Weekend Getaway in Safaga

Weathered by the sun, a toll booth operator’s face is shroud in a checkered head scarf. The picnic table patterned headwear is wrapped like a bonnet, as if holding a bundle of ice against a sore tooth. He waves us through and we continue our journey through the deserts of Egypt.

Today is our final day along the Red Sea. Tomorrow’s directions will send us into the mountains we’ve seen on our right for the past two days. As we drive along the freshly laid tarmac, curiosities line the side of the road. Yesterday we saw a rusted tank which has laid unused for at least 15 years. Today's treasure was a half buried King Tut bust and a nest of wire left from the burning of abandoned truck tires.

Moving at a cool 60kph, we follow a truck carrying a payload of gravel. Atop the ashen stones, a man unfurls a tarp, preventing winds from littering the road behind. Like a James Bond fight scene, the man moves between a standing and kneeling stance. His plaid shirt and slacks press tight against his body, while his jacket bottom tries to rip free from his arms. It’s a daring maneuver.

As we enjoy our last day along the Red Sea, I’m struck by the architecture. Purposely or by chance, builders struck a style suiting the surrounding desert and sea. Buildings stand one story, and are unobtrusive. Equidistant windows and modest roofs are the only adornment to the simple russet and red exteriors. Each room enjoys a view of the banks of the Red Sea. The squat style buildings allow passersby to see the Red Sea coast without interruption.

Today we’re enjoying the city of Safaga. The town reminds me of a small beach town found in Hawaii or the Florida keys. Safaga, like many other small resort towns, punctuate the lonely shores of the Red Sea. The palms are no doubt imported, as is the local scuba diving culture. Another unwelcome difference is the small general stores. We are still very much in Muslim territory, thus all of their beer is non alcoholic. The best selling imported beer is Amstel Zero. I’ll trust the reader to figure out what the zero stands for.

My ears are beginning to adjust to the guttural grunts of Arabic spoken by our local support. Nearly every sentence is punctuated with inshallah –God willing. It’s no new insight that to understand a culture, one must understand their language. Inshallah like the common Chinese greeting, Ni chi fan le ma—Have you eaten?, provides a unique insight to a country’s people and their culture.

As I sit in my office, a single outlet beneath a 20 foot thatched tiki umbrella along the Red Sea, popular Arabic ballads play on an outdoor speaker. Local music is one facet of traveling I strive to embrace, but popular music here is only slightly better than Chinese pop. The synthesizer has destroyed what may have once been tolerable. Organ-like interjections, slurred with an intensifying wah-pedal effect, pierce behind the singer’s voice. Our South African driver likens the sound to a cat being spun in circles by its tail.

Onwards to Luxor.