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Fatamorgana Lodge

Mahmoud Abd El Hady heated up through the Egyptian desert, as if it were to win a highly doped rally. The SUV hops, dust flying, splashing stones. Mahmoud runs a race against the sun. Even before the radiation ball disappears behind the hills, he wants to show us his dream come true.

From the coastal road between Marsa Alam and Berenice on the Red Sea, we are turned onto a dirt road into the misanthropic Nowhere: gray-brown wasteland to the horizon, Plattes, barren land interspersed with edgy rock formations. What should come here, except the end of the world and perhaps a departure "To the Moon"?

"Fata Morgana = The Mirage" says Mahmoud, and has a wide-beams to win the round, we've just entered. A Bedouin village that appeared suddenly among the rubble mountains, but no mirage and not a pipe dream, but a very solid system of clay, wood and stone, guarded by a crenelated towers on the slopes.
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