Sharm el Sheikh, Egypt

Sharm el Sheikh. The name evokes visions of a warm tropical sea lapping on a desert shore. A place where Bedouin tribesmen cast nets into a shallow lagoon. Where abaya-clad women, drawing buckets from a village well, chat and laugh shyly. Where young boys, with gentle shouts of “tut, tut, tut,” guide camels along an ancient caravan trail.

Located at the southern tip of Egypt’s Sinai peninsula, Sharm el Sheikh lies on an historic trading route overlooking the Straits of Tiran, the narrow passage that separates the Red Sea from the Gulf of Aqaba. A quiet Arab fishing village fifty years ago, Sharm now boasts two hundred resort hotels. Visitors come from around the globe to enjoy the hot desert air, relax on the white-sand beaches – and swim in the Red Sea. The warm waters here boast coral all colours of the rainbow, a mess of tropical fish, and some of the world’s best scuba diving.

But the Sinai has seen turbulent waters, both biblically and in the modern era. In June 1967, Egypt’s President, Abdal Nasser, in an effort to flex Arab muscle and stoke nationalist sentiment, blockaded the Straits of Tiran, strangling Israel from its only non-Mediterranean port. The response was strong, swift – and decisive.

Within hours the entire Egyptian air force lay in ruins, annihilated on the tarmac. Israel then took control of the Sinai and marched west to the Suez Canal. In less than a week the grand Egyptian plan lay in tatters, an utter failure. The Six-Day War was over. Egypt forfeited the Sinai. 15 years later the Israelis finally withdrew and the Egyptians returned to Sharm, inheriting a couple of nice Jewish ocean-side resorts and a peninsula saturated with landmines.

Things went well for a while. Sharm el Sheikh became a Mecca for British vacationers seeking refuge from a foggy London winter and Muscovites fleeing a snowy Christmas in Red Square. But in 2015 a Russian airliner exploded over the Sinai, killing all aboard. Tourism was decimated. Sharm is still on the no-fly list for Brits, and the Russians haven’t returned. But things are picking up. When we visited, the place was crawling with wealthy Ukrainians clad in string bikinis and banana hammocks.

From Sharm we made a couple of day-trips to test the Red Sea waters. First we chartered a boat to snorkel the clear fecund depths of Ras Muhammad National Park south of Sharm. The next morning we travelled north to the small seaside town of Dahab and the ‘Blue Hole’, famous worldwide to scuba enthusiasts. As lowly snorkelers, I thought we might not enjoy this celebrated spot as much as the snooty scuba divers. But the visibility from the surface, the plentiful fish and the coral colours were all fantastic, amongst the best I’ve ever experienced.

One cloudless day we doffed our bathing suits, donned hiking gear and piled into a van for a trip into the desolate Sinai interior, to St. Catherine’s Monastery, at the foot of the biblical Mount Sinai, where Moses saw the miraculous burning bush and is said to have received the Ten Commandments.

Our group of six was accompanied in the cramped vehicle by a contingent of four Egyptians. In addition to driver Mohammed and our ever-present and knowledgeable guide Sayed, we had an army official – plus a sleepy local tourism representative. The latter two gentlemen were mandatory and we paid a handsome sum of baksheesh for the pleasure of their company. From what I could surmise the sole job of the local guide was… to sleep. This he did diligently for the entire three-hour drive from Sharm to St Catherine’s – and likewise for the return trip. I can’t say how he passed the spell while we toured the monastery but I’ll hazard that he used the opportunity to have a nice quiet nap.

As for the army fellow, he was apparently our protector in case a group of radical Islamists decided to take aim at our convoy from behind a solitary acacia tree. He carried a pistol, tucked securely in the back of his pants, which he sat on untwitchingly for the duration. I fear that had any trouble brewed, the primary casualty would have been the poor fellow’s derriere.

At the monastery we were directed to the burning bush. Miraculously, not only has it survived lo these three millennia, but it has also migrated down the mountain to the courtyard of the monastery, for the convenient viewing of the faithful. St Catherine’s is the world’s longest continuously occupied Christian monastery. Monks have been doing vespers here, living a life of solitude – and guarding some of the world’s most precious and ancient manuscripts – since the sixth century.

Inside the church photographs are strictly forbidden. Everyone spoke in a hushed, respectful tone. I approached a man clad in modest attire and quietly asked him if he were a resident of the monastery. Thus began a fascinating chat with Theopholus. He patiently explained the fastidious daily ritual of a monk. We had a lovely visit. Sayed said we were very lucky. He had never before seen a monk chat casually with tourists.

On the return trip to Sharm we were treated to another miracle of sorts – present-day Egyptian style. The road descended into a steep valley along a dry wadi or riverbed. The driver stopped and told us this was a very special place, a site where strange forces caused cars to be magnetically drawn uphill.

“It attracts the metal,” he announced solemnly. Then he placed the van in neutral and, magically, we began to roll uphill. Or so it seemed.

“Have you ever heard of an optical illusion?” I asked.

At this, the slumbering tourism official stirred to attention – and the army escort shifted noticeably off the tip of his pistol.

“I’ll demonstrate.”

I stepped out of the van, set a bottle of water on the pavement and the entire contingent watched in amazement as the container rolled uphill. They say blind unwavering faith has its virtues. Me, I’m a science guy. If the world relied more on fact and less on unquestioned obedience to myth, maybe we’d all start rolling in the right direction.

In the morning we rolled out of bed. It was packing time. A visa for the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan was about to be stamped on our passports.

Gerry