Muszeina Bedouin Girl. An extremely rare glimpse.
Years ago I travelled to Israel for a good friends's wedding. I'd met him a couple years earlier as an undergrad and our shared passion for art, politics and international roommates led to a fast and lasting friendship. A complex and tortured young man, my friend was a painter turned elite paratrooper turned painter again. His breaking of heads during the first Intifadah had broken his heart and spirit, and when I met him he was just beginning a road to healing that continues to this day. "Come to my wedding and see for yourself," he told me one night over meze when I asked about the Negev desert. I was fascinated by deserts and had been studying the geography of his country. "Better yet, come early and travel to Sinai so you can take pictures and show me how it looks."
At the time relations with Egypt were pretty good and Israelis did travel in Egypt, but things in his background prevented him doing so. His parents had been part of the occupying force in Sinai during the Six Day War and growing up he'd become obsessed with the mysterious mountainous landscape of this harsh, dry peninsula. "Surely you've seen plenty of pictures from Sinai," I replied. "Don't they have National Geographic in Israel?"
Letting out an enormous belch that startled the table behind him, my new best friend lit up a cigarette, drained his beer and turned on a winning smile. Handsome faced and perfectly fit, that women found him devastatingly attractive was no mystery. The allure ran deeper, though, to his vulnerability and damaged spirit. That he had "done things" in his young life that no person should be forced to do was written in his eyes, though he never bragged. Taking my hand in his as if with his fiancée, he caressed my knuckles with his thumb and looked deep into my eyes. In this moment I understood his allure. This was honestly who he was. I started to laugh and his smile widened. Grabbing my hand even tighter he said,
"But yours are the only eyes I trust to see it how I would see it, my friend." and the beer took over as we laughed our way onto the street and into the cold Cambridge night.
Two years earlier he had been diagnosed with an acute and aggressive glaucoma, brought on by the stress of his duty in the Army. He was slowly and steadily going blind.
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The harsh wilderness of the Sinai Pinensula is unlike any other place in the world. Bordered on the East by the Gulf of Aqaba and on the West by the Gulf of Suez, and to the North by the Mediterranean and in the South by the Red Sea, it is a land bridge between the continents of Africa and Asia. Desolate and hostile to human habitation, this ancient and majestic environment is home to nomadic tribes of Bedouin peoples who have ruled the landscape since ancient times. Their deeply conservative cultures are defined by honor codes and complex oral traditions rooted in a time of regional upheaval and conquering forces.
Anyone traveling to the Sinai will encounter Bedouins, as cabbies or herding camels along the highway from a passing bus. If you journey to the Monastery of St. Catherine and climb Mt. Sinai as we did, they will be the caretakers and guides, brewing up a refreshing Marmaraya Bedouin tea at the half-way point. A timeless and deserved reputation for hospitality is perhaps the most known quality of the Bedouin cultures. Living in a place so hostile to life means offering help to those who need it. For myself and my roommate help came in the form of a very nervous cab driver as we walked the main street of Sharm el-Sheikh, having been let off the bus by an exasperated bus driver at the end of a very hot day in July.
"No picture!" the man said and he meant it. "For the camel you pay!"
Earlier we had entered Egypt at he Eliat/Taba border on the southern tip of Israel. Forgoing the world-famous nude beaches for the thrill of the desert, my roommate and I crossed the no-man's-land between these two wary nations and hopped on a bus to Dahab. The plan was to snorkel in the Red Sea for a couple of days before heading into the heart of the region to climb Mt. Sinai and visit the Byzantine monastery of St. Catherine. It was an incredibly hot ride marred by repeated mechanical breakdowns, a circumstance familiar to many a Sinai traveller.
The second breakdown, outside of Nuweiba brought about our first interaction with the Bedouin community. Sweltering in the radiant heat by the side of the highway and alongside the shells of destroyed Egyptian tanks (a relic of the Six Day War) a man led his camels to an unknown destination. My roommate, a photographer and world class traveler, was soon behind his lens to capture our first real taste of this orange desert.
A fellow passenger, the man with his back to the camera in the image above, had gone ahead to speak to the herder in Arabic. We didn't realize at the time he was asking permission and the both of us began to shoot. An angry yell erupted from the caravan and the man came toward us, hands out and demanding we stop.
"What is he saying?" we asked. The anger was abrupt we were genuinely surprised.
"You have to pay to photograph the camels," the passenger told us. "Sorry"
Not really knowing what to do we stood there and fumbled in our pockets, finding nothing but large bills. Out of the blue came the bus driver, a Bedouin from a different tribe, yelling back at the camel herder. "Don't give him money, get back on the bus!" he told us. "Don't pay for camels. Don't be stupid." Getting on the bus the Arabis-speaking passenger told us it was a common ruse. "You won't find the hospitality everywhere," he said. "Money is money here just like everywhere else. Apparently so are tourists. " He was smug and thought us naive. He laughed as the bus puled away, waving to the camel herder. My roommate and I looked at one another and settled back into a hot ride. Within half an hour we passed out in the oppressive heat.
Long roads into the distance is a feature of this landscape.
The bus broke down several more times but never for as long. Waking up, we would look out the window to a barely changed landscape and fall back asleep. When we truly woke up, late in the day as things began to cool, Dahab was far behind us and the bus was pulling into Sharm el-Sheikh. Unbeknownst to us there was at that time a major Peace Summit taking place in and around the coastal city. Every hotel was occupied by security forces, diplomats and their attendant help. The Saudi King was there, and so was Warren Christopher. My roommate and I, the only two left on the bus, were let out by an exasperated bus driver who was pissed we didn't know better. We certainly were the only two people walking anywhere nearby. Loaded down with bulging rucksacks and sporting huge bushy beards, we stood out in a way that we didn't realize.
As we walked, dazed and thirsty and sick from the heat, a tiny green cab barreled right up in front of us. Screeching to a halt, the driver door flew open and a tall man in traditional Bedouin dress jumped out and opened the back door for us. "Get in." he said. He was nervous.
Wary that he was looking only for money, we hesitated and didn't move. Hand on the door handle, the man looked back and forth between us as if we were crazy. "Get in. No charge. Let's go." Something in his voice told us he wasn't trying to scam us. We climbed in his cab and he slammed the door behind us. Hopping in the front he stepped on the gas and peeled out into the street, gunning the engine toward the edge of town.
"Where are you going?" he asked, looking us in the eye through his rearview mirror. "Dahab," my friend told him and the driver laughed. "Dahab is far away, "he told us, "no Dahab today. Tomorrow, yes, but not today." We looked at each other in panic. What the hell is going on, we thought. This can not be real.
So my buddy asked the driver why he picked us up and wasn't charging for the ride. "Security sent me to move you away. They don't like your bags." he said, drawing on an unfiltered Egyptian cigarette we would soon grow to know too well. We later learned that snipers had trained their guns on us as we left the bus. Our arrival coincided with something happening within the Summit, someone moving from one hotel to another, a motorcade, we had no way of knowing. Our cab driver probably saved us from at least a night in jail and certain interrogation. It was the opening move in a round of hospitality that ran for a night and a day in what was by far the most interesting experience of my life at that time.
Muszeina Bedouin compound. Somewhere between Sharm el SHeikh and St, Catherine's Monastery. Sinai, Egypt.
By the time we arrived at his camp it was hours past dark. We were hungry, nervous and amazingly thirsty. Despite his having plenty of water the desert had dried us out and we couldn't get enough to drink. It is a strange feeling to ride with an unknown man to an unknown destination in the middle of nowhere. We felt safe but uneasy. The unexpected seemed to be happening at every turn and our comfort zones were left far, far behind. The cabbie, whose English was practiced from years of driving taxi's, assured us we were safe and would be welcomed by his family. "We have hospitality," he told us, smiling through bright white teeth. "No problems. You are welcome."
On our exiting the cab the goats and children immediately scattered. We wouldn't see (but would occasionally hear) either until the next morning. The kids would be fascinated by our beards and our cameras and would show us their soccer skills. Our beards, particularly my roommates sculpted Zoroastrian behemoth and attendant handlebar mustache, were almost like passports. They worked magic with border guards later on as well.
As the driver led us to a campfire where a dozen men sat smoking and drinking tea, the smell of bread and kibbeh was intoxicating to the senses. For the next hour we sat and ate, drank tea, and smoked cigarette after cigarette while our new friend told the story of our rescue to a laughing audience. More than once someone made their hands into a rifle and shooting gestures, to the amusement of everyone. We felt privileged to be there and had by that time completely relaxed.
About the time several women had removed the trays and left over food from the area, our driver disappeared and returned with a carved wooden box. All of the men laughed and gestured toward us and whatever they were saying clearly pleased them. "Smoke!" said one man who looked to be a brother to our driver. We had had plenty of smokes, thank you, they were making us kind of sick. "No," said the driver opening the box, "different smoke" as he pulled out a goat skin satchel of pungent, aromatic hashish. A sort of cheer went up and several men left then returned with instruments. While the hash passed in thick spliffs mixed with tobacco, the music began slowly and plaintively, drawing us deeper into the campfire and our own internal dialogues. I can not say how long this lasted. Hours, well into the night, until one by one the men retired to sleep, leaving a single darabukka player to keep rhythm with the Milky Way as it travelled imperceptibly above our camp.
I lay awake that night after my roommate had fallen off to sleep, the slow and intricate percussion weaving magic with the cannabis in my head. In my mind I saw Arabian soldiers on horseback a thousand years ago, huddled around a campfire amongst those same foothills of the Sinai Peninsula on return from expedition. I imagined the creaking sounds of the cooling stone high up in the mountains were the legendary jdinn of Arabian lore come to examine my foreign presence. I saw trains of Pharoah's slaves driving camel and elephants from Africa to the Nile river bound for Aswan. The stars. The stars. I was inside of the stars.
Promises to return are standing invitations.
The next morning as we gathered our things and said our goodbyes, our new friends told us we could photograph, no problem, but we felt awkward and intrusive in doing so. I decided to take just a few, casually snapping shots of the camp from a distance and the kids playing soccer. It is unusual to see girls in the presence of strangers uncovered and I was surprised when told I could photograph our driver's daughter. "I'm not afraid of cameras," he told us and I took the picture at the top of this post. It wasn't until weeks later, once back in Boston, that I understood just how beautiful she was. At the time I tried not to make too much obvious eye contact, the dynamic was conservative, though we stared at one another in secret. As I see this picture now her vibrance and intelligence is the perfect illustration of my entire experience in her camp. She is the beauty of the Sinai, the magic in the sky at night. She is the future of that family. She is a thousand years of Bedouin hospitality to be found in one simple smile.
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August 13, 2014
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