By Andrea Hulser

Sand spread out as far as the eye could see. I stuck my head out the rickety bus window like an excited puppy dog, fascinated to watch the tapioca granules billowing about in heated crazes, perpetual sand in motion. The land seemed very harsh and unforgiving.

I had known, of course, that Egypt was largely desert, but my images of our chosen Easter destination at a resort in Hurghada, a small town on the Red Sea, included at least a modicum amount of greenery. Searching for the palms and fronds that had been advertised in our travel brochures, I found myself watching instead the desert like taffy stretch on and on, smooth and sticky in all directions. We drove for about twenty minutes before our bus made the right turn into what was to be our destination for the next ten nights. As if finally the honey-tinted glasses imposed upon us at the airport had been removed, I took in the neatly painted blues and reds of the vivid Hilton sign. In all ways it was an oasis very artificial yet relaxing in which to bask.

Our room was comfortable with a fantastic blue and green view. Colors abounded in this hotel paradise. Brilliant violet Bouganvilleas snaked around lovely white terraces, small orange blooms dotted the walkways, blood red Dalias grew in hanging pots from the palms, and grass - carpets of lush, imported grass - jutted up against the beach. The balcony, like a siren's song, lured us outside, and we eagerly kicked off our traveling clothes, hopped into swimsuits, and walked barefoot into mid-afternoon sunbeams spilling over onto our terra-cotta tiles. I smiled, content to relax for a time in this new-found paradise, and let the cool breezes blow out the tapioca sand granules that had lodged themselves during the ride in my free flowing hair, tossled and made wild by the strong Egyptian gusts.

The next morning, Nick (my boyfriend and travel companion) and I decided to take the complementary bus into town and check out the local sites. The only signs that life had ever stirred in this place were a number of dull, gray buildings that stuck out in my mind as half-built structures that looked either abandoned or eagerly awaiting some long-anticipated construction still to come, and we couldn't decide which was more probable. We had read in our travel brochure that Hurghada was a city "under development," but it didn't seem like there was any activity taking place on this front at least.

As we drove further, we saw these building enigmas in droves dotting the hillside like soldiers returning en masse from war, beaten and bruised, weary and not fully whole any more; ghost towns silhouetted with soft halos from the sun. A very stark, quiet desolation, the place staunchly contrasted the notion put forth by one web site we had checked out which claimed this area was "the foremost tourist spot on the Red Sea."

Downtown Hurghada proved slightly more lively. Wooden houses, make-shift shops, and rundown one-story concrete buildings stood on sandy, unpaved streets. Military stands peppered the area, guarded by men in uniform carrying very large machine guns, and we wondered what on earth they needed to guard with such heavy artillery in this distinctly remote corner of sand. U

pon exiting the bus, we passed a spice vendor who immediately accosted us and showed that the concept of personal space in the bargaining town of Hurghada was absolutely non-existent. Sticking his face right at the tip of my nose, the gnarled little man chatted rapid-fire in heavily accented but fluent English, insisting that we check out his wares. "Looking isn't buying," he cried out, encouraging us to at least take a peek. We inspected his array of aromatic spices, dangling from plastic bags beneath the canopy of his bright blue cart. Curry; Turkish Bay Leaves; Basil; Thyme; Tumeric; Vanilla; Anise; Rosemary; Paprika; dried Lavender; Whole-Leaf Marjoram; dried Lemon Grass; Sea Salt; Cumin; Cinnamon. There were more spices than I had ever seen and many I had never heard of before. However, we didn't really need spices, and finally managed to extricate ourselves from our vendor-friend's pull, though we rapidly realized that escaping the vendors was not going to be an easy feat.

The "main street" that we found was wide, with sand pavement and wooden buildings all around. Doorways were packed close together, and garnishing every walk were brightly colored rugs, shiny copper bowls and pots on the stairways, huge hookah pipes, silver necklaces and bracelets, ivory and coconut chess sets, delicately spun glass perfume bottles, and vividly painted papyrus sheets hanging from the ceiling. Vendors swarmed the streets, all greeting us up close with the common cry " Come see, come see! Looking isn't buying!"

Peering into doorways as we walked along, we could see that most of the stores contained the exact same type of thing. So, at random, we followed an energetic young man into the next little doorway, ducking under a low overhang to enter into a brightly lit room filled to the rafters with Egyptian artifacts and tourist traps. I realized what a novice I was at the haggling game and the need to be firm and to be able to say "No" when I was promptly talked into having a small silver pendant made with my name etched into it in Hieroglyphics, something I was sure that I would never wear. I also turned out to be poor at the bargaining aspect of things. I felt so terrible squabbling with people living in absolute poverty over what boiled down to be a few dollars for us. Nick, however, managed to talk down the shopkeeper, negotiating my pendant down to about $10. While we waited for the etching to be finished, we sat and drank the Hibiscus tea that we were offered, and met with the shopkeeper, Kiyune.

Kiyune was a slight man and his brightly colored clothes hung limply on his body. He had dark hair cropped short around his ears, and a sparkle flickered every now and then in intelligent brown eyes. He lit a cigarette and offered another to Nick, who politely refused. I shook my head as well before realizing ruefully a second later that I hadn't been asked, a common oversight in this male-dominated society. Kiyune was talking in his low voice, the hoarse rasp of a smoker. He puffed occasional smoke rings, which I followed until they hit the low-hanging ceiling and disappeared in a pale, faint, poof. He was born in Hurghada. At the beginning of time he said, but he was being facetious, for he surely couldn't have been much older than Nick, so 29 perhaps at the oldest. He said that it felt like he had lived an age and a half, for that's what the desert will do to you.

"Have you ever thought about leaving?" Nick wanted to know. "I have left. But I came back." Kiyune spoke English well, his foreign accent dulled from practice talking with tourists, an essential part of his welfare. "I studied in Cairo and lived there for many years. I stayed with family and traveled to Germany and a few other places in Western Europe." For a moment, I could swear a look of longing or regret passed through his eyes, but it was quickly replaced with a proud, laughing glint. "I taught myself English and German and French. It is important in this business to be able to speak the language your customer speaks. I also do a lot of art and metal work. Many of the things in here are my own creations." With this, Kiyune told us to wait and got up and went into the other room, allegedly to check on the progress of my pendant. When he returned, he carried in his arms a huge Hookah pipe, and a smile threatened to break his face. The pipe, which he said he designed and made, was an enormous contraption, larger than many small countries, with a brightly decorated wide glass base, narrow brass middle section, and open bowl on top. A brilliant fuschia, aquamarine, orange, and red woven fabric covered the long section of pipe, which flowed from one spout and ended in a glittering brass end piece. He set it down carefully on a mat just beside us.

"You will be my guest to smoke with me." This did not seem to be a question. He turned to face Nick and, as usual, did not direct the invitation to me. Smoke wafted in from the corridor from whence he came, indications of other shop vendors also taking advantage of the late afternoon siesta time to indulge in similar activities. Lightheadedness made me complacent, and I sat back to watch them set up the hookah, gripping my tea with determination. Nick was busy inspecting the pipe with keen interest, and I had the sneaking suspicion that we might end up dragging a whole lot of brass back with us in our suitcases. Kiyune produced a little plastic baggie of tobacco from his pocket. I was beginning to think that the dizziness I was feeling was probably more realistically coming from the smoke eking into the room from all orifices rather than any kind of hallucinogenic tea, which was my initial suspicion. Kiyune skillfully placed a fist-sized handful of tobacco in the bowl at the top of the pipe and lit it, and I watched as little tendrils corkscrewed around as he inhaled deeply through the mouthpiece. In between puffs, he continued with his story.

"I was studying and working in Cairo when I heard from my mother that I was needed back in Hurghada. My father had been made very ill." He handed Nick the mouthpiece and I noticed the section of bright pipe curl on the floor like a snake. Nick and I exchanged glances and silently agreed that he should join Kiyune in the ritual, for to refuse would be rude. He gingerly wiped off the mouthpiece and put it to his lips. Closing his eyes, he also inhaled deeply, and the tobacco in the bowl glowed a bright vermilion.

"You mean he fell ill?" Nick asked, coughing slightly. "What did he have?" "No, I mean he was made ill," Kiyune corrected firmly. "He had a curse put on him by his brother. By the time I returned to Hurghada, it was too late."

I couldn't stay silent any longer; curiosity just got the better of me. "It was too late? Did he die? That's terrible - I'm so sorry. What do you mean his brother put a curse on him?"

Kiyune turned to me, a stunned-meets-vaguely-annoyed look passing over his face as though he just realized that I was still in the room (me, the only paying customer at the time). He regained his composure rapidly and addressed me, maybe remembering then that he shouldn't completely ignore the Western woman (and only paying customer at the time). "Yes, he did die. My uncle was a very jealous man and never recovered from the fact that he had been in love with my mother long before my parents wed. My mother was never interested in my uncle however, and threw her affections on my father. My uncle never blamed my mother; he always felt that my father had lured her away from him. "Over the years, my uncle grew more and more angry with the love my parents shared, angry with each growing large of her belly, angry at each healthy child and additional happiness. He went into hiding and we rarely heard from him. "But then my father became very ill. And we knew my uncle had acted on his anger and jealousy. This was when my mother wrote me to ask me to return home." He paused to add more tobacco to the bowl, then took a long drag from the mouthpiece before passing it over to Nick, who politely refused any more. Nick was starting to look a bit nauseous, and the whites of his wide-eyes were tinged red. We waited for Kiyune to continue.

"My father got sicker and sicker. He visited the local voudoun but by this time the curse of my uncle was too far along and there was nothing more that could be done. I was home only one day when we put my father into the earth. My uncle went back into hiding but before I leave, I will find him." Kiyune's eyes took on a hateful glint, and I started, thinking that we shouldn't press this clearly delicate point any further. But then I blurted out anyway "What do you plan to do?"

"I will repeat the curse he put on my father. I owe my father's memory that much." Kiyune was a slight, gentle-looking man, and it seemed difficult to believe that he could so easily and cavalierly talk of murder and fratricide. However, his look made it clear that he would speak no further on the subject, and when he spoke again, he shifted the topic of conversation. "When that is finished and I have made enough money, I will take my mother and brothers away, back to Cairo. There is progress in Cairo. Hurghada is a dying town."

"What happened with the buildings here - the ones along the way?" Nick asked, diplomatically following the new thread of discussion, and giving me a look that suggested I follow his lead. "Is that what you are talking about when you say it's a dying town? It does look like at one point there was some progress in the works, but now it's all quiet." He shook his head at the offer for more puffs, sitting back on his heels and looking at Kiyune with curiosity for his answers.

"Yes, for a while a few years ago, Hurghada looked like it would grow. Money was spent into making some more buildings as tourists started coming in more numbers to enjoy the beaches and scuba dive in our sea. But then everything stopped. This town is - how do you say it - stagnant. It grew too fast and then all the money was spent. No more money. No more progress. Stagnant." He sighed and took one more drag on the pipe, then blew smoke up and all around in a frustrated exhale before getting up, clutching his precious hookah to his chest.

"You want to buy a hookah?" He asked Nick, producing a brand new replica of the used pipe they had just shared. I rolled my eyes as Nick eagerly looked over the hideous contraption once more.

"How much?" He asked.
"For you, my friend, $50," Kiyune replied, putting his bony hand on Nick's shoulder.
"No - that's way too much!" Nick protested. "For me, you should give it to me for $30. That's what these sell for at the other shop around the corner."
"$30! That is for the cheap pipes - I have told you that I made this one myself. I will sell it for $45."
"35."
"40"
"Done."

And so that's how we acquired a pipe, steeped with a lot of stories and lit with the fire of imagination, tradition, ancient beliefs, and perhaps a little bit of tourist hookah. Kiyune returned with my pendant, which turned out to be quite nice and which I decided would serve as a pretty key chain.

The warm breeze that hit me as we walked into the mid-afternoon sun washed away the lightheadedness, and I looked back to say good bye to Kiyune, who stood stooped in the doorway as we left, his deep sienna eyes wide and intelligent. I don't know that we got the whole story from him, but it was a good tale nonetheless. We walked away a bit wiser, slightly drunk from the Hibiscus, the smoke, and the depth of belief in ancient forces, laden down with souvenirs that were a dime a dozen but worth every bargained dollar for the stories that they contained.

The pendant broke shortly after I returned to Germany, and Nick never could get the new Hookah to work on his own. But I discovered that Hibiscus tea is easily found in supermarkets, and have become accustomed to the ritual of afternoon tea with a little sugar in my cup. It doesn't make me light headed, but it does remind me of tapioca in the sun and many half-constructions offering myriad opportunities for reflection, curiosity, storytelling, and remembrance.