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Egypt
The Nile through Luxor I was in Luxor having managed to find a week-long break at the last minute within my close-to-breadline budget. An undergraduate at the time, I was squeezing my studies around several different part-time jobs as I struggled to juggle a mortgage with the latest thinking on St Augustine’s doctrine of just war. Over the summer I had managed to claw my way back into black from the overdraft that just about kept me dribbling, rather than gulping in, water, and save a bit extra for a brief reprieve. In a display of cringe-some ignorance I thought it would be nice to take a day-trip to Cairo, seeing as I was in Egypt already.
So I took the 20 minute walk from my budget hotel into Luxor real to buy some tickets for the following day. I wearily passed the Kalesh-men with glaucoma dilated eyes, averting my eyes from their mangey malnourished horses and reminding myself of their own lack of calorific intake. I attempted to shirk two skinny boys tugging at my sleeves. I doubt they cared that I would only have need for their newspapers to admire the Arabic script rather than satisfy any thirst I might have for local news. I felt a twinge of guilt at my passing invasion of un-self conscious domesticity as fabric-layered women busied themselves with the washing of children, clothes and vegetables. They bristled, surveying me with suspicion.
After deciphering my way roughly through the initial barriers (which queue for rough sleepers, which for 1st class etc.) I joined the queue, gineih in hand. As I thumbed my phrasebook searching out enough pidgin Arabic to buy the tickets I was distracted by a group of rowdy young Egyptian men. They seemed excited, I imagined they might be off on some right-of-passage trip to Isna or Aswan, some of the few destinations rumoured to be entered on the Departures Board, not that I could have verified this for myself.
I may not have had long to wonder as one of the men turned to speak to me. In a lilting tone he enquired about where I was from, what I thought of Egypt, was apologetic for the heat - the temperature was averaging around 114 Fahrenheit this week - and told the usual clichéd joke about how many camels he might offer my partner in return for me (150). All the while I attempted to hide my watching brief on the queue ahead, slowly diminishing then being replenished with other hopefuls. The conversation turned to where I was travelling. Did I intend to visit the Pyramids? Did I know of the central Cairo markets where I could buy any spice imaginable? Remembering the waiting taxi outside I struggled to hide my twitchiness. Something in my demeanour now solicited a more determined persistence in my ‘friendly’ acquaintance’s questions. The questions now turned to polite but marked offers to help me buy the tickets I needed. Ah, the middle man, I realised.
Revealing an otherwise hidden sense of propriety and respect for bureaucracy I made my own polite attempt to escape my interlocutor. But this was Egypt, land of the most persistent hawkers I have ever come across and he blocked my path, explaining how I would have difficulty conveying my needs - the ticket sellers didn’t understand a word of either pidgin Arabic or near-perfect English.
Resentful of this affront I insisted on attempting the ticket purchase alone - I was naïve enough to believe the ticket sellers would assist me if only I could bypass this cling-on. Finally I managed to brush him aside and made a confidant beeline for the ticket desk.
‘Excuse me, hello’ I sung, my eyebrows raised with expectation. Two men and a woman sat flaccidly a few metres back from the glass partition mulling over some tea, lazily wiping their brows. ‘Excuse me’ I tried again. The woman glanced up at me and then back to her tea. ‘أريد شراء التذاكر لاثنين القاهرة غدا الرجاء - I’d like to buy two tickets to Cairo for tomorrow please’ I ventured hopefully. The trio glanced over and then averted their eyes in such a deliberate manner I suspected I might be soon forced to abort my mission. ‘Excuse me’ I said, clearly exasperated this time. One of the men looked at me, said something incomprehensible and gesticulated towards the end booth where another, younger man was apparently tending to some paperwork. I walked across. The man looked up. Again I attempted to explain. ‘This is the information desk, you cannot buy tickets here - you need to go to that booth’. He looked apologetic as he pointed towards the three empty desks I had just walked from. ‘But I just tried that and they told me to come back here’. I attempted an imploring look. He got up from his chair and walked reluctantly over to the trio. A seemingly passionate exchange followed, then the man skulked back towards me. ‘Sorry, the ticket booths are closed now, you will have to come back in the morning’ he said.
Realising the futility of my situation I slunk back to the taxi. Back at my hotel I spotted a sign on the guests’ noticeboard advertising overnight trips to Cairo headed by a tour company whose customers frequented the Joseph. I called the number. A student of Egyptology answered. Yes she could buy the tickets and guide us around. We would meet at Luxor train station the following morning at 9am.
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