1. DRONES, PLANES & AUTOMOBILES

 

So, it turns out Thursday 20th December wasn’t the best day to start my Christmas holiday: Drones at Gatwick meant it was Saturday afternoon and four airports later before I finally touched down in Hurghada, tired and a little emotional but as I learned later, the only one of the group from England to make it. Two ladies didn’t make it out of LGW. 

I eventually found Sala, my driver, who managed to hide in a near empty airport but now we were late and in real danger of hitting the curfew for the desert road crossing to Luxor. After dark the military authorities can’t guarantee the safety of tourists and don’t allow taxis across. Sala apologises that we are going to have to go “a bit fast” to get to the checkpoint on time. Above 120kmh a very loud warning buzzer sounds in the car every second. It’s really unpleasant but it’s OK, Sala turns the radio up to try to cover the sound, it doesn’t but deafens me with wild Egyptian music. Sala, oblivious, I surmise, is probably deaf. The road is bumpy and twisty and complete with slow moving lorries and black police vans who for a bit of added fun drive with their lights off. Sala drives faster and faster and time after time his phone rings, it’s Colonel Bogie, ringtone above the din. I’m glad of the respite as he turns the radio down and organises his life, speaks

to his wife and some of his six children, argues with his boss and laughs with his friends. To be fair he only really loses concentration when he reads or writes text messages which is often. I sit holding on tight consoling myself that he does this every day and pretending that this is all a video game. 

We make the checkpoint minutes before 6pm and soon after stop for coffee. Sala chain-smokes three cigarettes while we drink our Turkish coffee. He is obviously relieved which strangely makes me more worried we’ve been driving just over an hour. I’m exhausted and I wasn’t even driving. Goodness knows how long he’s been awake. “How much longer” I ask. He laughs “Maybe two and a half hours”. My heart sinks at the news, just as I notice one of his eyes is completely blind...

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​2.ARRIVAL

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After two or so more hours we leave the main road on a dirt track. “Short cut” Sala explains. At least we have slowed down. The track takes us through fields of alfalfa and rice as we approach Luxor and now we are driving on narrow alleys between houses, not intended for cars. I’ve stopped worrying, partly due to exhaustion but mostly my fear has been replaced with admiration for this man’s driving skills and concentration. His English is good and we’ve chatted amiably and not once has a smile left his face. He was almost overcome with emotion when I told him it’s OK to smoke while driving as long as he has the window open and the speed lower than the alarm threshold, which in turn means the music can be turned down so my ears don’t quite bleed. 

 

Finally after winding through the backs we join a road again and this is my first glimpse of the Nile. We are driving along the less fashionable “more authentic” West Bank. Which really means the side where the temples aren’t. A few minutes later we arrive at Nile House. I feel quite emotional as I collect my bags from the boot. I tip Sala well and we hug. He reverses the old Toyota out into the street and they disappear into the night to add to the 600,000km on its clock.

 

In a sort of daze I walk into the old style guest house. An old man in traditional dress walks out of the half light and takes my bags without saying a word. Costas, the owner, welcomes me with hibiscus juice and motions me to a far corner of the open courtyard where voices are coming from. 

 

Four figures are sitting on the floor around a low table on Bedouin style cushions. As I approach a voice shrieks out “At bloody last, the entertainment has arrived”. Emma Jane Levin, owner and proprietor oh Ride Egypt, tiny, heavily tattooed and made up, jumps up and throws her arms around me. I hug her, lift her off her feet and kiss her. “Hello” I say “Sorry, I’m a bit late”. 

 

Emma quickly introduces me to the rest of the group. A ridiculously young and handsome Egyptian man to her left, “This is Mohamed, my husband” I grin widely at him when I hear this surprising news and feel it necessary to hug him, lift him off his feet and, not quite, kiss him. He laughs. I repeat this show with Ella, American “physician” travelling with her teenage daughter who is in the room on SnapChat and Alice, French Greek, medical sales rep. No one is over 5’2. I feel like an old Gulliver. All are soft warm and friendly and it occurs to me that they smell a lot fresher than I do. I sit down opposite Emma and she lights another cigarette before beginning her interrogation. I reach for the bottle of rosé in the middle of the table, fill the used water glass in front of me and take a long drink. I have arrived.

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3.FEAR & BRUISING IN UPPER EGYPT

 

Bas!” “Bas, Bas, Bas”. Now I’m shouting, heals down and tugging gently at the reins but Al Elmira is choosing to ignore me. We are in full flight, cantering alongside a field of sweet corn  and she’s enjoying herself or maybe she doesn’t understand my pronunciation of the Arabic for whoa! We are three hours into our ride, my first day, through small villages, along irrigation ditches and now through fields. We have shared the route with everything from small boys with sticks riding donkeys to ancient articulated lorries. We’ve crossed busy roads and mingled with traffic without a hitch. Not the slightest jitter passing motorbikes overladen with men and sacks of produce or charcoal fires at close quarters but this is third time she’s broken out of a trot into a fast canter despite my protestations. I try all sorts of techniques and in the end I get her to slow and eventually stop by turning her gently. The rest of the group catches up.

 

But the damage is done. For the first time I can ever remember on a horse I was scared and of course she knew. I made all sorts of excuses for my self; over-tired after my epic journey, boots too wide for the stirrups, I couldn’t get any grip between my breeches and the slippery English saddle, my straps were too long etc. but the truth is, I wasn’t in control. I was bouncing about like an idiot and I was frightened, frightened of falling off. Frightened of killing myself or much worse maiming myself. All I could think of was Christopher Reeve. 

 

Mohammed is by my side and asks if I’m OK. I give him my list of excuses. He decides we are to swap horses and with some effort I climb onto Mostashaa, his beautiful red stallion. I think this is a little like giving keys to a Ferrari to someone struggling to control a Audi S4 but say nothing. Mostashaa is well behaved but Mohammed’s saddle is small and uncomfortable on my now bruised backside and I can’t rid myself of that feeling of fear.

 

This fear is new and I don’t like it. I’ve had all sorts of crazy adventures over the years, some really stupid and dangerous and yes, more than a few heart in the mouth moments: Sailing in murderous mountainous seas, swimming and sump-diving in flooded underground tunnels, paragliding off peaks at 2000m above open plains. And this is my fourth adventure ride; the other three much more challenging and demanding – including my baptism of fire, riding over the Andes when I really couldn’t ride, but I’ve never felt like this.

 

Sitting high on Mostashaa I decide that when we stop for lunch in an hour I will call it a day. I don’t want to canter again today and this will will mean the other riders aren’t held back. I tell Mohammed and so, after a delicious lunch of aubergine fritters, deep fried whole eggs, halva and the ubiquitous fresh cheese and flat bread, I take the pillion motorcycle ride of shame back to the hotel. I go to bed and sleep for hours.

 

 (I did think about glossing over this episode and just including the positives. It is quite difficult to tell the 200 people on this list that I was really frightened, but here it is) 

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4.BACK IN THE SADDLE 

 

A muezzin (mu’addhin) is chosen by his peers for his ability to chant the call to prayer beautifully and melodiously. It’s 5am and there was obviously a short queue when they chose the one who has entered my room uninvited. The adhan is mercifully short but I’m awake now and my body feels like it’s been kicked down the stairs. I take somr Ibuprofen with a swig of whisky and fall into vivid dreams of runaway horses and falling, falling, falling.

 

Amul is tired. So tired she repeats herself without knowing as she herds our half interested group around the great temple at Karnak. A big woman wearing so many clothes on this warm day. Layers and layers, her head covered with hijab and topped by a safari hat, incongruously worn backwards so we can read “Welcome to Egypt” as we follow her like ducklings. At least we won’t lose her in the throngs of Indians and Chinese tour groups. She closed her eyes and pauses for breath at each point of interest and several times we think she’s going to collapse but each time the smile returns and she fires her lines unconsciously staccato style about Ramases the second’s beard being straight and boy king, Tutankhamen’s marriage to his half sister. “Look how young is his face”. We are constantly reminded here what soft lives we lead.

 

And now I’m back in the saddle. We are racing across the desert straight into the setting sun at top speed Alice is kicking up so much dust ahead I can only see a dusty silhouette as I struggle to keep up. This time I’m back in control or at least more in control. We have swapped our horses for Quad-bikes 😊 and are heading for a Bedouin barbecue under the stars.

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5. CLOSE ENCOUNTERS OF THE CETACEAN KIND

 

“I thought we were swimming with dolphins not whale watching!” whispered Alice a little too loudly at the sight of the big bottomed girl in front of us wearing her little sister’s string one piece very confidently. “Ooh, that can’t be comfortable” Ella sucked her breath. Minutes earlier we were snuggled inside fully clothed in the cabin now we are standing in our swimmers, with a chilly wind whistling around us, wondering if this is the best day for it. 

 

A frantic rush to the RIB, donning flippers and masks and we are chasing through the waves with Nias standing in the bow like Captain Ahab shouting directions at the driver leaning on the massive two-stroke at the back. He in turn shouts at us “mask, quickly, yalla, ready, fin fin”. We are now wet with spray as well as cold, trying to balance with one hand hold.

 

At last Captain Ahab shouts something like “thar she blows” and the driver “Yalla” and we all slide off backwards scuba stylee into a warm, choppy, bath.  “This way! This way!”. We fumble with our snorkels and follow face down, trying not to swallow to much salt water. Two metres below a pod is swimming away from us. Tantalisingly close but all to quickly they are gone. “Quickly! Quickly! Back to the boat” we turn around and I find myself too close behind the girl with the big bottom from before and her similarly clad friend as Captain Ahab lands his catch, rolling each of them over the rubber tube side with pretty impressive strength and technique and I find myself sniggering into my mask like a schoolboy.

 

Back on board the RIB the chase is on again. This time we are more lucky and are buzzed by about six individual dolphins coming from deep to the surface as soon as we in the water, close enough to almost touch. It’s clear who is in control of this encounter. When I play with a dolphin, who is to say it’s not she who is playing with me.

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6. ONCE MORE INTO MY BREECHES

 

I’ve always thought “Feel the Fear and Do it Anyway!” is a bit of a silly expression. It should be “Control Your Fear - Then You Can Do It!” but I guess that doesn’t trip off the tongue so easily and doesn’t quite evoke the right can do attitude.

 

I’ve spent the last few days having a word with myself. Last night Emma actually laughed when I told her I am going to ride today. “I’ll expect a cancellation message at 6:30am”

“No, I promise. I’ll be there” I said 

“No walking, trotting, only canter, gallop” warned Mohammed.

“I’ll be there” I said. No smile this time.

I’m pretty sure the fear is under control as dress in my riding gear.

I’m reasonably sure as I eat my falafel and salad and chat to the others.

I know I am sure when I climb onto the mini bus to the stables at Makadi.

 

Shakas is an eight year old Arab cross stallion. He is tall and beautiful, chestnut flecked with grey. He is big and strong and walks faster than the mares. We try a trot and straight into a canter. Everything fine. We are far out in the vast desert. Back to a walk for a bit of a descent. We can all feel what’s coming and so can the horses. All seven start with little snorts and bucks of their heads. A little whinny of excitement and we are on the flat. It feels like the start of a Grand Prix. Mohammed shifts around on his saddle to look back at us and then “Yalla” and suddenly we’re off! Shakas stretches his long legs and I’m floating. Up on the balls of my feet, I’ve re-found my balance and on the smoothest and most stable of gallops. We’re way out in front. Shakas is really enjoying himself and I’m in heaven. 

 

It occurs to me that I’ve taken the wrong track and I see the others out of the corner of my eye to left but in truth I’m having fun and don’t want it to stop. I eventually slow the horse and start to walk him across the rough ground between the two tracks. A guide is coming over to meet us. I decide to start a trot so as not to keep the group waiting too long and then it happens...

 

I sit a bit hard coming down from a rise and my back goes into spasm. It locks completely and is really painful. It’s as much as I can do not to fall off the horse. “Mohammed!” “Mohammed, it’s my back” and walk Shakas gingerly back in the direction I think the stables lay staying far enough from everyone so they can’t see the tears. Mohammed sends Ahmed to join me and we make our way slowly back to the stables.

 

7. HOME

 

The journey home was thankfully easier than the one out. I got my very crowded direct flight to Gatwick and apart from a ninety minute delay because of a sick woman and a stolen bag it was uneventful. Of course we landed after the last train and to be honest that would have been a struggle with the back so I called a cab to drive me all the way home.

 

Sorry to everyone who was worried and sent me “are you OK?” messages but signal was difficult at the airport. Thank you to everyone who prescribed whisky and ibuprofen. You know me too well.

 

And to all those who asked me whether I had a good time. Yes thanks I had a great time. Yes of course it didn’t go as planned but that’s par for the course with being a single traveler going on “adventure” holidays. No I didn’t love taking three days to get there but it had its moments, I met some interesting people. The whole idea is to take yourself out of your comfort zone and the planned activity is only part of it. I was discussing this with Ella and Alice in my group and they both said the most challenging thing for them was travelling alone and meeting a new group of people - the riding was just fun. Now, you all know that for me meeting new people is no challenge and it’s easier travelling as a single man. The riding was less of a problem for them because they didn’t have the complete arrogance to sign up for a riding holiday having not ridden properly for years, doing no preparation, no getting fit, no losing weight, no practice or refresher lessons (all the things I did every other time I’ve done anything) and think I could ride for six hours a day! Doh!

 

I’m pleased that I had one good, fabulous, hour of riding. I’m even more pleased that I managed to completely control my fear. I enjoyed meeting all the new people and hearing their stories. And yes it has been an adventure. Another thing I’ve enjoyed is writing this blog. Thank you all for your patience and indulgence and especially to all of those who offered words of encouragement. I did try to respond individually but apologies if I didn’t.