I am no Moses
(Marakesh, Morocco 11:08.26.8.2004)
“You don’t necessarily need a guide, but for safety neither men nor women should hike alone at night.”
-- Practical Information: Mt. Sinai, Let’s Go Travel Guide: Egypt
So here I am all alone at 2:15am, lost at the base of Mt. Sinai.
I scan with my flashlight, desperate to find any indication of a foot path. Do those three rocks in a seeming line constitute a proper boundary? There is a slight incline there with hardly any rocks. Could that be the beginning of a heavily traveled trail? How I managed to lose fifty hikers who arrived by minibus more or less at the same time as I did on one of the most touristed mountains in the world is a feat even Moses would be proud of. Sure I can’t turn a rod into a snake and back again but if he had my skills of navigation and evasion, Moses and the Levites would’ve shaken off the pesky Egyptians and reached the promised land of milk and honey in no time. Probably wouldn’t have had to waste precious God favors in splitting the Red Sea.
Two hours before, I was crammed in the back corner of a minibus in Dahab, a budget traveler’s paradise on the Gulf of Aqaba. I first heard about the town on a Luxor-bound bus from Cairo. I sat net to a Pennsylvanian-turned-English student with chronic fatigue syndrome. As she took her painkillers and sleeping pills she said “Dahab isn’t like Cairo” where she had to jog in the morning wearing sweat pants and a shirt, “There you can wear tank tops and shorts. It’s just like southern Europe. I totally miss wearing slutty things.” Then the pills took effect and she fell asleep. Dahab is laid back and cheap. Many travelers end up spending months in the town as diving courses are offered as abundantly as the fresh seafood. After snorkeling or windsurfing, grab some mango juice on the beach and listen to Bob Marley or Sade. Eat kebabs and smoke out of a sheesha later that night before shopping for souvenirs at Cleopatra Rasta Shop. No joke. One of the few landlubber excursions is a nocturnal hike up to Mt. Sinai, timed perfectly to witness the sunrise at the pinnacle. The bus included a couple other Americans, four Slovenian guys, a couple Danes with convincing American accents and also a French contingent. We were assured that it was an easy hike with clear paths. Carrying a map was optional; there’d be so many people there. Just follow the leader.
After two hours the bus arrived at St. Catherine’s, a monastery sitting at the base of the mountain, founded in 300AD and houses what is believed to be a direct descendant of the Burning Bush. As soon as I left the bus, I headed for the bathroom to put on pants and a sweater. The temperature had dropped to 50 degrees. By the time I checked my gear and clothing, there were only a handful of people left at the base.
I am not going to be the last one on to, so I began power walking. This was the mistake. I was in Amazing Race mode, competing with a pack of world class hikers who burst out of the vans and sped up the mountain, leaving a flurry of dust behind them that had already settled by the time I crossed the same area. They had scaled past so many turns up the mountain that I could no longer hear their stampede or see the glow of their flashlights. Moses had a pillar of fire guiding him at night. A sympathetic firefly is all I’m asking for.
I make out the shapes of two camels and three Bedouins. They are presumably headed for the main camel camp, where camels can be hired as an alternative to hiking. The camp would necessarily fall on the main path, so I follow. As I approach them, one of the men seems extremely tall is walking with an unnatural gait that somehow feels threatening. Like the lanky walk of a volatile alcoholic in a parking lot, like the deceptive swaying of a martial artist fighting in the drunken style. Naturally, I try to get closer. I can’t shine my flashlight directly onto the figures, but the moonlight finally reveals that the dangerous man is actually just a very gaunt camel. So I follow the three camels and two Bedouins
We come upon the silhouette of the monastery and I pause to orient myself according to the map I was shown at Dahab which was simple enough to memorize. “There are two trails” the man explained, “both beginning just past these two pillars. The one that turns to the right is the much faster but steeper Steps of Repentance which many choose as the path of descent. Straight past the pillars is the easier but longer Camel Path.” I see the pillars, gain my bearings and also manage to lose sight of the camels and Bedouins. But I can see a faint stationary glow in the distance. That has to be the camp.
I reach the camp by climbing over rocks and entering the side at the opposite end of the official path. I can see dozens of resting camels and I walk gingerly, meandering quietly around them. Their legs are bent twice under their large bodies. They look at me as any groggy, overworked creature would. Wondering what I want, wondering why I’d chosen such a silly entrance, but too tired to help. I smile at them, apologizing for the earlier than normal wake up call. I approach the men who are huddled around the burning lanterns. They are wearing turbans and long, draping gowns. With gestures, I ask for the path and the men point.
The path, now found, is indeed well delineated. I continue to power walk, optimistic that I could still catch the crowd. Even though the path is clear, there is safety in numbers and more importantly, I never underestimate my ability to screw up. Walking in the dark has one very powerful psychological advantage. I never know how much farther. Can’t tell how much higher. Cant fear coming upon a particularly steep section. Because I can only see three steps ahead of me. The hike then becomes less of a protracted battle of literally Biblical proportions and more a sequence of manageable steps.
I stop after a half hour to remove my sweater and to tighten my large fanny pack that had begun to slide down, hampering my stride. I find a flat rock and sit down for a few moments. The moon, while only 1/8 full, is extremely bright. Enough to cast my shadow, enough to leave my flashlight turned off. The moonlight extends through a perfectly clear sky and illuminates the rugged, arid terrain with a faint blueness, bleaching the colors away, transforming a presumably ruddy palette to a desolate monotony. The color of steel. Of the moon itself. Newly visible stars form constellations I have never seen. A group emerges to resemble a near perfect circle, like a studded collar of a devastatingly massive canine. Or that of an even more terrifying suburban punk. I extend my arms and hands skywards, connecting thumbs to forefingers to create a rectangle. I begin counting stars within this frame, each knuckle spanning trillions of miles, eclipsing entire solar systems and worlds within which a similarly predisposed creature was simultaneously counting the stars with me. The universe is of unimaginable bigness and the number of habitable planets still so vast that the possibility of an alien creature mimicking my actions is, I believe, very likely. But my interstellar communion is suddenly interrupted by a flickering army of flashlights. There they are. But they are behind me and below. As I would later find out, everybody had prepped themselves in the courtyard of a small cafe, obstructed from my view by a wall of minivans. I did not lost them. I ran past them. I had been racing no one. I point my light at them. Dot-dash-dot dash-dot-dash dot-dash-dot. A person responds, shining the light in my direction. Here I am, having a Moses moment. I had been utterly convinced of my pathfinding failure and now suddenly find myself in the position of a leader. My flashlight, now a beacon, my stride, now setting the pace. But I have become habituated to the silence and the light. I don’t want a cacophony of footsteps and foreign accents messing the whole thing up. I turn off my light and walk away. Unlike Moses, I leave my people behind. Am I my brother’s keeper?
An hour and a half later I am at the final 350 steps. A Bedouin merchant says it’s too early, nobody’s up there yet. I should take a break, buy some overpriced chips and tea. Halfway up, it seems the Bedouin had a point. I refused to rest throughout the entire way, and now my body is shaking. Moses had a walking stick. My trembling knees could use one right now. But I remind myself that an 80-year old man with slippery sandals walked up this way carrying two stone tablets and then managed to survive for forty days without food or water. I have nothing to complain about. I’m carrying a camera, some cookies and two juice boxes. Hardly a load to warrant divine intervention. So I just keep walking.
I am not the first at the top. Three guys had taken the Steps of Repentance. Three others had camped out from the previous day. Another merchant approaches me, offering to lend me his blanket for a dollar and a half. I ask him where the sun will rise, situate myself near the edge, wrap myself in the blanket, take out a juice box and wait.
For the next ninety minutes, the people pile in. Some are quick to sleep. Others begin eating. Some stargaze.
It beings sometime after 5am. Hard to give an exact minute to an event that is part of a seamless process. A thin white thread appears over the horizon, in competing luminescence with the bright fingernail clipping of the moon, elegant, demure in the company of stars and the faint dusting of the Milky Way galaxy. Somewhere east – is it Saudi Arabia? India? How far could we see? – the white thread quickly breaks open, expanding in a spectrum that leaks orange over the landscape, over everything. And then the rising of a fierce orange disc, which sets the lunar desolation, the silent eloquence of blues on fire. In its unyielding march westward, the disc claims territories under this orange glow, increasing its dominion with every passing moment. In time, those of us on the mountain also submit to its presence and somewhere in Morocco or Spain, it is still dark and quiet.
“The smoke billowed up from it like smoke from a furnace, the whole mountain trembled....” Exodus 19:18
And to witness a vast beautiful dance between night and day, a process that determines our concept of time but is timeless in itself, giving rhythm to seen and unseen occurrences that repeat over days, years, eons and one which is undoubtedly linked to cosmic forces beyond Hubble’s scope, beyond astrophysical explanation, beyond even the most informed imagination; hinged upon systems in a god-sized mobile, teetering and swaying in delicate balance, measured no longer by human numbers but with words invented to capture the unfathomable: infinite, forever, every-thing. Things as small as rocks and sand and sleepy, hungry people on a mountain top. This is what it feels like to feel the Earth move, to identify ourselves as microscopic – but no less integral – participants to the dance
(Marakesh, Morocco 11:08.26.8.2004)
“You don’t necessarily need a guide, but for safety neither men nor women should hike alone at night.”
-- Practical Information: Mt. Sinai, Let’s Go Travel Guide: Egypt
So here I am all alone at 2:15am, lost at the base of Mt. Sinai.
I scan with my flashlight, desperate to find any indication of a foot path. Do those three rocks in a seeming line constitute a proper boundary? There is a slight incline there with hardly any rocks. Could that be the beginning of a heavily traveled trail? How I managed to lose fifty hikers who arrived by minibus more or less at the same time as I did on one of the most touristed mountains in the world is a feat even Moses would be proud of. Sure I can’t turn a rod into a snake and back again but if he had my skills of navigation and evasion, Moses and the Levites would’ve shaken off the pesky Egyptians and reached the promised land of milk and honey in no time. Probably wouldn’t have had to waste precious God favors in splitting the Red Sea.
Two hours before, I was crammed in the back corner of a minibus in Dahab, a budget traveler’s paradise on the Gulf of Aqaba. I first heard about the town on a Luxor-bound bus from Cairo. I sat net to a Pennsylvanian-turned-English student with chronic fatigue syndrome. As she took her painkillers and sleeping pills she said “Dahab isn’t like Cairo” where she had to jog in the morning wearing sweat pants and a shirt, “There you can wear tank tops and shorts. It’s just like southern Europe. I totally miss wearing slutty things.” Then the pills took effect and she fell asleep. Dahab is laid back and cheap. Many travelers end up spending months in the town as diving courses are offered as abundantly as the fresh seafood. After snorkeling or windsurfing, grab some mango juice on the beach and listen to Bob Marley or Sade. Eat kebabs and smoke out of a sheesha later that night before shopping for souvenirs at Cleopatra Rasta Shop. No joke. One of the few landlubber excursions is a nocturnal hike up to Mt. Sinai, timed perfectly to witness the sunrise at the pinnacle. The bus included a couple other Americans, four Slovenian guys, a couple Danes with convincing American accents and also a French contingent. We were assured that it was an easy hike with clear paths. Carrying a map was optional; there’d be so many people there. Just follow the leader.
After two hours the bus arrived at St. Catherine’s, a monastery sitting at the base of the mountain, founded in 300AD and houses what is believed to be a direct descendant of the Burning Bush. As soon as I left the bus, I headed for the bathroom to put on pants and a sweater. The temperature had dropped to 50 degrees. By the time I checked my gear and clothing, there were only a handful of people left at the base.
I am not going to be the last one on to, so I began power walking. This was the mistake. I was in Amazing Race mode, competing with a pack of world class hikers who burst out of the vans and sped up the mountain, leaving a flurry of dust behind them that had already settled by the time I crossed the same area. They had scaled past so many turns up the mountain that I could no longer hear their stampede or see the glow of their flashlights. Moses had a pillar of fire guiding him at night. A sympathetic firefly is all I’m asking for.
I make out the shapes of two camels and three Bedouins. They are presumably headed for the main camel camp, where camels can be hired as an alternative to hiking. The camp would necessarily fall on the main path, so I follow. As I approach them, one of the men seems extremely tall is walking with an unnatural gait that somehow feels threatening. Like the lanky walk of a volatile alcoholic in a parking lot, like the deceptive swaying of a martial artist fighting in the drunken style. Naturally, I try to get closer. I can’t shine my flashlight directly onto the figures, but the moonlight finally reveals that the dangerous man is actually just a very gaunt camel. So I follow the three camels and two Bedouins
We come upon the silhouette of the monastery and I pause to orient myself according to the map I was shown at Dahab which was simple enough to memorize. “There are two trails” the man explained, “both beginning just past these two pillars. The one that turns to the right is the much faster but steeper Steps of Repentance which many choose as the path of descent. Straight past the pillars is the easier but longer Camel Path.” I see the pillars, gain my bearings and also manage to lose sight of the camels and Bedouins. But I can see a faint stationary glow in the distance. That has to be the camp.
I reach the camp by climbing over rocks and entering the side at the opposite end of the official path. I can see dozens of resting camels and I walk gingerly, meandering quietly around them. Their legs are bent twice under their large bodies. They look at me as any groggy, overworked creature would. Wondering what I want, wondering why I’d chosen such a silly entrance, but too tired to help. I smile at them, apologizing for the earlier than normal wake up call. I approach the men who are huddled around the burning lanterns. They are wearing turbans and long, draping gowns. With gestures, I ask for the path and the men point.
The path, now found, is indeed well delineated. I continue to power walk, optimistic that I could still catch the crowd. Even though the path is clear, there is safety in numbers and more importantly, I never underestimate my ability to screw up. Walking in the dark has one very powerful psychological advantage. I never know how much farther. Can’t tell how much higher. Cant fear coming upon a particularly steep section. Because I can only see three steps ahead of me. The hike then becomes less of a protracted battle of literally Biblical proportions and more a sequence of manageable steps.
I stop after a half hour to remove my sweater and to tighten my large fanny pack that had begun to slide down, hampering my stride. I find a flat rock and sit down for a few moments. The moon, while only 1/8 full, is extremely bright. Enough to cast my shadow, enough to leave my flashlight turned off. The moonlight extends through a perfectly clear sky and illuminates the rugged, arid terrain with a faint blueness, bleaching the colors away, transforming a presumably ruddy palette to a desolate monotony. The color of steel. Of the moon itself. Newly visible stars form constellations I have never seen. A group emerges to resemble a near perfect circle, like a studded collar of a devastatingly massive canine. Or that of an even more terrifying suburban punk. I extend my arms and hands skywards, connecting thumbs to forefingers to create a rectangle. I begin counting stars within this frame, each knuckle spanning trillions of miles, eclipsing entire solar systems and worlds within which a similarly predisposed creature was simultaneously counting the stars with me. The universe is of unimaginable bigness and the number of habitable planets still so vast that the possibility of an alien creature mimicking my actions is, I believe, very likely. But my interstellar communion is suddenly interrupted by a flickering army of flashlights. There they are. But they are behind me and below. As I would later find out, everybody had prepped themselves in the courtyard of a small cafe, obstructed from my view by a wall of minivans. I did not lost them. I ran past them. I had been racing no one. I point my light at them. Dot-dash-dot dash-dot-dash dot-dash-dot. A person responds, shining the light in my direction. Here I am, having a Moses moment. I had been utterly convinced of my pathfinding failure and now suddenly find myself in the position of a leader. My flashlight, now a beacon, my stride, now setting the pace. But I have become habituated to the silence and the light. I don’t want a cacophony of footsteps and foreign accents messing the whole thing up. I turn off my light and walk away. Unlike Moses, I leave my people behind. Am I my brother’s keeper?
An hour and a half later I am at the final 350 steps. A Bedouin merchant says it’s too early, nobody’s up there yet. I should take a break, buy some overpriced chips and tea. Halfway up, it seems the Bedouin had a point. I refused to rest throughout the entire way, and now my body is shaking. Moses had a walking stick. My trembling knees could use one right now. But I remind myself that an 80-year old man with slippery sandals walked up this way carrying two stone tablets and then managed to survive for forty days without food or water. I have nothing to complain about. I’m carrying a camera, some cookies and two juice boxes. Hardly a load to warrant divine intervention. So I just keep walking.
I am not the first at the top. Three guys had taken the Steps of Repentance. Three others had camped out from the previous day. Another merchant approaches me, offering to lend me his blanket for a dollar and a half. I ask him where the sun will rise, situate myself near the edge, wrap myself in the blanket, take out a juice box and wait.
For the next ninety minutes, the people pile in. Some are quick to sleep. Others begin eating. Some stargaze.
It beings sometime after 5am. Hard to give an exact minute to an event that is part of a seamless process. A thin white thread appears over the horizon, in competing luminescence with the bright fingernail clipping of the moon, elegant, demure in the company of stars and the faint dusting of the Milky Way galaxy. Somewhere east – is it Saudi Arabia? India? How far could we see? – the white thread quickly breaks open, expanding in a spectrum that leaks orange over the landscape, over everything. And then the rising of a fierce orange disc, which sets the lunar desolation, the silent eloquence of blues on fire. In its unyielding march westward, the disc claims territories under this orange glow, increasing its dominion with every passing moment. In time, those of us on the mountain also submit to its presence and somewhere in Morocco or Spain, it is still dark and quiet.
“The smoke billowed up from it like smoke from a furnace, the whole mountain trembled....” Exodus 19:18
And to witness a vast beautiful dance between night and day, a process that determines our concept of time but is timeless in itself, giving rhythm to seen and unseen occurrences that repeat over days, years, eons and one which is undoubtedly linked to cosmic forces beyond Hubble’s scope, beyond astrophysical explanation, beyond even the most informed imagination; hinged upon systems in a god-sized mobile, teetering and swaying in delicate balance, measured no longer by human numbers but with words invented to capture the unfathomable: infinite, forever, every-thing. Things as small as rocks and sand and sleepy, hungry people on a mountain top. This is what it feels like to feel the Earth move, to identify ourselves as microscopic – but no less integral – participants to the dance
