Shattered (updated)
When I was asked a few years ago what my favorite place to visit was, I was quick to answer: Dahab.
A backpacker’s paradise on the Red Sea. A cheaper, more rustic, less superficial version of Sharm el Sheik. Restaurants parked right next to the sea. Cushions to recline on. Bedouin children selling bracelets, demanding, “Buy me coke!" and willing to play backgammon—“if I win you buy, if you win I give.” Fried Mars bars, fresh fish, fruit cocktails, big breakfasts. A lovely breeze and always a pink or purple sunset. People worth people watching. Nights full of dancing. Some of the best snorkeling and scuba diving in the world.
And men. Lots of Egyptian men working along the promenade, each trying to lure you into his restaurant, which really isn’t any different from the last one you passed or the next one you’ll come to. It’s these men’s attitudes, their jokes, their come-ons that pull you in or send you scurrying. Most of the men are good time boys, used to a never-ending supply of foreign women who are also looking to have a little fun. Some of the men are charming, some swarmy, some funny, but all are flirts. The men are both a blessing and a plague in Dahab.
I’ve been there many times before, often on my own, so I got to know a lot of the workers. I was surprised, though, that they remembered me by name when I was there in August, more than two years since my last visit. It was a month after the bombings in Sharm El Sheik, just a short distance to the south, but Dahab was as it had always been. I spent the days at various restaurants, playing backgammon, practicing Arabic, napping, snorkeling, trekking to a Bedouin village. I danced the nights away at the boat-shaped bar Tota with the same guys I’d know before, as if years hadn’t passed by since my last visit.
This was the first time I remember meeting Hamada. I didn’t get to know him well, but his name brings to mind a memory. He was short and thin, with a moustache and fox-like features. He was like the younger brother of the group I already knew—a little pesky, a little troublesome. He was on the peripheral, trying to get in. On the dance floor, I remember his persistence, always worrying me. It’s not clear to me now if I was really annoyed or if that was all just part of the game.
Hamada was killed on Monday when three bombs exploded in Dahab.
The first time terrorism has touched me personally.
**********************************************************************************
28 April 2006
I just received an email from Adam, a Sudanese friend I know from Dahab. Luckily, he's been resettled to Baltimore and is safe, but he relayed more bad news. Two of the workers at Moon Valley, a place where I spent many afternoons the last time I visited, were killed. He tells me that I knew Mouafi and Hasham. Mouafi is a name I remember (and not as common a name as Ahmed or Mohamed). I can't put a face to it, as much as I strain to, but I remember getting along well with the guys there. Jane reminded me that we had some ongoing joke about names; I think Mouafi had given us each an Egyptian name, though that, too, I can't recall.
When I talked to Hassan and Mohamed on the telephone a few days ago, Mohamed surprised me with what he said. "Shit happens, but ilhumdolilah we're okay." The first part seemed too cavalier, too flippant. But maybe it expresses a helplessness, a surrender to forces he can't control. He said they hoped to see me in Dahab again soon.
The bombings won't scare me away. The next time I go to Egypt, I'll go to Dahab, as I always used to. But as I walk up and down that promenade, it won't be with the same carefree spirit. I will be walking to see the faces, to know the names, to remember.
A backpacker’s paradise on the Red Sea. A cheaper, more rustic, less superficial version of Sharm el Sheik. Restaurants parked right next to the sea. Cushions to recline on. Bedouin children selling bracelets, demanding, “Buy me coke!" and willing to play backgammon—“if I win you buy, if you win I give.” Fried Mars bars, fresh fish, fruit cocktails, big breakfasts. A lovely breeze and always a pink or purple sunset. People worth people watching. Nights full of dancing. Some of the best snorkeling and scuba diving in the world.
And men. Lots of Egyptian men working along the promenade, each trying to lure you into his restaurant, which really isn’t any different from the last one you passed or the next one you’ll come to. It’s these men’s attitudes, their jokes, their come-ons that pull you in or send you scurrying. Most of the men are good time boys, used to a never-ending supply of foreign women who are also looking to have a little fun. Some of the men are charming, some swarmy, some funny, but all are flirts. The men are both a blessing and a plague in Dahab.
I’ve been there many times before, often on my own, so I got to know a lot of the workers. I was surprised, though, that they remembered me by name when I was there in August, more than two years since my last visit. It was a month after the bombings in Sharm El Sheik, just a short distance to the south, but Dahab was as it had always been. I spent the days at various restaurants, playing backgammon, practicing Arabic, napping, snorkeling, trekking to a Bedouin village. I danced the nights away at the boat-shaped bar Tota with the same guys I’d know before, as if years hadn’t passed by since my last visit.
This was the first time I remember meeting Hamada. I didn’t get to know him well, but his name brings to mind a memory. He was short and thin, with a moustache and fox-like features. He was like the younger brother of the group I already knew—a little pesky, a little troublesome. He was on the peripheral, trying to get in. On the dance floor, I remember his persistence, always worrying me. It’s not clear to me now if I was really annoyed or if that was all just part of the game.
Hamada was killed on Monday when three bombs exploded in Dahab.
The first time terrorism has touched me personally.
**********************************************************************************
28 April 2006
I just received an email from Adam, a Sudanese friend I know from Dahab. Luckily, he's been resettled to Baltimore and is safe, but he relayed more bad news. Two of the workers at Moon Valley, a place where I spent many afternoons the last time I visited, were killed. He tells me that I knew Mouafi and Hasham. Mouafi is a name I remember (and not as common a name as Ahmed or Mohamed). I can't put a face to it, as much as I strain to, but I remember getting along well with the guys there. Jane reminded me that we had some ongoing joke about names; I think Mouafi had given us each an Egyptian name, though that, too, I can't recall.
When I talked to Hassan and Mohamed on the telephone a few days ago, Mohamed surprised me with what he said. "Shit happens, but ilhumdolilah we're okay." The first part seemed too cavalier, too flippant. But maybe it expresses a helplessness, a surrender to forces he can't control. He said they hoped to see me in Dahab again soon.
The bombings won't scare me away. The next time I go to Egypt, I'll go to Dahab, as I always used to. But as I walk up and down that promenade, it won't be with the same carefree spirit. I will be walking to see the faces, to know the names, to remember.
posted by Jill at 8:43 AM
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