Palin on Point

I've barely finished the introduction to Micahel Palin's diaries and he's hit the nail on the head. So much so, that I thought it worth sharing.

On a diary:

"Prejudices bob to the surface, anger cackles, judgements fall over each other, huffing and puffing. Opinions and interpretations are impulsive, inconsistent and frequently contradictory. But I'm not sure if that matters. After all that's where a daily diary format differs from autobiography or memoir. It is an antidote to hindsight.

It seals the present moment and preserves it from the tidying process of context, perspective, analysis and balance. It becomes history, but quite unselfconsciously."

A short while ago the same point reared itself in my head while perusing over old scribblings. It is so nice when someone else takes a thought under your consideration and illustrates it with a clarity beyond what you can muster.

Travel and writings to come...

GET IN THERE!

Touch wood... for a quarter of a year from October the old bag will be back on the back.

Base exhilaration at the news.

The sensation of walking out that door to places anew is quite unlike any other, and this time it will be with my brand spanking new wife. A whole conglomeration of emotions and excitement.... I can not wait!

That also means a whole lot more ramblings from, quite literally this time, around the world...

GET IN THERE!!!

Mount Sinai and St Catherine's

The Sinai Peninsula is a demilitarised zone by international treaty - part of the deal which secured the return of this triangular piece of land from Israel to Egypt and relative peace between the two countries. A major moment in the history of the region, regardless of the hostilities and tensions that remain. For this reason it was not troops who stopped us to say hello at various points as we were carted across the desert in the middle of the night, but a collection of police officers. Amongst these you apparently have secret service who call the shots. Whether tourist police or some other denomination, in general these guys were far from polite.

The repeated bone of contention was the Israeli nationality of one of my fellow travellers. As I was to later find out, she was anything but a hard-line nationalist Israeli, but she understandably would not back down with her eyes when the check-point police acted towards her with barely shielded disdain. Thanks to a Brit who spoke some Arabic, I caught a glimpse of the "uniform" attitude towards us – “five Americans and one Israeli”, even though we had shown passports from Canada, the UK and other European nations. Oh well, after a customary gap where the guy spoke to his superiors about the Israeli we were waived on and caught a few more disparate winks.

To think only a few years ago the coast of the Gulf of Aqaba was covered in camps of Israeli youth having fun. Now they are largely deserted. Bombs.

The Mountain

At the dry core of the range of mountains that makes up the spine of the peninsular, Mount Sinai rises to 2,285m. I cannot be bothered to go into the lengthy debate as to whether it is the very same mountain to that on which Moses is meant to have received the ten commandments, suffice to say that for many a century many people have thought that it is, which adds some resonance to the steady climb up its hard rock paths.

Amongst many others, we were joined on our saunter by numerous religious ladies of Russian Orthodox persuasion. This indicates that while the climb takes a few hours, it is little more than a walk. Slow steady steps in the darkness past camels waiting for over-weight North Americans, boulders and the occasional hut selling Snickers. Only towards the end did the climb significantly steepen, winding back and forth up the far side of the mountain.

As the pre-dawn showed itself, my father, an English lad and myself were positioned atop a rocky outcrop below the Orthodox church which adorns the peak. A lovely moment. As the first blues came over the horizon, I caught sight of a number of other precarious outcrops below, which were similarly occupied by people staring out over the mountains or curled up in sleeping bags.

Eventually, the blues gave way to yellows creeping over and into the hills, casting giant shadows and showing off the different colours and ruffling shapes of the surrounding mountains. An Orthodox ceremony started behind and the place took on a very special mood.

It was certainly worth making the climb. A large slapping of added bonus was that I was sharing such a moment with my father.

As we fuelled up with snacks and prepared for the trek down, I think we both enjoyed the intriguing sight of a take-your-breath away ballet dancer whom we had climbed up with, pulling choreographed poses on the cliff edge for some stunning pictures. An unlikely to be repeated composition. She was only upstaged by the backdrop.

The Monastery

For me and certainly my father, the main reason for coming here was not the mountain for all its beauty and mild yet refreshing challenge, but what lay at its base. Built by Justinian in the sixth century, it is according to one line of thought the oldest working monastery in the world. From where the steep mountain sides plant into the desert earth, mighty early Byzantine walls rise up. Along with the harsh climate and, vitally, the protection of many rulers of the region (most notably Muslim), these have protected the inhabitants and treasures of the monastery for nearly 1500 years. A remarkable place. We entered with the mass of others who had walked down from the summit. There was a real hustle-bustle as people raced around with their cameras and worship beads. After walking through the central church, where the understandably impatient Orthodox priests were on a non-stop mission to make the passers-by not spoil the peace, we came to the Burning Bush. It did not look like much, but it is held out as that of Exodus fame – God himself is supposed to have showed himself to Moses through it. I have to admit, it looked a bit of a young sprightly thing for such ancient roots. In fact it looked a lot like something I cleared from my mother’s garden a few years back. Yet despite its appearance it was for most the main draw and was constantly “pruned” by every tourist, nun and their mum taking a nip out of it.

During a wander to get away from the crowds, I found something far more impressive. For just a few Egyptian Pounds you gain entry into the an exhibit showing some of the treasures of the monastery, and quite some treasures to, in a place which holds the most impressive collection of early Orthodox icons in the world.

Just a couple of months beforehand I read a fascinating book on Byzantine history (Byzantium: The Surprising Life of a Medieval Empire by Judith Herrin) and here, just around the first corner, the first thing that caught my eyes was an icon highlighted in that book.

The Saviour. I’m not sure how well it will work with your finger and this miniature, but on the original, the slightly peculiar and haunting look of the icon is enlightened by covering up one side of Christ’s face and then the other. A duality comes clear. A striking image coming across sixteen centuries. Look for yourself.

By the time we left the museum, the monastery had largely emptied. We were able to walk back through the church and the small other parts of the monastery open to the public in quiet (understandably most of it is closed off). Monasteries are not meant to be experienced surrounded by noise.
Eventually, out we walked, just before the tour buses rolled in. We met up with those we had trekked up the mountain with. To me, shockingly, a couple of them had not bothered to look in the monastery. For one, it was that they had been there before. For the other, it was that it was Christian so why should they care. People are entitled to their own opinion, but I admit I found this distinctly disappointing, if not in them personally, then certainly as a generalised criticism. Not too often when I travel do I seek confrontation and this was not going to be an example - as already said, people are entitled to their own opinion and, if their opinion does not harm anyone else, then it is simply not worth it.

They're loss. They're ignorance. What a place!

Back across the desert we went. There was more diving to be done!

Diving in Dahab, Egypt

A long straight step and plunge......splurge....cutush... into a new world of bubbles and blue. Hard rock on all sides and only one way to go, down. Further and further, past scrabbles of coral and staring fish. Check the depth gauge – 30 metres. Through a small hole and into the expanse.

On one side sheer rock face, a cliff up to the shimmer way above and down into the deep dark depths. Eight hundred metres straight down I am led to believe. All else water. Epic and overbearing. A shrill down the spine.

The current pulls us past an array of fish nustling at the wall and giant fan corals gently filtering. Occasionally a glimpse of something bigger out into the blue – a barracuda or a jack. On and on we glide, then past techies lingering – an eerie feeling.

Up and over the lip and into the infamous Blue Hole. A freakish formation caused by a cylindrical shaped part of the shore rock falling into the deep. Straight down to a giant arch opening the feature into the abyss. A thought for all those who have perished through error, adventure or stupidity. Up and out for a beer.

Bells to Blue Hole – top top dive!

DAHAB

I have had the recent fortune of travelling with my father to this place half way up the Western shore of the Gulf of Aqaba.

Dahab, although being unlike 99% of the world, is much like the innumerable other beach/surf/dive bum places that make up a part of that extra 1%.

A mile or so of cushion laden hookah pipe smoking restaurants and dive shops facing the glimmering red sea. Behind lies the rugged and mountainous Sinai, mirrored across the water by the rising Saudi shore. All of this cooked by the Arabian sun and, thankfully, relieved by a constant warm breeze. A beautiful place.

To think this rift into which the Red Sea has poured is up to 1800 metres deep and the same rip in the earth's crust that I have encountered from Israel to Malawi.

It is easy to be cynical about places that draw people to a country, while acting as a shelter from the rigours and fascinations of the country proper. This is what Dahab is. Another backpacker fairyland, where you can get a banana and nutella pancake at any hour. But I like the place. Here on the cross-roads of the Middle East and North Africa is a place that just about works. People from all over the world (including, essentially, Egyptians) get by noticeably well. There is a trust amongst long term and short term residents that you will very rarely see in such transient places. People leave belongings around, greet each other civilly, generally smile and get on. Somewhere you can shift down a gear or three.There are underlying issues that are out of reach of what I could ascertain on this short trip. There is a very complicated relationship with the local Bedouin population. While much land is owned by these people, Egyptians from Cairo and the Nile delta take the jobs and the government have taken significant control over a valuable foreign currency earner. There is resentment. A bombing that left far too many people dead in 2006 is the cruelest evidence of this.

I do not see how I can draw this together with my own experience with any meaningful conclusion. All I can do is to leave it open as a question and try to learn more.

What is for sure, is that Dahab is a beacon compared to the resort cesspit of Sharm el Sheik, exactly what destinations should not be like. Exploitation from all angles and walled in tourists. A place of clash and snarls. Avoid it!

BACK TO THE DIVING

Apart from some overdue relaxing and a bit of party with lost South Africans, sorted plumbers and post-school gap year students that made me realise I can never go backwards, I was here to dive....and the diving is great. Beautiful coral gardens, underwater ravines, drop-offs, the fattest moray I’ve ever seen (a head as big as mine), a guitar shark and a plethora of other types of fish in all shapes, sizes and colours. I loved it. Add Sea Dancer, a top dive school (http://www.seadancerdivecenter.com/) complete with resident crazy dog, insightful instructors (thanks especially to Paul, pictured a bit below) and one of the best music collections I have come across (cheers Steve) and you’re there. Home of the world-records for both free-diving (straight down with only what you can hold in your lungs) and technical diving (dive freaks pushing the limits with multiple tanks and complicated air mixes) and the thrill-seeking nuts that set them, there is another side to this place. A couple of deaths in the last weeks and hundreds in total make you take a second look at why people push the limits for something with so little apparent gain. In surfing terms, people are searching for that BIG wave.

Perhaps it is the thrill of feeling alive. Something I have sought whenever possible over the past number of years. The problem is the danger inherent in the balance between feeling alive and staying alive. You just have to strike you’re own equilibrium, but this changes as time passes. I won’t deny that much of this tempts me, but for the moment I am happy to keep diving as my "adventure sport on slow” as a dive-buddy once said.

Beyond fun memories and pictures, one thing I want to take home from this trip is Paul’s critique of a group of these limit-pushers. He himself participates to one degree or another, but within limits. His quoted reaction to those who negligently risk the lives of themselves and others was “I’ll rip him a new arse-hole”. Strong words from one who is carefully and intelligently spoken.

To give one example, an instructor who took a group of non-deep divers, no doubt narked off their tits, through the arch of the blue hole (52m) while leaving a 14 year old kid on his own at depth. Disgraceful. It is evident that such behaviour is most prevalent in the heavy Russian diving contingent. Why this is I do not know, but it was confirmed by numerous different instructors and leads to two tiers of dive schools - be careful which ones you choose. Pushing the limits with careful planning and execution is one thing. Such recklessness another.

Hence I will, touch wood, return to Sea Dancer dive centre. July is hammer-head season....