BSAC London No. 1 Branch: November 2007

My Life As a Dog
29 November 2007

Trip Report by Alex Soubeyrand

Ivan Petrovch Pavlov was a Russian scientist who brought the world the science of conditioned reflexes. He experimented with dogs, studying the relationship between salivation and digestion. By applying stimuli to the animals using a bell, he was able to make the animals salivate whether they were in the presence of food or not.

From Wikipedia: "The phrase "Pavlov's dog" is often used to describe someone who merely
reacts to a situation rather than use critical thinking."

The trip to the Red Sea was fantastic: good diving, excellent weather, excellent food, good atmosphere… as far as I am concerned, it was a success.

The introduction above about the Russian scientist comes from the common practice by live aboard guides and crew to signal their customers that it is time to dive or time to eat. They do so by ringing a bell. The same kind as last order bells used in pubs. I can tell you that Pavlov was right, as after only a couple of days the bell absolutely took over my behaviour and dictated my life. For the rest of the trip it was either time for diving or time for eating.

On Monday 29 at 06:22 it was time for diving and the dive was taking place on the Rosalie Moeller. The Rosalie Moeller lays upright at a maximum depth of 53 metres where she reaches the sea bed, with her upper deck at a depth of 35 metres.

I was to buddy with Jim on this dive and it would also be the first time we have dived together since I joined the club. We dropped down the shot line and after five minutes, we were hovering on the upper deck. The visibility was alright, like on a good British dive and after exchanging OK signals, Jim signalled towards the stern. We followed on the port side, swam pass some kind of cabins and dropped down one level through a large opening to an agreed maximum depth of 38 metres.

We continued our dive with a short swim through and regained the upper deck a few yard from the stern. Before turning back towards the shot line Jim started to wrestle with an abandoned line. We swam back on the starboard side, passed the shot line, swam some more toward the bow and then agreed that time was up. And so up we went on the shot line decompressing for some time before it started to rain divers.

This was a short, no fuss dive, and still, it remains one of my favourite. I am not exactly sure why. Maybe it is because it was so early in the morning and we were the only group of divers on the wreck. It seemed that Jim and I were the only divers on the stern side. All was silent and still, but for thousands of resident glass fish.

I must also mention a few words about our last night at Sharm El Sheikh. We were dumped in a not very nice all-inclusive resort specialised in holidays for Italians and Russians. As non all-inclusive, non Russian and non Italian, we were kind of outcasts to the staff and had to fight our way for just about everything: food, taxis, rooms, drinkable water… It was a cold shower after six relaxing days.

Maybe I am exaggerating a bit and the situation was not that bad. I believe I was to some extent affected by the "The Beach Syndrome". Let me explain: at one point in the film The Beach, the hero, after having spent time cut from the world on a paradisiacal island, gets back to touristy mainland Thailand. He observes with terror how awful life in society seems: loud music, strong flashing lights, horrendous traffic, noisy-shouty-drunk young adults and pollution. Add to this cheesy buildings and this is actually a good description of Sharm town.

To cut a long story short, after dinner we wanted to get to the Camel Bar in downtown Sharm. As you would expect, we had to bargain for a cab with the guys at the reception. Thanks to an inflexible George, the price dropped from 180 Egyptian pounds to 50. This is a very important detail: for the way back to the hotel, we found someone that asked straight away for 50. We should have known better but we just agreed: I quote George: "You know what my friend? I will give you 50!" and we got into an old blue Peugeot.

The engine was turned off and after two minutes of waiting that turned into five minutes which then turned into ten we understood that our young driver was actually waiting for one of his mate to bring "benzene" (petrol) to the car as the tank was empty. Why we didn't at that point jump out of the car, I am not quite sure—maybe the few shots at the end of a beer-drinking session helped. When the mate appeared with a five litre container of the precious liquid but no funnel and the two of them improvised with a rolled up magazine our impatience turned into laughter. We also started to notice other things about that car: the seat belts clips were bolted on the side windows? The rear mirror was hanging like a swing in a park! And it was starting to smell so bad of petrol inside that even George abstained of smoking.

After a few attempts to pump the petrol to the engine, the car finally started up and off we went. We were heading in the wrong direction though, so when we mentioned it to the driver he answered in broken English a response that we did not get at first. What we understood straight away though, is that, the same way we are advised to in English buses, it is not recommended to speak to the driver. Ahmed—our driver—would speak back to you and he kept on talking without looking where he was going, at full speed. Keith, who was sitting in the front seat, kept on saying, "Don't ask him any questions!".

To say that we were scared would be lying (once again, the few shots at the end of a beer drinking session helped) but certainly there was some anxiety within our nervous laughs. We got home eventually saint et sauf after a few more stops at local petrol stations.

Thanks to Richard and Morgan for having organised the trip.