Holiday

Four weeks off and no strength to do anything. I thought I would go mad. But in reality, it is just such a relief to do nothing and be alone.

A bit of a struggle

I have been ill. Realise I've never really been ill before, but this is like nothing I could have imagined springing out at me. Had to cancel wonderful and extravagant holiday trekking the mountains of Oman, as these days getting to the kitchen and back feels like a mountain trek. This has gone on for weeks, months. The first month was desperate, frightening and debilitating. It's better now, but I still can't do anything active without reeling in pain. Work, sleep, work, sleep, work, sleep. It's manageable, but still often a struggle. But I have finally found a wonderful, lovely doctor who actually inspires confidence, talks to me as if I have a brain, listens and generally makes me want to hug him.

It's made me realize, again, how lucky I have been with my all my colleagues. Everyone has been so kind, although I have not even been able to socialise and make many friends. The head of Primary and my Key Stage leader have been more than understanding. I have felt quite overwhelmed by their support, kindness and help. But despite all this, or maybe because of it, I am so aware that I have not been able to pull my weight. I came out here believing I had so much to offer and found myself unable to offer anything.

So my Qatar explorations have been focused on various hospitals and medical centres. Not my idea of exciting. Despite one heartwarming notice in the Hamad hospital:
"In the name of Allah the almighty and Mohammed his prophet, peace be upon him, no prescription will be given without medical card."

Carrefour update

I don't know what was going on that first time, but it was obviously a freak event. Carrefour queues are almost as bad here as in KL and probably the rest of their empire.

Weather update

The heat has gone. Days are pleasant twenties to thirties, nights comfortably tepid. Week by week the sea chills from hot, through warm to refreshing.
That's it really. Nothing much happens.

Mesaieed

View of new housing project from partially built school:


Scenic view from old nursery school:


Sign in Medical Centre:

Nothing like an ideal emergency.

It's arrived!

Well, my shipping has finally arrived. And this is what it looked like:
Customs had opened EVERYTHING. The clearance agents (I have not got the energy to describe my relationship with them and their endless faffing that left everything sitting in the docks for weeks) were left to stuff it willy-nilly back into knifed and torn boxes which were delivered to me gently spewing their contents. I can only imagine the mess that the poor guys (it's their boss I have issues with, not the drivers and dogsbodies) had to contend with. It must have been one almighty heap that meant that things didn't even go back into their original box. Still, nothing appears to be missing, and I've only found one thing damaged - Muda's painting gouged, it seems, by the knife that slashed the package open.
Hugged the big brass gecko from 6H, so pleased I was to find it safe and sound. Wore my EcoTraining wooly hat in the same spirit.

Journey to the end of Qatar

Went for a day of exploration with the guy I met in the Irish Bar. We drove to the northern tip of the country at Al Ruwais, which boasts nothing but a fishing dock and a customs post, then left the road and followed the East coast as closely as possible heading South.


I loved the bleak barren landscape of flat rocky desert. The sea gleamed turquoise in the sun beyond the abandoned villages we came across here and there. We drove up onto what is probably Qatar's highest point - at least 10m above sea level - and looked down into clear water, seaweed and plastic bags.

We met camels sauntering across the desert, swam again at sandy beaches, lazed in the sun and generally had a great day out. In the evening, dinner in Doha's old souk. It felt so good to be outside, seeing something beyond Doha, being back in the real world.

Doha in pictures

All taken in West Bay, commercial centre and breeding ground of skyscrapers.

Driving and other adventures

Ok, so it took nearly two weeks, but I finally spotted some camels on the way to work. That is, on my way to work - I don't know where they were going.

We've been in to 'work' for two weeks now. Most of the first week was spent on personal admin like residents' permits, bank accounts, driving licenses etc. All of these seem to require sheaves of paperwork, tangles of red tape and curious configurations of hoops to be jumped through. And just when you think you've made it, they invent a new hoop.

We have also visited various building sites. Great to be in a health and safety free country where it's ok to wander through half-built schools. The main school is going to be pretty impressive.... one day. The new nursery is looking good and nearly ready - it will be used for primary school for now. The bachelor housing is grotty little shoeboxes, the married accommodation is beyond palatial. The head is negotiating on our behalf for better deal, or so we hope. Luckily the powers that be don't think the eight single female teachers should be living in the bachelor zone with five thousand men, so they are listening. Of course our single men would have to get the same deal, which the powers may not understand. Whatever happens, one cert is that it will happen pretty slowly, so I may as well get settled in my flat. Have recounted the furniture, to discover that the living room alone has a total of seven tables, eleven chairs and two sofas (which still stink).

Driving has been another adventure - on the right, in an automatic. Have hired a little 4x4 which I love driving. The traffic is pretty sane compared to KL, but it is faster and more aggressive or less forgiving, or both. Went out early on Friday morning to make most of ghost-town time to learn way around and get to grips with car. Saw remains of a pretty nasty accident, including enormous pool of blood and a body being wrapped in a white sheet. Find driving better than being a passenger on the whole, and some taxis definitely provide a white-knuckle experience. While I'm always up for perilous sports I don't intend find myself on a roadside in a white sheet, even it is much nicer than a bodybag.

The preferred driving position is approximately quarter of an inch behind the car in front. Flashing (though often unseen as headlights parked under your back bumper) and hooting is used to indicate that the car behind you would like you to pull in, preferably underneath the truck you are currently overtaking. Lanes on roundabouts are meaningless and there is possibly a law stating that you must use all three. Shooting a red light carries a fine of about a thousand pounds so emergency stops are common as soon as the green starts to flash. Consequently, rear-ending is also common. I have come to prefer red lights to green as at least you know where you are with them.

Today we began the secret education of the staff children. Secret because the other parents are somewhat impatient to get their kids in and fed up with lack of start date. I've volunteered for swimming and PE, so today went will nine kids and the two PE teachers to the pool at the golf club. I was even lucky enough to get to go in the water, where I tried to teach a sinking four year old to swim. He was considerably shorter than the shallow end was deep, but he was pretty game. Things took a turn for the worse when he announced he needed the toilet - I held his hand to help negotiate some scattered power tools, broken concrete and slippery bits on the way to the changing room only to discover that I was expected to sort out paper and chat to him while he slowly disappeared bottom-first down the loo, explaining as he went that he was doing a poo. And he needed his minimal bits disentangling from the lace of his trunks which got in a tangle as he tried to tug them up. This is why I don't teach reception.

The beach club has been a great getaway, despite its titchy beach and view of the docks. The sea was tropically warm this weekend, rather than turkish-bath hot, making it much more pleasant. They also do great food at heavily subsidized prices, though not during fasting hours. I was there on Thursday afternoon with one of my neighbours and since there was no-one obviously about we were very daring and lurked behind a hedge to glug back water and cokes. Was a bit concerned that the circling helicopter was the Ramadan police, but have received no deportation notice yet.

Doha under construction

Doha is a city under construction. For every completed building there seem to be two more on the way. Cranes top more skyscrapers than roofs. Even in the heart of the city's West Bay there are huge empty plots, or massive foundation excavations. Heavy machinery thumps as holes are bored, dust billows.

There are not enough hot words to describe the heat. Even at midnight, stepping outdoors and standing still, sweat springs from every pore and runs in rivulets down your body. Daytime temperatures in the shade hit the high thirties; in the sun mid-forties are the norm. The humidity is stifling. I suppose I expected desert climate - hot dry days, coolish nights, but no. And it shouldn't have been surprising really, as we are surrounded by water. Aircon is a must, although of course it is too fierce (and noisy).

At the beach club I can sit and melt quietly in the shade before jumping into the bathwater-hot sea. The view of the docks from the minimal beach is a little uninspiring, but it's still a godsend to have this little bit of outdoors in a city built for indoor life. When I bemoan lack of balcony, garden or outdoor pool people keep telling me it's too hot, but I don't get it - it's only too hot for a couple of months. If we worked on this basis no one in Europe would have a garden as it's too cold.

Above: The beach club

A night out

The last drinking night before Ramadan, and the bar was heaving. Wherever you go in the world, will you always find an Irish bar?

I went with a few of my colleagues to the Irish Bar. There was much talk beforehand about how women here never need to pay for a drink here because men are so desperate for female company. Personally, I find the idea of never standing my round rather unsettling. I certainly can't manage the sang-froid required to accept a drink and then turn my back on the donor - apparently a perfectly normal sequence of events. I don't really think that any of us are quite at that stage. However, there is a bit of fair play maybe in the fact that men often can't get into a bar without a woman, so a drink seems to them small price to pay for entry.

Well, I can only say that there is something in the desperate men theory - even I managed to get chatted up. Yes, by a straight man who did actually realise that I'm a woman. I've a feeling we even danced. What is the world coming to?

Doha

Have moved. This flat is enormous. I'm thinking of opening a 40 bed backpackers' hostel. I'm in a complex called Seven Pearls, for which read seven blocks. I have walked about 12 miles just unpacking my flight luggage and a bit of shopping, though it would have been less if I hadn't kept getting lost between the bedroom and living room. I have 2 bedrooms, and a living space that includes a miniature hotel lobby with those naff hotel lobby chairs and tables on the way to the living and dining bit. I have four coffee tables, three toilets, two plastic trees and a dishwasher. But only one bowl, one plate and a spoon. Refuse to buy more in case my shipping actually turns up. The fridge is so big I could (and might) sit in it quite comfortably. Probably on a chair.

But before it all sounds too good to be true, it's a bit dark and gloomy and the sofa stinks and is greasy and generally reminiscent of seriously unwashed hair. But luckily there are numerous seating options (14 chairs and 2 sofas) so some rearrangement may be possible so that I can slob out in front of the TV in between shopping malls.

Thinking of which, trundling round Carrefour this evening looking for irons, kettles and emergency food supplies did give me a whack of deja vu. Then left me confused as they didn't have the same stock as KL of course. Friday evening is the busiest shopping time of the week and it was packed and crazy - but unlike Malaysia there were checkouts with no-one, yes no-one waiting. Carrefour was in the most bizarre shopping mall I've ever seen. It's styled on Venice, apparently, so above the shopfronts there are supposedly Italian style traditional house upper storey facades and above them a blue sky with a few wispy clouds. But best of all, canals flow through the mall and weary shoppers can take a gondola ride. Kid you not. Mind you, doing one loop on foot did fairly wear me out.

The heat is amazing but it's the humidity that's come as a surprise. Stepping out into it is like going into a sauna where someone's just sloshed water onto the coals. Or when there's a breeze it's like having a hair dryer constantly on, on a very slow very hot setting. I may even have to use the aircon. And the gym. And the pool (unfortunately indoor) Looks like running will be a problem till the weather cools - even nights are like Malaysian days. Darker though.

Doha, Qatar

Doha – day 2. Has it really only been two days?
So here I am, about to rejoin the grown-up world of work.

First impressions – hot, humid, hazy and dusty, building sites, high-rises, sterile, hot...

Got to the hotel at about 2am to be handed an envelope in which a letter informed me that I'd be collected at 7 to go for a medical – before which I was to fast for 12 hours – as well as referring to my job title as 'Acaademic Head of EAL' – what??? Later, that was confirmed as a mistake. Nine of us went for this medical and the bit by bit process took us till 2pm. The rest of the group are all working at another school, which is actually built already and has been happily running for some years. In the evening I met with the primary head of my school and a couple of other staff members. We were filled in on everything, which is to say we found out that nobody knows anything. Neither the school (not even the temporary building) nor the staff accommodation is finished, though this is as expected. And with Ramadan around the corner, things are set to slow down a bit. If we have a building, we'll open for admissions but not for teaching. We'll start teaching... well, nobody really knows when. We have an induction day on Sunday for those staff who've already arrived – at the golf club. Thereafter, we'll be going to work every day. “Where?” I asked. “Ahhh.... good question...” mused the head.

Signed my contract today and was given a wad of money from my furnishing allowance so spent a happy afternoon in a mall loading up with the bare essentials to tide me over until my shipping shows up (or is confirmed lost at sea). Tomorrow I'll be moving into temporary accommodation, where I'll be living till October, or November, or December, or permanently.

The hotel is lush. More exotic bathing condiments than I'd ever buy for myself, a buffet to die for with at least 40 interesting salads and great mounds of smoked salmon and mackerel– I haven't even tried the hot food yet. Doormen whisk your shopping bags out of your taxi and whoever hung my thick white bathrobe up this morning has been back to lay in out on my turned-down bed, along with a chocolate and tomorrow's weather forecast. An old shabby like me could feel quite out of place, except you can't because the people aren't like that. And anyway I was sashaying around in a skirt this morning. Yes, a skirt. I even ironed it, after phoning the conciererge for the necessary equipment. Ha! But it's not quite too good to be true – it's a dry hotel. Possibly the only 5 star dry hotel in the country. The good news is that it may be possible to sort out beer-buying permits before the country's one grog shop closes for Ramadan. And there isn't a swimming pool, but the primary head is leading an expedition to the beach club on Saturday where he hopes to get us all in as prospective members. Which I certainly am anyway. Beach, good cheap cafe, sailing, fun boats, etc. Infidel bikinis allowed.

Seems to be a nice crowd, and the only wanker turned out to be going to the other school at the other end of the country (albiet only 50 miles away but it's enough). Hope to meet up again some time with all the others who left for there today. The hotel is a sort of holding camp where people spend two or three days while processing medicals, contracts, etc, then move on – can't keep up with who's who or where half the time. Just as you get to know people they move on. The “organization” is from head office, not the school, so no-one knows where they're going or when, then a driver turns up with a list of people to take somewhere and wonders why they're not ready or even there.

For general Doha impressions I'll try and do a blog entry some time soon as I'm sure you're all dying to hear about the bleak dry land between the building sites, the heat and the general lack of camels.

May not be quite as wow as living in Malaysia, but I have to say I'm really excited about the chaos out of which we hope to raise a school.

Edinburgh Festival Photos

Edinburgh

Edinburgh without the festival just isn't right. It's like going up stairs when you think there's one more step than there is and you thump down on the flat. I should have, maybe did, get used to it over these last few months, but oh the joy to be back at festival time.

The High Street buzzes with a bizarre army of flyer-pushers working their way between tourists, festival junkies and earnest show-goers. Posters are layered over each other by enterprising groups who vie for the safest top-spot by climbing onto shoulders or leaping wildly with broom-handles. On miniature stages, on bollards and the cobbled road, groups perform tasters of their shows. Basil Fawlty and Manuel saunter down the Mile, passing dancers, wenches, pirates, dead bodies, stilt-walkers and a rugby team whose Hakka holds up the traffic. Pluck perform with such a dazzling brilliance that I immediately buy a ticket. The sun shines. This is Edinburgh.

There isn't enough time to see everything I'd like to, but this year I get to more shows than ever. Choose better. Although I still ended up at at least one cringeworthy failure of a show - but then, that's part of the fun.

I found some gems this year: Pluck, Tony!The Blair Musical, John Hegley (again) and Pericles Redux being the highlights. Pericles Redux was the most unusual and mesmerising Shakespeare you could imagine - original text woven into physical theatre that told the story, grabbed you and carried you away. And a few days later I came across the team performing on the street, a vision of topless muscular strength and elegance.

The energy of the festival is heady. Just sitting in the Pleasance Courtyard sipping a drink is like a show in itself.

Kuala Lumpur

Home

Spring has sprung

It's been six years since I saw seasons, give or take the odd autumnal tree in Zimbabwe last May. So it's been rather nice to watch the changing of the seasons. From the heavy frosts those icy sunny days in late December to the new year snows, we shot through snowdrops and crocuses towards spring. Daffodils and lambs cavorting on the ever-greener hillsides, blossoms fragrantly came and went with breathtaking transience, leaving us with a Scottish summer. At six or seven o'clock I feel slightly cheated by the lack of darkness, remembering fondly the cold damp early nights of January, but then by nine or ten o'clock I look out and see the daylight still slowly fading and feel quite uplifted, chuffed. And then, the sky a rich deepening blue, the evenings seem quite magical and I like to walk along the river. Baby rabbits hop hopelessly away into the undergrowth, ducks take their ducklings for a swim as the first few stars begin to show and the laughter wafts across from the terrace of the pub. Summer evenings, exactly how we'd like to remember them, just as the winter pulled out enough perfect days to maintain a romantic vision and fortify selective memory.

I used to say that if I'd missed anything while in Malaysia, it would have been the seasons. I wouldn't say I actively did, but it's certainly been good to see them again.

Saqqara

The drive out to Saqqara took us away from Cairo through tree-lined roads that cut a way through fields of crops and small villagey areas. We passed the pyramids of Abusir, a couple of dry petrol stations and a rash of carpet schools before arriving at the entrance to the Saqqara complex, a huge sprawling area dominated by the marvellous step pyramid of the Pharoah Djoser.

This style, maybe even this pyramid, was the beginning of the trend for burying bigwigs in large geometric structures. From mounds of sand the Ancient Egyptians progressed to square, flat-topped mastabas before someone decided to park six mastabas of decreasing size on top of each other. Mind how you pronounce this, as someone who I shan't name found my pronunciation cause for much sniggering. I loved the Step Pyramid, its chunky lines and deep textures, the sand piled up on each step. There was quite a bit of restoration work going on, but we happily wandered around the 'no entry' side and watched the work and found some statues visible through a hole in a wall.

Teti's pyramid looked like an old heap of rubble, but the interior was amazing. A low-ceilinged flight of steep steps took us into the middle chamber of three. The walls were covered in heiroglyphics, row upon row from floor to ceiling. Crawling through an opening, we entered the most amazing room containing a huge stone sarcophagus. Massive ceiling slabs were hung above, some of them seemingly in defiance of gravity - something best not pondered on, especially in conjunction with the obvious evidence that above ground the whole pyramid has completely disintegrated. These slabs were engraved all over with large five-pointed stars, very like starfish, pale against the dark surface of the stone. Again, the walls were carved with heiroglyphs, a repeating pattern of symbols and Teti's name in a cartouche. The person in charge quickly invited us to ignore the No Photography rule - with his hand out, of course.

Mereruka's tomb was stunning. It was a whole complex of rooms with wings for his wife and children. We walked through room after room, each one decorated with fabulous paintings. Again, the mind boggled with the amount of work that went into creating such a place. There were pictures of people working, carrying crops, handling animals - including an experiment in hyena husbandry, Mereruka himself relaxing on his bed while his wife played a harp, children playing games and pulling off some artistic acrobatic balances. And more... and more. As with the rest of the site, it wasn't clear what was original and what had been restored, but I think many of these carved pictures have been repainted, especially as this building has been opened to the light with some holes in the ceiling. There was a statue of Mereruka with an offering altar in at his feet and a huge stone ring sunk into the floor for tethering sacrificial animals. A shaft led down to a burial chamber far below and so I get the impression that this was more of a temple at ground level, in use after Mereruka's death.

I loved the whole site at Saqqara, its huge peaceful space. The step pyramid was more impressive than I'd expected, quite a stunner, but it was the underground chambers of Teti's pyramid that blew me away, or would have done if the guide had butted out long enough for me to zone out and travel back a few thousand years in peace. And the paintings in Mereruka's tomb. This place is amazing - and that's coming from one who gets historied-out fairly easily.

Saqqara - it's not just a beer

Having a blast!

There's so much more I should have been blogging, but frankly I've been so busy having a damn good time that I haven't fitted it in. Maybe retrospectively.

Wadi Digla was a drive of exploration, up the wide, parched river bed, the wadi gradually narrowing until we had to get out and walk, scrambling through the winding gorge, whose floor and sides had been sculpted beautifully by the flowing water. We climbed right out at the top and looked down at the speck of a car we'd left. There was a stark, barren beauty to the place. There were also about a million plastic bags which I imagine have been blown many miles to reach the gorge where they hang in the poor scraggly bushes that really have a hard enough life without that to deal with. And out here, overcome by its rugged good looks against the inhospitable background, Kate consummated her love for her car.

We've been to the touristy souks of Khal el Kalili, visited the peaceful old mosques of the Citadel and looked out over smog-bound Cairo, and we've been on a mad mission to find a cafe called Groppi's where my mother remembers having ice-cream in 1964. On the way there we stumbled upon the tiniest of backstreet bakeries where dozens of people were queuing outside a hole in the wall for the bread that rolled out of the conveyor oven. Seeing our interest, the owner invited us in for an impromptu tour; in one small room, through the floury air, we saw the bread being kneaded, shaped and taken for its quick roll through the oven, while chewing on our delicious fresh free sample. These unexpected moments are always such highlights and suited the crazy mission we were on that day. Incidentally, we found Groppi's too. Everything about it was pretty awful except the ice-cream which was fabulous. Good tip, Mum. Unfortunately we failed in our other mission: to track down mosque-shaped alarm clocks that wake you up with a call to prayer.

We've had some great Egyptian food, especially in a lovely courtyard restaurant in Maadi; beers and mezze and stuffed pigeons and all sorts of experimental choices, all of them good. The bread here is definitely highly-ranked in my world-wide favourite breads list. Which I must compile soon.

And every day has finished with an afternoon with the kids, in the garden or pool or biking around the estate, and evenings on the veranda with Kate and Rick. I sit up late when everyone has gone to bed and gaze out at the darkness and smile. I can't quite believe how lucky I am to have such lovely friends and to be here with them now.

I'm having the time of my life.

Cairo Donkey Sanctuary

I was really impressed by Dr Mourad, who runs the Cairo Donkey Sanctuary Mobile Clinic. He was totally committed, enthusiastic and professional in every way. He dispensed treatment without ever seeming to judge those whose donkeys had been badly cared for; he gave advice, asked them to come back next week, but never told them off. For somebody who cared so much about his work, it could have been hard to resist preaching and haranguing, but his approach is perfect. People aren’t scared to come, they return, they learn. A modest smile touched his face when he told us, on questioning, of the success of the sanctuary; it seemed more that he was proud of the project, not of himself.

In a backstreet beside the pyramids at Giza four vets worked out of the back of a van, offering free treatment to anyone who brought their donkey along. There were dozens of donkeys suffering from a fly-borne eye complaint which necessitated rinsing by syringing water up the nostrils to flush out the eyes. This seemed to be a slightly uncomfortable treatment, requiring two men to hold the donkey’s head still while a third inserted the tube and did the syringing. After a bit more cleaning and some eye-drops they were sent on their way wearing fly-masks to prevent reinfection.

We saw a number of donkeys with raw open sores from the ropes and chains of home-made harnesses and bridles. These wounds crawled with flies and looked as if they had been there a long time. The fifth member of the sanctuary team is a bridle maker who will exchange all the dodgy ropes and bits of chain for well-made harnesses. With all this care being offered for free, there has been a great improvement in the health of donkeys in the area. Still, we were told that some owners wouldn’t bring their donkeys because it was wasting time that they could be using to make money, especially if they were giving pyramid rides to tourists.

On another donkey we were shown a healed wound, where a rope across the nose had rubbed right through the flesh, making an extra pair of nostrils. It’s alarming to think that a wound could be allowed to go so far, but to these people they are working animals and there’s none of our soppy attitude to animals. Dr Mourad told us about the education programme he runs and how it really seems to be making a difference, often starting with children who go on to educate their families. He preaches donkey training with love so there is never a need to beat the animal because it will go willingly and respond to verbal commands, and of course the simple message that looking after it might actually mean it lives longer and is stronger. Obvious to us, maybe, but a new philosophy to many. It was good to hear him say how much things are changing, although he cannot hope to reach all areas. It was lovely to see one young boy tell another one off for hitting his donkey, showing that the message is getting through. And the working space they use at Giza each Sunday belongs to a riding stables who will dismiss any staff who beat an animal.

I’m not averse to the odd donkey, but it would be a lie to say that I’ve always harboured a great love for them. But I know good work when I see it and of course I just love to experience these behind-the-scenes aspects of life, every day life away from the tourist trail. Of course, Kate was dying to stick her arm up some donkey’s backside, but they managed to hold her back. This time.

The White Desert

One of the things I had really wanted to see in Egypt was the White Desert. A few phone calls on Thursday and it was sorted – a private tour – for Friday morning. A long featureless bus journey through the desert took me Baharia Oasis, where I was met by my team – two guys, a land cruiser and not much English. First stop was the police station where I had to register my presence and chose to sign a statement confirming that I had turned down the offer of police protection for my journey. Surely I could trust these lads I'd known for three and a half minutes? Anyway, all the tourist police I've met so far have seemed far dodgier, grumpier or sleazier than my guides. So off I went, throwing trepidation out of the window of the shabbily spacious interior of the vehicle as we sped out of town. I leaned back in the low-slung, laid back seat and enjoyed the contradiction of heat and wind in my face.

It wasn’t long before we veered off the road and across the packed sandy gritty stuff, then shot up the side of a small sand dune, thumping to a halt just as we seemed ready to take off. I got out for a wander on the dune and enjoyed the views beyond. The flat pan I looked down on was a curvy maze of tyre tracks, where the sand showed through the black grit and I wondered if this was one of those places where the tracks are never blown away. It looked like it.

The journey continued, on and off road, the detours taking us to various viewpoints and interesting features where I hopped out to explore and photograph. The desert got blacker and we stopped at the foot of a volcano, its solid black plug giving a good indication of where the black desert got its sand. There were lots of these little volcanoes and the mixture of colours gave the desert and its hills a wonderful depth and texture.

At a small oasis village we stopped at a cafe for a lunch of flies with salad, bread and flies, and fly tea. The guys began teaching me Arabic and conversation flowed like porridge, although porridge isn't generally so amusing.

Beyond the black desert was more sand-coloured desert. The off-road was high in “wheee” factor at times, with some big ups and downs, including one long steep up that took us seven attempts, zooming back down and looping round at high speed on the flat before gunning for the top again. This one was to reach a small crawl-through cave-like structure. Inside the walls were chock with crystals and outside some superb specimens lay around. I picked up a diamond-like lump, as long as my thumb, and held it up to see the sun shining through its smooth translucent surface.

Crystal Mountain had a similar abundance of crystals, although mountain was something of an overstatement. It had layers of crystals, reddish sedimentary rock and something volcanic on top and a natural rock arch, some organ-pipe effects, white powdery chalk which could even have been talc, and probably anything else you care to think of. This was a baby mountain gone crazy in a geological pick’n’mix.

Agabet was stunning, huge sandstone lumps, mountain-like but not mountain shaped, rising up like islands out of the sand. We perched at the top of a rise and looked down at it spreading out into the distance before us, then whooshed down the sand and drove between these things and back to the road.

We joined the road again, and soon enough white things began to appear in the sand. The white desert! We left the road and headed into an area known as The Tents because the rocks look like, well, tents. Actually, I thought they looked like buns and loaves dropped in the sand, with the odd ball of ice-cream, slightly melted at its base. They were densely packed at first and we wove our way between them in the golden pre-sunset. Then there were mushrooms, more blobs and the occasional phallus. There was a chicken shaped rock and a pretty good rabbit. In some areas the white rock was flat-sided and lumps of edgy icebergs seemed to drift in the sand, in other places there were series of similar rocks sweeping in line like waves. Some blobs were peeling their outer layers and flakes dropped at my touch or crunched underfoot. I haven’t done my research but this must have all been chalk, firm but brittle, and pretty good at leaving its mark on my clothes.

While the guys set up our little camp, I watched the sun go down and listened to the silence. It’s a good place to get a perspective on the world, on your own insignificance. So much space, so much sky, the nearly full moon well risen already. The same desert I had walked and slept in on the other side of this continent. A lot of sand, a lot of space. A beautiful world, some of which we haven’t spoiled yet.

Our camp consisted of a windbreak, some rugs, a table and three mattresses. Anything fancier could never have been so perfect. In the evening, a desert fox came to visit us and later a rather nice mouse. Presumably a desert mouse. Abdul cooked up some pretty good stuff over the fire and the evening passed quickly, eating, drinking tea, smoking shisha and talking. It was warm and windless so we all slept out on the rug under the Saharan sky. My general life plan doesn’t normally include sleeping in the middle of a desert with two strange men, having inhaled strange substances, but I really wasn’t in the mood to worry. And of course, my judgement was as good as their intentions, the tobacco innocent and appley. At about four o’clock I woke up to see that the moon had gone and the sky was absolutely bejeweled. I had to keep forcing my eyes open against sleep just to see it; and now it could almost have been a dream. Was the sky really blue-black? Were there really more stars than I’ve ever seen before? Were they really bigger and brighter and closer? I don’t want to know. I can still see that sky in my mind’s eye.

I was up in the pre-sunrise light, gazing, still stupefied by my surroundings. The White Desert is mind-boggling, beautiful and serene. It could be another planet; it could restore your faith in this one.

Wishing I had a couple more days, we packed up and headed straight back to Baharia. In the car I felt fit to explode with happiness, joy even. I was high from the desert trip, but it wasn’t just that. It was like the culmination something that’s been growing and bubbling up inside since I got here. Unfortunately there were no crazy off-road dune excursions, so my whoops and wheees may have seemed rather peculiar to Abdul and Romario.

The bus back from Baharia took forever but I was still flying when it dumped me, six hours worth of mosque music still echoing in my ears, in some godforsaken corner of Cairo nowhere near the bus station. I merrily hopped to and fro across six lanes of traffic in search of drinks and snacks and then set to finding a taxi. I soon had to drop my policy of only waving down cabs that looked vaguely roadworthy or uncrashed and realized that beggars couldn’t be choosers when no driver had heard of the district where Rick and Kate live. As soon as I got a glimmer of recognition, I hopped in and ended up having a grand old time directing the driver, whose English was even worse than my Arabic (and that’s saying something), round the ring road navigating by the “hmmm, this might be familiar” method. It’s particularly invigorating to use this method while having to deliver directions with great authority and make split-second decisions at high speed in the wrong lane. I arrived well chuffed with my unexpected navigational brilliance.