(Re) Discovery in Dahab – The Red Sea Chronicles

I was skimming along turquoise waters the other day, with the warm wind drying my damp hair and the sun warming my bare shoulders, when I thought, “shit, you know, windsurfing really is the sporting equivalent of Mikey Rourke: kinda big in the ‘80s…fell off in the ‘90s…but making a comeback.”

Windsurfing – much like Rourke in Sin City – is totally on it, people. Pull out your jammers and get ready to jack; Robby Nash style.

All of this came to me during a much-needed sojourn to the waters of the Red Sea last weekend.

The trip started with a nine-hour overnight bus ride from Cairo to Sharm El Sheik, which hence forth shall be known as Sharm El Shit…or (No) Charm all Shit…or Shit El Shit.

We arrived in Sharm at 9 a.m., and by noon, we’d been kicked off three beaches, ripped off by two taxi drivers, ordered two flat cokes at McDonalds, witnessed one near-car crash and paid way too much for a continental breakfast.

Filled with gaudy hotels, pay beaches, fast food joints and thousands of Eurotrash tourists – who fly in direct from Moscow, Manchester and Munich – Sharm is one of the worst places I’ve ever been to. Period. The good news for Sharm is that a Starbucks is opening there soon.

Bitchy from lack of sleep, we hopped on the bus and split to turquoise waters and tropical reefs of Dahab.

While it’s only 90 minutes from Sharm by bus, Dahab is another world. It’s chilled out, cheap and you don’t have to pay big money to sit on the beach.

*****

Along with windsurfing, I also have another new passion – snorkeling. Implicit in this new passion is a new enemy: the arrogant, insular, aggressive, close-minded, bigoted, sexually repulsive infidels of the reef scene – divers.

For those in landlocked locales, you should be aware that the natural instinct of every true snorkel-er is to fucking hate the diver. They took our totally excellent and pure pastime and perverted it with gas tanks and wetsuits…the bastards.

In Dahab, they proliferate in bars and pick fights with each other while looking silly in little Zissou-type toques which aren’t as cool as they sound. These toques are like the little hats that Tour De France dudes used to wear…except way gayer.

My cousin Hoddy (who was visiting from Calgary via Aberdeen via Amsterdam) and I spent a good chunk of our time above water bitching about how horrible divers are. We also drank loads of beers, worked on our tans, ate prodigious amounts of calamari and discussed geo politics – all while relaxing on Bedouin beach sits under a red moon.

Still, even with divers, aggressive touts who harass you constantly and the specter of the bombings which killed 23 people here six months ago, Dahab was a dream.

Sentori times indeed.