Legal Aliens: Englishmen In Resort

Day 3 at Camp Sunshine (not its real name) brings an increase in the sea breeze and the nations’ flags between the restaurant and the beach are flapping furiously – though there’s not a Union Jack or a St Georges anywhere to be seen in the collection. Colours are to the fore: the deep brown suntans of those Germans presumably nearing the end of their stay clashing with the frighteningly red raw faces and shoulders of the newcomers who’ve done too much sun too soon. They must be suffering.

There’s also the sky blue – not the sea or the sky but the shiny sky blue of our wrist bands which are intended to identify us as “all-inclusive” but make us feel more like school kids on sports day bearing the colours of our house. And we’ve got to wear the damn things for ten whole days. And nights.

A stroll along the shore takes us through large quantities of dead coral, literally tens of thousands of sea shells, some of them huge conches or parts thereof, fossils embedded in rocks and gnarled, cracked rocks encrusted with petrified plant growth. It’s fascinating but it’s like walking through nature’s graveyard.

Looking around Camp Sunshine, we’re clearly not getting into the spirit of this all-inclusive thing as quickly as we perhaps should be. The three bars open at 10am, and by five minutes past there are plenty of takers washing down their recently scoffed breakfast with a couple of Napolis. Big German Dad and his Lurching Teenage Son eat three successive heaped platefuls of hot food at lunchtime and then repeat the feat for their evening meal, while our jaws drop and we try not to stare. 

We sit here with our simple dish of barbecued meat and modest salad, washing it down with water and coffee and think, well, either us or Wolfgang & Son are getting this badly wrong. Everyone is obviously geared up to get their money’s worth on pretty much a meal by meal basis while we’re in danger of being the first ever guests to lose weight at an all-inclusive venue. Note to selves….

To be fair, we have heard Italian and French voices as well as German, but it’s the Germans who dominate and who, of course, are first in the queue when the food is ready. There are plenty of tattooed Fraus too – it’s obviously as popular in Deutschland as it is in England, and it’s sometimes hard to tell where the bikini ends and the body art begins, although in all honesty we haven’t studied that too closely.

Evening number 3, and we take a short detour to avoid Happy Barman – he’s a nice guy but we really can’t face his oddly unpleasant beer again just yet. Lo and behold we find ourselves sitting close to Wolfgang & Son again at dinner, and tonight Wolfy must be extra hungry: three dinners followed by two trips to the pudding station with three desserts on each trip. That’s three main courses and six desserts. Our “note to selves” just got thrown in the bin. We can’t compete with that.

Day 4 dawns and nothing has changed in Camp Sunshine; in this land of myths and legends it’s beginning to feel as if our 10 days here may end up feeling like a thousand and one nights. With nobody singing to us.

Whatever it is that happens in the name of evening entertainment, we haven’t ventured to see and we think it’s unlikely that we will. We do though stumble across an events listing pinned to a beachside post. One night, it seems, is a “Mr Hotel” contest, and we are cursed with a dreadful mental image of Wolfgang stripping down to his speedos after three dinners, six puddings and a bellyful of Napoli. And just as scary, a “Miss Hotel” night  where a bevvy of hefty Fraus probably get to reveal ALL of their tattoos. These are images which we need to dispel quickly in order to avoid nightmares and I try to concentrate on dead coral as a more attractive option.

We’re starting to recognise certain characters around Camp Sunshine (not its real name) as the same faces crop up at mealtimes. First, there’s a Tracey Emin lookalike, indeed if it wasn’t for the fact she’s speaking Italian we’d think Tracey herself was here. Presumably someone is making her bed for her. Then there’s Bayern Munich Boy, a lad of around 30 who wears full Bayern football kit including bright red socks and liveried trainers, plus body warmer and sunglasses, for every meal. And swaggering around the tables in an ever-so-authoritative way is Germany’s answer to Dave Angel, eco warrior. We sing “Moonlight Shadow” every time he struts by.

Today’s beach stroll takes us in the opposite direction to dead coral country and along the sand and rock to our nearest neighbouring resorts, “Utopia” and “Egypt Dreams”. Half way to Utopia there’s a group of Egyptian women with a rug spread out on the sand, covered in items of “hand made jewellery” neatly placed to induce the impulse purchase. Given that we’re half a mile from the nearest resort, and any passers by will be all-inclusive customers and therefore won’t be carrying any money as they stroll along the beach, it strikes us that this may not be the best place in Egypt to set up a stall.

Wednesday afternoon we make a break from the Camp by booking a place on the resort’s shuttle bus which leaves at 4pm daily and grants any who are willing to do so the opportunity to see the old town of El Quessir. It doesn’t quite go to plan, but we do get to see the remains of the castle, an absolutely unbelievable old house which has been occupied by the same family for 400 years, and a marina which is part new, part historic. The occupier of the ancient house, which looks like it has barely changed in those 400 years, is also the town’s real life muezzin.

El Quessir was in ancient times a port of huge importance, not just a major trade route linking Africa to both the Far East and Europe, but also the main port for those on the “Hajj” pilgrimage just before they undertook the perilous crossing of the Red Sea on the way to Mecca.

And why doesn’t the excursion quite go to plan? You might guess. The free shuttle bus turns out to be a car, one which drops us at the “family shop”, which means we have to go into the “family shop” for them to call our driver for the return journey. Hard sell time yet again. Then, as if we needed final proof that this whole country is dodgy, the hotel concierge (bear in mind we’re in an international resort hotel) demands 40 euros for arranging our “free” transport! We tell him exactly where he can stick his little scam. 

Before long back in Camp Sunshine it’s mealtime again and the usual suspects are gathering for dinner, including us. As I stand in line here between the desert and the Red Sea, empty plate in hand waiting for tonight’s treat, I feel like a cross between Aladdin and Oliver Twist. 

Day 4 draws to its close and we haven’t yet been in the Red Sea. You can’t wade out from the beach here due to the coral underfoot, and the only access is via a wooden pier which extends out beyond the reef and thus straight into deep water. Since arriving, the wind’s been too strong and the red flags have been constant, it’s easy to see why this stretch of coast has played host to windsurfing competitions. 

We drift off to sleep, stone cold sober after 2 days of opting out of bad alcohol and maybe just a little bit hungry. We definitely haven’t got the hang of this yet.