Dahabibi’s and a Mistake

I made a mistake.

‘We forgot fruit.’

The mistake wasn’t forgetting the fruit. It was where I said it. I’d asked my question when–

But first, context.

I am in Dahab in Egypt, an oasis village on the edge of the Sinai Peninsular at the top of the Red Sea. It isn’t even in Africa – the continent splits through the Suez Canal, and the Sinai is technically part of Asia.

And here, crossing the road is far more ambivalent than most places you might know. It’s not the organized – cross on the crossing or at the lights sort-of-thing. Or even the – find a bit of straight road, look both ways, then cross at the narrowest spot. It’s more of a – just wander across anywhere, don’t worry too much about the oncoming.

On this occasion, we were at a roundabout. That is to say, a wide, unmarked 2-laned road around a roundabout with 5 streets running off – kind of the centre of town, as far as that even applies to Dahab.

Assalah Square roundabout - at a quieter time of the day, but showing how big it is.

I mean, Dahab has only about 3,000 permanent residents, maybe swelling to 15,000 with transients and visitors – either local Bedouins, or café and restaurant owners from Cairo or Alexandria.

Plus the tourists. The hippies. Those who came for 2 weeks, 3 years ago and are up to their 3rd dog and their 14th cat. Egyptians on holiday. Diving enthusiasts, who stay anywhere from a week or two to a few months, doing courses at the diving schools or taking the challenges of one of the world’s top Blue Holes. Ukrainians, Chinese and Koreans diving, and northern Europeans escaping their long winters. Those swimming, or snorkelling, or just sunning in one of the cafés or restaurants which sit out over the water with the sea at your feet.

The baby - a little friendlier this time, taking a peek at the world.

My daily routine is typically coffee, write, swim. Repeat. Throw in a walk along the beach, or chatting with old friends or making new friends.

For anyone who dismisses that this is possible - breakfast while I work in one of my ideal “offices”, backdrop of the Gulf of Aqaba and the Saudi Hills.

Assalah is the ‘shopping centre’ for locals – a big open square with various shops selling everything – in packages or by the weight, fruit and vegetable shops overflowing, Egyptian sandwiches (as in pocket bread) with salad and fuul – mashed fava beans, bakeries with their puffed up bread that is nothing like anything I’ve seen anywhere outside the Arabic countries.

Freshly baked and still puffed up from the hot air.

Roundabouts in Dahab are ‘dressed up’ with statues and sculptures – not elegant sophisticated creative artworks, but very strange swirly things with dolphins or divers – or just the strange swirly thing.

A roundabout in Laguna, this one showing a weird spikey thing instead of a swirly-whirly one - all official technical jargon.

So we are wandering through the middle of the road, of the roundabout, weaving our way between the cars which are going everywhere – mostly the 4-door taxi pickups, or utes as we would call them in Australia (short for utility vehicles).

My mistake was choosing this moment for the reminder. We were half way across the roundabout, as much in the middle of the road as you can get. Because when I say ‘We forgot fruit’, this requires a discussion and a restructuring of plans – basic as they might be.

So we stopped.

Right there in the middle.

To sort out whether we should go the few steps back to the vegetable shop then head one way and carry them home, or put off the shopping til later and just head to the beach. The usual kind of mundane, I know. Not the sort of spot I would typically choose, but in Dahab, it is a regular thing!

This is the one in the middle of Assalah Square, dolphins on its platform decorated with the appropriate spikey-swirly things.

We stood there, in the middle of the road, in the middle of the roundabout, to discuss our plans. Cars moved around us, around the roundabout, off onto the big road, on at the little one just next to it.

We settled on the beach option, and moved off between a white pickup-taxi and a motorbike ridden by a boy, his younger brother pinioned behind him balancing 4 large packs of toilet paper between them.

Dahab is a hippy-happy holiday place that is an Egyptian mecca for diving, swimming, snorkelling, wind surfing… or just sunning. And for those wanting to know - yes, it is safe! Even for solo female travellers. Even in 2026.

As an Aussie, and having been a meter reader in Canberra, I encountered dogs, magpies, kangaroos, and even alpacas. On my walks along the beach in Dahab, I run into camels. They can be in their compound, going for a walk, or even going for a swim! The baby is out today. I walk up to him to stroke his nose, but he snaps at me. I step back and let his owner lead him into the water for a swim. He is not a happy camel today, and makes this hard work for his owner – three kids not even into their teens, but apparently he has developed a skin irritation and needs a daily bath.

And of course, the goats, which run in mobs through town.

The wind is up today, and the kite surfers are out. I stop for a minute, mesmerized by them. They skim across the water parallel to the beach, then leap into the wind. This one is a pro – he jumps high enough to clear a 2-storey building, launching himself over a couple of speed boats moored over the coral. He lands with a satisfying splash, whips around, and races back along the beach for more.

We make our way through the backstreets and past the beaches towards my current favourite café in the Lighthouse area, kicking up some of the fine dust as I walk along the road. Footpaths aren’t used much. The road is easier.

Contrasting images - some of Dahab’s graffitti.

The smell of baking is in the air – the sort that must be world-wide universal. We collect one of their amazing coconut macaroons each to nibble as we walk. A sound up ahead gets my attention. I frown. A man is in the middle of the road. With a leaf blower. Cars and scooters dodge around him. I worry for his safety.

‘Is he doing what I think he’s doing?’

My friend nods. ‘Too much spare time on his hands.’

He is using the leaf blower to clear the dust off the street. Dahab may be on the water, but it is ultimately a small dusty oasis town in the middle of the desert. He is trying to clear sand from a patch of desert.

A curiosity shop amongst the tourist clothing and souvenir shops along the boulevard. Quirky can be found in all sorts of odd little corners if you watch out for it.

A little further we pass the man who always wears a skirt – not the galabeya which is the traditional long loose dress here, worn by men with or without the red and white checkered Bedouin turban of the area. He is dressed like you would expect any westerner to dress – T-shirt and denim jacket, cap and decent walking boots. But instead of jeans or shorts, he is wearing a skirt.

Past the yoga school on the beach and a couple with dreadlocks in deep discussion over politics, we greet the old lady selling small purses, and then the best-known beggar in Dahab. Sabbah.

‘Salam alaikum.’ We greet both of them. The lady returns with the standard answer ‘Alaikum salam’.

But the beggar – Sabbah – has a different routine. In English he says hello, and puts out his hand asking for money. He is well dressed and clean, you understand. He shuffles around Dahab with a cane – I have seen him all over. And to be honest, he is old. Maybe he is just making a bit extra to manage his costs. But we just greet him and move on.

The first time we met him we offered him 10 Egyptian pounds. Sabbah insisted it wasn’t enough and demanded more. He wanted 100 Egyptian pounds. When his demand wasn’t taken up, he gave back the 10 pounds because it wasn’t enough. Sabbah is the beggar who returns your money!

And then there is a whole doggy community. A dusty coloured one growls, tail held high – not at me! There’s an intruder to his territory. The three black dogs have been pushing at this for as long as anyone can remember. The brown dog is an Old Hand, and a master negotiator. His two younger sidekicks join him, brown with flecked black tints. Siblings. His pups, once.

They come up close and snarl. The old one snaps at them. They are interfering. He’s got this covered.

The black ones growl. I think there’s a fight about to break out, but everything is completely under control. The Old Hand stands his ground. His sidekicks obey and step back. The black ones need to make their noise, but they know when it’s enough. They are no match for the Old Hand who has maintained this territory of his for years, and the situation melts away.

I swear, the doggy world is full of even more drama than the local community. I have often watched scenarios like this. But it is all focused on each other and rarely comes to blows. The stray dogs in Dahab are safe. They are all vaccinated. Their ear is clipped at the time so you can tell.

And with people, they behave. They are disciplined by everyone. When they start their dramas, someone will shoosh them and shoo them off. In fact, the only real problems with dogs comes from those of visitors who haven’t trained their spoiled-brat pooches, not recognizing that theirs is the dog which is intruding.

I walk past one of the signs advertising trips to a nearby wadi (valley) called Wishiwashi, and shake my head again. At least it is a better name than the new drink being passed around – a ‘Can of Kooty’! As a 10-year-old that was the threat if you kissed a boy – you would get kooties (germs, something like the crabs, but imaginary).

Here is the proof - I wasn’t making it up!

I take a break from writing to lounge in the sun with my book on one of the day beds, the sound of the waves a soothing and meditative background constant. The coffee smells good, but I have a fresh lemon and mint juice instead. Even if one end of Dahab is windy, the other is a sheltered sunny heaven.

My friend is taking in the sun and a chess game. I glance up from my book, momentarily pulling out of the Jack Reacher world. The top of the water shimmers, and a school of the tiny fish leap out of the water as one. I hear the faint splashing sound as they land back in the water. They are active today – it’s the third time I’ve caught sight of them, maybe startled by a bigger predator fish.

There are all sorts come to Dahab. It is peaceful and healing. There are people swimming, snorkelling, and small groups of diving school students. I can’t even do a head stand on solid ground, but I see again the man who chooses to do his headstands on a floating board in the water. Other days I have often seen a man with his dog in a canoe. It is not only people who come to Dahab.

And don’t forget the cats. Every restaurant has its resident collection, always nearby at the smell of food, but also sometimes to curl up next to you on your bench. I love that cats and dogs have as much right of way as people in Dahab, coming and going into many of the cafes. It’s an all-inclusive spot. At the minute, there is even a baby goat which follows its owner everywhere. I have even seen it at open mic night in Tota.  

Akhmad with his kid!

This month is Ramadan. It’s a time that isn’t so much fun as a foreigner. Like Christmas, it’s about family. But in Dahab it doesn’t interfere much. Right now it’s an hour before sunset and breakfast (iftar). The buzz is rising on the street – the excitement of food after a day of fasting and low blood sugar levels. The streets go a little crazy with last minute shopping.

Looking at the Saudi hills.

At this time the kids often play soccer on the boulevard in front of the restaurant. But today is different. The street is filling up with tables and chairs – the restaurants are emptying out their seating. It is Day 10 of Ramadan. Every year in Dahab, that means a public feast – food for everyone.

I find a seat with some friends – and some fresh faces to get to know. The air is charged. The buzz of talking crescendos in anticipation of the breaking of the fast. It doesn’t matter that I had some lunch. I am hungry, and the atmosphere is electric, laughing, talking, calling out.

Ready for iftar - breakfast at sunset.

Then the prayer call comes. The imam’s songs rise above the buildings. The sun has set, and the street goes quiet. From intensity to silence in a moment. Everyone is eating.

I’m at a table served up with a Yemeni chicken and rice dish called mandi.

First there are three dates each to give immediate sugar to the starved system, and a sweet karkardei juice – chamomile flowers boiled to make a strong tea that is drunk both hot and cold. And of course, after the chicken there is the desert – a Can of Kooty! I’ve scored one that’s more of a coconut drink – definitely a Kooty to go back for.

A gate into one of the “camps” - rooms around an inner courtyard.

For an hour after, it is crazy again. Everyone is now on a sugar high, their systems barraged from the food. The tables are cleared and all is returned to normal. We take an evening walk, play one of the Egyptian versions of backgammon, then head to one of our evening entertainments – quiz or boogie night music at Mirage, open mic at Tota or dancing at Mood’s.

I have become a Dahabibi – habibi is the Arabic word used to address very close friends. Be warned – there is no such thing as coming for a visit. You either don’t leave again, or you come back. Again and again. This is already my third time, and each time I stay longer than the time before.

It’s winter, so it gets a little chilly at about 10. I wrap my red Bedouin cape around my shoulders and glance out across the café. There’s a light show under the water with some night diving, and beyond them the lights of villages in Saudi Arabia. The moon sparkles, a silvery river on the water. It is magnificent whether the sea is still and calm, or ruffled by waves, a full bright moon or a red one on the horizon. The backgammon score is 5 to 3. A few good throws – and exceptional strategies of course – it’s my win.

Even better than a beautiful day in Dahab, tomorrow will be perfect and I get to do this all over again.

Impromptu beach bonfire.