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The Monastery of St Catherine in Sinai—My First Visit, November 23–26, 2003

My first visit to the Monastery of St Catherine in Sinai, Egypt began at the Turgoman bus station in Cairo on Sunday at 10:30 a.m. According to most guidebooks, the daily trip takes between six and eight hours for about 273 miles.

I expected it to be an enjoyable journey in comparison with the past centuries, when the camel trip usually lasted three days. The famous writer Alexandre Dumas the Elder in his Impressions of Travel in Egypt and Arabia Petraea (1839) recorded that if jackals were too hungry, several camels were usually needed. There is an option to take a plane that lands at a small airport, 12.5 miles from the monastery, but the trip is ten to fifteen times more expensive. As I am on a budget and will have to return many times, I have no illusions about being able to afford it.

It was a fine and pleasant November day in Cairo, around 68 ºF, a few days before the end of Ramadan. I had been preparing myself for almost twenty years to visit this site and did not mind any inconveniences that I might encounter. I really was ready to see the place of my scholarly dreams. You may ask why, if I wanted to see it so much, I had waited so long for this visit? Art historians secretly despise ordinary tourists, especially when they encounter them in places that are not designed specifically for them. One reason that I did not want to visit the monastery as a casual tourist was that I would be unable to gain access to material that I needed for my project. In addition, being geographically so far from the site made obtaining permission and other kinds of communication virtually impossible. It had taken almost ten months for the Fulbright Binational Commission in Egypt to get approval from the Egyptian Ministry of Higher Education for my project, and I had been asked to amend it several times. I am now in the process of obtaining permission from the monastery for my research which will finally allow me to walk into buildings rarely seen by the general public, like the library, the archives and the icon collection, which are opened only for the lucky ones (or the patient ones, as I will see soon, I hope).

During the holy month of Ramadan, the faithful are forbidden to eat, smoke or drink until sunset, which at this time of year is around 5 p.m. I thought, therefore, that this would be a very good time to travel, since the bus would make no stops or pauses, and of course, no one would smoke. This seems a great benefit if you are familiar with the problems of air pollution, especially in Cairo, a city of twenty- million people who all smoke and drive cars. It turned out that indeed no one did eat, drink or smoke, but the bus made as many stops as you can imagine for various reasons, to pick up occasional daily commuters and take them to nearby places (why bother waiting for city transportation when you can catch this one?), and it took almost two hours to leave Cairo. The traffic in Egypt is a whole separate issue.

The asphalted Suez Highway is excellent at times when there is little traffic. However, my dream of a speedy, non-stop drive did not quite eventuate. The Sinai Peninsula is a very restricted area. For example, foreigners are prohibited from driving off the main road, primarily because of mines left over from the Israel–Egyptian war of 1973, and the bus was stopped four or five times. Usually, one or two casually dressed men entered and asked randomly for documents. You got used to it, and stops lasted only a short time. It was therefore quite surprising when the driver was stopped for a bit longer by the officially dressed traffic policeman who, after some heated discussion, loudly requested our driver to get off the bus. After an hour, our driver returned and angrily started the vehicle. It was explained later that the policeman had confiscated or had wanted to confiscate his driving license (I never actually found out which) because he was driving too fast. Given that it is generally impossible to drive otherwise in this part of the world, this was very amusing.

The scenery during this trip is best described as a bit scarce; miles of flat fields with low piles of golden sand, with the occasional distant vistas of the blue line of the Gulf of Suez with empty, ghostly looking (future) tourist resorts with rather unattractive buildings of gray concrete. Further to the south of the peninsula the rugged texture of the desert was becoming more and more apparent, and brought to mind Moses and his celebrated journey. The huge rock formations are almost sublime with their range of colors—from pale yellow and pink to dark gold and chocolate. Unfortunately there was no time to linger, since it was fast becoming dark and very cold. The sunny day in Cairo became only a pleasant memory.

Around 7:30 p.m., in the midst of total darkness and physical emptiness, the bus stopped and the driver told me to get off. When quite logically, I asked him why, he explained, “This is your destination—the monastery of St Catherine.” I could not see an inch in front of me; it was like having my eyes tightly closed.

There are many things in life that I am not fond of, but being in the dark is one of the things I dislike most. The fact that I am shortsighted exacerbates this fear still further. I definitely need lots and lots of light in my life, and being left alone at night in the middle of the Sinai Desert was not part of the dream I had been nurturing for the last twenty years. Luckily, I had with me a small flashlight, not of a quality of a “Maglite,” but which turned out to be a very useful tool in my quest for knowledge. With its pale, shimmering, almost shy beam of light, I continued to the left in the direction indicated by the driver and after five minutes’ walk noticed a sign with the name of the Monastery of St Catherine. I started to breathe again, realizing that I was on the right path. The road was still asphalted, but gradually began to narrow; with no real lighting, it was not as pleasant as I had expected. The only sound was my own heartbeat.

I occasionally had to pinch myself to be sure that I had not stepped into some other dimension. I continued to walk and walk and walk, being able to see no more than ten inches ahead. Suddenly, I noticed a kind of rectangular shape of darkness that was moving relatively close in front of me. My immediate association was with a documentary on bears I had seen on the “Discovery Channel.” This must be a bear! Oh, God, God, God, what to do? Oh, yes, in that show there was a scene about using a spray against bears. When an animal comes close, you just spray directly into its eyes and the beast runs away. But I did not have that spray, although I did have a small mosquito repellent I had brought with me (despite the 2001 expiry date). I found it in my bag and grabbed it firmly, ready to do whatever I could under the circumstances. In the back of my mind I was a bit confused, since no one had ever mentioned bears in the Sinai Desert. There is no water with fish to catch, no fast streams with salmon swimming uphill directly into the mouths of bears, no trees or flowers for bees to make honey, but no one had described the road to the monastery in this way either. A few seconds later, I heard a voice. God, who will believe me when I tell them I came across a talking bear, I thought, and even more strangely, an English-speaking bear with a slight accent! Finally, I grasped the fact that just like in some suspense movies, dropping down from the sky, a sublime figure of a monk had appeared in front of me. He was over six feet tall and around three hundred pounds in weight, with a long beard and dressed in a long black robe. I think I was never happier in my life to see a human being. But of course I had never been in a similar situation to really know.

I explained that I was heading to the monastery guest house, that I was working on a project, and that I would like to talk with Fathers Justin, Daniel, or Paul, who had been recommended to me by a friend of mine, because they spoke English and were familiar with some of the panels of interest to me. The monk told me to continue in the same direction and that I would soon see the monastery police, and then, on the left side of the road, the main gate of the monastic compound. I could not resist asking him if it was safe. His answer was: “Of course, you are on holy land and under God’s protection.” I found out later from some guidebooks that in reality there are wolves, foxes and similar creatures running around. I wondered whether they knew about ‘traveler’s protection’. The next phase of my walk lasted about ten more minutes. After I passed the police checkpoint I proceeded further into my dream which at moments seemed more like a nightmare, still surrounded by total darkness, but less scary. Soon after, I noticed a small gate with a monogram of St Catherine above the arched opening. I climbed the several steps and faced, still unaware, the fortified walls of the monastery. In front of the open entrance door built into the wall of the monastery a small Bedouin boy and a tall, frail monk stood conversing. I approached them, looking perhaps overly excited from everything that had happened outside and also inside my own mind, and before I could open my mouth they offered me a seat on a bench in the wall. I had an incredible feeling under my palm of the rough surface of the cold stone. The smell of mortar with the layers of centuries was a joy to my senses. It is so good to have dreams, but even better when they become reality. After a few moments of pure pleasure, I told them that another monk down the road had told me to look for English-speaking priests so that I could explain to them my quest. To my surprise, they said that all the monks were in their cells or inside the walls, since the monastery officially closes around 10 p.m. So what or who had I met on the road? An English-speaking bear, a bear disguised as a monk, or some kind of late evening desert hallucination?

That very evening I met Father Justin, a gentle, softly spoken American who is himself a scholar, and who kindly explained the official procedures that I would have to go through to see something that is rarely seen by ordinary humans: the library, which, after the Vatican, has the richest collection of important early Christian manuscripts; the archives, with its wealth of records of human knowledge; and the icon gallery of over two thousands works—the entire history of human creativity. In reality, I had come very close; I was standing in front of the door and had even opened it, but I could still not step inside until I had obtained special permission from the monastery authorities; the Archbishop and the relevant “Council of Fathers.” The Fulbright Commission in Egypt had to send an official letter with a request for permission to let me collect the material needed for my project. This is proof, at least for me, of lurking devilish influences even around this place, which seem to make life more difficult every time I have higher expectations.

Since it was already late, Father Justin suggested I come to the service the next day. It would give me an opportunity to enter the monastery through the main gate, which is not used by ordinary tourists, because they have built a new gate for them. And, he told me, I would see my work inside the main church; a huge painted Crucifix on top of the iconostasis. The service would start at 4:30 a.m. and usually lasted until 7:30 a.m. I admit I squirmed when this time was mentioned, since I am not a morning person. After the service, the monastery would be closed and the monastery will be re-open at 9 a.m. for the avalanche of tourist buses pouring in from everywhere carrying human cargo curious to see whatever they were permitted.

I thanked Father Justin for this information and headed for the guest house located in the garden outside the monastery and run by the local population (I will discuss the relationship between the special Bedouin tribe and the monks later). The manager was kind enough to rent me the best room he had available, with a bath, which of course had no water at the time. Since however, I was in the desert, I had been expecting to have to deal with this type of minor problem. As the most comfortable room, it had an interesting combination of interior colors: orange painted walls with dark green woodwork and a mock-golden chandelier. I left my bag and went outside to relax in a small garden in front of the specially designed area. As soon as I sat in the chair, a huge, well-fed striped yellow cat jumped into my lap and started to purr loudly. The next half hour I spent looking at the sky, surrounded by incredibly thick, almost heavy silence, interrupted only by the purring of the cat. Finally it seemed to me that I was at peace. Then I panicked again; I had no alarm clock and I needed to attend service at 4:30 am and it was now almost after11:00 p.m. What if I overslept? That would really be shameful. I therefore decided to take a nap, but not to sleep too deeply. I believe everyone has their own special sleeping routines, such as the ability to partially rest and wait until it is time to get up. I went to bed, covered myself with two heavy blankets, since it was very chilly, and after a few moments started to laugh and giggle loudly from pure joy, realizing that I was finally in the monastery. The next few hours I spent in a bloody combat against Sinai Desert mosquitoes, which were absolutely determined to feast on me. The mosquito repellent that I had prepared for the bear was useful only for getting horribly stuck in my hair and partially washing off the wall paint. At least the mosquitoes kept me awake and ensured that I would not be late for the service.

At 4:00 a.m. I jumped out of bed and pulled the curtain back from the window, but could not see a thing because it was still dark. I dressed in layered clothes since it was bitterly cold, although I was later told that in reality it was not cold at all and that I would understand the meaning of cold in January or February.
On my way to the main church, at least thirty beautiful, gentle and very fat cats, of all colors and sizes, greeted me and perhaps, at the same time, expected a bite or two of food. I passed the small and pretty yellow-painted chapel-like structure and headed towards the main gate with the light above it. As I entered the main entrance, I managed to hit my head. I am 5' 11" and the low ceilings of the arched gates and hallways were a bit of a problem; I think the back of my head got softer from the many bumps inflicted on it during this visit. The entrance has a heavy bolted iron door built by the Crusaders. At the end of a short hallway is an eighteen century icon of the patron, St. Catherine, and on the right is another locked iron door. This is opened only for the service and for those who are allowed inside the monastery. When the gatekeeper unlocked this door from the inside of the fortified wall, I realized for the first time that this second entrance opens onto the street that leads to the main Justinian church built in the sixth century and which still retains its original carved wooden door. It was a special moment when I stepped inside the narrow narthex and proceeded to the nave. Lit only by several candles, the interior of the church seemed otherworldly; an endless number of silver oil lamp holders, candle holders, enormously elaborate chandeliers together with other church furnishings, all shimmering in the air, capturing and reflecting every move and change of the light. And above all, the huge gilded iconostasis topped with the work by my master that I had been dreaming about for the last twenty years; an enormous panel, fixed on the top of the screen between the apse and the nave, and partially covering the early Byzantine masterpiece—the mosaic of the Transfiguration in the apse, raised over the original site of the Burning Bush. Although the inside of the church was relatively dark, my eyes became the eyes of a hawk searching for prey—looking everywhere and trying to see everything, but maintaining a calm and tranquil appearance. The pleasant chanting of the monks, the glitter of a rich and opulent church interior, the meaningful silence of the icons around the walls, made this an exceptional event. It is an experience I wish for every human being at least once in their lifetime. Regardless of the issues of faith, it is impossible to describe not only the atmosphere, but something that is beyond visual experience, something related to the more complex combination of different physical and spiritual (even mental) elements, although perhaps it is only my private, overly subjective memory of this sublime moment in time.

There are usually between fifteen and twenty monks residing in the monastery, and the service was attended by eight or nine monks and me. When it was over I spoke with some of them. They allowed me to stay at least twenty more minutes to walk around the nave and to come as close as possible to the iconostasis and my master. I experienced a panic, wondering how I would photograph it, since it is very high up and no ladder can reach the panel on the top. I was overwhelmed with the technical problems; the poor art historian’s mind is always working and searching for solutions on one level, while trying to enjoy on another, more sophisticated realm. I was pleased to discover that the frame of the panel was attached carelessly, but a bit disappointed when I looked at the rear to notice certain clumsiness in the way the Crucifix had been attached to its frame and the iconostasis. But I will worry about these problems later.

Finally, I came out of the church and tried to glimpse the density of the structures arranged around the monastic streets. Then I had to leave the fortified walls, and the door was shut after me. I looked for the first time at the daylight and the visual reality of my surroundings. The very mountains that Moses had climbed are of granite, and the entire monastery is built of local pink dressed stone of granite. The sunlight of the desert morning enhanced the saturated colors of the pink structure and the green cypress and palm trees of the garden. The entire environment is almost like the background to a surrealist landscape by Dali, with the ambiguous atmosphere of De Chirico.

At 9 a.m. there is a new development; an avalanche of tourist buses appeared with hordes of mostly casual tourists ready to enter the monastery through the new gate. They all come from coastal resort cities such as Sharam el-Sheik, Hurghada, Al-Quesir and the like, but only for a brief visit, since the monastery is only open between 9 a.m. and noon each day. Only carefully designated areas may be seen, such as part of the street with the actual tree of the Burning Bush planted here (removed from the apse of the main church) and the Well of Moses. Usually one monk is inside the main church trying to silence this human cargo which moves along the factory production line. I saw one tourist ask a monk to sign his book as proof that he had been in the monastery. This is done mostly by Japanese and Koreans, while Greeks come for predominately religious reasons, as do Russians and other Orthodox followers (Bulgarians, Romanians and Serbs). Others, such as Italians, Poles, Czechs, Dutch are for mostly respectful, but slightly curious purposes. They are all allowed to enter the nave of the Justinian church (no photos, of course) to see the Transfiguration mosaic inside the apse. In addition, for a small fee, they can see the masterpieces of Early Byzantine icon painting on display in the new gallery. They can buy a few souvenirs in the bookstore, and the visit can be easily completed in twenty minutes or even less. A little after noon, a steady stream of tourists departed, leaving an incredible number of empty plastic bottles and other trash scattered all over and around the monastic compound. But they had also spent some useful hard currency on souvenirs. Perhaps it is a good exchange of services—only time will tell. Afternoon is a magic time. Peacefulness and tranquility return, the silence becomes overpowering, and only those who appreciate these things remain, walking around, enjoying in pure celebration the passing moments of life. The monastery gate is closed, but visitors can walk around its fortified walls, enjoy the powerful beauty of nature, stroll around the garden and enjoy the occasional company of monks who may come to watch the sunset. The explosion of pink can be overwhelming on a clear and crisp day, and it is almost impossible to believe that this is an entirely natural effect. And yet, I picked up several stones and brought them back with me to Cairo to see if the colors changed. Guess what? The stones are still pink.