Rare moments of Egyptian heat when there are practically no tourists on the beach
Maternal tenderness of the desert
A flight to Egypt and here I am in Hurghada. On my head – a Panama hat, on my nose – sunglasses, in my right hand – a large suitcase, one for two with my own sister. She also turned out to be devoid of snobbery (it runs in the family). Someday, perhaps, there will be a garden city here. For now, construction sites stretch along the short road to the hotel. It's clear. The desert is a clever marketing ploy. After it, the hotel with its surrounding area seems like the final point of civilization's development. Although, to be fair, even without the desert, it honestly looks like its four stars.
The local representative's name is Amr. His name is laconic, but his smile is as wide as the surrounding desert. His Russian is no worse than that of those he came to meet at the airport. Amr quickly stuck visa stamps into the passports, took us through immigration control without a queue, put us on a bus, and drove us to the hotel without losing anyone along the way.
Here, the Amr conveyor belt jams. At first, the calm and familiar dialogue between Amr and the duty porter, as they dig through some papers, becomes more lively, then heated, and by the end, it completely resembles an argument between two Caucasians about football. We timidly ask if something happened and if help is needed. Amr answers with a look full of tender pity. That's how a mother looks at a baby who has wet himself. That look makes it even scarier.
"Well, that's it," I think resignedly. "We haven't even had time to arrive..." But the conversation ends as unexpectedly as it began. The bellhop picks up the suitcases and leads us into the depths of the hotel, cheerfully waving the key. Without having time to understand anything, we for some reason shout "Thank you!" to the surrounding space as we run. "Good morning!" the space answers in chorus. We are pleased with each other.
Simplicity is better than stealing
Here they also know "Russki khorosho," "dobry vodka," "zayka moya," and many other things. And they are always happy to share their knowledge with our tourist. Every passerby tries to shout something tricky. As if you are back in school and being teased. Involuntarily, you start to respond in the same vein. Such simplicity of manners gets on your nerves. But not for long. Soon you realize that it is a unique natural resource and it would be foolish not to take advantage of it. It seems that most people come here not even for the sea, but precisely for this.
Here comes a man of gigantic proportions, elderly and of solid appearance. An Italian. Coming towards him is a small and agile aqua center instructor, one of the locals. They greet each other.
In translation into the local language, "hello" looks like this. With a piercing cry, the men throw themselves into each other's arms. Kisses and light pats on shoulders, backs, and other body parts. A scuffle begins, the pokes get stronger. Then both take a boxing stance. Fists flash in the air. The giant grabs the little one, easily lifts him off the ground and shakes him like a ripe pear. But he manages to break free from the embrace, giving his friend a strong blow to the head, and falls from a height of two meters. After that, both, shouting joyfully, run around the beach, throwing sand at the vacationers. They react calmly: maybe tomorrow they themselves will want to scream and throw sand.
It seems that the hotel administration deliberately cultivates such simplicity of relationships. For this purpose, it uses the services of animators.
He who does not participate laughs
The animators, hired by the administration for the evening entertainment of tourists, represent a characteristic type of Mediterranean adventurer. After dinner, the vacationers head out into the fresh air to sit peacefully at a table with a mug of beer. At exactly 10:00 PM, the show begins.
The animators dive into the midst of relaxed vacationers, grab the girls they like, and drag them onto the stage. This is the material for the "Miss Rimivera" contest (that's the name of our four-star Eden). To earn such a title, the "misses" must first kiss as many men as possible in one minute. As the contest goes on, the girls get excited and quickly mature for the second round. It consists of having to undress the men and try on what they take off.
The "miss" from Italy wins, on whom at the end of the marathon are found two bras wrapped around her waist over an unimaginable number of trousers and shorts. Unfair. She was helped by a noisy group of compatriots – they started energetically undressing even before the start was announced.
Spirit of contradiction bordering on fiction
If they ever build an oceanarium with exotic underwater creatures here, it will be a knowingly unprofitable venture. No one will go there. Because if you dive into the Red Sea at any point – even without scuba gear, just with a mask, fins, and snorkel – you end up alive in "Captain Cousteau's Odyssey."
By the way, more about unprofitable enterprises. A tourist is an inquisitive and unpredictable creature. It would seem that everything is provided: if you just want to swim, there is a shallow artificial lagoon with a clean bottom where the water is warm and you don't have to worry about sitting on a sea urchin (the fear must be mutual – otherwise why don't the urchins crawl in there?). If you want to dive, for $15-20 they will take you by boat to wonderful places, feed you, give you masks and fins, show you where to swim, and even make sure you don't drown from delight.
But tourists, like ants, trudge for 20 minutes around the beach over sharp rocks, find a sandbank, don their gear, clumsily plop into the water (it's knee-deep), struggle to steer into deeper water, paddle to the nearest island. And they hang around there. All you can hear is: "Fantastisch!", "Bellissimo!", "Wow!" The staff long ago gave up on these uncivilized people. But I came along – and clearly showed a new limit of human savagery. That is, I started diving straight from the pier (it's closer to walk to and more convenient on asphalt). It seems no one had done that here before.
Love cannot be measured in camels
If there are women anywhere in Egypt, it's just not in Hurghada. And if there are any in Hurghada, they are surrounded by children, husbands, and the conventions of Muslim life. Only men work in hotel service. Therefore, any free lady, even if she is 80 years old and missing a leg, becomes the most beautiful and desirable in this land. Waterfalls of compliments, glances, sighs, and ohs rain down on her. This leads to amazing transformations. And indeed, how much does a white woman, unaccustomed to true gallantry, need? Even if for a week, even if in the desert, but to feel almost like Cleopatra.
Well, tell me, where will you see a young man in love who sends his sweetheart letters twice a day, four pages long in small handwriting without a single repetition? Each one comes with a little souvenir and assurances that giving gifts to his beloved is the greatest happiness of his entire life.
True, after five days of this romance, our room gets cluttered with postcards, calendars, pens, cloth camels, scarabs, bracelets, and I hint to my sister that it wouldn't be bad if her ardent admirer found another way to pour out his feelings. He is ready. It turns out he is the winner of a national folk musicians competition, for which he has a certificate with a seal. And more than anything in the world, he loves to sing traditional songs accompanied by the ancient instrument oud. The instrument will be fixed in a few days, and then...
The poor fellow never understood why my sister started avoiding his company, without even waiting for the oud to be fixed.
Or another story. He was a local guide. She was a Russian girl. During excursions, he told her about his feelings. She listened absentmindedly. Against the backdrop of the ancient temples of Luxor, a dramatic explanation occurred: 'I have decided everything. You stay. We get married.' She got scared. He interpreted the fear in his own way and hastened to reassure: 'I am a wealthy man. I have an apartment and 40 camels. According to our laws, half will be yours.' She refused. She was troubled by the fact that 20 camels would need to be fed something.
The air of Hurghada is thick with love stories. But for me, their collective image is embodied in the following picture. Above – the moon and stars. Below – he, she, and the sea. He says something tenderly. She responds. Then she says something. They laugh, look into each other's eyes. Complete harmony. I know for sure that they do not share a common language.
You can also live without windows and doors
Many tourists visit Hurghada's downtown, but usually limit their route to souvenir shops on the central streets. Going out among the people should start with a snack bar where locals eat. And after a hearty meal – a smoke break. For this, there are special establishments where men of mostly working age sit all day, watching TV and puffing on hookahs. I understand them. Once in a smoking den, after three minutes you forget who you are, why, and where you came from. Such is the atmosphere. Many are sure that some special potion is packed into the hookah. Not true. Only good tobacco and nothing else. At most – flavored (optional).
And yet ordinary Egyptians do not live in smoking dens. Turn into any alley and, despite ditches, holes, construction debris, herds of feral chickens and goats, disregarding the creeping doubts, continue on your way. You might think that inhabited houses cannot be without window glass, doors, and sometimes even roofs. Oh, but they can, because a fully finished house requires paying taxes. And why windows and doors? It's hot all year round. The housing, the owners say, needs finishing, but that will come in time, and for now, it's good enough.
Yes, of course, there are private two- and three-story houses in clean neighborhoods in Hurghada, with neat gardens and satellite dishes, fenced with high fences behind which are good cars. So what? Haven't we seen satellite dishes?
Home again
Everything has an end. I am home. Solemnly I take out a gift for my partner. I bought him a galabiya. It's a men's dress from neck to toe, pure cotton. My partner looks like a crab caught off guard in shallow water. He flatly refuses to try it on. 'Come on, come on!' I chase him with the galabiya at the ready, and to lift his spirits I take out another little gift – a cassette with hits of a popular Egyptian singer. I turn it on. My husband leaves. For now – only to the other room. Poor thing, he hasn't been to Hurghada. And I will wear the galabiya myself. It suits me very well.