Walking to Fantasy Island

I woke up late in the afternoon with a plan to walk to Fatnis Gezeera, which translates as "Fantasy Island." This was an ambitious name for what in reality is a short peninsula poking into a shrinking brine lake. The walk isn't any more than 6km and is well marked - at least if you can read Arabic. Learning the Arabic alphabet before traveling to Egypt isn't a bad idea, actually. It's not so difficult and is very handy in situations just like this. Of course, knowledge is its own reward: I was tickled with myself when I discovered that I could read the Arabic script for "Fanta" on a bottle of orange soda. I had to show Ms. Chadha, even though she didn't need a label to recognize a Fanta and even if she did, the English word was clearly written on the opposite side. You take baby steps when learning Arabic.

In town, the late-afternoon sun washed out what little color could be seen under the thick yellow dust that coated absolutely everything. I'd hoped for clearer skies in Siwa, but there was just enough of a breeze to kick up a haze, though nothing like what I have grown used to in Cairo. As I walked further from the town, I was startled to see how green the oasis really was - it was especially brilliant closer to the lake (called Birket Siwa) where the water kept the dust down.

At the isthmus leading to Fatnis Gezeera, water bubbles out of a spring fifteen meters deep and collects in a tiled pool before being distributed via a handful of small irrigation canals to the rest of the island. This is the first of the beautiful, refreshing oasis baths in which I didn't swim. Even if you're like me and you skip the swimming (and spend the next week trying to figure out why), the combination of water and shade makes this an ideal place to stop and rest for a while. Some clever entrepreneur had recognized this and was boiling a kettle of mint tea over a small fire of palm leaves.

I was looking for a lazy way to finish out the afternoon and the island didn't disappoint. The breeze had died over Birket Siwa leaving the water's surface so completely still that it flawlessly mirrored the mesas on the far end of the lake. I once spent three days in Essaouira learning to recognize the best places to watch sunsets and the bank of the oasis was showing all the signs. I planted myself in one of the better chairs, ordered the first of many sugary mint teas, and pulled out a book. It was good that I had claimed a seat, because over the next hour, the island began to fill with fellow sunset enthusiasts. I can respect a culture that takes time off for these things.

The haze over the Great Sand Sea blotted out the sun even before it had set over the horizon. It was getting dark quickly and the goddamn mosquitoes don't wait long. I walked back beside fences made of palm fronds which separated individual orchards from the road. Behind them I could hear children laughing and playing, but more than that, I could hear a lot of singing. Sound carries a long way in the dry desert air, and it was eery how many people I could hear but how few I could see. As it grew darker, it became easy to imagine myself in some kind of "Children of the Palms" scenario. I don't know if it was this or my innate paranoia that made me refuse every offer of a lift on the way back into town. One boy on a bike stopped, looked at me with some concern, and asked me if I needed a ride. I said that I didn't and he kept on his way. Thirty minutes later, he passed me from the other direction and again asked if I needed a ride. When I finally convinced him that I didn't, he shook his head and wished me a good evening and a safe trip. Looking back, I realize that it may actually have been a gesture born out of a real desire to be helpful. It was nice to be out of Cairo.

Siwa after sunset has nothing in common with Siwa in the afternoon. The market souq had come to life such that you probably couldn't hail a donkey-taxi unless you knew someone. The cafes were completely full with Siwan men and their teas, coffees and sheeshas. You might see people smoking sheeshas in other parts of North Africa, but in Egypt, they live with them. All of the tourists and expats congregate at a place called at Abdou's. I went there too, eventually, but the first night I went to a much quieter place just off the main square called Alexander. I don't think I made the wrong choice.

When I eat alone at a restaurant, I normally like to order a few drinks. This is simply because drinking makes everything better. Other than a few spa hotels outside of town, Siwa is dry, so I was going to have to forego alcohol for a sweet-lemonade sugar rush. This wasn't as disappointing as it might have been, because the juice in Egypt is too good for words (even though I foresee a post where I try to describe it anyway). For dinner, I ordered the shish tawooq, which is a chicken, tomato, onion, and lemon kebab marinated in yogurt and spices. At Alexander, they served it with warm bread, hummus, a chickpea and tomato salad, and some sort of spicy yogurt-based sauce. It was fantastic. I enjoyed it in the kind of way that usually means that karma will force intestinal humiliation on me to put things back on an even keel.

I've always imagined myself to be a visual person, but I'm starting to think I travel as much for the food as the sights. If only there were some way to share the tastes.