Ferry to Egypt across bay of Aqaba. Sinai, burnished brass splintery rock with intermissions of copper dunes curling in the wind. Pedal creak tock creak, watching my hands burn then brown in cracked lips heat down the east coast.
Days of contradictory juxtaposition: Nuweiba, dusty purgatorial seashore town that might once have been a tell stories about hippie retreat but is now just sighing shacks and faded shopsigns. Once mosquitoes bad enough that the tent gets set up in the middle of the room to catch some sleep. And then Dahab, an abstraction of location, a backpackeur enclave homogeneous with any other — Thailand, India, Baja — affording no danger of touching the actual local culture preferring instead the comfort of empty pseudo tribalism in bare feet banana pancakes dreadlocks sheesha pipe affected local garb Bob Marley hardly half baked world philosophy. Some people come for the excellent diving. Needless to say it is an effortless indulgence to sink for a guilty span into the mocking mock diversity of culinary and beer options and read a book on the beach, 88 degrees F and a solemn sun puncturing sundry blues. The call to prayer seems especially loud as the European and Russian and Chinese tourists in sunglasses, bikinis, sandals scrupulously concentratingly don’t flinch, but I am sure it is my imagination.