The Land of No Time

by Sarah Coffey (United Kingdom (Great Britain))

A leap into the unknown Egypt

The harmless gaggle of taxi drivers wrangled and vied, “Taxi, Taxi mam, Taxi to Sharm? Taxi, Taxi”, “You need a taxi?”. I practiced a look of muted gratitude, “No, Thank You, no...Thank You, I’m fine thanks, no, it’s fine Thank You, no, erm Thank You”. When I found him my driver’s smile lit up the rear view mirror and we began our journey through the giant wrinkle in the rocks baked face. We were travelling South, to Dahab - the land of gold and time. The Egyptian town sits on the edge of the Sinai Peninsula, far from the usual tourism of Sharm or Cairo. At its closest its only 12km across the Gulf of Aqaba to Saudi Arabia. Time flows in long lasting ripples here, a constant wavering note winding its way across the sand. The explorer Gertrude Bell is said to have professed, “the desert knows no minutes”. There is no 12.15 or 12.30, you follow the Mosque’s call or the movements of the sun Ra, there is no allegiance to a clock or schedule. After what felt like a flicker I was being collected from my little boutique hotel. With only 7 rooms this surprisingly cheap place housed mostly freedivers and the occasional backpacker. I was part of Workaway, I traded 4 hours working on reception for food and board. My room had a four poster bed with ornate wood carvings, it had recessed alcoves housing incense burners, and looked out over an enclosed garden with a still cool pool. I read book after book as the 7 rooms didn’t need checking in or out all that often. Mo and his girlfriend would give me a lift out to see the Bedouins, who have lived here since the beginning in shifting homes made of fabrics, fishing for food in the salted sea. Stopping at their camp we are welcomed, wrapped up in heavy blankets, and immediately and continuously filled with sweet sticky tea. Through puffs of smoke I was told ancient tales of mapping and astronomy, of travellers and traders. The stars fish-eyed around us, it was like being inside a christmas bauble. We drove onwards further into the desert with its stretching runways of sand and invisible dunes deftly avoided by Mo. The vans lights looking more like lighthouse beams as we roamed under kemet skies. "Where to next?” Mo shouted into the back of the van. “Ersan said there was a party in the hills” “I think we got the wrong hills Sara”. I loved the way my name sounded here, Sara short and powerful, not the languid and vowel sounding Saarah from back home. On the way back down the headlights illuminated a van stacked with people stuck in the sand, “Get out Sara, we push” There was a triumphant energy as the van began to roll free and Mo shouted to it like a camel, “Mish, mish!” A young girl appeared from the back seats of the slowing escaping van,“Sara?” “Aisha?” The little girl bolted towards her. Blue eyes next to dark skin, her uncovered brown hair in a loose ponytail. I’d made bracelets with her on the beach. She was an entrepreneurial kid with a charming audacity - she ran errands for tourists to make money and always had a pocket full of change for the few and far between toilets. “Ah miss Sara, it is great to meet you again” Aisha’s English was impeccable, her eyes sparkly and wiser than they perhaps should be, “Come and eat with me and my family”. The endless night continued with whole fish, tomato and cucumber salad with oil and lemon juice, and more sticky tea. Aisha commanded the room, translating the Arabic and English as wild dogs howled at the moon in the background. The next day me and Ersan walked along the boardwalk towards the lagoon. Empty shells of unfinished hotels are piled full of sand. Failed developments from tumultuous times. There are British seeming lampposts dotted up the pathway but the salty air has rusted them into pieces so they loom and crumble. Ornate pillows sit dusty and fabric walls have ripped in the winds. “It’s as if there’s no time here” said Ersan.