In the Caring Hands of a Bedouin Tribe.

A dimly lit chamber. White Rubayaan petals. The crackle of flames. Blood. A pair of eyes. A pair of burnt umber innocent doe eyes.

“Can you hear me?” said a familiar voice.
I do not respond. I feebly inhale the contents of the medium surrounding me as I start to regain conscious. I am in a tent. It only takes my eyes a few seconds to adjust to its vague and uneven illumination. I feel a gentle stroke on my leg.
“Honey, I need you to tell me if you're okay.” urged my companion, this time with a pat on my shoulder.
I give a weak nod. I am confused. Where am I?

I try to flash back to the last memory my brain has recorded. I'm in the car with a group of friends. We’re heading towards Nuweiba. I’m thinking of the crystal clear waters I’d soon be immersed in and of whether I’d packed enough food for the trip. I humor myself with the thought of Andy wolfing down his share.

We reach our destination a little earlier than we'd expected. I take out my camera and wander around the area. I’m pondering upon the mysterious tranquility of the scenery when I notice a curious fault ridge lining the southern edge of the Tarabin area. I’m posing in front of it as Sarah takes a picture. She gives an abrupt gasp while pointing towards the ridge. I follow the direction of her finger and that’s when it all dissolves into a blur.
A strange sense of both disorientation and frustration seeps in.

“The rest of the guys are waiting outside. We were all very worried.”
This brings me back to focus. I look around to find that the tent is occupied by 4 men, a child and my friend, Andy. The men are wearing white or powder blue jalabiyas. Their elder, whom they refer to as El Sheikh, is bending over a mortar, crushing and grinding the white petals of the medical herb. I notice the black and white argyle pattern on his turban as opposed to the plain white one on the turbans of the rest of the tribe. I feel the gentle stroke on my leg again. The child - of only 12 or 13 - looks at me through wide innocent eyes that looked like they could easily belong to a Margaret Keane painting. She wore a khimar, with a hint of a neat one-sided braid visible beneath it.
“You should feel better after I finish dressing your wound.” she said.

The Sheikh of the Bedouin tribe whispers something into his assistant’s ear. A minor wave of doubt passes over me as I look inquisitively at Andy. He mouths the word ‘Relax’ in reply. I decide he is right and slip once more into oblivion.