Landing at 4 AM after an overnight flight, we were completely exhausted. The airport was small with visibly aging facilities. At the welcome entrance, Egyptian totems were symbolically arranged alongside scattered fake palm trees against a low-resolution printed backdrop—giving the whole setup a distinctly plastic, artificial feel. We glanced at it with curious interest before hurriedly following the crowd through immigration, taking our luggage, exchanging some currency, and exiting the airport within minutes.
Initially, we had been quite concerned about arriving in a completely unfamiliar place in the early morning hours with our energy depleted. Wouldn’t this create problems if we hadn’t made proper arrangements? To prevent any issues, I had specifically asked our contact detailed questions like “What are the procedures? What information will we need?” The response was surprisingly casual—nothing was needed, everything was arranged, just show up. Though still apprehensive, I reluctantly accepted this answer.
In fact, we overthink everything. Outside the airport gates, despite the early hour, the square was brightly lit with people lining both sides. Scanning quickly from left to right, I immediately spotted our driver. He was holding a thin piece of paper with “Dahab Kang” written on it. Though the writing was delicate and fragile, it was perfectly legible.
This exemplifies their approach to handling matters—primitive yet direct. I often realize how deeply modern urban life has influenced my behavior. For any task, I feel compelled to consider and follow external procedures and restrictions, without truly understanding their purpose. This vagueness creates irrational anxiety about the consequences of procedural errors. You probably understand that in city life, missing a specific document means running back and forth, wasting considerable time and energy. By comparison, their direct problem-solving approach, which permeates nearly every aspect of local life, stands out starkly. I suddenly felt embarrassed, realizing how many unnecessary concerns had been occupying my time.
We greeted the driver cordially. Without much conversation, he led us through the crowd toward the parking lot. The path was uneven and potholed, with exposed gravel along the curbs. The streetlights flickered inconsistently, fragmenting the illumination.
The driver stopped at a small car, indicating it was our ride. Inside, the rustic decor reminded me of 1990s Beijing taxis. A red soft cloth decorated with yellow speckles covered the dashboard beneath the windshield. Many parts of the car were covered with transparent plastic sheets, which I couldn’t tell whether they were original wrappings never removed or deliberately added to protect against dust. Sitting on the left side of the back seat, I was struck by the door handle wrapped in white tape, which became my identifying marker when we rode the same car later. The rear windshield was covered with black plastic mesh, likely serving the same purpose as the red cloth up front—reducing interior temperatures during desert sun exposure.
The car started with a sputtering engine that clearly wasn’t in prime condition. As we slowly drove away, looking through the windows revealed almost no well-maintained vehicles in the parking lot. By “well-maintained,” I don’t mean luxury brands, but simply cars that appeared intact externally. Like the roads and facilities, most vehicles here showed significant wear. I couldn’t tell what storms these cars had weathered—not a single patch of paint remained intact, metal frames were warped, bumpers had pieces missing here and there, and having all headlights working was considered quite an achievement.
Most cars here had been stripped back to their original form—simply tools with four wheels for carrying people. The word “tool” describes them perfectly; these vehicles no longer carried status symbols, and luxury features seemed meaningless in the desert environment. Instead, those four wheels and a shaded interior were precisely what locals needed most.
A relatively intact taxi
Consequently, sturdy and durable Nissan vehicles dominated the streets. Small ISUZU pickup trucks served as versatile transportation between desert and towns, perfect for carrying both people and cargo, visible everywhere locally. Slightly larger minivans, often retrofitted with longitudinal benches in the back to accommodate eight passengers, were ideal for small road trips. We occasionally rode in better-maintained vehicles with functioning air conditioning and comfortable seats, but after becoming accustomed to these “broken cars,” the nicer ones felt almost uncomfortable. Walking around, whenever we spotted high-end brands, we would joke that such delicate vehicles were completely unsuited for this harsh environment.
These cars always remind me of the saying “rough words but sound reasoning.” The “words” represent surface appearances, while the “reasoning” embodies the underlying concept and philosophy. Local residents continuously interpret and implement this principle—though their vehicles appear rough externally, the essential functions remain completely adequate. Any superfluous elements eventually get polished away by the sea and desert until they disappear completely.
Around the airport, scattered streetlights provided some illumination, but heading north, darkness enveloped everything. The road was nearly empty of other vehicles, and the lane markings on the asphalt had lost all practical purpose. The road layout featured bold, sweeping designs with long straight sections and gentle curves. Sparse traffic signs reflected lonely light under our headlights. The Arabic text lacked English translations, leaving their messages incomprehensible to us.
It’s completely dark outside
Our headlights, complemented by moonlight, outlined the silhouettes of mountains on both sides. Their forms appeared pitch black, and only by looking upward along with the sky could we barely discern the mountaintops. As we sped past, these shapes silently dissolved into the night, vanishing completely.
Physically and mentally drained, we drifted in and out of sleep with the vehicle’s movements. Our shy driver spoke little, his voice soft—perhaps intentionally avoiding disturbing our rest—and played no music or radio. The night grew increasingly serene, and we three seemed to exist in a special dimension, rapidly floating forward.
Dawn broke, driving in the desert
After an indeterminate period of drowsiness, the sky gradually brightened. Opening my eyes, I realized we were surrounded by mountains. Desert stretched everywhere without vegetation, and distant mountains stood starkly bare and abrupt. While this represents typical desert scenery, for those accustomed to skyscrapers and verdant mountains, it felt remarkably fresh. From the back seat, we exchanged smiles, our eyes reflecting the faint dawn light, silently communicating our curiosity and excitement at these unusual mountain vistas.
Desert outside the car window
As we exited the mountainous region, we approached the checkpoint at the town entrance. Though not large, these checkpoints occupied all key entry and exit points. We had passed one when leaving the airport, though darkness had obscured it. In daylight, everything appeared clearer. Iron barriers blocked the road at the checkpoint, with small huts housing police and soldiers. Armored vehicles and armed personnel created an intimidating atmosphere, immediately changing the mood.
Such checkpoints dot various areas across the peninsula. Traveling between towns by car inevitably means encountering them. We needed to keep our passports readily accessible for verification. The inspection standards varied dramatically—sometimes the driver could pass with just a few words (whose meaning and special significance remained mysterious to me), while other times they would stop the car for several minutes before allowing passage. It’s difficult to imagine how non-Arabic speakers could navigate between towns independently. Self-driving seemed impossible; local assistance was essential. The towns existed as distinct, separated entities, and leaving one always created a sense of disorientation. The contrast between town vibrancy and external stillness was striking, fragmenting our continuous journey into discrete segments.
After clearing the checkpoint, our long-silent driver softly announced, “Welcome to Dahab.” Through the car windows, we noticed promotional slogans on nearby walls marking the town boundary. Constrained by the armed military presence, we didn’t dare photograph this memorable moment, instead turning our heads to mentally capture the significant landmark for a few extra seconds.
As we continued driving, the vast sea gradually came into view in the distance along the descending avenue. My heart rate quickened slightly as familiar scenery began transforming—the sea slowly inserting itself between sky and stone. This marked the true beginning of our journey; after enduring a long night of wakefulness and travel, we had finally reached the small town of Dahab.
