SAFAGA Sun, June 16

            Safaga – pronounced ‘suffer-ga’ by the locals – is hot and basically desert.

            The Princess Shuttle Bus took us from the ship to the gate of this ‘Red Sea Port’ around the wharves through trucks loading and unloading in what looked to us a haphazard way of mixed cargoes of grubby bundles of nondescript goods, unpackaged washing machines? large suitcases. Here and there were piles of unwrapped things. I saw lots of brightly coloured children’s push bikes (for 5-8 year olds?) lying in heaps. Were they coming or going?   Who knows!

            Lots of men on the wharves in long pants or flowing grey garments. Not a patch on the crisp whites of Dubai.

            We reached the end of the bus ride and found ourselves out in the desert heat, surrounded by a group of men who it turned out were taxi drivers touting for business. There was a man with a pad and biro who seemed to be trying to organize the traffic. He kept writing distances and multiplying by so much a kilometre (or was it mile?) and it all seemed such a shemozzle that we gave it a miss and negotiated our own fare for an hour to the city and back for US$20.  This seemed a lot to me as the exchange rate of the Egyptian Pound to US$ was suggested by the ship’s paper at something like seven to one.

            Anyway off we went with our driver – whose taxi was parked further out on the street (cheaper than closer to the port?) and headed for the ‘Old City’. What a run down, tired old place it turned out to be. Very old concrete buildings that looked like bunkers, broken footpaths with a few old houses which reminded me of old country places in Australia from the 1800s “with it’s hat about its ears”. But they had satellite dishes stuck somewhere on the sagging roof.

            Our driver was friendly. Showed us the street he lived in, and said he had one wife and two small children – a girl and boy under five. He stopped in front of  a shop in the ‘old city’ main road where the shopkeeper met us at the curb and invited us in. At least his run down place had an old airconditioner puffing out cool air. It was so hot in the street. The taxi was very run down, had windows permanently half open which couldn’t be moved, grotty seat covers and a dashboard clock permanently saying ten to one. Airconditioning? Not likely.

            The shop had quite a good variety of Egyptian souvenirs. Unfortunately for the shopkeeper – who kept wanting to give us a ‘welcome drink’ – we moved to a retirement village less than a year ago and had to dispose of similar souvenirs of a lifetime. No space. And no wish to acquire more. This ‘welcome drink’ was probably tea of some sort, but who knows made of what water? With what bugs?

So we bought postcards. He offered two for US$1.00. I said three and he said OK.

            More people from the ship arrived, peered around and left. No purchases. We eventually bought a carrybag woven from what was probably river reeds. (Like the basket Moses was put in on the Nile in the bible story?). Bruce negotiated at US$12 for it, declined the invitation to ‘see upstairs’, and the shopkeeper saw us off in great friendship and gratitude.  There was then a great discussion about the cost. Our taximan wanted to take us to the ‘New City’ for some more money. Bruce agreed to pay an extra US$5 and we took off down the grotty road, passing several donkey carts, decrepit utes and vans, and women all in long hot black robes leaving the Market with plastic bags of food.

            I looked at the women and said to Bruce that I was glad I hadn’t been born here. He said I’d have a different colour skin, and different parents.

            The only well kept buildings in the Old City were the mosques, with their towers. As we left the ‘Old City’ we passed a butcher’s shop with sides of meat and various cuts hanging outside in the open air and heat. Just then a fly made its way in through the permanently open window and kept trying to stick to my eyes, nose or mouth. I kept batting it away, and it eventually disappeared. Back out the window I suppose, where the hanging carcasses were more attractive.

We passed the hospital, and a better style of shops, ‘hotels’ and coffee shops began to line the main road – which had improved greatly. There were “Apothecaries”, souvenir shops, and jewelers. There were lots of half finished buildings along the roads. Some were two storey with downstairs already being used, but the upstairs just poking up to the sky with half finished pillars or roofs.

            There were even patches of greenery - with flowering red bougainvilleas – and round about lots of very tired looking palm trees.  As we came to the main tourist hotel the road was lined with green shrubs in brick casing. These each seemed to have their own drip feed water supply. Where does  Safaga get its water? It has to be desalinated. The desert sand and dry hills and peaks crowd in to one side of the highway.

            When we got back to the Port and sat in the Princess Shuttle to go ‘home’ to the cool of the ship, we calculated how much the excursion into Safaga had cost. The whole experience was less than US$50 – much cheaper than any ship Excursion  on offer. And we had ‘enjoyed’ the experience of Safaga – basically a fishing town our taximan told us. It now seems to be the port for the exploration of the remains of Ancient Egyptian Civilization.

We kept thinking of our friends at table who had set out about 7am to drive through the desert for hours to The Valley of The Kings, Luxor and the Temple of Karnak. They would be walking around in this debilitating heat to take in the highlights of this Ancient Civilization. They were not due back to the ship till about 8pm.

            We thought we were very happy with our visit to local Safaga, and our speedy return to the cool of the Sea Princess for lunch.