After driving three hours into the burning desert of Egypt’s Sinai Peninsula, we arrived at our destination, Saint Catherine’s Monastery, officially the Sacred Autonomous Royal Monastery of Saint Catherine of the Holy and God-Trodden Mount Sinai.

As we stepped out of our van, the same team was with us as before: the well-versed driver; the official police officer; the two very nervous American tourist, who still continued to speak ceaselessly of the nearby war; and our highly educated guide, Salaam, who thought it best to simply smile when the two very nervous American tourists would rant.

Saint Catherine’s Monastery was sanctioned by the orders of the Byzantine emperor Justinian I, between 565-548 B.C.E. But, in the year 330 A.C.E., the Empress Helena, the mother of Roman Emperor Constantine the Great, built a church with massive granite blocks, believed to be on the site where God spoke to Moses through the burning bush.

We had to advance deep into the valley for there are many hermit cells and a shrine at the site of the Bush. The Bush is verdant to this day. This is the Bush of which I have spoken earlier, the one from which God in a flame of fire spoke to Moses. – Author unknown.

The first Byzantine Orthodox monks arrived approximately around year 330 A.C.E., and still live according to the traditions of the early Christian monastic order, based on the spirituality of the desert – Because life in the desert is cruel and harsh, but it is here where one may find God.

The monastery was eventually renamed after Saint Catherine of Alexandria, a saint in Europe’s Catholic Christology, during the Middle Ages, who was sentenced to death in her defense of other Christians. Her body was placed on a spiked breaking-wheel, but, at her touch, the wheel shattered to pieces. It was then ordered that she be beheaded. Centuries later her body was said to be found in a cave close to Mt. Sinai, and was taken to the monastery. The relics of Saint Catherine, which are kept inside the monastery today, continue to inspire pilgrimages from people throughout the world.

Controlled by the autonomous Church of Sinai, which is part of the wider Greek Orthodox Church, Saint Catherine’s Monastery became a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 2002 for its unique importance in the traditions of Christianity, Islam and Judaism. The site holds the world’s oldest continually operating library, along with rare works, such as the Codex Sinaiticus and the Syriac Sinaiticus, and, but still debated, the largest collection of early Christian icons. Also inside is the earliest known depiction of Jesus as Christ Pantocrator, which represents the dual nature of Christ, illustrating traits of both God and humankind.

Saint Catherine’s Monastery and the area consumed by Mount Sinai also remains sacred to the monotheistic religions, Judaism, Christianity and Islam.

The climate was cool when our group stepped into the rooms of Saint Catherine’s Monastery, taking refuge from the staggering desert heat outside. The monastery was compact, almost like an ancient city with chambers, pathways and gardens, captured between four granite walls.

It was easy to find the purported Burning Bush, or the Bush which no longer burns, as we assume it is a remnant where most had disappeared into ashes long ago.

Soon, we spotted the Well of Moses, where Moses apparently met his future wife, Zipporah. The Well remains today as one of the monastery’s main sources of water. As I took a sip of water from its drinking fountain, I wanted to to believe it was all true.

We quietly walked into the main chapel with a strong sense of reverence, and were surprised by the small size of the worship room, which was clearly overburdened with many icons and relics. We noticed on the other side of a short, waist high, dividing wall that an elderly monk was deep in prayer, and wondered what he was praying for. The dividing wall made it clear that it served as a threshold that should never be crossed. And we also assumed that after the monk had finished his prayer, not a single word should ever be crossed. But the moment he saw us, he walked over to greet us and gave us a warm hello. He asked where we had traveled from, and we told him that we had traveled a long way from the United States, which he nodded was truly a long way. And then replied with a grin, You know, I have a cousin in the United States… who owns a restaurant in Philadelphia.

As we bid farewell, we promised that if we ever did return to Philadelphia, we would look his cousin up. But decided not to mention that the City of Brotherly Love, the birthplace of our republic, is often referred to as the City of Brotherly Shove.

The time was too brief for our tour, as the doors at Saint Catherine’s Monastery would soon be closed for tourists, but it was important for our group to realize the ritualized monastic life. Priests meet in the morning at 4:00 a.m. and pray in their cells until eight a.m., followed by a one-hour period of rest. And then, each monk begins their assigned task; working in the library, the garden, cleaning icons, etc.

The first meal is lunch at 1:00 p.m., where all monks eat in silence while a novice reads religious texts. From 1:30 to 5:00 p.m., there is another resting period, after which vesper service is held until 7:00 p.m., and the monks return to their cubicle. At 10 p.m. the lights are extinguished, but the monks are allowed to read in their monastery cells by candlelight.

The monks fast three days a week, followed by eating simple vegetables, all grown from well-maintained gardens. It was a stroke of genius or part of God’s Holy plan, that the monks had managed to create one in the rough landscape of unbearable heat and endless desert sand. There were also many citrus and olive trees, where the olive itself is often a symbol which defines Greek and Mediterranean life the best.

In the garden rests a small cemetery within the Chapel of St. Tryphon and the Charnel House. The sparsity of earth does not permit permanent graves, so the monks buried in the cemetery are later exhumed and their bones placed in the ossuary. One of the oldest remains is of the hermit, Stephanos, a 6th century monk, who is believed to have lived on Mount Sinai in a small dwelling, where he solemnly struggled on behalf of his own monasticism.

As the monastery’s clock ticked down to 1 p.m., we took a mad cap dash to the small gift store for postcards, gifts and souvenirs. To our surprise, the monk behind the counter turned out to be the one with a cousin in Philadelphia, with whom we had met earlier before. As we hurriedly piled our growing load of treasures onto the counter, I wondered if I should suggest that perhaps there should be a slight discount. But I assumed what the kind monk would smile and say, All profits go to God, who looks down upon us now. Back home, I wondered where the profits of a bible marketed by a former U.S. president would really go; for he too looks down upon us, but in a very despicable way.

When we left Saint Catherine’s Monastery, we hopped back into the van for the long ride back to Sharm El Sheikh. Thinking of the monk’s cousin, food was soon on our mind. So, halfway through our trek, Salaam suggested we should make a hard right turn to a local seafood restaurant on the Red Sea, where the very polite staff of Egyptian waiters presented a large platter of seafood, caught that very day. We were curious, and not sure why; Salaam, our driver and policeman chose to sit inside. Perhaps they needed a break, before realizing they probably needed a break from me.

After we made our selections, we realized the authenticity of a real seafood restaurant, unlike the rather faux ones at Sharm El Sheikh’s Four Season’s restaurants. Our meals had been enjoyable at Sharm El Sheikh, but this late lunch easily tipped the scales, serving the best meal during our entire three-weeks in Egypt.

Our balcony table was set just above the shore’s waters. It occurred to me that this was as close as we had ever been to the historical and biblical waters of the Red Sea, the waters which I had imagined I would dive into the moment after our immediate arrival to Sharm El Sheikh. But then I remembered that tomorrow would be a very different kind of day.

Red Sea Underwater Adventure

The following day after we left our resort property at Sharm El Sheikh, we really did tip our feet into the Red Sea. The holy act was the first act for a planned underwater adventure, which I refer to as a hybrid tourist vessel, where the lower body of the ship drops down below the water’s surface, while the top remains above.

After cruising out of the congested mooring, we shuffled down a flight of stairs to witness the Red Sea’s underwater eco-system, home to over 300 species of coral and 2,100 species of fish from the vantage point of two long observation windows. What I found more interesting was another kind of hybrid on the boat: Russian, Egyptian and North American tourists.

The Russian passengers were polite, and basically kept to themselves, but were enthusiastic and appreciated the underwater wonders on the other side of the hybrid boat’s windows. The women seemed fashion conscious, were well dressed in vibrant colors, many with trendy sun glasses. They paid great attention to their mobile phones, and were generally part of large groups or families. It was easy to see they were from landlocked areas in Russia, and this was a vacation of a lifetime.

Many of the Egyptian passengers were busy as workers on the vessel, but the others seemed open, and easy to please, and simply happy to be there.

As for the North Americans… well, we were North Americans, but also seemed pleased to be part of this fascinating hybrid experience.

One of the most colorful moments was a post-cruise lunch, where we saw an attractive-looking Russian woman, dressed in typical beach clothes and sandals, after speaking on her mobile phone. Seated at the next table, was an attractive Egyptian woman, dressed in a black burka and tennis shoes, after speaking on her mobile phone. Two divergent worlds, unbeknownst to each other, were sitting back-to-back at their tables. Did someone really say, Truth is stranger than fiction?

The next day we departed from the Sharm El Sheikh Four Seasons Resort. As we passed its gates, the Icon of Peace was standing as it was before. The above image was used in an earlier installment, but it never can be seen too often as the world struggles to seek international peace.

A few hours later we were on a plane and gone.

Related Articles:

• Egypt: A personal interpretation of its land, people and antiquities, Part 1
• Egypt, Part II: The Sinai Peninsula

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Desert Hot Springs has long been a destination for rest and rejuvenation. Situated 20 minutes from Palm Springs’ expansive golf courses, artistic rows of palm trees and desert estates, rustic Desert Hot Springs feels a world away. It is one of the few places on the globe with naturally occurring hot and cold mineral springs. The Mission Creek Branch of the San Andreas Fault bisects the wellness getaway where one side is a cold-water aquifer while the other a hot-water aquifer, naturally heated to temperatures as high as 180 degrees by geothermal forces thousands of feet below the earth’s surface.

Unlike hot springs that have high sulfur content, Desert Hot Springs’ hot mineral waters are pure and odor-free, so pure and odorless that you can drink it, which increases its medicinal values.  Research told me that  “balneology” – the study of the therapeutic benefits of natural mineral waters – is especially advanced in Europe and Japan, where balneologists have studied the healthful effects of geothermally heated mineral waters which reduce pain, increase mobility, blood circulation, cell oxygenation and stimulates your metabolism, ultimately rebalancing many of your own body’s natural systems. My own scientific study revealed that soaking in a Desert Hot Springs’ mineral water pool was something that I never wanted to leave.
 
Since 1995, the Desert Hot Springs Groundwater Guardian Team has been designated as a Groundwater Guardian Community, with  the nation’s first Groundwater Guardian Campus, taking voluntary steps in protecting its award-winning ground water resources.
 

Onsen Hotel & Spa 

Upon my arrival at the boutique Onsen Hotel & Spa I was surprised by its serene surroundings. Snuggled in a residential neighborhood, this meant little traffic noise which helped to serve my quest for de-stressing. The front desk receptionist, Tracy Ayala, was waiting at the counter to greet me. She explained the history of the property where it had once been a hotel, an apartment building and then vacant until the official christening of Onsen Hotel & Spa on March 1, 2023. After pointing out the hotel’s amenities – the reception area also serves as a breakfast room with complimentary omelets, fruit, cereal and pastries – I was directed to my two-bedroom stylish suite, complete with office and living room. Creature comforts included a big screen TV, coffee makers, and spacious bathroom and shower, refrigerator and endless bottles of water. But it was a dip into the crystal-clear outdoor pool spa that warranted my attention. Along with the on-site Jacuzzi, both fed by a mineral-rich aquifer, and the surrounding simple plant arrangements, the spa achieves a distinctly Zen aesthetic. For those with walking difficulties two ADA lifts offer an easy and accessible way to enter the pool and Jacuzzi. There’s also a 24-hour fitness center and an on-site spa offering revitalizing massages and hydrating facials to cleanse your body and heal your mind.

Later, I conversed with the affable manager John Hopp, a walking encyclopedia on all things Desert Hot Springs. He covered in detail the work required to turn the vacant property into a spa hotel. He spoke how the goal of Onsen Hotel & Spa was to make it like home-away-from-home for guests. He noted that half the travelers arrive from England, Italy, France, Spain and Germany, as well as South Korea and Japan, drawn to its therapeutic mineral-rich waters, pumped directly from beneath the earth. Onsen Hotel & Spa also proves to be convenient homebase for experiencing the splendor of Coachella Valley’s stunning landscapes with its mountain slopes, panoramic views and wide-open desert expanses, all just outside your door. The property is near the Mission Creek Preserve, a protected part of the Wildlands Conservancy that includes lush wetlands, a perennial stream, and native flora and fauna. And the otherworldly terrain of Joshua Tree National Park is only a 40-minute drive away.
 

Cabot’s Pueblo Museum

Just up the street from Onsen Hotel & Spa is Cabot’s Pueblo Museum. This should be an essential component of your trip. In 1914, Cabot Yerxa (1883–1965) was the first person to rediscover and unearth the curative mineral waters of Desert Hot Springs. Then, only 600 yards from his home, Cabot dug a second well,  delivering drinking water. Finding both the hot and cold mineral wells prompted him to name the area Miracle Hill.

Cabot’s Pueblo

In 1941 Cabot began construction on what would be his and wife’s Portia Yerxa’s home. Considered a marvel of engineering and design, the Hopi-inspired building is hand-made and created from reclaimed and found materials from throughout the Coachella Valley. His intention was also to make it into a museum, showcasing Native American art and artifacts, souvenirs of Cabot’s travels around the world, displays on Native American Rights, and his own works of art. Today, 45-minute tours are available where you will visit the rooms of the Pueblo, experience the story of Cabot Yerxa and discover how he built his incredible home. This is also the best place to purchase gifts and souvenirs, with an array of indigenous art, jewelry, pottery, woodcarvings and Navajo blankets.

For further information

Desert Hot Springs: www.VisitDesertHotSpring.com
Onsen Hotel & Spa: www.OnsenHotelSpa.com
Cabot’s Pueblo Museum: www.CabotsMuseum.org

For more on Oceanic’s selection of properties: www.oceanicenterprises.com

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First, despite the city’s admonition of 300 days of sunshine, it was cold and rainy when we were there. And for my story, I had my cowboy shirt, hat and boots all on for the requisite photo op but ended up ensconced in multiple layers instead, including winter jacket, wool cap and gloves borrowed from the ranch. Wasn’t exactly the fashion statement I was going for.

The day began with some initial instruction from ranch manager and Jigger Boss Elaine Pawlowski, whose main goal seemed to be to keep us from falling off the horse and to avoid getting kicked when not on it.

My experience up to then had been an occasional trail ride where the horse was presented to me all spruced up and saddled and all I was expected to do was mount it. Not so here. Prior to even thinking about actually riding the animal, I was taught how to groom and brush her — Billie, a brown mare — and how to do so safely. I had never been this close to a horse from all sides, responsible for the behind-the-scenes handling. Elaine showed me how to pick up Billie’s hooves and clean out the bottom of the horseshoe with a pick, removing the excess dirt, pebbles or nails before taking her out. My first thought was, “You want me to do what?” As I was cleaning out one of her hoofs, I couldn’t help thinking there’s 1200 pounds of horse flesh here that with one thrust of the hoof I’m holding can flatten me. Fortunately, Billie was no so inclined.

During Saddling 101, my status as first-rate tenderfoot was further confirmed when I tried to pick up the saddle — and collapsed under its weight. The idea that I was actually supposed to get it atop the horse was ludicrous. I had absolutely no clue how much work went into just getting the animal ready to be ridden, much less the intricacies involved in actually riding one in the desert.

Riding a horse in the desert is a very different terrain than what most riders are used to and that in part is what brought Bob and Carol Skinner, local race horse owners and my cohorts at the ranch, to the College.

Bob, who has been around a lot of very different race horse disciplines all his life, claimed that each discipline thinks its methods are the right ones in terms of training and expertise. Always looking to learn something new, Bob says he came to Cowboy College to see how the cowboys do it as opposed to racers. Might be something he can incorporate into his own horse-related efforts. That much I understood. What came as a surprise was that as much as Bob knew about horses on the ground, he did not really ride. And while Carol did, her expertise was with racehorses; cowboy steeds were still a mystery.

To begin with, racers ride Eastern saddles which carry with them very proscribed rules of posture and deportment much more regimented than the more relaxed rules of Western riding. For starters, two-handed split reins vs. one-handed neck rein — after all, in the West, one hand must be free to shoot rattlesnakes and rope steers. Amazing how much of how you and your horse interact is determined by how you hold the reins.

Prior to heading out on our ride, we hunkered down to the bunkhouse for chow. The fact that it was bologna, ham and cheese on white bread with mayo seemed perfectly fitting. And the To Do list I spied on a bench near the stalls was slightly different than that found in most homes: Fix stalls 3,4, and 11; arrange tack rooms; cut off screws on saddle racks; clean out coops.

And then we headed out — me on Billie, a Quarterhorse, Carol on a Mustang, Bob on a Paint. Bob commented that just squeezing with his calves as opposed to his knees made an immediate difference. In the East, most trail rides are through woods; here we loped through sand and rocks and sagebrush, past cactus as tall as small buildings over a monochromatic panorama of gray and tan and muted greens. Did I say trail? Nope, no trail — just feeling our way over, around and through the rocky wasteland.

As we rested our horses atop a mesa in the Tonto National Forest, I looked out admiringly at the wide expanse of desert below, poetic mountains in the distance and a sky the color of every shade of blue found in even the largest box of Crayola crayons. This alone was worth the pain I expected to feel later in the day.

As we continued our ride, punctuated by an unending array of rocky inclines and descents, Bob and Carol became increasingly dismayed. Apparently, the uneven landscape and Western style of riding were alien to the two racehorse owners. The idea of riding horses over such a threatening terrain was a foreign concept, much less at a speed sufficient to maintain the momentum necessary to scale the crest of the embankment. Elaine kept reassuring them that, indeed, the horses were fine with it. She also kept reminding Carol, accustomed to riding English where proper posture is so important, to stay low in the saddle and resist the temptation to ride “two point.”

When I finally dismounted Billie, my legs were so wobbly I could barely make it to the corral. And we weren’t done yet — it was now time for our roping lesson. Fortunately, no actual calves were involved.

For those signed up for the complete Cowboy College program, this would have been just Day 1. Day 2 would be a more intense immersion into the cowboy’s world  — this time actually involving cows — before heading out to the cattle ranch about 25 miles to the north. Once there, the next four days are spent doing whatever needs to be done — rounding up the cows, moving cattle from one pasture to another, finding missing steer, branding and castrating, vaccinating, separating the mamas from the calves, fixing fences and checking water supplies, or helping other ranchers. That’s the life of the cowboy and the wanna-bes act accordingly.

According to Elaine, “Participants range from novices to more experienced riders but no matter what the level of expertise, after riding 5-6 hours a day and being immersed in cowboy training, they’re pretty comfortable and ready for the trail experience.”

Okay, so I wasn’t ready to go on a multi-day cattle round-up but I sure did have a whole new respect for anyone who does. The plus for me? Considering the difficulty I had walking the next day, I was glad that — unlike those participating in the whole program — I did not have to get back up on a horse. For more information, visit cowboycollege.com.

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There was at one time no margin for error for sailors rounding the Horn of Africa and heading north through rough seas past this vast expanse, which stretches along the northern third of Namibia’s coast. The region borders more vast expanses, among them the world’s oldest desert, the Namib. One wonders whether whalers and sailors who somehow made it ashore after reefs had thrashed their ships found a moment to appreciate landscapes that would have challenged even the surreal imagination of Salvador Dali.

Along the coastline are immense flat plains, broken in places by lines of small cones denoting abandoned diamond mines. The plains yield to giant, orange-yellow sand dunes. The wind etches geometric patterns on their long curves and slopes.

Walking across a flat plain from our vehicle – a Land Rover with old airplane chairs strapped to the roof – my companions and I step in each other’s footprints to minimize the impact on the tiny blades of vegetation that suck moisture from the ocean fog.

After hiking up a dune’s long backside, we slide down its steep interior slope. Suddenly, the sound of the wind is drowned out by the eerie monotone crescendo of a double bass. But there are no double bass players in sight.

The musicians, in fact, are us. The dunes’ uniquely shaped sand grains emit a deep roar as they grind together. Delighted, some of us take long leaps down the slope, adding staccato notes.

Struggling back up the huge half-bowl slope, the solitude of the coast hits home. Despite a huge concession set aside for the Skeleton Coast Camp – which is where we are staying – it is limited to 12 visitors at a time.

I keep imagining the challenges shipwrecked sailors would have faced. If I were in their shoes, would I have been able to overcome fear and march up the coast, giving my skeleton a run for its money?

Yet there are those that survive in this environment. The wildlife is fascinating in how it has adapted to the desert conditions. Up on a ridge facing the ocean breeze are several gemsbok, or oryx, weighing nearly 230 kilograms each. A type of antelope, they hyperventilate in the ocean air in order to cool their body temperatures. Their horns are like scimitars, forcing the region’s desert-adapted lions to think twice. Fresh lion tracks in a river bed make me think twice when, separated from the only other vehicle, I collect flat rocks to jam under tires bogged down in dry sand. A bit inland, amid arid canyons and valleys, are ostriches, jackals, mountain zebras, baboons and foxes.

Even the bugs are amazing. I saw a beetle that satiates its thirst by using grooves in its back to build up a drop of water from condensed fog.

Desert elephants sometimes venture to the coast and surf the dunes, creating their own symphonies. We track the elephants on foot – they’re always just around the bend, judging by the fresh elephant dung – but the sun reflecting off the walls of a clay canyon beat us back. Our vehicles cause us to throw in the towel as well, as an unexplored river bed that might leave a vehicle stuck becomes too forbidding near sunset. There are no tow trucks here.

But the greatest survivors are the members of the Himba tribe, some of whom reside just outside the park. Scattered across northern Namibia, they make up less than 1 per cent of the population. They haven’t changed their nomadic lifestyle in centuries, raising cattle and living in huts of dung and sand.

The women are particularly striking, wearing only goat skin aprons and jewellery that glows red from a mixture of ochre and rancid butter, rubbed daily over every square inch.

With their braided hair coated with mud and hardened like a helmet, these women work hard while the men count their cattle. The women’s true beauty is rooted in their physical strength and a meticulously tended traditional appearance that, according to anthropologists, maintains their cultural identity and protects them against the vagaries of modern life. Their refined beauty is framed by the harsher beauty around them.

Horrors such as the diamond wars farther north in Angola, the heartbreak of AIDS orphans, tribal conflicts and deprivation magnified by an envy of wealth have missed the Himba in this neck of Namibia. The elements of their neighbourhood are so tough no one hungers for their land – it’s safety in lack of numbers.

A couple of decades ago, a drought – the term is relative here – killed enough cattle to drive some Himba into the towns. They didn’t fare well – alcoholism and prostitution were often the byproducts of poverty and culture shock. Much farther east, a proposed dam threatens the Himba way of life. But on the Skeleton Coast, it’s likely that in 50 years, the headman’s progeny will still be tending the holy fire, a smoldering log that is said to help departed paternal ancestors bring good fortune to the tribe.

At night, I stand watching the sky, stealing glances at the silhouette of a jackal slipping around my tent, which by Himba standards is as luxurious as the Taj Mahal. Before the morning fog, the night is moonless but bright. The stars are the brightest and most numerous I’ve seen, and shooting stars abound.

None of the hemisphere’s constellations are familiar. It’s an alien world, beautiful as long as I know a prop-driven aircraft will eventually alight on our desert runway with ample provisions.

GETTING THERE:  Tour operators such as Wilderness Safaris, which operates the Skeleton Coast Camp, offer flights into the park in small bush planes from various points in Zimbabwe, Botswana, Malawi, Namibia and South Africa, and Skeleton Coast Camp for a four-day, three-night safari package.

For more visitor information, visit the Namibia Ministry of Environment

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