From Egypt into Jordan
Plans to build a mall have stalled...
Nuweiba is something of an unusual holiday resort. Bastard son of various aborted Sinai tourist booms and a good show & tell of the fallout of the Six Day War, it’s a string of camps, the occasional posh hotel, and some well built infrastructure which links very little. A tight grid of some of the best roads in Egypt surround empty lots where the occasional scrubby acacia tree grows amongst foundations long forgotten. Dogs chew at dumpsters and punctuate the night with their growling quarrels. Yet with a backdrop of mountains, and Saudi Arabia shimmering in the midday heat across the water, it can be a beautiful if desolate place.
Its desolation is a bonus when you step out of your cheap bamboo hut onto an empty, radiant beach. An attempt to have a swim throws up other problems, though. Some experts believe that Nuweiba is where the Jews made the Red Sea crossing, something made more believable as you struggle out over a hundred metres with the water only varying between ankle and knee depth. The Jews must have had some pretty sturdy sandals, though, as the rocks here are razor sharp, leading to stuttering agony, and frantic searches for narrow channels of sand to ease your progress.
Its desolation is a bonus when you step out of your cheap bamboo hut onto an empty, radiant beach. An attempt to have a swim throws up other problems, though. Some experts believe that Nuweiba is where the Jews made the Red Sea crossing, something made more believable as you struggle out over a hundred metres with the water only varying between ankle and knee depth. The Jews must have had some pretty sturdy sandals, though, as the rocks here are razor sharp, leading to stuttering agony, and frantic searches for narrow channels of sand to ease your progress.
Sadly this resort was shut
Nuweiba, then, lends itself more to lazing in a hammock and catching up with reading. You can wander round the empty spaces between the impressive roads where hotels and tourists should be, and gape at the closed casino designed like the mud mosques of Mali. Yet most people are in Nuweiba to leave, either to the expensive eco-camps up and down the coast, or, as I was, to catch the Ferry to Jordan.
Despite setting off early for the port it took some time to make my way down those long, empty roads. You can tell you’re getting close as all the roads for miles around are queued with trucks waiting for their turn to get aboard the ferry. As the daily ferry could only handle about 20 at the most, and as there must have been 500 trucks at least - it could be quite a long wait. Groups of moustachioed truckers sat around on 70s deck-chairs in the shadow of their lorries playing cards. The smell of cheap shisha smoke wafted over you as you passed, and mingled with the steam from their kettles always boiling for the unending glasses of sweet tea. It was a curious existence, and like much of Nuweiba, seemingly economically unviable.
Despite setting off early for the port it took some time to make my way down those long, empty roads. You can tell you’re getting close as all the roads for miles around are queued with trucks waiting for their turn to get aboard the ferry. As the daily ferry could only handle about 20 at the most, and as there must have been 500 trucks at least - it could be quite a long wait. Groups of moustachioed truckers sat around on 70s deck-chairs in the shadow of their lorries playing cards. The smell of cheap shisha smoke wafted over you as you passed, and mingled with the steam from their kettles always boiling for the unending glasses of sweet tea. It was a curious existence, and like much of Nuweiba, seemingly economically unviable.
Finally underway!
The port was rumoured to be chaotic and I was concerned that it was almost eleven when I got my ticket, as the ferry was meant to leave at twelve. Once inside the port I wandered amongst the quiet sheds and empty loading bays. A lot. I sat down watching as the ferry pulled in, reasoning that this would mean I at least wouldn't miss it. An hour passed. Nothing happened. No-one even got off the ferry, even though it was teeming with passengers. Finally an Italian lady spotted me, who happened to speak good Arabic. She told me that I had to go through immigration in a vast warehouse, and once I'd done that, came and got me and made me sit with an Argentinian couple she was also shepherding.
It was at this point that we met Hani. Hani was the ferry’s engineer, and he was very proud of his American accent. Strangely though, the American accent he had chosen to replicate was that of a ludicrously camp New York party organiser.
"Get owt af tooooooooooooown! You ahr soooooo crazy! Letmeshowyoumy PIC-tures. This is my girlfriend. I HAVE SEEN EVERYTHING, ifyaknowwaddImean. She makes me wanna EXPLOOODE. Oh, I am so beautiful in this picture, I am not this beautiful now. Wait, DID I SAY BEAUTIFUL? I mean handsome, people will not know whether I am a she or a he! This is my friend! If he was not my friend, I would hit him in his private parts."
He then proceeded to try and convert me to Islam.
It was at this point that we met Hani. Hani was the ferry’s engineer, and he was very proud of his American accent. Strangely though, the American accent he had chosen to replicate was that of a ludicrously camp New York party organiser.
"Get owt af tooooooooooooown! You ahr soooooo crazy! Letmeshowyoumy PIC-tures. This is my girlfriend. I HAVE SEEN EVERYTHING, ifyaknowwaddImean. She makes me wanna EXPLOOODE. Oh, I am so beautiful in this picture, I am not this beautiful now. Wait, DID I SAY BEAUTIFUL? I mean handsome, people will not know whether I am a she or a he! This is my friend! If he was not my friend, I would hit him in his private parts."
He then proceeded to try and convert me to Islam.
The bus stops next to a rare sign of life
Somewhat inevitably, the ferry finally set off at sunset, with a slight contrast between the jocular attitude of most, and the crowds outside praying on the decks. The journey was interesting but mostly uneventful, unless you count trying to hide from an enthusiastic ship’s engineer as an event. Disembarking was similarly uneventful, and after a night of being munched on by mosquitoes, I decided on a whim to move on quickly. I was heading to Karak, a hilltop town crowned with a magnificent Crusader castle, and the next bus heading there went down the Dead Sea highway. I nodded off.
I awoke to a different world. The sky had become overcast and a small sandstorm was blowing. Visibility had gone down to 100 metres or so. The palette had reduced to grey & yellow. In scattered places the sand was uncovered, drifting and duned, but mostly it was covered with a grey ash, the Gomorrahn remains endlessly tumbling in the wind. Every footprint or tire track disturbed it leaving bright yellow scores on the ground, a landscape of Richard Longs. A camel stood astonished. A tightly wrapped girl chased goats home on donkey back. If the scenery was biblical, it was the book of Revelations.
The road swept downward, and the sandstorm lifted, but we were still bleakly surrounded. Occasionally mountains hazed into view, grey-purple like solidified clouds. Scrubby shrubs were bleached by the dust. The earth lay cracked and useless where the memory of water remained. Its day of happiness was long gone.
Here and there the hubris of life determined that crops must be grown. The sand was scraped back into great dykes defended by a hydra's mass of green tentacles, unlike any tree I'd seen before. In between there was palms, withered vines, and great seas of verdant lushness. I never saw anyone working there but there were occasional sentinels staring bewildered at the invasion of green. I swear one time I even saw a bird confusedly circling above such artificial oases.
It seemed strange to start at sea level yet keep descending, heading into the Earth's wound. The air grew palpably thicker, the passengers pensive and glum. A small child whimpered softly but could get no succour from her parents. Still we continued our mad rush down to the well of tears.
The road finally erred towards the rose red mountains in which Petra dwells. The earth became beetroot stained, sometimes tending to purple. Goats and hasty shelters against the enemy sun became more frequent. A huge Potash factory loomed into sight, towering above the southern Dead Sea. Here the water has been divided into great salt pans, depriving it of its precious cargo. A truck headed out into the murk along one of the dividing roads; if Limbo exists it is due North of The Arab Potash Co., Jordan.
We veered right amongst the tortured crags & pulled out gasping from the soup of the valley. As we raced lorries up switchbacking roads, our only consolation was the evening redding in the west. Darkness fell, and I was in Karak.
I awoke to a different world. The sky had become overcast and a small sandstorm was blowing. Visibility had gone down to 100 metres or so. The palette had reduced to grey & yellow. In scattered places the sand was uncovered, drifting and duned, but mostly it was covered with a grey ash, the Gomorrahn remains endlessly tumbling in the wind. Every footprint or tire track disturbed it leaving bright yellow scores on the ground, a landscape of Richard Longs. A camel stood astonished. A tightly wrapped girl chased goats home on donkey back. If the scenery was biblical, it was the book of Revelations.
The road swept downward, and the sandstorm lifted, but we were still bleakly surrounded. Occasionally mountains hazed into view, grey-purple like solidified clouds. Scrubby shrubs were bleached by the dust. The earth lay cracked and useless where the memory of water remained. Its day of happiness was long gone.
Here and there the hubris of life determined that crops must be grown. The sand was scraped back into great dykes defended by a hydra's mass of green tentacles, unlike any tree I'd seen before. In between there was palms, withered vines, and great seas of verdant lushness. I never saw anyone working there but there were occasional sentinels staring bewildered at the invasion of green. I swear one time I even saw a bird confusedly circling above such artificial oases.
It seemed strange to start at sea level yet keep descending, heading into the Earth's wound. The air grew palpably thicker, the passengers pensive and glum. A small child whimpered softly but could get no succour from her parents. Still we continued our mad rush down to the well of tears.
The road finally erred towards the rose red mountains in which Petra dwells. The earth became beetroot stained, sometimes tending to purple. Goats and hasty shelters against the enemy sun became more frequent. A huge Potash factory loomed into sight, towering above the southern Dead Sea. Here the water has been divided into great salt pans, depriving it of its precious cargo. A truck headed out into the murk along one of the dividing roads; if Limbo exists it is due North of The Arab Potash Co., Jordan.
We veered right amongst the tortured crags & pulled out gasping from the soup of the valley. As we raced lorries up switchbacking roads, our only consolation was the evening redding in the west. Darkness fell, and I was in Karak.
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