Standing on the sand bank in the red sea, I turn to face the shore. I let the water whirl around my ankles; it’s the perfect temperature. I’m about 100 meters out, and the clear blue waters, which had reached my knees, are now just over my ankles. Behind and beneath me is a coral reef, behind and above me are the desert mountains of Saudi Arabia and Jordan, and ahead, beyond the silky golden sands, are the rich red moonscape mountains of Sinai. This, I tell myself, is paradise.
Bir Swair is a gentle lick of a coast about 25 minutes drive from Taba, and half an hour from Nuweiba, perhaps an hour from the nouveau hipster bars and diving crowds of Dahab.
For those who know it, its serenity and anonymity are a virtue, despite its reference in the Rough Guide as “one of Sinai’s nicest beaches. As year-out backpackers head off to the more famed climes of Dahab and Sharm, only a few make it to Bir Swair.
I discovered Bir Swair about four years ago, when backpacking through Egypt with a couple of friends from university. I got in contact with an old friend, who’d been working as a diving instructor off the Red Sea coast.
“We’ll meet at Antika beach, the first on the strip from Taba, he said. I hadn’t the slightest clue what Antika’s bearings actually were, I just knew it was somewhere after Nuweiba. Hitch-hiking up from St. Catherine’s in the mid-September heat, we managed to spot the off-road sign “Antika Beach just before the coach whizzed past it.
On arriving at Antika Beach, you make your way down a rough sand track, where you’re met by an open air cafe, strewn with cushions and low tables. Towards the shore are rows of modest wooden and reed huts, all facing the Red Sea, with the first row only a couple of meters from the water.
Ten years ago, the place was buzzing with Israeli travelers, and even four years ago I remember groups of hippies strumming on guitars and playing backgammon. Now, it’s practically empty: great for those who want first pickings for the sea-front huts, but not so spectacular for the Bedouins and Sudanese who run and manage the joint.
Matawa’a, whose family own Antika beach, is a Bedouin from the Tarabeen tribe. His long, drawn limbs and wide eyes endow him with a certain aloof prophet-esque beauty, especially when striding barefoot along the shore in white galabeyya and koufeya (scarf). He is also an impeccable host, offering endless cups of tea, fresh fruit and conversation.
“They used to come in their hundreds, he said, “but since the bombings in Taba, many Israelis are afraid to come to Sinai. Europeans don’t really know about this place. If they did, there’s no doubt we’d have more visitors. I asked Matawa’a if he’d thought about setting up an internet site.
He sighs, “Wallahi, I have a friend who is helping me, but we don’t have internet here, and I never really get round to doing it.
No wonder, I think, with the deliciously lazy, almost narcotic breeze that lingers in the air of Bir Swair. Two of our fellow visitors were yoga instructors who had been coming here for years, and one was a journalist making her way back from a hectic weekend at the World Economic Forum. She had stopped for a night, and had found herself staying for three; something that seems to be the norm in Bir Swair.
In the afternoon, Matawa’a takes my sister and me to snorkel over the reef. Next time you come, he tells us, we’ll go all the way out. “All the way to Saudi, I joke. But years ago, Matawa’s family would take rowing boats over the 22 km stretch of water that separate Egypt from Saudi Arabia. At night, which is invariably clear, the twinkling lights of the coastal city of Hagar can be seen from the beach.
Lying on my raised mattress that night under a mosquito net, listening to the sounds of waves gently beating the shore, the existence of passports and border control suddenly seemed a shame.
Even more so when talking to Ashraf. As he thrashed me at chess, Ashraf told me in perfect English how he had came from Khartoum over 15 years ago. He had worked in Cairo as a journalist, and visa bureaucracy is the only thing from prevented him from traveling abroad. He has worked at Antika Beach for 10 years, with occasional visits to Khartoum and Cairo.
We talk about Sudan, the Israeli-Palestinian conflict and American elections. Despite the absence of crowds, Antika is not short of interesting conversation.
When you visit Bir Swair, it’s hard to feel like a customer. You let the staff know when you’ve taken a bottle of water, or what you might be wanting for dinner if its grilled fish or chicken, and pay the bill when you leave. In the evening, the young Bedouins light a fire on the shore and conversation flows freely; any tensions or barriers that may exist between tourists and Bedouins in Dahab dissipate here.
“Don’t you want to work in Cairo, I ask Ashraf, “Why would I? he says, “Cairo is polluted, loud and dirty. Here I can read, swim, live and eat healthily. If it’s about quality of life, this beats Cairo hands down.
On the route back, we passed the famed eco-camp Basata. It looked as if some building was going on, and there were a number of flashy cars parked outside. Suleiman, a Tarabeen Bedouin, told me that since Basata had been set up, his sister now goes to school. Four years ago young girls were making bracelets on the beach, now they’re in classes. “She’s top of her class in languages, Suleiman tells me proudly.
Basata has certainly stolen the advertising limelight, and there’s no doubt that the presence of a Cairene entrepreneur’s arrival has helped the Bedouin community. But it’s Bir Swir’s genuine Bedouin atmosphere, hospitality and modest beauty that trumps the beach aces.
To book at Antika beach call Khalid Yousif General Manager on +2 (010) 508 0370, or alternatively just turn up. Huts are LE 20 a night. For those who want blue waters without the camping experience, Sally Land chalets (despite its ill-chosen name) are around 200 meters from Antika.
