You Want Make Sex?

Bahariya Oasis—I have spent two nights in Bawiti, in the Bahariya Oasis, and I'm disappointed to realize I won't be going on to Siwa. The only way to get there without going back to Cairo (6 hours) and circling the desert (13 hours) is to go right over the dunes for four hours in a Land Rover at a cost of about 1,000 EGP. Since I can't find anyone to go with, don't have that much money to spare, have no interest in sleeping out in the freezing desert on one of the overnight tours here which is all there is left to do, and have four more days till I have to be in Cairo, I'm feeling at loose ends.

At my first hotel here I meet the European from my bus who turns out to have lived in Cairo for more than 10 years and has a flat in Berlin as well. He's Danish, an antiquarian book dealer, and we spend hours talking the first day, then the next morning too, when I learn that he used to have a house here in tumble-down Bawiti and was visiting to see how much that tourism has wrecked everything since the first hotel signaled the decline to come.

For lunch Christopher takes me to the only "restaurant" in town, owned by a local man who has had the same menu for 10 years: chicken, rice, soup, and bread, none of it very good, for an exorbitant 15 EGP. I'll eat there twice and be sorry both times. It is open onto the dusty road, and you get traffic exhaust and grit with your bad lunch. The owner, Faroum, sits on the road blowing a whistle to get people to eat there. With Christopher's soft voice and Danish accent it's all I can do to hear him above the din. The bathroom ranks as the most disgusting I've encountered anywhere in Egypt, which is saying a lot.

While we eat we are joined by Ahmed, who through the Bedouin underground knows that I am looking for a tour into the desert, but most importantly a way to get to Siwa. (I will get used to the fact that no matter where I am in Bawiti, everyone seems to know what I want and how to find me.)

Does he know of anyone going to Siwa? He says he will check with the military office to find out. (Anyone going through the Western Desert near Siwa, in the Great Sand Sea near the Libyan border, must have a military permit. The military would know if one has been filed, who filed it, and then I would know if there's anyone going.) It turns out no one is.

Since Christopher isn't leaving until tomorrow, we work out an arrangement with Ahmed to spend the next day touring the desert.

In the meantime I want to walk in the palm groves that extend for miles in every direction. Ahmed takes us to his own land in the midst of the groves, where he has planted alfalfa to begin the process of enriching the soil for a garden. He shows us another garden that his will look like in a few years, a large one full of onions, beans, cabbages, melons and lettuces. It is protected by a strong fence made of 6-foot-tall woven palm fronds, and the donkey tied up nearby must be the tractor.

We sit for awhile and Ahmed explains his plans. At 29 he has been taking people into the desert for 11 years, and while he says it has been fun, he has a wife and two children now and wants to turn his labors to something more reliable. With tourism so minimal, he is spending his time working on this garden, getting the irrigation set up, and starting work on an olive grove right in the sandy desert outside Bawiti.

The next day we drive out of town toward the sand and the black mountains. It is hard to imagine how caravans crossed this trackless waste, but pretty soon we turn the Land Rover off the road and over the embankment, and head straight toward the mountains and the sand dunes ahead.

Amed's Land Rover is much used but very clean and well appointed, and since he doesn't smoke it smells as fresh as the desert itself. The seats, dash, and stick shift have colorful, hand-woven covers. Ahmed is showing off some of what the Land Rover can do and I'm impressed, which pleases him. I ask him if he's given the truck a name. He smiles that private smile I'll see frequently today, and responds that the truck is named "Fajarag," or something like that, which means someone who breaks all the rules in Islam.

 
I am sitting in front and will come to regret that when Amed aims for a steep dune as fast as Fajarag can go. We can't see what's ahead, whether another truck, another dune, or one of the razor-sharp drop-offs created by the frequent sandstorms, so I'm hanging on with both hands to the roof handle generously covered with another Bedouin weaving.

When we reach the top he stops, with the front wheels just over the perpendicular edge. "It's ok," he says, looking over to me, "we go easy, like camel." And down we go, slowly.

We spend the rest of the day driving around to some sites Ahmed thinks we'll enjoy—English Mountain, so named for a battle with Britain; the great salt lake, several sites with grand vistas, and my favorite, a corral with a male and female Moroccan camel newly delivered of their rickety offspring.

The baby has been born today and is being guarded by her beautiful mother. Ahmed tells me the loose hobble on the mother is to keep her from wandering too far from the baby. I watch from a distance, not knowing how they feel about strangers, but then the baby gathers her legs under her and wobbles over to investigate me. She shows no interest in Ahmed, who's trying to figure out her gender, but after a few tries petting her she submits to some scratching from me. She has a velvet muzzle that she rests right in my hand.

We had come this way to see one of the many hot springs where everyone bathes in Bahariya Oasis. Large concrete pools have been built to collect the water, and runoff goes to the irrigation canals that course through the agricultural fields. I want to try it; I've picked up a cold and would love a hot soak. Ahmed says that one of the pools is more frequented by tourists and he suggests taking me to that one, but Christopher will be gone by then and I have to decide if I'm comfortable in Ahmed's hands.

If I'd brought my own man I wouldn't have these infrequent inconveniences, but the one thing I don't want to do is risk later regret by letting overcaution come between me and something I shouldn't miss. I agree to go and tell Ahmed, "No funny business." He thinks this is hilarious and repeats it all evening.

Before I go I tell the proprietor of my hotel what I'm doing, where, with whom, and when I expect to be back. I tell him I'll find him when I return so he's not worried. He is sitting with some people who tell me Ahmed is a "good guy" and I don't have to worry, so I don't.

The spring is in a palm grove on government property but I can't see much of it in the dark. The pool is half-full of boisterous young men who greet me with a wave. "America? Obama!"

I sit by a fire waiting for Ahmed to change and I'm asked my name, my nationality, and how old I am. It isn't just the country people with the effrontery to ask this question; several of my Cairo friends have asked the same thing. After huffing, "That's no question to ask a lady," he drops it, and I'm given a few moments to wonder why I give a damn.

Ahmed comes out of the nearby hut in trunks and I go in to put on my shorts and a long, loose shirt over my bathing suit. I have been told this is how women dress for the springs, but nobody here seems to care. The only light is by the small fire and the dome of stars, making it difficult to find my way. But when my eyes adjust I can see figures outlined in the steam rising from the pool.

The water is too hot to enter all at once, but after awhile I ease myself in and...dissolve, just like sugar in tea. I lean my head back on the ledge and look at the stars, which drop all the way to the ground on this moonless night. I'm selfish enough to wish everybody else would just go away.

I have to get out several times to cool down, and I admit to Ahmed that he was right about how long you stay relaxed and warm. Finally I'm just too hot and say it's time for me to go.

On the way back we're quiet. Finally Ahmed says, "Why you travel alone?" I tell him it's because I'm on an adventure and it's easier to meet people if I'm alone.

"You want make sex?"

"What??! NO!" I tell him.

He wants to know why not.

Well, four reasons that I can think of right off the bat: he's married, I'm in a relationship, I'm going home in a few weeks, and he's nearly thirty years younger than me—not necessarily in that order. Misunderstanding me, he tells me that he "can't make sex unless married;" his religion forbids it. I say fine, who asked you?

Then the lightbulb goes off in my head: He thinks that my adventure, on which I've said I will meet interesting people because I'm traveling solo, is intended primarily to meet interesting MEN, and that I'M asking HIM to "make sex." I find this hysterical and tell him so, and he gives me that private smile that I interpret to mean he's not sure he believes me. I have to list the names and nationalities of all the women I've met, in addition to the men, who have made this trip unforgettable. We don't have time for me to explain why this is important to me.

But once we get the sex stuff settled, Ahmed asks if he can put some questions to me.

The first one is a doozy: "Here, woman over 40 not want make sex," he says. "European women over 40, they still want make sex?"

Hoo boy. I tell him yes, I think so. But he wants to know how they manage when their men are losing the ability, not to mention the interest. I tell him I don't know, maybe they're unhappy?

Bingo. THAT'S the answer he's looking for.

It seems that in his 11 years of guiding desert tours, Ahmed has been propositioned repeatedly by "old" women. (I correct him: We prefer "older.") He's a little mystified by this but I can't tell if he's flattered. He says it's not usually a problem; the women respect his answer when he says his religion prevents it, and he understands that sleeping in the desert on a starry night can put one in the mood. But knowing that European women are not done with sex after their childbearing years is news to him, and it puts something into perspective for Ahmed that he has long wanted to understand.

My turn: I take the opportunity since we're more or less on the subject to ask why a Muslim man would ever want multiple wives. (To me, this is lunacy.)

Ahmed concentrates for a minute, mumbles something, and replies so fast it takes me a minute for it to register.

"Mango, mango, mango, mango, mango everyday mango," he says.

"You understand?"