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Published: April 8th 2007
Mud Mosque
The minaret of one of Al-Qasr's mud-brick mosques
Tom Griffith
Sahara Desert In Arabic, sahara means 'desert'. So, Sahara Desert simply means 'Desert Desert'. Best stick with plain old Sahara, I reckon. This immense stretch of sand, rocks, dunes and nothingness reaches from the shores of Mauritania and Morocco, all the way to the Nile in Egypt and Sudan. It is not so much one desert, as many different ones, overlapping and merging to form the largest arid expanse on the planet. Egypt's main section of the Sahara lies to the west of the Nile Valley, and is known as the Western or Libyan Desert. Though largely a harsh and uninhabited environment, the Western Desert does contain a group of oases, each able to support agriculture, and therefore towns and tourism. It was to Dakhla, one of these desert oases, that I headed from Asyut.
Continuing the farcical police escort situation from that city, my 400-kilometre trip to Dakhla was punctuated by about ten police roadblocks, where the local cops had already been alerted to my impending arrival. My bus would pull up at the roadblock, the doors would open, and a bored-looking policeman would poke his head in and ask, 'Wahid Australi?' (One Australian?). The driver would answer, yes, one
Date Palm
A date palm ripe for the picking, Farafra oasis, Western Desert Australian, and we would continue on our way. At one point, the police clambered aboard and checked the ID of the guy sitting next to me; which, to my mind, was tantamount to accusing him of planning to do something terrible to me. Poor guy can't help which clueless tourist he will get plonked next to on a bus.
Dakhla was suitably different from anything I had yet seen in Egypt. Being in the middle of the Sahara, and isolated from Cairo and the big cities along the Nile, the place had a very chilled-out and timeless vibe. It was all date palms, and men on mules, and farmers in funky little straw hats, reaping and sowing and doing whatever it is that farming folk do. The people were uber-friendly, and always quick with a, 'Kwayyis'? (Literally: 'Good?') I stayed in the wonderful village of Al-Qasr, which means 'the Fortress', because there used to be a mud-brick fortress there eons ago. Now, it is a muddle of shops and fields, overlooked by the remains of the old Islamic town, constructed from mud and largely falling apart. 4000 people call the place home, and it was exceedingly pleasant to wander
Surreal building
One of many mud buildings standing deserted in the desert, just outside Al-Qasr(no pun intended). around as the locals sharpened their scythes, or fed their mules, or smoked a quiet
sheesha (water-pipe). I stayed at the great Al-Qasr Hotel, run by the local celebrity Homda, whose smile is matched for sparkle by his cooking skills. For a couple of bucks a night, I had a huge room with a balcony, and could sit on the roof of the place with a glass of shay (tea) and a sheesha, and breathe in the sweet desert air.
A few kilometres from town, and you were straight into the harsh aridity of the desert. Wandering amongst the dunes and and boulders, you could feel the dryness permeating into your skin. The dehydrated animal remains and bleached bones served as a reminder that this stark and beautiful landscape was not an easy place to inhabit. What was perhaps most striking was how different it was from the 'stereotypical' Sahara of rolling white sand dunes - the desert had a thousand faces, from black rocks to white limestone formations to wind-blown piles of grey gravel.
Two days of this placid oasis village were enough, but I was enjoying the desert, and so I pushed on to the next
Sand
Speaks for itself, really. A bit boring, but this is real SAHARA sand! oasis, Farafra. I wasn't so enamoured with this place, as there was a slightly less hospitable atmosphere, but I found (what I thought was) a great, cheap hotel, and decided to stick around. The large, clear swimming pool in the hotel garden was a definite bonus. I lounged around for a couple of days, reading and sunning myself, and occasionally venturing out into the cool shade of the palm groves surrounding the town. By this morning I had seen everything there was to see, and I planned to catch the morning bus on to the next town. Settling my bill proved to be rather a stressful experience. What the hotel guy had neglected to add, when I had asked the price of my room, was the rather important suffix 'US Dollars'. He had very cheekily given me the price, knowing full well I thought it was in Egyptian pounds. I won't say how much I ended up losing, but suffice to say there are 6 pounds to the dollar. So I paid six times what I thought I would. Well, at least now I realised why a dirt-cheap hotel had a swimming pool...
Fuming and cursing, and perhaps a
Saharan casualty
The dessicated remains of a young cow lie in the sands just outside Dakhla oasis little desert-crazy after yesterday's dust storms, I decided it was time to split from the desert. It was all very wonderful - ethereal landscapes, dry, clean air, friendly people, and verdant, welcoming oases - but I was ready for something a bit more decadent. And so I stayed on the bus all the way to Cairo, where I am about to board another bus on to Dahab, a beach paradise on the Sinai Peninsula. I'm afraid that I have ahead of me a rather taxing week of swimming, snorkelling, drinking beer and eating pancakes. I take it from your collective silence that you are not feeling sorry for me in the slightest.
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Elizabeth & Mitch
non-member comment
Bastard
Yes, you've interpreted the silence correctly. (We're off to Japan in about an hour! By the way.)