The Byzantine Monastery of St. Catherine’s, chapel of the Burning Bush, is one of the oldest working monasteries in the world since 381, siting at the base of Mount Sinai, also know as the mount of the Transfiguration of Jesus. This Ancient abode encapsulates tales of angelic transportation, extraordinary miracles, direct communication with God, the largest collection of early icons, scared to Judaism, Christianity and Islam, and for me being so close to it, in that I mean 130 miles away, what else would you want as a calling card with a chance to visit and in my way pay homage to this monumental space on our planet.
Of course to add to the military borderlines that encapsulate it, it resides just off the northern tip of Egypt, in North Africa, the right hand side of the parting of the Suez canal, a divisional, that still lies in a political and military juxtaposition. Including the parting of the Red sea, some of the greatest miracles of our time were conducted on this land, it is where the tablets of God were presented but they say also where the burning bush resides. Within these acclamations, it holds great relevance to our human philosophical nature of curiosity and religion and one from me that deserved time to further investigation and give it my personal insight. So as you can see it has many facets, that play a part in deciding how to approach this ancient fabled land.
It’s not a typical desert landscape not what I was expecting but you do have these preemptive concepts in one's head. No rolling sand-hills leading into majestic mountains, but more one of large boulders, a land strewn with rocks, stones, encapsulating hills and mountain creviced treacherous climbs. Glad that I was not one of Moses followers, with blistered and bloodied feet, suffering a pilgrimage, a long arduous trek akin to that famous St Patrick's day trek I so often had the duty-ship to climb. (Glad to be in an air-conditioned motorized vehicle having an alternative option of how to travel to it). Nothing grows here, no vegetation, no illusive palm trees, no cacti, no wiry shrubbery, absolutely nothing. The only reflective echoing thought was a similarity of marks to Mars omitting the red ochre dust, was the sheer heat, the acrid taste of death in the air, with that a hope that our driver came laden with extra water, enough fuel in the tank not to get caught stranded with vultures circling drooling for their next lunch.
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