Corona stories: Number 9: Egypt 1981

Trouble in Hughada

In 1981 the peace talks between Egypt and Israel had had some results. Israel had retreated from the Suez Canal Zone and the demilitarized area now divided the Sinai peninsula in an Egyptian and Israeli part. The demarcation line went right behind the famous monastery of St. Cathrin. My friend Herbert and myself went on a memorable trip, which in about 6 weeks would provide enough material for at least 6 of these stories. The best thing about that is that I still have a detailed travel diary of the trip, so everything told here is authentic and I try to translate as precise as possible even though it might not always shed an entirely positive light on the author.

For the time being, here is the first one. Most people have heard of the Egyptian red sea resort of Hughada. If you have been there, you will not believe what you see. The diary even contains a hand-drawn map of the old Hughada of the time, which indicates the most important sites, including the only shop where we were able to get alcohol.

After 3 weeks of traveling along the Nile valley, we were ready for a break. Even Herbert, who had been in quite a big part of Africa by then, had never seen such a dirty country before. Diarrhea was our constant companion. So we were looking forward to a relaxed stay on a beach before starting out for new adventures. We took a shared taxi and arrived in a ramshackle desert settlement, where even the few solid buildings looked poor. There were few places to stay, and finally we found an empty room in a new apartment building, where we could spread out our sleeping bags.

The beaches around Hughada proper were mostly covered in oil slick from careless offshore drilling or as a remainder of the war. A couple of times we went on one of the tourist boats which went to some clean offshore sandbanks. To go there you needed a permit from the military police, since most of the area around Hughada was military no go zone. On the mainland coast, there was only one clean beach about 10 km south of Hughada. The beach was clean there because it was the site of a Sheraton hotel, at that time the only luxury hotel on the entire west coast of the red sea. We had been there before and, after some bargaining, had paid one Egyptian pound per head. The monthly salary for a worker at that time was 3 pound. Bargaining was a must and expected… and Herbert was very good in that.

On Easter Monday, 20.4.1981, we wanted to got there again. We flag down a collective taxi and haggled down the price from 7 to 1 pound. Against better knowledge we hand over the money to the guy beforehand because he pretends that he has to get gas first. But already after a short distance, still Hughada and the port, the guy stops and tells us to get off. We refuse. After some discussions he continues, but on some dirt tracks and not the main road. We are afraid he will drop us somewhere in the middle of the desert, but eventually he continues in the right direction. Then he stops again in the middle of nowhere and tells us we should change to a truck, which would bring us to our destination for another half a pound. After excited discussions and cursing in German (which usually nobody understand and has proved to be uttermost helpful in comparable situations) the guy returns to his cabin, which is separated from our compartment by a wall with window, and waits. He probably thinks that we will loose patience and leave so that he can continue without us. We don’t and make such a lot of noise that we hoop he thinks we will demolish the back part of his vehicle. Eventually he continues, but not in our direction, but on the main road.

Suddenly another stop. Two officers of the Egyptian navy join us. We start talking to them and try to explain our predicament. This is not so easy. Their English is less than basic and we do not try another language. So we think our attempt of getting help is useless.

Eventually our driver has to stop at the military post on the main road south. One of the officers gets out and starts to discuss with the driver. Then he goes to the military police manning the post. After some commands, a soldier graps his MP, gets on the passenger seat, first points the gun in the direction of the sheraton hotel and then at the head of the driver and off we go. After arriving we throw a warm thank you at the military men and a “bloody fucker”at the driver and get out of there.

Fortunately we do find another driver for the way back.

This story happened 39 years ago. Even after the oil spills, the coral reefs around Hughada had bright colors and beautiful fish. Everything could be enjoyed just from a glass bottom boat or by snorkeling. Since that time I have been to coral reefs in Indonesia, Sri Lanka, different places in the Caribbean and the Maledives. All were a disappointment. In the last ten years, I have never seen healthy coral any more. The famous Maledives were an underwater graveyard of toppled over, brown coral. The impact of tourism at that time was minimal, but I think we were the scouts and prepared the way for the invasion of barbarians who came after….

The map of Hughada in 1981. It indicates a place for breakfast and dinner, the bottle shop, the post box (which did not have a bottom), the mosqe annex tourist information and a guy who served freshly pressed ornage juice. Outside the port, the military polic post mentioned in the text and the beach at the sheraton hotel. That's about all there was