in Germany; Nelson and Patricia, the middle aged Afrikaneer couple from Cape Town; Stewart and Jennifer, the starry eyed young Canadian couple who were at the beginning of their year long tour of the world, Christof and Eva a young German couple who seemed to be veteran backpackers and us three Lewis gals. We were informed that instead of staying the first night at camp as was customary, we would be going out on the safari and camping that night. So, the three couples, the trio, and the lone Minnesotan headed off into the unknown armed with nothing but two jeeps, and two seasoned Bedouin guides.



Our two guides, Ali and Karem, were delighted that I knew Arabic. The only guest on the trip who could speak their language, they baptized me as “Ward” (rose). My sisters were also kindly looked upon, given their smashing good looks and superior hiking abilities. Markell was dubbed “Yasmine” (Jasmine) and Frances was knighted “Ful” (sweet flower). The afternoon was going splendidly, we would drive through the desert, park in front of a hill, hike to the top of a peak, descend, and continue on our merry way. We would lead the charge up the hills, with the other members of the caravan uninterested to competition with the Lewis girls. Despite the incredible steepness of one of the black mountains, we reached the summit and felt zen-ful thoughts while the jeeps honked at us to come back down.



At dusk we reached the top of a tall sand dune, surrounded by rock structures and leading down into a valley of bedrock. After frolicking in the sand for a bit, we were summoned back to the jeeps. The dune was pretty deep, and while the grade proved perfect for extreme cartwheels, I was a bit nervous about the drive down. Ali had the tendency to make donuts in the sand; hard left, hard right, do a 180, 360, you name it he would do it and I would scream.
In Arabic I would beg him to slow down, but the cheering of the other passengers seemed to outweigh my pathetic requests. Given my fear on a flat surface, I was petrified to think of our fate after Ali had taken us down the steep incline, undoubtedly at 70 mph and on two wheels. But before we loaded back into the car, we heared the all too familiar sound of an engine which refuses to turn. As we listened to the coughing and sputtering, I was positive that all 12 of us from different countries and backgrounds were thinking the same thing: Thank God for the Buddy System. An additional thanksgiving would be thank God for manual transmissions that can start on their own if the car gets going enough. Because we were on a hill, we were theoretically in an ideal spot for such a possibility. Theoretically, all we had to do was push the car a bit to get it going down the hill and as we gained speed the car would start and we would be on our merry way doing donuts and terrifying Pauline down the hill. All the women stood to the side, cameras ready, cheering on the menfolk as they swaggered behind the jeep getting in position for the push. It seemed so easy, I didn’t think I would be fast enough with the camera to catch it all on tape, as it seemed it would last a split second. But by the tenth push, the jeep was deep in sand and no further down the mountain. We lowered our cameras, and began to dig out the wheels, playing a risky game of “better move your hand quick or else the land rover crushes your wrist”. This wasn’t working, and Karem, the guide whose jeep was working, decided to take matters into his own hands. We were instructed to get back into the lame jeep. Markell, Frances and I were in the back seat, and we turned to look out the back window to see better.



Like a lion approaching its prey, we see Karem’s jeep slowly accelerating towards us. “They are going to ram us!” We realize the new strategy, and prepare for the worst. However, like the anticlimax of the pushing, the ramming was similarly lacking in excitement. Finally, with the sun set, a mix of pushing, ramming, and scooping sand brought the jeeps to the bedrock. Ali produced a rope, and tied the nose of the lame jeep to the tail of the working vehicle, and this method of dragging produced the velocity needed to start the car. We cheered and entered the car, ready for food, camp and warmth as the heat of the desert had long since left with the passed sun.

We went on our way, resuming our method of driving like crash test dummies swerving around invisible orange cones, only to stop suddenly. Karem’s car has a flat tire. Flat is probably an understatement, more like busted. Ali and Karem quickly begin changing the tire, luckily each car has a spare attached to the back. As we are standing around, I joke “Hope they changed that spare since the last time they had a flat, or else we just replaced the flat with another busted tire.” Turns out instead of joking, I just narrated our reality. No kidding, that’s exactly what happened. Another thanksgiving: Thank God for 2 spare tires. After a few delays and even more prayers, we were finally on our way to set up camp in the white desert.