What I learned on an off-grid camping trip with Egypt's Bedouin

Pruned to within an inch of its life and walled in up to its waist, the bush rooted inside St Catherine’s Monastery quivers like a bird suspended in flight. It overhangs a space between alleyways where many people are gathered, caged between stone walls that hide gilded church altars and simple monks’ quarters. Sixth-century icons — including some of the world’s oldest paintings of Jesus — lie within these walls. Intricate mosaics and hand-painted frescoes, too. But it feels like the crowds who have come to this eastern corner of Egypt only have eyes for this natural curiosity.

“No matter what kind of weather, the burning bush has survived here for 3,500 years,” whispers my Bedouin guide Eid Mousa, as we watch a stream of women dressed head to toe in white removing their sandals at the base of the wall protecting the bush’s trunk. They’re mimicking the actions of Moses when God is said to have visited him through the supernatural blaze of this plant — the story is the same for Christians, Muslims and Jews. Small paper notes poke out from between the stones protecting the bush — wishes from pilgrims that have become part of the monastery’s foundations.

Though he looks like the antithesis of your average historian or theologian in his grey marl tracksuit, Eid is as well versed in St Catherine’s lore as any monk. Whether you’re a believer or not, this spot is one of the holiest places on the planet — and people come from all over the world to see it. “This is officially the oldest hotel in Sinai,” he says of the sixth-century monastery, as we enter the warren of open-air passageways and stroll past a neat row of guest room doors, the scent of cinnamon and cumin spilling from an open kitchen. Up to 150 pilgrims can be hosted at the ancient complex at a time, but there’s a cast of more permanent characters here, too: anywhere between 12 and 30 resident monks, and the Muslim Bedouin guardians who work alongside them to help caretake this Unesco World Heritage Site.

The Bedouin are a semi-nomadic Arab people who traditionally inhabited the desert and mountain regions of North Africa and the Levant, including this area — now enshrined as the St Katherine Protectorate national park. It’s their relationship with both the monks and these mountains that I’ve come to Egypt to learn about. I’m on a tour with a company called Sinai Hikes that’s been founded by members of the local Jebeliya tribe. Over the next four days, the plan is for us to trace ancient trails and sleep among small Bedouin communities deep in the hills, unravelling almost 1,500 years of history step by step. But to understand the Jebeliya people, you need to start here at the monastery.

The walled complex — about a three-hour drive from the Red Sea resort of Sharm El Sheikh — was built for Emperor Justinian by monks and Byzantine workers from the Eastern Mediterranean. The catalyst for construction was the discovery of the burning bush at the base of Mount Sinai — the peak where Moses is said to have received the Ten Commandments. “The families who came to establish it stayed here to protect the monastery,” says Eid, explaining that they then intermarried with the local Bedouin. “And that’s where the Jebeliya people come from; we’ve been living here since the sixth century.”

Soon we’re standing on a plateau with a bird’s-eye view of the square monastery compound. Eid points out the cloisters of the monks’ library along its back wall. As well as thousands of religious manuscripts, these archives include the histories of Sinai’s tribes, which the monks have been recording for centuries. But what makes the monastery so impressive from this vantage point is that it remains totally dwarfed by the mountains quarried to build it, which rise like a natural wall behind the cloisters.

Another surprise is the ribbon of green unfurling from the monastery walls, planted at the same time as the original chapel foundations were laid. “It’s a self-sustaining community here,” says Eid, pointing out olive trees, apricot and pomegranate. The gnarly olive trees are just a few of the 5,000 planted in gardens on plateaus and in valley beds around the monastery. Most are used to produce oil, which the monks sell to sustain their way of life. “The monastery has survived all this time because of this garden,” Eid explains as we walk back to the entrance to part ways, squashed olives marbling the paving slabs under our feet.

Man of the mountains

“The monks make the best olive oil,” says my hiking guide Nasser Mansour later that afternoon, as we skirt another walled garden in Wadi El-Arbain. His ankle-length jeleba robe is tucked into his waist belt to make hiking easier, revealing cotton trousers that remain inexplicably white, despite the dust we’re kicking up on our trail into the mountains. From the outside, these hills look barren and desolate. But the further into their folds we go, the more I see small signs of human habitation: a series of camouflaged rock dams built into the curves of the valley; centuries-old Byzantine writing alongside the curves and dashes of Bedouin script covering giant boulders like an open book; the outlines of human feet drawn on rocks — an old Bedouin courting practice for female goat-herders.

Though we encounter no goats along the path, their droppings are plain to see — along with those of camels and the ibex who roam St Katherine Protectorate. These animals’ wandering mouths are partly why the mountain gardens are walled in, Nasser says, stooping to pick some wild mint. “Good for tea,” he explains, offering me a leaf to smell. Behind us, a pair of rakish cypress trees shoot skywards — the kind that would look more at home in a Mediterranean estate. “Wherever you see cypress, that land belongs to the monastery,” says Nasser. “These gardens have existed since the fourth century, before the monastery. But the cypresses were planted by the Greeks.” Beyond the monastery garden wall, there are more garden terraces. They have squatter walls and more trees, and I notice a thin wisp of woodsmoke from an almost-camouflaged stone dwelling. Nasser says these are the Bedouin-owned gardens. Our plan is to stay overnight in this tiny community before climbing Mount Sinai tomorrow.

The more I talk to Nasser, the clearer it becomes how important these gardens are to the communities who inhabit the mountains. “When we hike through here in spring, you can eat straight from the trees,” he says, beckoning me to follow him as he slips inside the monastery garden gate. Among the mature almond, apricot, pomegranate and walnut trees, I see a new spring in his step. There’s a small two-storey house, built without cement, which Nasser says has stood for hundreds of years. “Sometimes the monks come and sleep here, but mostly it’s the Bedouin who tend to the gardens.” Before long, he’s up to his elbows in the vegetable beds, pulling out tomatoes, runner beans and rocket leaves for our dinner. “The Bedouin can take what they need from the gardens, but not more,” he explains.

We’re soon joined by the monks’ resident gardener, Halid Feraj. His neatly clipped moustache and pomegranate-red chequered Bedouin shemagh, wrapped turban-like around his head, stands in sharp contrast to his earth-smeared knees and huge wellies. Nasser probes to find out if there’s any olive oil for sale. Afterwards, Halid tells me how this solitary lifestyle has been passed down. The oldest male child of each generation of his family has tended to these monastery gardens, decamping from his village to live here for months at a time. “I’m never comfortable any place but here,” he says, inviting us to stay for a pot of tea that’s bubbling on an open fire. “When I’m here, I find myself.”

Deep sleep & disconnection

It’s not hard to see the appeal of retreating to these mountains and living off the land. Though we’re only three miles on foot from the monastery, it feels like a different world when we finally arrive at the village camp on our first night, slotted between the peaks of Mount Sinai and Mount Catherine. Our gear arrived before us by camel, and our one-man tents are already erected, dotted amid a small orchard of plum, apple and pear trees. After the generator goes off at 9pm, silence spreads across the valley like a thick blanket.

I unzip my tent at first light to feel the sun’s warmth on my face, soon followed by the faint lilt of the muezzin’s call to prayer from a village mosque deep in the mountains. Nasser is already up roasting coffee beans on a crackling fire, having spent the night sleeping under the stars. Mount Sinai’s foothills stand opposite our garden, brushed the colour of churned butter by the rising sun, but the layers of rock make it impossible to see its summit from the camp.

Most visitors climbing Mount Sinai come for sunrise, heading straight up on a winding camel trail from the back of the monastery to the summit via a series of steep steps. But Sinai Hikes has suggested a quieter route we can join from this camp, meandering for a full day along a path the Bedouin call the Byzantine Way and reaching the summit at sunset. We’ll be following the paths of monks who wandered the mountains for years, establishing small dwellings and gardens to sustain their simple existence as they followed in the footsteps of Moses. The scattering of Christian monuments they left behind amid Wadi El-Arbain’s high plateaus mean the route has come to be known locally as the Ancient Churches Trail.

Faint, square Coptic crosses etched into the rock faces let us know we’re on the right track as we claw our way out of the belly of the wadi. The steep scramble takes us past giant wind-gnawed granite boulders and up stairways whittled out of rock, where we find ourselves squeezed by canyon walls. “I love this place. I feel good here,” Nasser says, popping a small nugget of dried goat’s cheese into my palm — a Bedouin snack called afig that sits like a sour sweet on my tongue as we continue climbing.

Soon, we emerge onto a small plateau hiding a mothballed monk’s refuge with two small stone dwellings. A simple square cross with fluted edges affixed to a roof is the only sign that one of the buildings is a church. Nasser tells me he helped build the tiny house next to it with his brother more than 30 years ago, tending the garden whose remains can still be faintly traced in the dust. Lonely and hermit-like, the site is beautiful in how extremely disconnected it feels from the outside world. “The government told the monks they couldn’t stay long term, so they left,” explains Nasser, with a tinge of sadness.

There’s another small stone dwelling and a well at our lunch stop higher in the vertical labyrinth of rocky clefts and desert plateaus. Nasser seeks out small clumps of a shrub called merdj for kindling, using the tip of his toe like a shovel to loosen the soil, pulling it up in plumes of dust that also release the bush’s aromatic herbal scent. “It makes the food taste better,” he tells me, slipping off his sandals to build a fire on which he toasts aubergines and boils tea. Raw carrot, beetroot, tomato, cucumber and peppers are piled high with dill, while feta and oregano are sloshed with glugs of olive oil from the previous day’s monastery garden haul. We feast in harmonious silence and nap on sun-baked boulders as we wait for the golden hour before sunset.

For our final push to the summit, we join the original sixth-century route up the mountain — the Steps of Repentance. Mint from the valley gardens below is steeping in metal pots at a small huddle of teahouses just below the peak, ready for pilgrims. But save for a handful of sun-worshipping cats, we see nobody on the steps. Our climb eventually levels out beside the small mountaintop church. Charred walls around it show signs of nights spent huddled around fires within touching distance of the stars.

All is quiet until Nasser walks over and, grabbing a long rope, ceremoniously rings a large bell hung from a stone arch attached to the chapel. The view beneath us is a 360-degree panorama of peaks the colour and texture of tea-stained, crumpled parchment. But it’s the ritual of summiting that makes this place special. Nasser waits for the bell’s toll to peter out before asking if I’d like to join him while he prays at the mosque. It’s a tiny, inconspicuous structure that’s stood with the monks’ church here for hundreds of years — twin buoys tied together in a tumultuous sea of rock at 2,285 metres. “Of all the mosques, I feel most comfortable here,” he says, leading me beneath wooden beams into the single square interior chamber. The floor is lined with prayer mats, its walls hand-painted the colour of a garden in bloom, brushed with Arabic script. Nasser settles in to pray and I sit quietly behind him, my weary body uncoiling in an unexpected wave of peacefulness.

Learning how the Jebeliya tribe have rooted themselves in these mountains is as appealing as the hiking itself. I get a closer look on my last night, which is spent with Nasser’s nephew, Ahmed Mousa — the founder of Sinai Hikes — and his grandfather, Ahmed Mansour, at the elder’s house in nearby Wadi Etlah.

The septuagenarian’s home sits on a slope below another church, more than an hour away from the nearest road. Above the small complex of stone rooms, the mountain rises sharply up to waves of peaks. The valley floor below is another crop of Bedouin gardens, with date palms and carob trees bisected by discreet stone walls. Each one is crisscrossed by skinny irrigation pipes fed by natural mountain springs — the only signs of modern life in an otherwise timeless landscape.

Some of the plots belong to Ahmed’s grandfather, but it quickly becomes apparent the whole of this mountain range is his garden. His grandson calls him the last herbalist of Sinai, because he’s dedicated much of his life to preserving natural medicinal knowledge that this area’s Bedouin tribes are on the cusp of losing. It’s an ancient art that’s slowly fallen out of favour since Israel’s occupation of Sinai in the 1960s brought modern health clinics to the area, Ahmed Snr tells me. “His nickname is hakeem katrine — the wise man of St Catherine. Hakeem also used to be the old Bedouin name for ‘doctor’,” says Ahmed Jnr, explaining that the Jebeliya in these hills still visit to be treated for ailments like asthma, wound infections and stomach problems.

For over 50 years, the herbalist has been experimenting with recipes passed down from South Sinai’s tribes, scouring these hillsides for ingredients — not just herbs and shrubs, but even mineral-rich sands collected from ancient caves in the rock faces. “I’ve tried to grow the herbs before but the effect in medicines isn’t the same,” Ahmed Snr says. “So I make the medicine here, but collect the herbs in the mountains each spring.” His living room speaks of a lifetime spent weighing, mixing, brewing and chopping. Battered metal pots, pans, sieves and spoons hang from hooks knocked into the stone walls. Screw-lid jars of dried herbs and spices line the back wall where he reclines on overlapping carpets. They’re spread over a fine rock gravel that creates a natural flow from outside the house into every room — including the one where I’m to sleep.

Our afternoon is spent pottering, lubricated by tea, coffee, more tea and more coffee. We trace the remains of old irrigation channels built in the ancient times, which flow downhill through Ahmed Snr’s property. He shows me, too, his carob stores built into the negative space of a boulder — the intense, sickly desiccation of the drying fruit hits my nose like a hammer. Next spring, he says, he’ll turn their dark pods into molasses to make carob honey — “the best medicine for anaemia” — for which he has droves of Saudi customers prepared to pay handsomely.

Those customers will be all the poorer for never having seen the beauty of Ahmed Snr’s natural medicine cupboard with their own eyes. I give the mountains one last look — reluctant to head back indoors at sunset, after spending two days lived entirely in the open air. The door always remains open, though, and it isn’t long before I can see the valley sheathed in a cool purple haze — bushes, not dissimilar to the prized one at St Catherine’s Monastery, rustling as a breeze barrels through. It gently ruffles the herbalist’s wiry white beard as we continue talking, our conversation drawing warmth from the fire, as it has done in the Jebeliyas’ homes for centuries. “I believe these mountains are different to all other mountains around the world,” Ahmed Snr says, hands raking the fine rock shingle as his gaze is drawn to the open portal. “It’s a feeling of spirituality.” I think I know exactly what he means.