Gilligan’s Isle, Part 2

We set sail late that afternoon to drift into the majestic setting sun, refracting light off the dust canvassing the painted sky. It was supposed to be a 5-hour tour to the Hot Spring Hotel. Slowly but certainly, my desire to control the time faded as well it should on retreats and vacations.

Upon our check-in, we checked out the room briefly but wasted little time in bee-lining for the fanatically anticipated hot spring. Rusted brown, or more aptly, a muddy auburn color. Skeptical, our starvation for any type of hot tub-like experience nudged us past sweating ambiguity. And oh, how it was worth it. (note to parents: next Christmas, I’d like my own personal hot spring. Thanks in advance.)

We sloshed around the next morning, zombified into the cafeteria following the plopping of our luggage somewhere near what we felt might be our transportation for the day. If I’ve learning nothing else about this culture, I have learned they do not understand the importance of starting one’s day off with a healthy, hearty breakfast. This is a nagging disappointment to a husky American boy who dreams each night of a generous morning meal. Instead, we compromised with an imitation and lackluster pancake flavored with either honey or your choice of apple jelly or peach, and pita bread (served at every meal) with orange slices.

After consuming something disguised as breakfast, another fun encounter stood waiting for us in the door of the lobby darned in traditional Egyptian galabaya and head covering. However, accidental entertainer lacked one common denominator among Middle Eastern men: skin tone. The man was whiter than any of us, because as it turns out only a true German can yodel like that. Indeed, our host and owner turned out to be a true blue (eye and blonde hair) European boasting a whopping 140 pounds hidden under his pastel Arabic man dress who had established this enterprise strictly by accident but welcomed it with a motherly embrace. You can imagine that when each individual member of our team ocularly scoured the grounds of this humble hotel when our Arabic-anticipating ears fell victim to the lilting German accent of Mr. Peter. Pandemonium calmed when our combined wits gathered to acknowledge the absurdity of this soar thumb.

Accepting and celebrating, we greeted and ol’ Pete abruptly commenced his history lesson of the “40 million year old desert.” I nearly thought aloud, “I suppose that means the rest of the world is not as old as this desert,” that is, before Tact and Respect double-slapped me in the face. Petey persisted unbeknownst to my unaired comment. We paid our attention in backsheesh* and loaded the Land Cruisers to wander the dry and pure sands of this rich, ancient land (40 million years worth).

Much of the drive time drifted us over road as rough as the off-road paths that solicited the more entertaining parts of our trip. But after 3 or 4 touristy stops, one extended lunch break at our Bedouin guide’s smokin’ oasis abode, and a couple seemingly unnecessary minor detours explicated in Arabic, the shadeless plot we called “home away from home… away from home” velcroed to our affections swiftly and without permission. 7 hours had left us hungry, grouchy, tired, and achy. Good thing we were on vacation.

A game of 3-on-3 football formed leaving us exhausted, beaten, and defeated for the night. Sand glued by sweat provided new color and UV protection. Unfortunately, the sun had left us with only the twinkling stars to keep warm.

A truly satiating dinner matured into a time of story telling and truth exposure as only a dimly lighting campfire can do. We laughed, we gawked, we drank tea. We sang, made fun of each other, and reconciled with awkward heartfelt explanations. Eventually we slept; some of us with the stars as a blanket. It had been a good first day of retreat.


*backsheesh – the petty cash given as tip to “valets” and other menial occupations flooding the Egyptian streets.