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Published: November 28th 2010
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After the desert tour, I received the news that I'd been dreading - the rumours were true, and the weekly ferry to Sudan on 15 November had been canclled. I had two options, I could either head straight to Aswan now, just making the replacement ferry on the 11 Nov. Or I could hold back and catch the ferry on 22 Nov. Not being decisive at the best of times, I struggled with the decision. Either rush to Sudan, for more time in Ethiopia? Or take things easy in Egypt for a few more days. In the end, Sudan seemed too far away, and too big a leap to jump into. I was feeling lazy. I was enjoying the coffee and dominoes in Cairo. I still had Sinai, temples and fellucas to see in Egypt. And I opted to catch the later ferry.
With a pounding head and dodgy stomach from the previous night, my last in Cairo for the time being, I caught a bus to St Catcherine's in Sinai - where I hoped to escape the crowds a little bit. After 8 horribly hungover hours in the bus, and still with a pounding headache, I arrived at my campsite and headed straight to bed feeling very sorry for myself and wondering if I should have headed to Sudan after all.
I awoke feeling slightly better for myself, and realised the camp I'd arrived at after dark, was in a brilliant setting with the towering red peaks of Sinai in every direction. I the centre of the camp, and apparently the centre of the local community too, was a Bedoiun tent, filled with locals putting the world to rights with sheesha smoke thick in the air. I spent the whole morning there (unless crouched over the toilet), and would have stayed for the whole day, but the monastery of St Catherine was just up the road, and as it had a good review in the guide book, I headed off up the road. The monastery was a massive disapponitment. Like an Egyptian Sistene Chapel, it was just one long queue of tourists, sheperded through in single file, with cameras flashing whenever they were allowed. After wandering around lost, and harrased, for one hour, I grumpily headed back to the camp. I guess I forgot the tell the thousands of Americans and Greeks that I'd come here to escape the crowds.
After another lazy morning in the Bedoiun tent the following day, and finally feeling better (after eating some leaves a 'herbalist' had given me) I decided to climb Mount Sinai in the afternoon, and spend the night on the summit. It seemed like a good way to escape the crowds, and to save on hotel fees for a night. I packed my bag, and set off past the monastery and up the 3750 steps to the summit, as the midday heat started to fade. Racing the setting sun I couldn't afford to stop (except for a brief and not too enjoyable chat with a racist Sri Lankan), and struggled up the winding steps over endless false summits. The steps got larger and steeper the closer I got to the top, but eventually, with the sun low in the sky, the burnt orange peaks and valleys of the Sinai mountains, and the sun glistening on the Red Sea in the distance, the church on the summit pulled into view.
Within minutes the sun had disappeared, and with it, the 30 other trekkers on the mountain (chattering French, and flip-flop wearing Aussies) started the walk down to their hotels. They left behind just me, one other tourist cowering in the church doorway, and two Bedouins brewing tea. With the summit now silent, and after finally escaping the tour buses, it felt like the whole place was my own. The emptiness of the mountains and the night was perfect. After an evening chatting and drinking tea with the Bedoiuns, I settled down for another night under the stars. I found a sheltered spot, put on all as many clothes as I could, climbed into my sleeping bag, and lay watching the clouds pass waiting for the sun to rise...
I'll admit I'm not a great morning person at times, but sunrise on Mt Sinai caught me at my worst. I went to sleep with the mountain as my own - just me, the mountain, and the silence of the night. At 3am, I was woken by the first of 500 tourists who'd decided to trample into what was previously my bedroom, to share the sunset with me. Hustling, bustling, jostling, arguing, shouting. The silence was destroyed in a second. Maybe I was self-righteous (it wouldn't be the first time), but I felt I'd earned the right to be there. I'd spent the night. I'd enjoyed the mountain, and experienced it at it's finest. Yet now I was being woken by hundreds of jostling tourists egaer to get the best spot for their telescopic lens. Which just so happened to be where I was sleeping.
I grumpily got out of my sleeping bag, packed up and left the summit. Away from the crowds. Away from the noise. I found a spot away from the summit, and the 500 tourists, and watched as the sky turned into a calidescope of yellows oranges, reds and purples. I sat for 30 minutes, and then noticed that the crowds had already parted - with most people walking 3 hours up the mountain, in the dark, staying for the 15 minutes of sunrise, and then heading back to their tour buses. Within minutes the mountain was mine, and I could again enjoy the pleasure of travelling on my own. For that moment alone, I wouldn't have had it any other way.
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