Shame on Sharm
By itchingmyknee
Holiday from hell. Vicious vacation. Lethal leave. Beastly break. Ruinous rest. I have just returned from a week in “Egypt”. Only it wasn’t really Egypt, it was a tourist resort called Sharm el Sheikh. Egyptians have never lived there, it was built with the sole purpose of entertaining (torturing) resort-hopping (hapless) tourists after a little sun and sea, and perhaps a (bitter) taste of Africa.
The first couple of days were alright. We looked around our hotel and explored the tourist trap that is Naama Bay. It’s off-season out there now, so there weren’t many other guests staying, but we’re not the most social animals anyway. The hotel insisted on blaring pop music full blast from 8pm to 2am, even though it was a bit nippy out in the evenings so no one was actually out dancing, they were all a-bed with a pillow over their heads (excepting the occasional drunken pikey on an all-inclusive).
Then disaster struck. Food poisoning. The worst, or indeed best, that Egypt could muster. My fella and I were out for the count. Delirious. Spending more time in the bathroom that anywhere else. Locked in our room-cum-dungeon where we wallowed in our sickness fuelled by nightmares and putrid gases. We were stuck like that for an eternity. Waking in our sweat-soaked sheets we knew we had to get out, had to get drugs, had to smell the air. I really thought we might die. We stumbled to the pharmacy five minutes down the road. I didn’t make it, I fell back on the sandy street and shouted, “Go on without me, I can’t make it.” My brave boyfriend battled on, beaded in sweat and grasping his belly. When he retuned his expression spoke volumes, “They tried to charge me £50 for paracetamol”, he said. “I would have knocked the guy out but I couldn’t raise my fists. Managed to get him down to £13 for six.”
We’d missed the excursion we’d booked to Ras Mohammad, the underwater national park. It wasn’t just the money wasted that weighed heavily, we had both been looking forward to swimming with the pretty fishes. We were determined not to miss our other trips, and so on Wednesday night, fevers just broken, empty-bellied and slack-jawed we put on every item of clothing we’d packed in preparation for climbing Mount Sinai. We knew it would be gruelling, but we could not have foreseen how so. The bus came at 10pm, the climb would take place overnight and culminate in the sunrise at the peak. Then we would climb down the 3000 steps to the bottom. It was the second time this holiday I thought I would die. I don’t know how we made it up that mountain, muscles screaming, clothes soaked with sweat, fingers chapped with cold. The climb took hours, with occasional stops in Bedouin shacks to catch our breath. We did the climb on an empty stomach, terrified of getting caught out half way up the mountain, and hunger clawed at me like a rabid rat. I dreamed of my mother’s cooking, of stews and roasts and little green peas. There wasn’t even air in my lungs to complain, only the grim resolve of step after step, leg over leg all to the frenzied grind of my battered digestive system. The high point, both literally and metaphorically came at the top. Watching the sun rise on our endeavors and warming our tired bones made the whole climb worthwhile, and we told eachother how proud we were and wished on Moses mountain for better fortune. The whole thing lasted about 16 hours and we returned to the hotel at 2pm on Thursday. I ate and ate and ate and slept for the rest of the day.
The next day we’d booked quad biking in the desert. I won’t say much about this except that the desert was beautiful, the bumps were brutal and I fell off mine. Narrowly missing death by crushed cranium, I rolled like a stunt girl away from the falling machinery and felt the adrenaline rush of the “near-miss”. I used up my third life that day, and I only hope that like cats we get at least nine lives to play with. The holiday saga continued even after we arrived back home. The stairs to get us off the plane didn’t arrive, and we were stuck on an airless plane while the feckless stair-driver was prized off some bar stool. The whole holiday was more an exercise in human endurance than a rest: it would have been more relaxing to have joined the army. But I come home fitter, hardier and with a mental strength I never knew I had. I curse that red snapper and rice we ate in Naama Bay that first night. I curse the humous and the olives and the whole Fawares restaurant operation.
The sad thing is, for all the poisons that the food released in our bodies, for all the trauma it caused, the pain and frustration, the money wasted… it tasted so good.
short story
Sharm El Sheikh
holiday
Egypt
Mount Sinai
desert
Holiday from hell. Vicious vacation. Lethal leave. Beastly break. Ruinous rest. I have just returned from a week in “Egypt”. Only it wasn’t really Egypt, it was a tourist resort called Sharm el Sheikh. Egyptians have never lived there, it was built with the sole purpose of entertaining (torturing) resort-hopping (hapless) tourists after a little sun and sea, and perhaps a (bitter) taste of Africa.
The first couple of days were alright. We looked around our hotel and explored the tourist trap that is Naama Bay. It’s off-season out there now, so there weren’t many other guests staying, but we’re not the most social animals anyway. The hotel insisted on blaring pop music full blast from 8pm to 2am, even though it was a bit nippy out in the evenings so no one was actually out dancing, they were all a-bed with a pillow over their heads (excepting the occasional drunken pikey on an all-inclusive).
Then disaster struck. Food poisoning. The worst, or indeed best, that Egypt could muster. My fella and I were out for the count. Delirious. Spending more time in the bathroom that anywhere else. Locked in our room-cum-dungeon where we wallowed in our sickness fuelled by nightmares and putrid gases. We were stuck like that for an eternity. Waking in our sweat-soaked sheets we knew we had to get out, had to get drugs, had to smell the air. I really thought we might die. We stumbled to the pharmacy five minutes down the road. I didn’t make it, I fell back on the sandy street and shouted, “Go on without me, I can’t make it.” My brave boyfriend battled on, beaded in sweat and grasping his belly. When he retuned his expression spoke volumes, “They tried to charge me £50 for paracetamol”, he said. “I would have knocked the guy out but I couldn’t raise my fists. Managed to get him down to £13 for six.”
We’d missed the excursion we’d booked to Ras Mohammad, the underwater national park. It wasn’t just the money wasted that weighed heavily, we had both been looking forward to swimming with the pretty fishes. We were determined not to miss our other trips, and so on Wednesday night, fevers just broken, empty-bellied and slack-jawed we put on every item of clothing we’d packed in preparation for climbing Mount Sinai. We knew it would be gruelling, but we could not have foreseen how so. The bus came at 10pm, the climb would take place overnight and culminate in the sunrise at the peak. Then we would climb down the 3000 steps to the bottom. It was the second time this holiday I thought I would die. I don’t know how we made it up that mountain, muscles screaming, clothes soaked with sweat, fingers chapped with cold. The climb took hours, with occasional stops in Bedouin shacks to catch our breath. We did the climb on an empty stomach, terrified of getting caught out half way up the mountain, and hunger clawed at me like a rabid rat. I dreamed of my mother’s cooking, of stews and roasts and little green peas. There wasn’t even air in my lungs to complain, only the grim resolve of step after step, leg over leg all to the frenzied grind of my battered digestive system. The high point, both literally and metaphorically came at the top. Watching the sun rise on our endeavors and warming our tired bones made the whole climb worthwhile, and we told eachother how proud we were and wished on Moses mountain for better fortune. The whole thing lasted about 16 hours and we returned to the hotel at 2pm on Thursday. I ate and ate and ate and slept for the rest of the day.
The next day we’d booked quad biking in the desert. I won’t say much about this except that the desert was beautiful, the bumps were brutal and I fell off mine. Narrowly missing death by crushed cranium, I rolled like a stunt girl away from the falling machinery and felt the adrenaline rush of the “near-miss”. I used up my third life that day, and I only hope that like cats we get at least nine lives to play with. The holiday saga continued even after we arrived back home. The stairs to get us off the plane didn’t arrive, and we were stuck on an airless plane while the feckless stair-driver was prized off some bar stool. The whole holiday was more an exercise in human endurance than a rest: it would have been more relaxing to have joined the army. But I come home fitter, hardier and with a mental strength I never knew I had. I curse that red snapper and rice we ate in Naama Bay that first night. I curse the humous and the olives and the whole Fawares restaurant operation.
The sad thing is, for all the poisons that the food released in our bodies, for all the trauma it caused, the pain and frustration, the money wasted… it tasted so good.
short story
Sharm El Sheikh
holiday
Egypt
Mount Sinai
desert
posted by bitingmylip at 4:53 AM
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