Photos: Egypt 2009

southerncross — Mon, 14 Mar 2011 13:53:00 GMT

My Travel Writing Scholarship 2011 entry - Responsible Travel

southerncross — Mon, 14 Mar 2011 13:46:00 GMT

The jolt of the van as it sped along the darkened highway made sleep impossible. Squinting, I could just make out the heads of the five Dutch tourists in front bobbing about as the van passed over another pothole. My brother and I, the youngest of the group, had been assigned the backseat. His six foot six frame folded accordion-like into the space beside me, the top of his gel-soaked head grazing the roof with every bump. In the seat pressing against my brother’s plicated form sat our guide Ahmed, toothy grin lit up by the light of his phone as he texted furiously. Who was texting back at four in the morning I don’t know.

Our tour van was positioned about halfway down the first police convoy of the day. A convoy that shuttled tourists from the Egyptian city of Aswan to the reconstructed temples of Abu Simbel just 40km north of the Sudanese border. Heralded as one of Egypt’s top tourist destinations, most who make it as far south as Aswan tackle the three hour bus ride to Abu Simbel. According to Ahmed, this made the one main road leading to the temples a prime spot for bandits. The police escort was designed to make us tourists feel better about hurtling through bandit country in pitch darkness.

Pulling away from his phone long enough for the screen to cast its yellowish glow on us in the back, Ahmed caught my eye and flashed another one of his big grins.

“Smart,” he said.

I looked at him quizzically, “Sorry?”

He pointed at my seatbelt, fastened securely across my body thanks to years of successful road safety commercials. I noticed his hung loose from its clasp by the door. In fact, I appeared to be the only one in the van who had decided to buckle up.

“Smart,” Ahmed repeated.

“You know some of these drivers,” he said, gesturing towards the trail of buses behind us in the convoy, “drive for days with little sleep.”

My eyes flicked instinctively to our driver, studying him for signs of fatigue.

Ahmed continued, “For the money. Here a driver’s pay is so low he must do many jobs just to make enough. So he fits in as many trips as he can.”

“Isn’t that dangerous?” I asked dumbly.

With his voice barely above a whisper so as not to disturb those sleeping up front; Ahmed told me about the Belgian tourists who had died just a few months ago on this very road. The driver was believed to have lost control of the bus which careened off the road and rolled several times, killing six of the thirty passengers onboard. Ahmed said he had fallen asleep at the wheel.

The story, along with the eerie darkness outside and the steady rumble of the van’s engine, did nothing to ease the rising taste of fear in my mouth. As Ahmed finished, I became very conscious of the weight of the belt pressed against my chest which was now hammering wildly.

Suddenly bandits seemed the least of our worries.

Safety First

Photos: Egypt 2009

My Travel Writing Scholarship 2011 entry - Responsible Travel