When life in the city becomes overwhelming a simple life appeals. Rebekah Logan finds peace at an ecolodge in Sinai My computer crashed again. It was the second time in two days. My laptop was my sacred covenant; its files encompassed my life-diaries, research papers, crucial Web site bookmarks and instant messenger capabilities. What was I to do? After about an hour of grieving I decided that the best way to overcome the emotional trauma was to leave town. And what better place to go than where some of my friends were already heading -- down to Basata, an ecolodge in Sinai on the Gulf of Aqaba. "Basata" means simplicity; it is a retreat into nature and the antithesis of life in the cacophony of Cairo. It exists beyond the sprawling, synthetic smörgasbord of the 21st century and refuses to host television, radio, or cyber stations. Here your options of entertainment are "all-natural": hiking, snorkelling, conversing, or just relaxing on the beach. The entire lodge is a self-sufficient community designed by Sherif El-Ghamrawi, an engineer, to integrate with the environment. Even the architects and builders are locals. The huts are made of bamboo and the chalets of clay and natural stone in a traditional Egyptian style. At Basata, conservation is key. The minimal electricity is provided by a generator of Ghamrawi's design. Water consumption at Basata is one-tenth of that of larger hotels, and sink and shower taps automatically turn off after just a few minutes. In the kitchen are recycling bins, divided into the categories of organic and non-organic waste. From there the non-organic waste is separated into glass, plastic, aluminum and so on and brought to Ghamrawi's other brainchild, Hemaya, a solid waste management NGO in Nuweiba. On-site farm animals "recycle" the organic waste, and the manure is used for fertiliser in the greenhouse and "mud" for the bricks of the adobe chalets. Basata encompasses a central recreation area with a 24-hour kitchen, pigeon-house, greenhouse, farm and pharmacy -- with remedies both conventional and homeopathic -- a bakery, mosque, kindergarten, and a grade school. Ghamrawi's children Fares, four, and Sohalia, nine, attend the kindergarten and the school respectively. I remembered a comment made by Ghamrawi on my first visit: "At home everything is artificial. You never touch anything natural; here you go barefoot; everything you touch is nature." That memory sold me: the most painful part of leaving Basata had been putting my shoes back on. I was more than ready to take them off again. Next morning I was on the bus which heads for Taba and Nuweiba. I was relieved to be one of only five passengers. On my last trip, my friends and I took the overnight bus to maximise our sun- worshipping hours. However, the 10.30pm "sleeper" bus is little more than a torture chamber on wheels. The bus is jammed with as many people as it can hold and the air-conditioning is either blasted or turned off completely. Worse, movies (made indistinguishable by the snow of bad reception) are played all night long at maximum volume. Invariably, at the exact moment you transcend the distractions and fall asleep the bus arrives at an identification checkpoint. Unless you were lucky enough to fall asleep with your ID or passport on your lap you are woken up and the entire cycle of tuning out the surroundings begins again. All the same, there was nothing more satisfying than arriving at 6am to be greeted by the natural light of the sun with the beach laid out like a welcoming golden carpet, and to go snorkelling for the first time. We even found a Chinese restaurant in nearby Nuweiba which catered to vegetarians -- it even had tofu, which is hard to find in Egypt. We had also been invited to an authentic Bedouin Ramadan iftar (the meal to break the fast) in a simple house, sparsely-furnished in the traditional way, where -- paradoxically -- the men sat on the floor text-messaging on their cell phones while the children watched TV. On this trip, though, I enjoyed a peaceful six- and-a-half hour daytime bus ride. The call to prayer over the radio lulled me into a sleep which lasted for the first few hours. For the last two hours I just stared out of the window, dazed by the fact that once upon a time those beige and honey-coloured mountains of Sinai were under the sea. When I arrived at about 3.30pm I spotted my friends on the beach engaged in a cut-throat volleyball match. Due to past (embarrassing) attempts at the sport, I knew better than to join in. Instead, I found my way to their hut and moved in. Finally, I could take my shoes off. After checking in I enjoyed a sumptuous vegetarian dinner of fuul (beans), tahina (sesame paste), salad and brown rice. The dinner menu alternates every other night between vegetarian and fish meals, and both options are well-worth the LE20 price. However, guests may cook their own food if they prefer. At dinner one is forced to mingle. No space at the table is allowed to stay empty. That particular night my table included four of my friends, a British woman and a New Zealander with a plastic fan on his baseball cap. After the initial awkward moments of standard introductions, "how are you?"s and "Where are you from?"s the conversation picked up. As it turned out, our two new friends were planning a trip to the Coloured Canyon the next day and invited me to join them. The trek itself was only LE80, but the taxi fare at LE150 is what really sets you back. Still, I decided to splurge. How could I resist a camel trek through the desert? The next morning I was up at 8am for breakfast from Basata's bakery. The homemade bread was fresh and toasted, but the Nescafé, as always, left much to be desired. Then, with my companions (the Kiwi still sporting the goofy hat), we were off in the taxi to meet our guide and camels. On arrival, we enjoyed true Bedouin hospitality -- tea served by the children, their eyes brimming with congenial curiosity. While we waited for the camels to be saddled the children bombarded us, begging us to buy the hand-crafted beaded jewellery they had for sale. The British woman and I bought a few, but the New Zealander was unsuccessful at bargaining and refused to pay the five pounds the children asked. "Too expensive", he insisted. Right. At last the camels were ready. The first hazard was to get on the camel. Its rise to all fours is a three-step body dance accompanied by chesty groans, so boarding is an adventure in itself. On the way to the canyon we could not help but notice the graffiti some tourists had left on the sides of the rocks. Embarrassingly enough for me as a United States citizen, many of the "artists" had actually written the state they were from. But apart from those arrant displays of disrespect for the surroundings, the trek was magnificent. Arriving at the canyon, we dismounted and drank copious amounts of water. Our guide, Ahmed, chuckled as we gulped down two litres between the three of us. The desert was his home; he was more than used to the seething heat. Rehydrated and energised, we were ready to enter the canyon. The initial climb daunted the British woman; as it turned out she was terrified of heights. However, she managed a cautious ascent, and then scooted on her bottom into the gorge. There were a few more small rock-climbing feats during the tour of the canyon, but all in all it was a fairly easy hike. The canyon walls display ribbons of time with fossilised impressions of shells and small phosphorous apertures that once housed various sea creatures. Many of the rocks are covered in a chalk-like powder caused by being worn down by tourists. From the summit of the canyon, one can make out the Bedouin village set in an oasis in the distance. Everything at this height seems insignificant, and the panorama of the ruby-tinted canyon against the pale blue sky was simply awe- inspiring. All we could do was stand in silence and admire the view. After a while our hunger got the best of us, and we climbed down for lunch at the Bedouin camp near the base of the canyon. When we arrived, Ahmed led us to a small cave from which emerged water pipes to supply the small community. Inside this cave we drank directly from the ground water. Without a doubt it was some of the purest water I have ever tasted, completely unadulterated by chlorine, pollution or other chemicals. I was taken aback by the number of other tourists at the camp, and rather disillusioned at the way the Bedouin people seemed to be "at our service". This was their home, and we were guests. Yet the other group of about 10 Westerners had no shame about their verbal behaviour or about sprawling all over the camp. Our lunch was simple: salad, cheese, bread and tea, but extremely satisfying after a trek in the desert. By then it was late afternoon, and I had to return to Basata. The couple I was with chose to spend the night at the camp, so we said our good- byes and did the routine e-mail address exchange. Then I boarded my camel for the sunset-guided return. For the journey back I was paired up with a family from France. Their seven-year old son and I bonded by playing shadow pictionary and comparing stories about the "faces" in the mountains. One of the rock formations was decidedly a natural replica of the Sphinx. I am convinced that this desert must be one of the most beautiful places in the world. At sunset the sun crowns the mountains like a topaz jewel and its rays cast a labyrinth of shadows on the desert floor. Then the sky fades into a canvas of periwinkle, violet, and rose; a welcome contrast to the grey smog of Cairo. When we reached our earlier point of departure, cabs were already waiting for us. The French family was returning to Dahab, and I to Basata. I enjoyed the silence of my ride back to Basata and looked forward to making a fire and sleeping under the stars. However the actuality of returning to Cairo the next day slightly impinged on my contentment. My computer was still dead. But then I looked out of the window and caught a glimpse of the final moments of dusk. My frustrations were whisked away by the soothing swishes of the sea; and my thoughts wandered into the elusive terrain of Saudi Arabia, barely visible across the gulf. Who needs technology anyway?
