“The Bedouin who’s
doing the kidnapping is Ali. One time he shot everyone at a checkpoint. So the
military took his mother hostage to try to catch him. They got a phone call
warning that if she was not returned unharmed in two hours he would do it again.”
Our Egyptian guide pauses. “They believed him.”
It’s 2am and we’re
winding through the jagged silhouette of the Sinai desert en route to St. Catherine.
The road is blocked ahead by three oil barrels painted red, black, and white with
the Egyptian flag. My tour group is fast asleep, slumped into the corners of
our minivan. We wait in the pumpkin glow of the checkpoint as passports and
faces are confirmed. The soldiers drag the canisters away and inform us a
military convoy will escort us back when we’re done hiking.
I’ve wanted to climb Mt. Sinai since I was
five years old, when I first saw Cecil B. DeMille’s “The Ten Commandments.” I
imagined standing at the peak alongside a white bearded Charleton Heston to a
soundtrack of glorious trumpets. Seventeen years later, I’m risking my safety
because of a Hollywood movie filmed in the 1950s. Not just that, I’m risking the
dream evaporating into reality.
There are two ways to scale
the mountain. A steep 3,700 step staircase or a gentler, curvier camel route.
Of course I want to take the stairs. When we arrive, we’re told by our Bedouin
guide that it’s too dangerous to climb them at night. His name is Musa, the
Arabic pronunciation of Moses. I ask our Egyptian guide if a little Baksheesh, tipping, will help. He talks
to Musa in Arabic, and I can tell he is not talking about money, but dreams. Musa’s
head is wrapped in a thin white cloth and underneath his mustache is a firm,
peaceful smile. Then suddenly he nods and we’re off, passing the huddled mass of
tourists.
We ascend under the
moon and stars. The staircase twists through shadowed
boulders and the mountains rise like velvety stage curtains. We
scramble up the broken stone steps. Our hands tingle from the cold wind. The desert is silent except for heavy
breathing. I take the lead. Musa tells me right or left when I stray too far.
A thin line of
tangerine light appears. It expands into two layers of peach and apricot. Then
the half dome of the sun emerges, fiery and crisp. Honey sun pours into the
cobalt mountain range. People try to snap the colors up. To be honest, the
scene does not exactly match the image in my heart.
The trek back goes too
quickly. I feel the moment slipping away. Dreams change, it’s a part of them
coming true. Later our Egyptian guide confesses how worried he was that
something terrible would happen. Nights before, he dreamed that Ali captured us.
I stare at him, shocked that he took us anyway. I feel a surge of gratitude. He
believed in my dream more.
