Werd, Greg, Nathan, and myself get into a taxi at eleven pm on December 24th, Christmas Eve. Greg had met the driver earlier that day on a trip to the bazaar, and had set the price in advance. We are to pay four hundred Egyptian pounds to Mount Sinai and back.

The driver’s name is Ahmed. He is a pleasant man in his earlier thirties with Bedouin ancestry. He wears a red and white head wrap and several layers of heavy robes and quilting to prepare for the low temperatures we would soon reach.

The route to Sinai is a very mountainous and barren region of Egypt, and the history and depth of the people and places along the way are impossible to ignore. As we all ponder the area we traveled through, the night turns into the first hours of Christmas morning and the vast darkness envelopes our car.

The landscape outside my window is outlined by a clear sky brimming with stars. It seems only obvious the conversation develops into one of space and time; frequently interrupted by silence as we all consider our own thoughts that seem to constantly be changing. The uniqueness of this journey begins to set in, as our Bedouin driver cuts through the thin mountain air, and we continue to climb.

We arrive at the base of Mount Sinai a little after two in the morning. We are about a two-hour hike from the top. Sunrise is around six, so we have some time to relax before beginning our trek. Ahmed takes us to a rustic hotel owned by a friend of his, for some tea and a little food. The owner leads us into a wooden hut with the inside walls and floor covered in rugs for warmth and comfort. A small fire, surrounded by stones, burns with coals while cushions and blankets clutter the floor.

Inside are two Bedouin men and a young French Islamic girl named Kenza. Wearing a full chador, it reveals only her eyes and the top of her nose. Her parents are Moroccan, and she speaks Arabic, Spanish, a little English, and of course French. She will later tell me she had left France because of rules in her public University forbidding her to where traditional Muslim head garments. She struggles to communicate with us in English, so Werd and I ask her to speak Spanish, which I am surprised to find I have not completely lost. This will serve as our language of choice for the majority of time we spend together.

We are served traditional hibiscus tea, and freshly made pita, that Kenza had cooked on the coals in the fireplace. We sit and almost immediately began to talk politics, the differences in the world, and our futures. Our hosts have high hopes for peace. The conversation goes well, and we end on common ground. The topic changes to our hike up the mountain. Kenza had climbed Sinai in the morning on the twenty-fourth, but says she is inspired by our trip, and wants to go with us. She also speaks about Jesus and Moses, who are both recognized as prophets in Islam, and how she wants to see the sunrise from Sinai on Christmas morning.

We thank the innkeeper; tip him for his hospitality, and with an added member to our trip head back, towards the base camp. The path towards the top is crowded in some parts with guides, camels, and groups of people from countries across the globe. Along the steep trail are tea huts used for warmth, a hot drink, and a bite to eat. We packed our own provisions for the trip, so we rest outside in the crisp mountain air, and look towards the stars.

On one occasion, as we all sit and share an orange, Kenza and I watch a shooting star streak over the peaks of Sinai. She explains to me in Islam they believe God throws the star, and after it disappears into the sky you should be silent and listen for his voice.

As we continue along the trail we ask her what her plans are for the next year. She explains to me she does not know what her plans are for the next day. She says she lives each day apart from the next, and chooses the direction she thinks to be the right one when it presents itself. At the end of most of her sentences, or comments that I make, she adds “Insha Allah,” As God wants.

We reach the last tea hut from the peak about an hour before sunrise. The final ascent is steep, but short. Greg continues to the top alone while I sit with Kenza in the tea hut and speak with some of the other travelers. Kenza explains she will soon observe Morning Prayer, the first of five in a daily routine for Muslims. After some time, Kenza goes to speak with one of the men that is working in the hut, and I decide to continue to the top to look for Greg.

It is still very dark at the peak, and a lot colder. I walk past the church and mosque that both sit atop Sinai. Even in these dark morning hours I can recognize the diversity of the people who have come to watch the sunrise on Christmas morning.

I walk around calling out Greg’s name, until I find him huddled against a wall looking out towards the East where we will soon see the first glimmers of sunlight. I sit down next to him as we battle the frozen air. Soon Nathan and Werd join us, and we all huddle together to fight the cold, taking turns on the outside and inside of the shield we have formed. Kenza comes to the top for prayer. In the frigid mountain air, we watch her run water over her hands and face, for cleansing before kneeling to face Mecca.

When Kenza finishes she joins us next to the wall. Watching her hands shake from the cold, I give her my gloves. It takes almost another thirty minutes for the sun to show itself from behind the mountains in the East. We are nearly numb from the cold as the first rays of the day quickly warm the early hours of Christmas.

No other sunrise I have seen can compete with this morning on Sinai. The light reveals the vast breathtaking scenery we had blindly walked through in the darkness of night. The land stretches out to the sea in the distance, and Saudi Arabia is visible beyond the water, sitting on the horizon. We watch the sun until it has risen full above the mountains, then we look at it a bit longer. Slowly, we gather together and begin our descent.

We return from our Sinai hike at 7am. The hotel is just starting to stir, the pool staff lay out fresh white towels, and the gardeners water the flowers. We head straight to breakfast, deliriously walking through the buffet line. The only guests awake, we have the dining hall to ourselves. The French doors are open letting in a cool breeze. The early sun reflects off of the Red Sea inlet, and silhouettes the dry mountains of Saudi Arabia across the water.

The lack of sleep mixed with the lingering emotional high from Mount Sinai, has left us in a euphoric state. The coffee steams in our cups as we laugh at jokes more suitable for kids 10 years our minor.

We make a quick stop in our room to change into bathing suits, and allow me time to roll three joints. A tobacco and hashish mix. Yesterday on the beach we purchased the hash from some local Bedouins. Providing taxis, camel rides and other services they try to make the most of the money from the tourists that frequent the area.

I carefully tear the filter off of a cigarette and using the sharpened blade of a pocketknife, slice vertically down the length of the paper, spilling the tobacco onto the table in front of me. Small pieces of hash stick to the tips of my fingers as I mix it with the tobacco. After I finish, we head out the door. The sandy beaches of Egypt will serve as our bed today.

No one is on the beach at eight am. We take prime positions, with plastic reclining chairs, umbrellas, ample sunlight, and enough distance from the other chairs on the beach that we will be left alone. I lie on my stomach, and dig my toes into the sand. Cupping my right hand around my mouth, I flick the lighter in my left hand, slowly burning the end off the first joint. We lazily pass the joint around until its gone. I lie back in a haze and close my eyes to the sun.

My body settles into the sand. Not a single worry passes through my head, as I focus on the beauty surrounding me. I can hear the waves slowly pouring onto the beach, and the dragging of the tide. I gaze upon Saudi Arabia, seemingly close, but in reality untouchable. I ponder how long it would take to swim the two miles (the distance I’ve decided on) to reach the shores of Saudi Arabia. I imagine a team of Saudis zipping over the desert to apprehend me, as if my foot on their beach would trigger some burglar alarm revealing my presence. I would be accused of espionage, and considered a serious threat to the Saudi people.

The USA government naturally would be drawn into the fray, and deny any involvement in my illicit activities. My family and friends would be forced to defend me, hiring a team of lawyers to paint a picture of good kid that simply got hold of some bad hash and made one mistake. The circus would end with a tearful story from my third grade teacher describing a loving and respectful boy that painted her pictures of sunsets and flowers. The American public would be sold and demand my freedom, forcing the President to order a Seal team to rescue me under the cover of darkness, hours before my scheduled execution…

I shake off the hash induced daydreaming, grab my goggles and a snorkel and head for the sea.