We were finally on our way back down, again passing all of the refreshment huts run by the Bedouins. From Wadi Rum to Petra to the Pyramids, Karnak and Luxor, to Saint Catherine's Monastery, each place was run by the Bedouins with their coffee stands and beaded necklaces. Should I journey to the world's edge, I should think I would there be greeted by the familiar "Welcome, welcome, cheap price!"
On the way back, though, the guide told me his story, if you can believe it. His father had two wives; he has one brother from his own mother and four sisters from his father's other wife. He said he does not care for his half-sisters, for what should they be to him? His brother (the oldest) has a college degree of some sort, but he himself (the guide) hadn't gone to school. He had grown up shifting among the various Bedu endeavors, working all over the Sinai peninsula as a cook for tour groups or working with sheep, or anywhere else that might hire him. To get a better job, he taught himself English and Russian, practicing speaking with all the tourists in the area.
The trip down was more enjoyable than the trip up. We saw the way we came, looking ever so much like the path leading to Mordor. Finally reaching the Monastery guest house, the Romanis were exhausted. We had a brief lunch together, and then they retired to their rooms with the understanding that they would knock on my door in 20 minutes or so, because they wanted to visit the Monastery proper.
Twenty minutes or so passed, and I did hear a knock on my door. Just Mrs. Romani stood there as her her husband remained in bed, feeling rather sore. I don't know how Mrs. Romani did it, quite frankly. At any rate, I guided her towards the Monastery which was crammed with people, a long line snaking out the front door. She spoke no English, but was rather insistent that the line wasn't for the Monastery, but for something else. We went over to another large gate and entered a construction area and I apologized to the workers. I finally guided her back to the first entrance and got us into the Monastery. We spent some time in the basilica and then went on the hunt. There is, it seems, a shrine to Mary somewhere on the premises that has special significance to the Georgians for some reason or another and stubborn Mrs. Romani was going to say mass there, whether the curators liked it or not. In the meanwhile, we went and saw the icon museum where I did my best to stop her from taking illicit pictures of the icons. She did get permission to get a photo of one particular picture of Christ's ascension, which thrilled her. We talked to the curators at the museum, doing our best to find out how she could get to that St. Mary's shrine. This was amusing to many people, I am sure, because she spoke very little English, just Russian, I spoke English and very little Arabic and she is a very religious Eastern Orthodox Christian, a little old Eastern European lady and I am an American wearing jelbaab and hijab. They do not come across this every day. The curators spoke mainly Arabic and so would tell me, basically, that it's not permitted and only the 20 remaining monks or so get to pray there and she can't - but maybe if she talks to such and such a person? Of course, we can't find that person and we go back and I try to talk with various people between my very little bit of Arabic and my English - and goodness, I might have tried Spanish and French, too, for all I know. Finally, somehow, a young Russian man appears on the scene and Mrs. Romani accosts him and emotionally spills out her story. He nods and nods and nods and is very polite to her - he speaks some English and is able to find someone to explain that there will be a mass at noon at the basilica. It's not what she wants, but it will have to do. I need to go, however, because I had made arrangements to get a taxi ride to Nuweiba in order to get the ferry today; spending the extra day in Iskandria with Fatima had set me a day behind. So, I tell her good by and thank the young man for his help, feeling slightly bad about leaving him with her. He would have his hands full, I'm sure.
I returned to my room to gather my things, and stop off and say goodbye to Mr. Romani. We exchange addresses - he invites me again to contact them if I ever want to get a visa to go to Georgia, because he works at the Georgian embassy in Egypt and I might have mentioned at a previous meal that I had been looking into going to Azerbaijan and Georgia for spring break following the revolution that disrupted my Syrian travel plans but that it's impossible to get said visas to near east countries without having personal contacts of family/friends inside or being part of a special tourist group. I run outside to meet my taxi, and away we go.
The big white van motors through the protectorate, and, as the only passenger I slide around a bit on the large benches. It's a bit of a drive, and I'm looking forward to three hours of awkward silence. At the crossroads, however, a woman joins us; the driver asks if I mind. No, of course not; I'm actually rather glad not to be the only passenger. The woman explains to the driver that her young daughter was ill - I think, actually, she had a mental problem, but my Arabic wasn't good enough for all the details - and that she was going to see her but ran out of money for transportation. We drive with her for two hours or so, and let her go at a small village. The taxi driver thanks me for letting her come and asks if I understood the conversation? I said, oh, about her daughter and the money? Yes, I think so. We continue on for a few minutes, and then see another person looking for a ride. This time, it's a police officer standing along the side of the road; of course, we pull over and pick him up, taking him to Nuweiba. I chuckle to myself at how I haven't really been traveling alone: from the good taxi driver in Luxor, to Fatima, to the Romanis, to these two passengers, I've been well surrounded. I can only look forward to who is awaiting me on the ferry.
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