The town of Dahab is a perfect example of what it means to be Bedouin. It is a place to chill out and live laid back, to live as they do. It would be a shame to work too hard in Dahab. You get sucked into the beauty of the landscape, the warmth of the sun and sand, and the joy of lounge chairs with a view of the sea, to-die-for fresh juices, and Bob Marley oozing through the speakers. Similarly, the Bedouin are by their own definition lazy. A busy Bedouin is simply not a Bedouin. It is engrained into their psyche that a day’s work is far too strenuous. Often I wondered how anything got done when they spent most of their time sitting in their favorite hotel playing backgammon and gossiping over complimentary tea and falafel.
However, despite their idleness, the Bedouin still manage to have their fingers in all sorts of pies. Every Bedouin I met was a dive master. Most were tour guides, and some of the younger generation worked in the various hotels and hostels around town, starting at a remarkably young age. But they all did it in their own way. Often to the detriment of naïve tourists, who expect a certain level of service. I will provide an example:
Suzie Backpacker wants to rent a quad bike for the day. She decides to go check out what’s available on the promenade, and walks into a shop, run by a Bedouin man. When she enters she realizes she’s the odd one out – as there are five other Bedouin men, each sitting in the office with a cup of tea, discussing loudly. This in itself is a little intimidating, but she lingers, thinking they might be here on business (unlikely). She waits for them to notice her presence and offer their services. When the Bedouin have finished their very important conversation (and this could take some time), they all turn and welcome her to Dahab. Before any of her questions are answered, the following are always asked: How are you? Where are you from? Is this your first time here? What is your name? Where are you staying?
Once the answers have been discerned, the Bedouin again discuss amongst themselves. Poor Suzie still doesn’t even know if she can rent a quad bike yet. But after another loud and animate conversation, which includes a whole variety of people none of whom work in the shop, the owner will turn back to his client and ask if she’s interested in a quad bike, how long for, and when. They’ll name a price (based loosely on her hotel, nationality, and number of times in Dahab, and probably whether she’s got any shopping bags, jewelry, etc.) and if Suzie is clever enough, she’ll bargain it down. It is most likely that as before she has even made the final arrangements, the Bedouin will have begun another completely irrelevant conversation, and she’ll have been practically shoo-ed out of the office so they can carry on drinking tea. I haven’t the foggiest idea what they’ve got so much to talk about. Particularly since they always seem to be yelling, arguing, and gesticulating.
While they can be a hassle to deal with, with their connections, the Bedouin can get you whatever your heart desires in Dahab. If you’re in the in crowd, you can get the best prices, the best services, and the best experiences. They’ll find you a second hand cellphone, big sticks of grass at bargain prices, and if you’re lucky, a free trip into the desert with friends. Luckily, I was on Team Freya, which meant I always knew what was going on. Bedouin parties in the hills, nights out on the town. We didn’t have to work hard to find some fun. How marvelously Bedouin of us!
On our first night, word was out that the party was at Rush, one of the local clubs. There, Freya introduced me to Etaik (“call me George”). At first glance, he was not a Bedouin, as he was wearing a bizarre assortment of Western clothing. A bright yellow and green “Brazil” zip-up with a flat-brimmed cap and a pair of skinny jeans. But it didn’t fit him at all. His long, elegant fingers were always wrapped delicately around a cigarette, and he talked with a deep, graceful voice. To be honest, I was a little creeped out at first, but we chatted over the blaring techno beats for a while. The group parted ways when the music died down, I have a recollection of him disappearing into the distance, gliding somehow, as if he was walking on water. I didn’t expect to see him again.
The next morning, I was awake early and walked to the Bedouin Lodge for breakfast and a good cup of Nescafe (and a banana milkshake, just for good measure!). I sat down and was promptly greeted by a tall, elegant man in a long white robe and head scarf.
“Hi Kate,” he said, waving. I was utterly bewildered. Had I been that drunk last night? Who was this strange and handsome man? As he pulled out his pack of Marlboros, I noticed and recognized his long fingers. The self-same George. He was a different man in his traditional garb – majestic and composed. The robe caught the wind and danced around his tall figure and he tossed the headscarf over his shoulders regally. He seemed ageless, timeless, magnificent.
“Why would you ever wear Western clothing?” I had to ask him.
“Have to blend in with the tourists from time to time” was his response, “I hate it!”
Soon we were joined by Freya and Hamid, another Bedouin man. Hamid is hilarious. Particularly after he’s smoked a little hash. He has spent his life among tourists, as a desert guide, dive instructor, and who knows what else. And loves to make fun of us all – the Americans are his favorite, followed closely by the New Zealanders. “This is aweeesome” he chortles in an American-Arabic accent. He sends us all into fits of giggles. He recounts tales of foreign girlfriends, their broken hearts, and loves he’s left behind. However, with the Bedouin, you never quite know when their being honest or just pulling your leg. They are notorious pretenders, and refuse to admit to their lies. George claims to own the Bedouin Lodge. Apparently he’s been twenty-seven for several years now. Hamid claims to know Angelina Jolie, “You know Angie?” He asks me, “I knew she would be famous the first time I meet her. She come to Dahab!”
Some of their lies aren’t so bad though. For example, Hamid tells me I will be famous in two and a half years, and will be known by eleven million people. I live in hope. I can’t fault Hamid and George any more than that, for they provided us with two absolutely magical evenings. That night they took us to Hamid’s camp, high in the desert cliffs, where we watched the sunset over Dahab, ate freshly baked bread and drank wonderful and distinctly Bedouin tea: hot, herbal and amazingly sweet (approximately one cup of sugar per pot). The following night, Hamid organized a trip to Ras Abu Gallum, a secluded beach an hour’s walk from the nearest road. My friends Freya, Nikitas, Christophe and I had the whole beach to ourselves, and we were served freshly caught fish, more bread, tea and a night under the stars. We snorkeled all morning and lay in the dappled sun. We walked home with a full moon following our footsteps, glistening on the Red Sea, and listening as the lapping waves hit the shore. It was just as poetic as it sounds.
I never met a Bedouin woman. Apparently they’re all at home, cooking and raising the children, and probably wondering what their husbands are getting up to in town. Their husbands are sitting in beachside cafes, smoking sheesha, and watching young, bikini clad tourists cavorting in the sea. The traditions of the society lay behind closed doors protected by the women. Sadly though, this means we only get a glimpse of the conventional Bedouin life here.
It all seems so far away now. I’m in Egypt (proper), with the huge expanse of the Sahara desert just fifteen minutes from my hostel. The Siwa Oasis is like something out of a movie, a paradise of green amongst the vast dunes of the Great Sand Sea. It is a magnificent place to celebrate two months on the road, today!