Egyptian sunshine

The taxi’s dashboard has a thick coloured fringe of multi-coloured dreadlocks, swinging as the car weaves along the narrow, dusty streets. The driver wears a battered cap and wide sunglasses, and sits on a seat covered with round wooden beads the size of marbles.

We've travelled about 15 minutes from the centre of Luxor, a popular base for tourists visiting the Valley of the Kings and making their way from the bustling Egyptian capital to the beach resorts in the south.

The taxi pulls over and I tumble out, quickly spotting my destination: a single door with faded, peeling green paint and a large window, decorated with a childish painting of a huge yellow sun.

I push through the door and climb a steep flight of stairs covered with thinning, faded carpet. On the rooftop, there are about 15 children that all look to be no older than six. Those not preoccupied with plastic cups of water come rushing over, with wide smiles and arms outstretched.

A small boy, about two years old, presses himself against my shin, stretching onto his toes and reaching to be picked up. His eyes are deep brown, imploring me to reach down and bring him up.

I rest him on my hip, his legs dangling. He hooks an arm around my neck and sucks the fingers of his free hand. I spin around and he giggles delightedly. When we stop he squeals something that sounds to me like “Ookra! Ookra!” which I interpret as “Again! Again!”

After a few minutes, I think it's time to meet a little girl waiting impatiently for her turn. She is adorable in a pink cotton dress and tight curls. I tuck my hands under my boy's arms, but he knows what it means and instantly locks his legs around my waist, refusing to return to the ground.

With my boy attached to my side and three others to my legs, I lurch to a bench and sit down. I shift my boy to my left knee and lift my girl onto my right knee. When I feel a sudden weight on my back, I look down to see two small feet in blue sandals wriggle their way outside my hips. Small arms come around the front of my neck and a feel a child's head pressed on my back, as if it was a pillow.

My boy has begun playing with my necklace. He tugs at it and leans in for a closer look. His attention quickly moves from the chain to the fair patch of skin it's sitting on. He grabs at the neck of my shirt, pulling it down and peering over it but quickly decides there's nothing of interest.

I realise how different I must look to the kids, who are used to seeing women in traditional Islamic dress. Yet they readily offered their smiles and friendship, despite our visible differences.

The Sunshine Orphanage. It's not the hot climate that gives it its name.