Egyptians are a resilient people, accustomed to the daily trials of heat, noise, pollution, crowded streets, food shortages, political oppression, and corruption. They navigate speeding cars with a mix of faith and agility, stepping over broken sidewalks tangled with live electrical wires. Yet, for all their adaptability, there is one thing Egyptians simply cannot handle—rain. When rain falls in Egypt, life comes to a halt. Traffic stops, phones lose signal, sewer systems overflow, and entire cities shut down.
A few years ago, I traveled to Sinai with a TV crew to film a documentary. We endured a harrowing one-engine plane flight, an airport with no signs or services, and roads that were more sand than pavement. But our destination, Al-Basatah (“The Simplicity”), was worth it—a tranquil seafront resort on the edge of the Red Sea. That night, rain poured relentlessly, an unusual occurrence in Sinai. At first, we dismissed it. Back in Minnesota, where I live, people golf in the rain. But by morning, whispers of flooding spread. The concept was baffling to me. The last great flood in Sinai, as far as I knew, was 4,000 years ago—and it didn’t stop Moses from crossing the Red Sea. We needed to get back to the airport to catch our flight to Cairo. Information was scarce. In Egypt, especially in the Sinai, everyone is a meteorologist. “I heard the road is open,” one local claimed. “No, it’s closed,” another countered. Egyptians are the only people who, when asked for directions, will give you opinions instead. Our driver, a seasoned local, reassured us. “I’ve been driving for 30 years. I know these roads.” With that, we set off. At first, the road was dry. Streams of water trickled down the mountains, but nothing blocked our path. Then we reached Nuweibaa. A long line of cars stretched ahead, people standing in the road, staring at a deep dip now submerged under rushing water. For hours, we watched as vehicles attempted to cross. Some made it. When a large truck successfully navigated the flood, our driver decided it was our turn. I warned him to watch how others crossed. “Stay to the right, drive straight through the water. Whatever you do, don’t turn the wheel.” At first, he followed instructions. But as the water surged around us, he panicked. He veered left. I screamed, “Right! Turn right!” He turned left. The van lost control, slipping off the road. Water poured in. The driver murmured Quranic verses. The crew behind me screamed. “Oh my God!” someone shouted. Another voice, more pragmatic, simply said, “Shit.” The van tipped and came to rest on its side, half-submerged in the flood. “What should we do?” Nikki, our producer, yelled from the back. A timely question. We had seconds to act. If we stayed put, the water could pull us under. If we opened the door, we might be swept away I took my chances. I pushed the door open. Water surged in. I grabbed the driver—he was on the lower side, closest to the water—and pulled him out. Then, out of nowhere, a tractor appeared, rumbling steadily toward us through the water. A group of Bedouins had come to help. One young man stood at the front, coiled rope in hand. From a distance, he threw it toward us. I caught it. We tied it to the van’s window frame. “Jump! Jump!” the crowd shouted. Where? How? We had no idea.
Nikki hesitated. A young Bedouin, sensing her fear, waded closer. “Jump onto my back,” he told me. I translated. She locked eyes with him, then leaped. The crowd erupted in cheers as he carried her to safety.
Fred, the one who later videoed my rescue, didn’t need coaxing. He grabbed the rope, swung across like Tarzan, and landed on the other side. For safety, he did what any journalist would do—pulled out his phone and started filming. Tom followed, smooth and effortless. Then it was my turn. I jumped. But I miscalculated. I landed too close to the van, and the current pulled me down. A strong pair of arms grabbed me. The young man who had caught Nikki now caught me too. With the help of his brother, he pulled me to safety. The driver was last. His rescue was the easiest—certainly smoother than his driving. We sat on the other side of the flood, drenched and disoriented. Had we just lived through that? Was this some sort of reality TV show? We had lost the van, some equipment, our luggage, and gifts we had brought from Cairo. But what we gained was far more valuable. The Bedouins, complete strangers, had risked their lives to save us. I may not remember their names, but I will never forget their faces.
