Our schedules in “Dahab” were separate. She had arranged freediving training and certification, while I wasn’t quite that intense and only signed up for a beginner’s scuba diving course that could be completed in a day. So during the staggered times, I was free to explore and make my own plans.
On the second day after we arrived, she started her training early, while I rented a bike and wandered around town. That evening, when everyone gathered to share their experiences from the day, she noticed I had nothing particularly exciting to say and strongly recommended I join a one-day canyon tour. Without hesitation, I immediately posted in the hostel group. The manager Mr. Z responded quickly and contacted the landlord Mr. M.
Mr. M had many friends here and special connections for almost every activity. Within a few hours, we received the price and itinerary. Since I had no special plans the next day, I happily signed up. Documentary filmmaker Mr. A, staying in another room, saw the message and spontaneously decided to join us.
In “Dahab”, most activities or day trips revolve around nearby areas, usually within one or two hours’ drive. The distances aren’t far, but due to language barriers and different social environments, arranging things on your own is nearly impossible. So using a travel agency is the best option. There are many travel agencies along the city’s coastal center. Even if you try to ignore them, the young men stationed at the doors will eagerly approach you, handing out flyers. The competition is fierce, as you can imagine.
Though the activity options vary somewhat, the content is largely similar. So the key is to negotiate a good price with the travel agency. We were lucky to skip this step entirely since the hostel helped us contact them and secure the best rates. Every time I think about it, I’m grateful I chose the right accommodation instead of a rundown resort hotel—otherwise, it would have been a big loss.
Early the next morning, a strong northeast wind was blowing. Though not ideal for snorkeling, it didn’t stop us from hiking the canyon. We packed up early and waited in the living room for departure. When the time came, Mr. Z hurried over to tell us the vehicle had arrived. We got up and set off for the day’s adventure.
The vehicle was a modified large van with all the rear seats removed and two rows of benches installed near the windows. There were no fixed seats or seat belts. I felt like I was being treated like cargo in the back of the van. The van started and we drove through town to pick up other travelers.
When the door opened the first time, a woman got on. She was dressed in modern, somewhat flashy clothes and immediately started chatting loudly in English, saying she was from Cairo and here to travel. Early in the morning, I was low on energy and responded quietly and politely. After a while, another woman boarded, warmly greeting the first. They seemed to be friends traveling together. She carried a cardboard tray holding two cups of iced coffee. The coffee in plastic cups jostled with every bump, looking like it might spill any second. Watching their flamboyant and carefree personalities, I had a feeling some trouble was coming.
Sure enough, as I watched the coffee about to spill, the woman stepped onto the van’s edge but lost her footing. The cup slipped from her hand, and coffee spilled just as I had feared. The rear of the van was covered in coffee. They quickly grabbed tissues and started wiping, muttering to each other in Arabic. The driver and guide didn’t ask much and moved to chat in the shade under a nearby tree, occasionally glancing back as if waiting for them to finish cleaning up. The coffee didn’t splash on my side but landed on the pants of a French guy sitting opposite me. They apologized quickly, and he, quiet and reserved, said it was fine. Though he said so, I could see a hint of fatigue and resignation in his expression.
Once the coffee was cleaned up, we finally set off. People’s personalities always have unique traits. Friends form through similar temperaments, and certain personality types tend to have consistent and harmonious ways of doing things. Just after the coffee incident was resolved and the van left town, the woman pulled out a small JBL speaker and loudly asked who wanted to listen to music. When no one responded, she played modern Arabic songs on her own. After a few songs from the back, the driver seemed to notice. While shifting gears with his right hand, he poked at the control panel and suddenly a melodious classical Arabic song came from the front speakers. The two music sources clashed like two people walking with a limp, completely out of sync. We were stuck in the middle like the filling in a sandwich, mentally exhausted and tested. After some time, the music faded away, and our nerves slowly relaxed.
During the trip, another music-related oddity annoyed Mr. A. Driving through the desert, I noticed the music kept switching every few seconds. At first, I thought it was a technical glitch with the car’s audio system, so I didn’t pay much attention. Later, Mr. A told me privately it was the driver’s doing. He pointed to the driver’s right hand, which kept clicking buttons, each click switching to the next song. I realized the driver was secretly controlling everything. Mr. A was irritated by the noise and kept asking the driver and guide in English to quiet down. I didn’t catch the details but saw the driver muttering in Arabic while his hand never stopped working. Mr. A gave up trying to communicate and complained to me instead. I wasn’t bothered by the music and saw it as a curious human behavior. Out of curiosity and observation, I preferred to think of the driver as a meticulous DJ with his own tastes and rules. He was so strict he judged songs within seconds and cut almost all of them. The one or two songs he kept weren’t particularly pleasant to me. I reassured Mr. A that the driver had his own preferences and we just needed to accept it calmly.
The last music episode happened when we left the canyon and entered a vast desert. I walked ahead while two companions behind carried a small speaker. As I admired the desert scenery, a powerful tune came from behind—“dong dong dong”—like a film soundtrack. When the main melody started with a female vocal “ha—ah—ei—”, I realized it was the theme from “Dune”. I wanted to laugh and felt a bit helpless. The choice fit the atmosphere perfectly, but it was ironic that even in the wilderness, we couldn’t escape the influence of man-made things. It shows how deeply ingrained they are.
About an hour after leaving town, the van slowly left the main road and entered the desert. There was no phone signal, and the map app couldn’t locate us. Civilization slowly faded, and the wild side of nature gradually awoke. When we arrived, we all got out. The guide explained the itinerary in simple English: the canyon trail was one-way. Leave your bags in the van, take water with you, and just keep walking forward.
The path down the canyon wasn’t difficult but was steep. Many tourists had passed, and the rocks had clear footholds. A rope hung down to the valley floor. Holding it tightly, step by step, we followed the guide’s instructions and quickly reached the bottom. Huge white rock walls surrounded us, stretching upward and blocking part of the sky and sunlight. Without sunlight, I suddenly felt a chill. The milky white rocks were round and smooth with a matte texture. Touching them gently, fine white sand came off easily, feeling somewhat fragile. Layers of rock had accumulated over time, with different colors and textures forming stripes. The flowing shapes looked like threads drifting on the walls. Being inside felt like entering a funhouse maze, full of surprises and far from boring.
We walked forward at uneven paces. Sunlight filtered through the rock walls, casting dappled shadows. The sandy ground and sparse plants shone under the sun. Occasionally, beetles passed by. These rare creatures seemed to walk inside a picture frame, making it feel like watching a high-definition desert documentary.
The canyon trail wasn’t always smooth. Sometimes we reached forks and had to wait for the guide’s instructions. The guide was a Bedouin man wearing a red headscarf, T-shirt, and cloth pants, with simple sandals. He carried no special gear, just a bottle of water. He was very responsible, moving back and forth to ensure no one was left behind or lost.
His dark skin and weathered face looked like rock textures—ancient and wise, as if part of the land itself. From a distance, I saw Mr. A chatting with him, then Mr. A excitedly shared the wisdom the guide conveyed. Everything felt harmonious and natural. Perhaps because he had lived on this powerful land all his life, he possessed such simple yet profound wisdom.
The canyon’s end was an oasis filled with signs of local life. The guide led us into a shelter to rest. The roof was made of palm leaves, and underneath were Arabic carpets and cushions. But after long use and many visitors, the carpets were gray, messy, and worn. Light filtered through the sparse palm leaves, swaying gently in the breeze, creating a dreamlike atmosphere. Next to the shelter was a fire pit, where another Bedouin squatted, brewing tea. He slowly lifted the kettle of boiling water and poured tea steadily into cups.
We took the tea and thanked him. The black tea was delicious. While sipping, I sat in a corner chatting with Mr. A. Having interacted before and being in this magical place, I felt freer to express myself. Expressing deep thoughts in a non-native language has always been a challenge for me. I’ve never had such an experience—sharing my life philosophy and insights in a foreign tongue. Whenever I reach this crossroads, I either retrace my steps, listen quietly to others, or find an excuse to leave. My ability is fading, but my thoughts remain alive and stirring. I’m grateful he tried to listen and follow my vague ideas, politely showing understanding. I felt like a beginner learning table tennis, trying hard to rally. I could feel him using greater skill to keep the ball moving. I deeply appreciate his effort and will always remember that wonderful moment. May I have the strength to face such challenges in the future. (By the way, hunchmaker is Mr A’s page and there is a lot of interesting content for you to explore.)
Lunch was prepared by the guide in advance. Though simple and vegetarian, it smelled fragrant and tasted natural. After eating, we felt comfortable. After a short rest, we set off again for the color canyon.
I expected the vehicle to stay on a straight asphalt road, but the driver turned sharply and drove straight into the desert. Before I could react, my body began to bounce with the rough terrain. We rode in a basic van with no advanced suspension. Underfoot was a large metal plate. Every bump on the four tires was amplified and transmitted to our bodies.
Cars drove on stone roads, leaving intertwined tire tracks. Though the driver tried to stay on the tracks, he sometimes went off course. We were forced to shuttle through different time tunnels, trying to find our mark. Each time travel was a jolt. At first, I felt excited, thinking this trip was worth it, with a roller coaster ride included. The bouncing lasted a long time and was intense, so I focused solely on not flying out. My muscles seemed to vanish, leaving only hard bones colliding.
I had no energy to share my feelings with Mr. A beside me. To ease motion sickness, I looked out the window, forced to accept the shaking scenes imposed by the road and driver. The van sped on, and another jeep flew past from the side. I stared at the jeep in the vast desert, still feeling immersed in a wilderness documentary.
Suddenly, the desert became an ocean. The bumpy road was waves stirred by strong winds, and the gravel was the foam. We were like on a small boat sailing in a vast, empty sea. Letting the terrain guide us, it took us to a mysterious shore.
The journey wasn’t smooth. When the van tried to climb a sand dune, the angle was too steep, and no matter how it adjusted, the wheels couldn’t get enough grip. The driver tried many times but failed, then jumped out to adjust the tires. Under the scorching sun, his white robe was dazzling. I didn’t know exactly what he did, only heard hissing sounds, maybe releasing air. He squatted fiddling for a few minutes, then restarted the van. The wheels moved in an S shape on the soft dune, like a snake wriggling. After a while, it finally climbed over.
Drivers here always face various problems, from environmental challenges to vehicle breakdowns. My girlfriend once had a similar experience. She took a taxi north of town for pool training session, and the vehicle suddenly stalled. While deciding whether to switch cars, the driver ran to the front and started fiddling without hesitation. According to her, he first tested two wires repeatedly with no response. Then he pulled out a wire, peeled off the plastic with his long fingernail, and wrapped shiny copper wire around the old wire. The driver said nothing and worked silently. After a while, the engine roared back to life.
The vast desert and roads force you to trust and rely on the driver, no matter how unreliable they seem. They always face problems and solve them in rough, primitive ways. We tend to prefer reliability and avoid uncertainty, but these drivers seem to live on the edge of uncertainty. We seem tied to them by a rope. When they’re safe, we breathe easy; when they nearly fall off a cliff, we panic, unsure of what’s next. Only when we arrive safely and close the door does our anxious heart finally settle.
At speed, we arrived at the color canyon.
Compared to the pure white canyon, I prefer to call this one the red canyon. The rock walls seemed dyed with color, showing richer textures than the white canyon. I admit it was beautiful, but the morning’s itinerary and the bumpy ride left me exhausted and unable to appreciate it calmly, only wanting to get through quickly and reach the end.
Even in my hurry, the rock formations left a deep impression and sparked my imagination. Weathering had created many gaps at the top of the walls. Over time, these gaps tore and widened, forming complete passages inside, with only thin stone pillars supporting the outside. Dragging my tired body, I looked up and thought these pillars and passages resembled temple corridors. Miniature monks lodged between stones, wandering the stone pillar corridors above, conveying spirit and chanting poetry, as if trying to summon me to another mysterious realm. I paused briefly, then regained focus and moved on.
We reached the end and got back in the van. The previously noisy tourists no longer fiddled with their speakers, only the driver still kept pressing the skip button, but we were too tired to care.
The van drove from dirt back onto asphalt, moving quietly like a soft mattress. I leaned against the window, my back forced upright, yet I still fell asleep. I had no dreams—maybe they were left in the canyon. When I woke, we were already back in town.
