Notes from the Field: The Granite of Egypt


The dusty smell of the desert filled my nostrils as the Land Rover headed into the canyon. Looking at the formidable rock walls erupting out of the ground on either side of the car excited me, I just couldn’t wait to climb them. My guide and coworker, Said, told me about the history of the climbing and development of the Wadi Qnai. He told me about the Italian man that set the very first routes in the late 90s, and the English team that continued the project in the early 2000s.

We parked the car and began to set things up. Instead of rope bags, they use heavy, hand-braided blankets to put the loose rope on. First, I flaked (“untangled”, for non-climbers) the rope, and then I got my harness and started attaching a plethora carabiners, slings, and quickdraws. At some point, I looked over at Said and realized that he was squatting by a small ring of rocks, building a little a fire. “Fire?” I thought. “Why would we need a fire in the desert?” Then he started taking different herbs and spices and sugar from a bag or a can and pouring them into a kettle from his palm.

“What are you doing?” I asked him.

“Making Bedouin tea,”
he replied simply enough.

Said is Bedouin, a group of nomadic Arab peoples that lives across Northern Africa and the Middle East. In broken English, said tells me that he was born in the desert. He tells me about the dried crushed leaves he puts into the tea, and shows me which bushes have antibacterial properties, and, how if you soak the buds in water, the bath can instantly cure a baby’s rash. He points out the strongest tree in the desert, tells me that the camels love to eat the green tips during springtime, and that the wood is used to bake Bedouin bread on the fire. I was fascinated by everything he said, his life and the cumulative knowledge of his people. He showed me the wells, huge caverns punched into the side of a mountain that when you peer in, you could see a large pool of water, even though it hasn’t rained here for a year and a half.

After leading the first route, we settled in for a cup of tea; more precisely, a tiny glass of some warm, silky, and sweet concoction.

I climbed again. We drank more tea. More climbing, more tea. On and on like this until the sun set behind the orange granite walls of the canyon, and dusk began to creep in. As we packed up the rope and put away our gear, stars began to peek out from the sky. We sat by the dying fire, sipping the strong Bedouin tea in silence. A cricket began to sing. In Colorado, the crickets chirp, they make short, shrill sounds in a steady rhythm like a heartbeat. In Egypt, the crickets sing–they make a high-pitched, constant hum that starts with one, brave little soul and then turns into symphony.

Finishing the tea, we killed the fire, and packed up the car. As we drove out of canyon in the dark, a light brown streak passed in front of us. I gasped, a desert fox!

Said was surprised too. “You know what that means?” he asked me. “When a desert fox crosses your path, it means good luck.”

I smiled, stuck my head out the window into the warm, dry desert breeze, and looked up and the inky sky sprayed with the little white light of stars, knowing I was already lucky.

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