Hadu's story

"I think I'm drowning, asphyxiating, I wanna break the spell, that you've created." - Muse

Hadu (pron. ‘Had uh’) is an Arabic name that means ‘Sun’, and a woman in Sharm El-Sheikh who means to massage you. Hadu is 5’2”, olive-skinned, warm and friendly, with fine enough teeth but stained a little coffee. Late 20s age-wise, she is one of only two women working at the Tropicana Rosetta, a hotel resort with over 300 staff.

Hailing from Cairo, Hadu has lived and worked in Sharm El-Shiekh for 11 years, and can tell you plenty about both places. And she does – Hadu’s a talker. Like many resort staff, boredom and loneliness become part of Hadu’s job description. This, the first week in January, is a week away from low-season. Even tumbleweeds look bored here. So Hadu talks. And talks. And talks. Fortunately, as a masseur, she has a captive audience.

Hadu will teach you Arabic. Hadu will slide her fleshy hands up and down you. Hadu will tell you where the bargains are. Hadu will cover you in oil. Hadu will give you ten minutes extra for free. Ten minutes extra talking. Hadu might not know this, but her massages make you giggle somewhat uncontrollably afterwards. That’s either because her stereo playing relaxing, exotic eastern music with strange, foreign sounds is doubling as a nitrous oxide emitter, or because she is plain funny.

Your face is shoved into a towel. As Hadu works your neck muscles, you can’t breathe. She takes calls on her mobile while doing this, and continues to massage with one hand while cradling the phone with the other. And when she puts the phone down, she talks with you, again. But the talking is tricky when you’re asphyxiating, and a doubled-up towel makes a poor microphone. Then she turns you over and teaches you the Arabic word for “love” and asks you if you love your girlfriend. And you’re so happy to breathe again that you want to cry out “العربية” over and over. But just when you think the going’s getting weird, it gets weirder, and more wonderful.

Hadu tells you about massages that might not exist, like the ‘shower massage’. Hadu doesn’t offer a shower massage because her room is too basic for it. Just four white walls with flaking paint, a harsh light and a table with a sun lounger cushion on it covered in a fresh, hotel towel. There’s a wooden seat in the corner, a cassette player resting on top. But you leave the place happy enough. Relaxed, giggling, slicked in oil, and with a bit more Arabic in your vocabulary.

And Hadu’s happy enough, too. And as the sun slides down behind Mount Sinai, and the desert skies turn red and purple and blue, that’s all you can ask from one of only two women with a job in this male-dominated town.

Omar's army story

Omar’s black eyes are shining, like opals. Omar’s laughing. Is shaking my hand and patting my shoulder. Being playful and fun. Seems always like this. Roughly my height, in his twenties, Omar smiles infectiously. His skin is dark olive, his hair worn barber’s grade 3-short, and is brushed back - the style here. Unlike most men in Sharm', doesn't wear a moustache.

***

Sometimes, you stop and talk and sometimes you don’t. You’ll get the patter: “Can I ask you small question? Where are you from? Your lady is very beautiful!” You’re street-wise so you know the ploy; unlike the ceaseless stream of suckers, you’re not lured by the sales pitch masquerading as friendly chat. Some of the chat makes you laugh though – particularly the incongruous scraps of Cockney patois – “alright, geeza!” – but you’ve devised ways of derailing the pitch in a playful, inoffensive way. It’soften requires a bit of thought but it’s worth the effort. You’ve seen the way an American and also a plumy-voiced, colonial-type Englishman exploded in anger at these playful, humble and quietly strong people, and you feel ashamed to be from the supposedly civilised West.

***

Omar is chatting with us outside his shop on this cold, desert night. Is telling us how, in two days, he is leaving Sharm for Cairo, to begin a year of national service with the army. Punctuates each sentence with a laugh, like he means to enjoy these last conversations in Sharm before heading off for the drills and lame thrills of army life. Teaches me how to say “Hello!”, and “Thank you!” and “How are you!” and “How many camels for your wife?” in Arabic. Encouragingly greets my attempts at the language, with pillow fight-shared laughter. Makes the interactions feel richer than they somehow should in this coastal resort on the edge of the Sinai desert.

***

Sometimes, you stop and talk and sometimes you don’t. Tonight, plain curiosity makes us stop and chat with him. As a resort, every ‘local’ working in Sharm is resort staff. Sharm is service-driven so it makes conversation with any locals relatively unequal - people pander to you. But you notice that the Egyptians here act your equal, on your level, when you banter. So you stop and talk and connect with him.

***

As Omar searches for an English word to complete his sentence, his sapphire eyes move up and look to stars that blink in a dark navy blue desert sky; his large cigarette hand waves around in the air and his mouth stutters “eh-eh-eh-eh-eh-eh-eh-eh.” Lands the word, and relaxes his eyes back into yours, and eases his hand back down to his side. Beams a smile, utters the word like a new discovery and laughs at its utterance. Omar oozes childlike charm.

***

Living large on holiday, the thought of a compulsory year of military service for £10 per week in wages, and with two days leave every six months fills you with dread. And sympathy for him, off in two days for a hard regime.

***

Omar is leading us into his shop. Tells us that we are his friends and have to wish him luck for joining the army. Points out that this is a local custom and it has to be observed. Explains that it involves sitting in his shop and toasting ‘good luck’ to him with Bedouin tea. Beckons us in, shows us to our seats – foot-thick cushions covered in richly-coloured, intricately pattered carpets. Sends a boy, around 12 years old, to fetch us tea. Lets us take in his wares: hundreds of small, elaborate glass perfume bottles glittering with light reflections on the shelves; dusty sheets of ancient-looking scrolls – traditional papyrus paper, varieties both plain and printed with hieroglyphics. Starts generously giving us presents of papyrus bookmarks; rites our names in Arabic on them. Has us right where he wants us to sell.

***

Like a light switching on, as soon as you’ve entered the garish shop you know that you’ve crossed the line. Your street-wisdom failed and you''ve been sucker-punched inside in an instant. And you want to leave. You don’t want tea. You don’t want more chat. You just want to go. In a split second, it’s gone from friendly banter to the sales pitch equivalent of a kidnap. The door shuts. The air thickens, and your throat tightens. It’ll take more than mint tea to settle your knotting stomach. You could be some time.

Tea preparation keeps you there longer, present-giving guilts you into giving something back. And you realise that the army story was a crock. Only, that realisation creeps up on you from behind. You want out. So you offer him money for the bookmarks and you tell him that’s all that you want. It’s academic from here on in. Just Egyptian-style quiet strength to get you out, and magnanimous smiles to smooth the way. And you leave.

And you give him his due for his wiliness and again realise that the army story was spun to hundreds before you.

But, back in the cool night air, under deep blue desert sky glittering with millions of stars, you gulp down the fresh air, and laugh at his guile, and reflect a rich exchange that gave birth to this post.

***

Tags: Sharm el-Sheikh, Egypt, Arabic, Cockney, Sinai, English, Gulf of Aqaba, travelogue, travel, travel writing, Bedouin, papyrus, hieroglyphics