Georgina Lunn

Amid the sands of Faiyum, my sister and I learned that vibes don’t count as survival skills.

There’s a moment, about five hours into being stranded in the desert, when you stop blaming the sun, the car, or even the nonexistent signal. You look at your sister, who’s halfway through a bottle of hot water and clutching a tote bag like it’s a life raft, and you realise something quietly devastating: we did this to ourselves.

This wasn’t some dramatic sandstorm survival story. There was no villain, no rogue camel, no snapped axle. Just two girls, one 4×4, a stunning lake, and a wildly misplaced sense of preparedness – the kind that prioritises curated playlists over checking the weather report. We weren’t deserted by fate, we were deserted by reason.

The plan, at least on paper (well, WhatsApp), was flawless. A 24-hour desert escape to dazzle my visiting sister, organised by none other than me. I had researched camps, (and decided on one called ‘The Magic Lake Camp’), negotiated driver rates, arranged pick-ups, and felt vaguely like I deserved a logistical award. We were women of the world, armed with optimism and SPF 50.

Upon arrival, Evie’s seatbelt refused to unbuckle, clinging to her like it knew something we didn’t. After a ten-minute wrestle, and a vaguely Tom Cruise–esque escape, she finally broke free. In hindsight, it felt less like a malfunction and more like foreshadowing.

It was noon. The sun was actively trying to kill us, and our only human interaction was a lone, non-English speaking Bedouin who pointed vaguely to a tent, dropped our bags, and then motioned for us to sit in a bamboo shack. There we remained, with two lukewarm bottles of water, six hours to kill before the promised sandboarding, and no other guests in sight.

The cats, at least, were social. One began making biscuits on Evie’s lap the moment she sat down – no names, no small talk, just instant intimacy. She whispered, “Take me to dinner first,” but he wasn’t listening, none of them were. They were too busy plotting their next carb-based heist.

​​Two hours in, I was on the verge of tears – hunger. The kind where your stomach folds in on itself and you begin wondering how sand would taste with a drizzle of olive oil. Evie, far more functional, embarked on a desperate hunt for food by tracking down the same staff member, who was probably hoping we’d forgotten him. With knowledge of only Jordanian Arabic, she resorted to the international language of miming. She rubbed her tummy with cartoonish exaggeration, like a toddler begging for seconds. I died inside, thinking of all the hours wasted on Duolingo.

Miraculously, it worked. Enter: feteer meshaltet. A buttery Egyptian pastry so glorious it might be the sole reason we survived. Not that we got to eat much of it – the cats began tearing into it like raccoons on creatine. We were so shocked by their confidence we just let them have it.

As the sun continued to roast us like root vegetables, we spiralled into existential awareness: no one knew where we were. No signal. No GPS. Just two women and several deeply territorial cats in a silent village that didn’t appear on Google Maps. We passed the time playing “The Short Story Game,” which turned into a suspiciously detailed romantic saga about a frog which mirrored the kind of conversation 13 year old boys have. Heatstroke was beginning to feel more like a narrative device than a medical condition.

A brief intermission came when I put on My Dad Wrote a Porno – the only thing I’d downloaded, because nothing says “desert tranquillity” like a man dissecting his father’s erotic literature. Eventually I switched to my playlist. It was harmless background music until the Battle Song from Narnia came on – an orchestral climax that seemed to summon, as if by divine script, a galloping Arabian stallion.

We swear we were not hallucinating.

Out of the shimmering heat mirage came a majestic horse, sweat glistening, tearing across the sand leaving the turquoise lake in its wake. Behind it, another horse, ridden by a Bedouin with rope in hand, galloping bareback in hot pursuit. It was cinematic. Biblical, even. The only thing that broke the spell was the next song: Witch Doctor by Alvin and the Chipmunks. I take full responsibility.

By the time 6 p.m. arrived, we were close to madness. Our long-awaited sandboarding session began with a tuktuk ride, accompanied by a joyful desert dog named Diesel, ironically. The sandboarding itself? Brutal. Seven climbs up dunes that felt Everest-adjacent, each time greeted by a board that refused to cooperate. After a few successful attempts and sunstroke nibbling at our sanity, we surrendered. Egyptians may have mastered the pyramids, but apparently the ski lift is still pending.

We were told kayaking would have to wait till morning. Something about the water being too choppy. No cool lake relief for us – just more waiting, more cats, and the world’s worst marshmallows, with the best of intentions, roasted over a campfire.

Night in the desert was, at last, serene. We lay on cushions and watched the Starlink satellites dot across the sky in perfect formation, like space ballet. For a moment, the chaos receded, it was quiet, vast, and finally, cool. A reminder that there is, buried under heatstroke and cat aggression, something magical about being nowhere.

Morning brought our long-promised kayak ride to the “Magic Lake.” What was whimsical in theory became comedic in execution, as per the theme of the trip. Apparently there was only one kayak, so we had to take turns, watching each other paddle in solemn ten-minute intervals like an awkward therapy exercise. Still, it was peaceful, the lake truly stunning – and by then, expectations had been so eroded we were easily impressed.

Our staycation had come to an end – well, almost. We still had five bonus hours to spend in the bamboo shack, waiting for our ride back. By hour three, we genuinely wondered if we’d been forgotten entirely. Thankfully, by hour five, our rescue arrived.

We returned to our Airbnb sunburnt, sand-dusted, and spiritually exhausted, only to find our host locked in the bedroom. Because, of course.

Final notes? We counted thirty five mosquito bites between us, layered ourselves in Antisan, and collapsed on the bed like Victorian heroines struck by fever. I may never go back to Faiyum, but I can’t say I regret it.

After all, where else can you be humbled by cats, nearly outwitted by a horse, and spiritually rescued by a pastry?