Wake Up Call
If for a moment we ever forgot that we were in an Islamic country, it wasn’t usually for very long. And a number of things involving the number five were always on hand to remind us what faith most of the locals follow here. A study of the map told me there were five mosques nearby, in which the people lay prostrate and facing in an easterly direction five times a day. And every morning before sunrise at five o’clock, not so long after the last remaining drunks had staggered off to bed and the Nubian Village Resort next door had finally switched off its poolside stereo, the Muezzin at the nearest seat of worship began the first call to prayers of the new day. A curious place where worlds collide; a place where the deeply devout meets the disorderly and dissolute. Mellow, haunting and guttural, his low bass notes would wash across the empty silence, creeping in beneath the front door of our apartment. It was a beautiful and unworldly sound to a westerner who’d never been anywhere like this before, and in each of the first three mornings I was stirred from my sleep by his song.
When the other four calls came each day, the Muezzin would be competing with the holiday resorts in this Babel-like cocktail of sounds. By late morning it was not at all unusual to hear him chanting mournfully in my right ear, while La Macarena drowned the senses from the left. On one occasion I thought he was singing the chorus to Vienna by Ultravox, but I must have been mistaken. It seemed pretty unlikely that he’d have added European smash hits of the eighties to his repertoire. Just occasionally, in that delightfully peaceful period that started around sunset each day when the animations crew left their stations at the active pool and headed off for supper, I might catch the odd strain across the fading glow, but apart from that he was fighting a losing battle from where we were stationed in our resort. It was only at five in the morning that the stage was his alone.
On the third morning I set the first of a series of early alarms. Ok, so I set it incorrectly - I don’t usually have much call for morning alarms these days - but at least our local Muezzin was there on hand to correct my oversight with a wake up call of his own. For a moment I lay awake, listening to the holy man at his devotions, and then I dozed off again. I awoke once more just before quarter past six and leapt out of bed, quietly cursing myself as I did so. A little over fifteen minutes until sunrise. I peered through the curtains at a colourful morning sky. The Muezzin must see every single sunrise Tiran Island and the Gulf of Aqaba has to offer. At least I’d prepared the camera bag in advance. Five minutes later, I was on the path down towards the beach, where I found a vantage point that I would return to for a further three sunrises later in the holiday. A table under a parasol, the ensemble completed with two plastic chairs. And a lot of mosquitoes. I should have worn my jeans. And socks. With no time to spare, and a casual disregard of the fact that I was about to become the breakfast buffet for the local insect population, I planted my dainty little mini tripod on the wall and pulled up in one of the chairs beside it. Easy pickings with more time, but for now it was a race against the clock. None of that languorous blue hour business here - the sun comes up as if it’s been catapulted over the horizon by giants, and it’s not long at all before the textures and patterns in the sky are whitewashed away in a wall of blinding light. I’d surely get it wrong before things would start to make sense.
Actually, this is the very first shot I took in Egypt. Whether it's actually of Egypt is another question though. The first formative exposure of Tiran Island, an appealing lump on the horizon, its nationality a cause for discussion as far as I could tell. I'd read some sources that told me it was under the flag of Saudi Arabia, but the local Egyptians don't see it that way. Later, a fellow traveller lounging within earshot on his poolside sunbed asked the waiter about this. “It's Egyptian,” came the reply. I decided it was best not to get involved. Whichever country it belonged to, it was a fine subject for a sunrise shoot, and thanks to the unknown Muezzin I'd just about managed to get there in time for sunrise. It brings a whole new meaning to a dawn chorus.
Wake Up Call
If for a moment we ever forgot that we were in an Islamic country, it wasn’t usually for very long. And a number of things involving the number five were always on hand to remind us what faith most of the locals follow here. A study of the map told me there were five mosques nearby, in which the people lay prostrate and facing in an easterly direction five times a day. And every morning before sunrise at five o’clock, not so long after the last remaining drunks had staggered off to bed and the Nubian Village Resort next door had finally switched off its poolside stereo, the Muezzin at the nearest seat of worship began the first call to prayers of the new day. A curious place where worlds collide; a place where the deeply devout meets the disorderly and dissolute. Mellow, haunting and guttural, his low bass notes would wash across the empty silence, creeping in beneath the front door of our apartment. It was a beautiful and unworldly sound to a westerner who’d never been anywhere like this before, and in each of the first three mornings I was stirred from my sleep by his song.
When the other four calls came each day, the Muezzin would be competing with the holiday resorts in this Babel-like cocktail of sounds. By late morning it was not at all unusual to hear him chanting mournfully in my right ear, while La Macarena drowned the senses from the left. On one occasion I thought he was singing the chorus to Vienna by Ultravox, but I must have been mistaken. It seemed pretty unlikely that he’d have added European smash hits of the eighties to his repertoire. Just occasionally, in that delightfully peaceful period that started around sunset each day when the animations crew left their stations at the active pool and headed off for supper, I might catch the odd strain across the fading glow, but apart from that he was fighting a losing battle from where we were stationed in our resort. It was only at five in the morning that the stage was his alone.
On the third morning I set the first of a series of early alarms. Ok, so I set it incorrectly - I don’t usually have much call for morning alarms these days - but at least our local Muezzin was there on hand to correct my oversight with a wake up call of his own. For a moment I lay awake, listening to the holy man at his devotions, and then I dozed off again. I awoke once more just before quarter past six and leapt out of bed, quietly cursing myself as I did so. A little over fifteen minutes until sunrise. I peered through the curtains at a colourful morning sky. The Muezzin must see every single sunrise Tiran Island and the Gulf of Aqaba has to offer. At least I’d prepared the camera bag in advance. Five minutes later, I was on the path down towards the beach, where I found a vantage point that I would return to for a further three sunrises later in the holiday. A table under a parasol, the ensemble completed with two plastic chairs. And a lot of mosquitoes. I should have worn my jeans. And socks. With no time to spare, and a casual disregard of the fact that I was about to become the breakfast buffet for the local insect population, I planted my dainty little mini tripod on the wall and pulled up in one of the chairs beside it. Easy pickings with more time, but for now it was a race against the clock. None of that languorous blue hour business here - the sun comes up as if it’s been catapulted over the horizon by giants, and it’s not long at all before the textures and patterns in the sky are whitewashed away in a wall of blinding light. I’d surely get it wrong before things would start to make sense.
Actually, this is the very first shot I took in Egypt. Whether it's actually of Egypt is another question though. The first formative exposure of Tiran Island, an appealing lump on the horizon, its nationality a cause for discussion as far as I could tell. I'd read some sources that told me it was under the flag of Saudi Arabia, but the local Egyptians don't see it that way. Later, a fellow traveller lounging within earshot on his poolside sunbed asked the waiter about this. “It's Egyptian,” came the reply. I decided it was best not to get involved. Whichever country it belonged to, it was a fine subject for a sunrise shoot, and thanks to the unknown Muezzin I'd just about managed to get there in time for sunrise. It brings a whole new meaning to a dawn chorus.