My mind wanders back today to a very special place that holds a little piece of heaven I remember when I am missing home….Hurghada…
When I was a child my family and I lived in Egypt in a rural town on the Red Sea coast named Hurghada. We enjoyed the innocent beginnings, unobstructed landscape, and quietness that would later drive others to follow my parents' footsteps and bring this sleepy village to what is now a bustling tourist trap of city life. Desert cliffs stand behind this small gem that runs a 22 mile stretch of sandy shores. The calm crystal waters that are home to colorful tropical fish, dozens of uninhabited small islands perfect for weekend camping, subtropical climate, and hundreds of government protected coral reefs provided our family the majesty in which to share with others and to live an amazing life.
My mom and dad owned an international diving and adventure company which ranged from teaching a carousel of interns how to scuba dive and teach, to Europeans on holiday taken camping on a small private island. There was always someone new to meet in our home and always work to be done. Many long days were spent packing up generators, tents, kitchen supplies, and diving equipment in preparation. We'd gather the vacationing group from their hotel and head out to sea. My dad's team of fishing boats swayed back and forth in the waves, my sister Maryam and I climbed around in the wobbly dip and plunge to stare at the new faces. We'd ask them questions, bring seasick travelers water, and jump into the laps of attractive young men, smiling up as only a 5 year old is allowed to do. My father would tell one of his many loud and boisterous stories, my mom would smile quietly in the background holding onto the boat rail. We would arrive and set up camp as the guests would take a stroll around the 1 mile radius island, ooh-ing and ahh-ing at the tiny paradise they would call home for the week. My mother would take to the arduous task of setting up the kitchen tent, where she'd spend many a hot day preparing lunches and dinners for 10-15 people at a time over bunsen burners and small fold out tables. Dad and the fishermen would haul out the diving tanks and scuba gear, engaging the tourists in friendly conversation. My sister and I would gather shells, play in the water, snorkel the nearby reef to check out the fish dad had taught us the names of, and giggle at the naked Binaca-nosed Germans sunbathing on the beach. Hot days became cool nights and the buzz of the generator allowed for evening festivities of music and lights. When all was finally still and guests asleep, we would sit under a blanket of stars and watch the hermit crabs crawl up the shore, listen to the waves in their faithful rhythm, and lay our heads in mom's lap while dad drank tea and smoked the sheesha with the fishermen.
On other occasions my parents taught scuba diving at the local Sheraton Resort. The amount of business exchange between both entities allowed for very friendly relations and almost a feel of a second family for my sister and I. Many of our friends were the children whose parents docked their boats in the hotel marina or the random guests my parents would befriend. My sister and I spent a lot of time swimming in the chlorinated shallow waters of the heart-shaped outdoor pool while mom and dad instructed scuba classes in the deep end. These days are amongst my favorite to recall, eating French fries by the pool or running into the hotel kitchen to beg the head chef for a ball of dough so my sister and I could use it as bait for fishing. He would smile down and place a small perfectly formed ball in each of our hands and we'd run off, spools of fishing wire unraveling behind our skipping bare feet. Dangling legs over the wooden planked ledge, hair tangled and salty, skin dark and dry, we would catch a couple little fish and felt like we had found gold. Other times at the resort we would run in terror from the oddly kept hotel "pet" goat that some employee would let out of its cage, angry with horns down, chasing us into jumping into the safety of the pool waters. We often fell asleep late at night beside the same pool on its plastic chairs, the breeze cool, the discotheque playing the BeeGees in the background. Mom and Dad would come carry us back to the car after a long night of socializing with guests that were heading back to their European homes. And we would finally make our way through the winding cliffs along the seashore to our little home off the resort line.
We lived in a stucco duplex which was half dad's scuba diving office and a home for interns who temporarily stayed with us. The other half was where we lived. Electricity was spotty at the time, and many a night was lit with candles and the luminescence of the moon. We would sit on our raised balcony and drink tea, watching the stray dogs and foxes roam the streets, the occasional police officer strolling with rifle in hand. On evenings when we had electricity we would watch American television shows on one of our 2 channels and eat one of my mom's amazing pizzas she was well known for. The Russian ballet would perform on certain evenings and my sister and I would dance in front of the screen, imagining ourselves into the scene. Days we would play outside with the neighbor kids and kick a soccer ball in the sand, the local mosque blaring the daily prayers over the city.
Our neighbors lived right next door and were a simple and hard working Egyptian couple with 6 children…3 boys and 3 girls. The father was a quiet and small older man who was a lawyer in town and smoked like a chimney leaving a confetti of discarded cigarettes in the front yard. His wife was a large woman with a loud voice, a hand that always seemed to be slapping one of her children on the back of their heads, and a kitchen that was constantly cooking something tasty that she had slaughtered from their backyard pen. I would often linger on their front porch around lunch time, kicking rocks and looking up longingly like a little beggar waiting to be asked in to eat. Reluctantly and eventually she would appear in the doorway, wipe her hands on her thin cotton dress, sigh, and then wave me in. I would run in and sit next to my two best friends Noosa and Hibba. Cross legged sitting in a circle on the floor, we would each grab a piece of pita bread and begin dipping into the bowls of food she would lay out on a table of newspaper. Rice, black eyed peas cooked in garlic and eggs, tahini, roasted eggplant, boiled chicken, tomato stewed okra, lentils, and parsley salads would be gone within minutes. The siblings would fight over who would get to eat the chicken head and I would squirm impatiently as honey soaked baklava and dates replaced the lunch fare. I often look back at these times in gratefulness at the hospitality of this poor family to feed another mouth with so many to already feed. My mother, upon discovering I had snuck off, would run over, embarrassed and red faced. She would be waved off with an "it's okay" and out of respect would thank profusely, exiting with a glare at me that let me know I would hear it later. I think she understood, though, and never gave me too much grief over it.
A few years went by, my little sister Hannah was born, and my parents knew that it was time to bring us to a more formal education and structured life. As a child you don't always see the reality of the memories you hold dear…the state of the country after the President's assassination, the arguments with the neighbors over their children stealing from our home, the growing tourism industry in Hurghada that was choking my parent's business, the loneliness and rough comments my American mother had endured in this foreign place for 11 years, and the tragic drowning of one of our beloved interns at sea on one of our trips. One day we packed up our home and said goodbye to our neighbor friends, promising to see them next year. I hugged Noosa and Hibba in tears and climbed into the van that would take us to the airport, unaware this was the last time I would see this life again. I remember the winding drive up into the hills along the water, the breeze through the open windows, resting my chin in my hand and looking out, excited to go to America. I wish now I had paid more attention, had appreciated it more. These memories, as fresh today as they were then, are locked in time back in a special place, like a forgotten treasure at the bottom of the sea. It is on cloudy quiet days like today that I close my eyes and they resurface. I hear the faithful rhythm of the shores again, I feel the gentle salty breeze lulling my mind quiet, and the moon bright and full illuminating the paradise I once called home.
