A Bus Ride to the Desert
“I’d love to drive the Bee-Em down here!” The man with the Liverpudlian accent sitting across the aisle from me was talking to his two sons. “One hundred speed limit? How fast do the Egyptians drive?” replied the younger son, maybe twelve years old, wearing the Liverpool replica away kit with the number eleven and the name of a famous goal hungry Egyptian striker printed on the back. “That’s kilometres, not miles per hour,” replied the father.
To be honest, he could probably have driven the Bee-Em along this road at a hundred and fifty miles per hour without fear of incident. Sixteen of us thrill seekers were sitting in the passenger seats of a white microbus, sauntering happily along the centre of a five lane carriageway with barely another vehicle in sight. It seems as if the planners decided Sharm was going to be about ten times bigger than it actually is, and built a ring road big enough to handle the sort of traffic volumes you'd expect to find buzzing around the outskirts of Los Angeles or London. It was very different from the anarchic scenes along the hotel strip where any rules of the road that might have ever been laid down in statute appeared to have been abandoned by just about everyone behind a steering wheel. If you’re ever a passenger in Sharm el-Sheikh, my advice is to close your eyes and pray each time you arrive at a roundabout; just in case.
Along the north side of the empty ring road ran a huge wire fence without end, very possibly electrified, security cameras mounted on poles at regular intervals. You’re constantly reminded here that the safety of visitors is a high priority in this curious enclave at the southern tip of the Sinai Peninsula. Inside the bus, our ears were filled to overflowing by the bass speaker whomp from the driver’s Arabic Lounge CD that was blasting its way forcefully out of a set of speakers larger than were entirely necessary for a vehicle of this size. Touch the windows and you could feel them vibrating. Always an urgently beseeching male baritone, followed by a contralto female riposte in a duet to the death. I quite enjoy listening to this type of music - much more animated than a deal of the tinny blandness we’re fed at home, but it really didn’t need to be quite so loud. We could try complaining to the driver, but by now he was almost certainly deaf. It was a good job we weren’t going very far.
We arrived at a police checkpoint, where earnest faces peered through the windows at us from the outside. Ali had been filming sections of the journey on her phone, and I could guess what was going to happen next. You know those scenes you see on the news when an official puts his hand in front of a journalist’s camera to cover up government sponsored misdeeds in some distant dodgy democracy? Yup - just like that. I was quite impressed she’d joined me though. She’s never been the most adventurous person in the world, and hates bus journeys with a passion that most people reserve for far more emotive subjects, such as the mass produced monstrosities from the far east of Cornwall that the manufacturers try to pretend are pasties, and the great jam first debate. She doesn’t even like getting onto the park and ride service into the centre of Truro, preferring to drive in and scrabble for parking around the outskirts before walking the rest of the way. And she absolutely hates being confined in tight spaces with other humans. Don’t take it personally because you’ve done nothing wrong - she isn’t really very keen on anyone at all. Most of the time I’m surprised she tolerates me. I hadn’t been expecting her to come on the trip, but here she was, grimacing beside me as we made our way into the margins of the Sinai Desert. Even more impressively, she'd agreed to come on a moderately high octane pursuit. As long as I did the driving when we got there. At least I wouldn’t have to cross any roundabouts in Sharm el-Sheikh. But nor would I get to thrash a Bee-Em down the silent ring road.
Landscape photography opportunities here were extremely limited. Not because there wasn't an abundance of natural beauty. The problem was that you couldn't just wander off into the wilderness alone with a camera. Not with all of those police checkpoints and security fences around. It was one of the underlying reasons for coming on a dune buggy safari. The publicity blurb told me that later in the day we’d be walking up a small hill to watch the sunset. Although there was much of a sunset. I’ll come back to the adventure itself in another tale. For now I was just grateful to have the briefest of opportunities to stand in the mountains and point the camera towards the west at the end of the day. It turned out to be the only chance I got, and it really didn’t last for very long at all. As I stood there, surrounded by the rest of the group I deeply suspected that there were better spots than this to take one’s photos from, but it was this or nothing, and it was now or never. Three clicks and you’re out. But it was still worth the effort.
PS. I'm a lifelong supporter of Plymouth Argyle, an unfashionable team from a footballing backwater. They've never achieved much, and have rarely been in the spotlight. But today they faced the mighty Liverpool (who are very possibly the best team in Europe at the moment) in the fourth round of the FA Cup and beat them by a goal to nil. I'm still on Cloud Nine, several hours after the final whistle. I couldn't let this story pass without mentioning it, especially given the company we had on the bus that day.
A Bus Ride to the Desert
“I’d love to drive the Bee-Em down here!” The man with the Liverpudlian accent sitting across the aisle from me was talking to his two sons. “One hundred speed limit? How fast do the Egyptians drive?” replied the younger son, maybe twelve years old, wearing the Liverpool replica away kit with the number eleven and the name of a famous goal hungry Egyptian striker printed on the back. “That’s kilometres, not miles per hour,” replied the father.
To be honest, he could probably have driven the Bee-Em along this road at a hundred and fifty miles per hour without fear of incident. Sixteen of us thrill seekers were sitting in the passenger seats of a white microbus, sauntering happily along the centre of a five lane carriageway with barely another vehicle in sight. It seems as if the planners decided Sharm was going to be about ten times bigger than it actually is, and built a ring road big enough to handle the sort of traffic volumes you'd expect to find buzzing around the outskirts of Los Angeles or London. It was very different from the anarchic scenes along the hotel strip where any rules of the road that might have ever been laid down in statute appeared to have been abandoned by just about everyone behind a steering wheel. If you’re ever a passenger in Sharm el-Sheikh, my advice is to close your eyes and pray each time you arrive at a roundabout; just in case.
Along the north side of the empty ring road ran a huge wire fence without end, very possibly electrified, security cameras mounted on poles at regular intervals. You’re constantly reminded here that the safety of visitors is a high priority in this curious enclave at the southern tip of the Sinai Peninsula. Inside the bus, our ears were filled to overflowing by the bass speaker whomp from the driver’s Arabic Lounge CD that was blasting its way forcefully out of a set of speakers larger than were entirely necessary for a vehicle of this size. Touch the windows and you could feel them vibrating. Always an urgently beseeching male baritone, followed by a contralto female riposte in a duet to the death. I quite enjoy listening to this type of music - much more animated than a deal of the tinny blandness we’re fed at home, but it really didn’t need to be quite so loud. We could try complaining to the driver, but by now he was almost certainly deaf. It was a good job we weren’t going very far.
We arrived at a police checkpoint, where earnest faces peered through the windows at us from the outside. Ali had been filming sections of the journey on her phone, and I could guess what was going to happen next. You know those scenes you see on the news when an official puts his hand in front of a journalist’s camera to cover up government sponsored misdeeds in some distant dodgy democracy? Yup - just like that. I was quite impressed she’d joined me though. She’s never been the most adventurous person in the world, and hates bus journeys with a passion that most people reserve for far more emotive subjects, such as the mass produced monstrosities from the far east of Cornwall that the manufacturers try to pretend are pasties, and the great jam first debate. She doesn’t even like getting onto the park and ride service into the centre of Truro, preferring to drive in and scrabble for parking around the outskirts before walking the rest of the way. And she absolutely hates being confined in tight spaces with other humans. Don’t take it personally because you’ve done nothing wrong - she isn’t really very keen on anyone at all. Most of the time I’m surprised she tolerates me. I hadn’t been expecting her to come on the trip, but here she was, grimacing beside me as we made our way into the margins of the Sinai Desert. Even more impressively, she'd agreed to come on a moderately high octane pursuit. As long as I did the driving when we got there. At least I wouldn’t have to cross any roundabouts in Sharm el-Sheikh. But nor would I get to thrash a Bee-Em down the silent ring road.
Landscape photography opportunities here were extremely limited. Not because there wasn't an abundance of natural beauty. The problem was that you couldn't just wander off into the wilderness alone with a camera. Not with all of those police checkpoints and security fences around. It was one of the underlying reasons for coming on a dune buggy safari. The publicity blurb told me that later in the day we’d be walking up a small hill to watch the sunset. Although there was much of a sunset. I’ll come back to the adventure itself in another tale. For now I was just grateful to have the briefest of opportunities to stand in the mountains and point the camera towards the west at the end of the day. It turned out to be the only chance I got, and it really didn’t last for very long at all. As I stood there, surrounded by the rest of the group I deeply suspected that there were better spots than this to take one’s photos from, but it was this or nothing, and it was now or never. Three clicks and you’re out. But it was still worth the effort.
PS. I'm a lifelong supporter of Plymouth Argyle, an unfashionable team from a footballing backwater. They've never achieved much, and have rarely been in the spotlight. But today they faced the mighty Liverpool (who are very possibly the best team in Europe at the moment) in the fourth round of the FA Cup and beat them by a goal to nil. I'm still on Cloud Nine, several hours after the final whistle. I couldn't let this story pass without mentioning it, especially given the company we had on the bus that day.