How to See the Sahara, Pt. 2

He said it casually, as if it was normal, everyday, and utterly safe. We looked at each other, shrugged our shoulders, and made the type of split-second decision that seems to be an emerging pattern in Egypt:

This is absolutely insane, ridiculously sketchy, and will probably get us killed, but what the hell. Go for it.

And go we did. The five of us climbed, hoisted or otherwise scrambled ourselves to the roof of what can only be described as a death trap with wheels. There was the faint suggestion of a luggage rack around the perimeter of the roof, and a spare tire with a rusted wheel well. We found hand holds, and braced ourselves. Ali, already in the driver's seat, leaned out the window. Meshi? he asked, with a crooked smile. Meshi. Okay. Let's go.

And over the sand dunes we raced. The rolling hills of the Sahara reached up to meet us, as Ali dodged and weaved along a path only he could see. It was a surprisingly smooth ride, much better than below in the bench seats where the Egyptian couple still sat. Hammad and I, in front, lifted our hands as if on a roller coaster, prompting a chorus from Sarah and Hafsa: I swear to God you put your hands down this second...I'm really not kidding...

We were going fast enough now that our clothes were drying on us, and even sunglasses didn't prevent our eyes from protesting. Over and over, we kept trying to put to words what we were doing, only able to express the overwhelming feeling of incredulity:

We're in Egypt. In the middle of the Sahara. At an oasis town. On the top of a truck. Going 60 through the desert. ...who are we?!

As we raced through the desert, Hammad kept shouting that this had to be illegal, that we could never do this in the US. We were in a place where many things went unregulated. Again, is it illegal if there are no laws prohibiting it? Jacob wondered out loud who we sued if we got hurt. We all knew the answer, of course. Ali drove with one hand, the other hanging languidly and casually out the window. Hafsa would occasionally pray aloud in Arabic.

And then the truck stopped.

We had just come to what appeared on approach to be the crest of a small dune, much like the ones we had been summiting for the past 15 minutes. Ali leaned out the window, and gave a thumbs up. "Hang on!" he shouted, grinning wildly. "Are you scared?" He slammed it into neutral. The truck began to inch forward across the crest of the dune. We all looked down.

There was nothing below us.

And when I say nothing, you have to understand that this is a different kind of nothing than we saw on the coastline of the Mediterranean. Different from the nothing at random bus stops on the road to Siwa. Not the nothing that is the Sahara.

This was like, you know, nothing.

Far down below us we could see the valley floor, deep in the shadow of the massive cliff upon which we were now so precariously balanced. The only way I can describe it is to liken it to a cornice on a mountain, where gently sloping snow hangs over a nearly-vertical cliff, except here it was made of sand and here we were sitting on top of it, something you never, ever do on a cornice. As gravity began to work its magic and the truck began its descent--there is no way we can make it down this--I heard screaming behind me-- that must be...75, 80 degrees..we are going to flip--and saw Hammad's eyes widen in terror. We were actually going down this thing.

I saw that Ali was following tire tracks that led all the way to the bottom, so some other crazy fool must have made it. That was the only reassuring thought I had time for, as the truck began to pick up speed, the girls in the back began to slide forward, and we all held on for dear life. Somewhere between the shrieking wind and the screams of terror: bismillah al rahman al rahim...

To the astonishment of the other Jeeps waiting for us at the bottom of the hill, we survived. I couldn't stop grinning ("That was awesome!"), Sarah was about ready to kill someone or faint, or both, and Hammad couldn't stop going on about legality ("How is that legal? ...That wasn't legal. How did we not die?!"). As we whipped up to the shoreline, we were greeted to many a bemused stare from the other travelers and hearty laughs by the Siwan guides. Ali just grinned. Chauffeur fou indeed.

But we didn't have much time to reflect on the insanity of what we had just participated in, as we were at one of the most beautiful places to which I have ever borne witness. We had arrived at the cold springs, a veritable lake in the middle of the desert, surrounded by a tall, thick grass whose reflection faded gently into the deep blue water. The occasional breeze broke the surface of the spring, but other than that it was glassy. I know I keep saying this, but my pictures don't do it justice. I tried, though. Just look at this one, and the color palette. No photoshop necessary. Absolutely spectacular.

As Hammad and I took pictures from the roof of the truck, the other three went down to the shoreline. "It's cold!" they shouted, "Like, really really cold." We noticed that no one was getting in, not the travelers or the Egyptians. I made my way to the springs, and stuck a foot in. My toes recoiled.

"You jump in! 1-2-3, you must jump!" Ali shouted instructions from the shade. "Just go!" The water was dark. It just looked cold, so still it could have been frozen. But Ali said to go. And, well, we've seen what happens when we have to make these types of decisions. So you can guess what happened next.

My heart stopped. It hurt. A sharp pain spread across my rib cage as my body tried to adjust to the temperature. When I hit the surface, I couldn't breathe, but I could feel my heart punch again, with a vigor suggesting that it wanted out of its environs and I would be well to do the same. A chorus of ohmygods broke out as we all surfaced at the same time, somehow finding our lungs to express our utter shock. "My heart stopped," Sarah gasped. Everyone made a beeline for the shore, to a chorus of laughter from the Siwan guides.

We collapsed on the shore after doing a quick assessment to see if we had left any extremities in the cold springs. But after a short while, something possessed me. Yeah, it had been cold. It reminded me of Tahoe, or a glacier spring on Mt. Hood. But I knew enough to know that it gets warmer, or you get numb, or both, if you stay in for a bit. I stood up, walked with purpose to the water's edge, and dove in. I kept swimming, doing a modified breast stroke so I could keep breathing as I went to the middle of the lake. The cold gnawed at me, but I knew my Finding Nemo. I kept swimming, and the cold abated.

The Egyptians went nuts. "They're saying you're crazy!" Hammad shouted to me from the shore. "They don't know how you can stand it!" But it really wasn't that bad after awhile. I turned my back to my audience, and looked out onto the Sahara. Dark water ringed with lush, tall grass set in the middle of the world's biggest desert, 30 km from Libya. I ducked my head underwater, and it all went silent. It was beautiful.

Gutsy as ever, Sarah swam out to meet me. She too soon went numb, and described our time in the cold springs as a zen moment. Clarifying. Hurts so good. I'd have to agree. Eventually we got Jacob and Hammad in the water; Hafsa took pictures. Soon it was time to go see a fossil bed from the era when the Sahara had been underwater, so we climbed back up onto the roof of the truck and sped off.

Ali took us down more impossible cliffs along the way, and each time the terror was fresh. Each time we thought we would not make it. Each time we prayed or screamed or did whatever it is you do when you think you are about to die. And each time we arrived at the bottom, swept by wind and waves of adrenaline.

The fossil beds were cool, and provided fodder for some great pictures as the sun began to set on the desert, casting amazing shadows across the dunes and mud flats. Jacob and I lazily walked up and wildly ran down one of those ridiculously steep hills that our truck had traversed. We could barely keep our footing as we sank into the sand; how our car had made it was anyone's guess.

Ali took us to Ali Khalid Camp, where we were greeted by the silent Osman, the camp's proprietor. Osman immediately impressed us by tending the fire with his bare hands, holding on to burning logs for longer than was humanly possible. Seeing our amazement, he proceeded to take a glowing coal, fumble it around in his hands a bit, and then put it in his mouth. He then looked at us, got up, and left. The girls and I are still convinced he's half god.

Ali dropped us off for the night, with promises to get us back to Siwa by 9am the next day. Osman quickly chopped down sugar canes for us, and we sat around the fire chewing on raw sugar as the sun went down.

Others came to join us: two accountants from Alexandria on vacation, a girl from Australia biking her way down to Tanzania, a college student from New York taking a semester off to see Egypt.

We then ate dinner by candle light at a long, low table in Osman's house. Grilled chicken that fell apart to the touch. Wild rice. Sauteed vegetables. Hot tea. We were all hungry, and the food was all fresh, which combined to make it one of the best meals I've ever experienced. Good conversation, good times. Some of the Siwans played cards, while the rest of us chatted about school, life, the universe, everything. We then migrated to the fire, where the men were playing pipes and drums, and singing songs about Egypt, Siwa and of course the omnipresent habibi (sweetheart). Some of the Berbers danced to the beat, as we all clapped along.

Somehow Osman decided to pull me out of the crowd, removed the head scarf I had been wearing, and tied it around my waist. It was time to dance, and dance I did. Only later would I notice (thanks to my friends who took entirely more pictures than was necessary) that the combination of the scarf/belt and my long tshirt made it look like I wasn't wearing any pants as I practiced my belly dancing in the desert. Pants-Off Dance-Off 2007 had begun, and it is documented on film (Thanks, Hammad).

Eventually everyone got up and danced (with all appropriate clothes on), sung, chanted and took turns with the drum. At some point, most of the guests left, as they weren't spending the night. We sat around the fire some more, noticing how acutely cold the desert had become since the sun went down. Osman asked if we wanted to go to a "real" hot springs that was nearby, and of course we said yes.

"Nearby" is, unfortunately, a relative term, and we ended up walking for about 2 miles. As we left camp, we heard the howls of wild dogs, and Osman realized he hadn't shut the kitchen door. It was more than likely that it would be destroyed upon our return.

After a very long, very dark walk through the desert, we finally reached it. Water was pumped up from the earth through a fire hydrant-type construction, creating a hard spray that extended for at least 20 feet through the air before falling into shallow pools of hot water.

We laid on our backs in jacuzzi-temperature water and watched the stars shift. We stayed for hours.

The walk back was cold, and long. Osman had no sense of urgency, so we meandered through the desert, shivering. When we got back to the camp, the dogs had wrecked the kitchen, but not gotten to all of the food. We built the fire up, and Osman roasted sweet potatoes in tin foil for us as we warmed up and dried off. It was nearly 3am by the time we got to sleep, the five of us huddled in a row on thin mattresses on top of the sand, under layers and layers of thick woolen blankets. We stayed warm, somehow, and made it through the night.

I was the first to wake, at about 915 am, 15 minutes after we were supposed to be back in town. I roused the gang, and we began to pack, anxious to get back to the city to catch our 10am train. Soon, we saw the infamous roof of Ali's truck crest a dune, and we quickly piled into the back (not on the top) for our ride back to Siwa.

On the way back, the bench seat broke on a particularly innocuous hill. Maybe it was safer on top.

We made it back to Siwa just in time to catch our bus, but unfortunately not in time to meet Mohammad for a tour of the city. Maybe we'll make it back someday.

The 12 hour bus ride through Alexandria (bus station pictured) was long, but we made it. We caught a cab and staggered back to our dorms on the island of Zamalek, dirty, tired and victorious.

We had explored the town of Siwa. We had summited a fortress. We had made friends with the locals. We rode on the roof of a truck, and lived to tell about it. We danced with Berbers, and we lounged in hot springs. We had gotten there, and back, and it cost us just over US$80.

What started as a trip to kill a few days turned into an incredible bonding experience, and has provided material for amazing stories, ridiculous inside jokes and some internal reflection. We got out of the smog and noise of Cairo, winged it, lived on the edge, and slept in the sand. And just look at the pictures. It's become common for one of us, while trying to hail a cab or navigate the busy streets of the city, to say out of nowhere, "I miss Siwa." And the response is always, "Me too."

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If you want to see my selective photo album of our Siwan adventures, click here.

For the two part video we made of our dune adventures, see the stuff on YouTube here and here. The first video Hammad filmed on top of the roof. And yes, that is me at the beginning shouting "Tell my mother I love her." Hi Mom. The second video Sarah shot, and it shows us going down.

Up next: How to Bribe Zookeepers (...as soon as Hammad gives me the pictures.)