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Published: December 6th 2009
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I awake well in advance of my 6am bus to Cairo. Despite the erroneous directions of my hostel's chef (one of the myriad Mohammeds I meet in Egypt), whose ponderous and distracted style of speech makes him appear permanently stoned, I successfully find and board the bus. I plonk myself down next to an American girl, A, not out of any great desire to converse with another traveller at my least alert hour of the day, but because I suspect that she would probably prefer me next to her, even in my dishevelled state, than one of the aggressively lecherous local guys who can make Egypt a really tough experience for female travellers. It turns out A was thinking the same thing and is even more grateful when I reveal my stash of gummy bears.
I had originally planned to stop in Suez to view the Canal, but the town looks particularly grimy and I decide to stick with new found travel companions; A, her friend L, and an Australian N, who they picked up in Dahab. Once settled in downtown Cairo we head out to find the old Citadel. The city layout is appropriately messy and after blundering
around we eventually arrive too late to enter.
As A and I catch up with the others we find them chatting to a slender, bald Egyptian guy who apparently knows a great mosque nearby with a tall minaret from which we can watch the sunset. I ask for directions. Oh no, he's conveniently going there anyway and will show us. I am instantly on guard but the others seem keen so off we head. To reassure myself I ply him with questions but his answers are vague and sound rehearsed. When family is mentioned he quickly brandishes a picture of his 'son' but I notice it is just a picture of a cute baby; there is no evidence it is actually his child (beware: this is a common trick). He also has an unnerving habit of striding seriously and purposefully forward and, when addressed, jerking his head round like an owl and adopting a wide, affected grin with hints of malevolence. I put my foot down when he tries to lead us "the quickest way" down a narrow side alley, insisting that we stick to the small but busy street we currently occupy, and which turns out to
Lambs to the slaughter
Sheep about to be butchered for the festival of Eid get a good look at their future be very direct anyway. When we arrive at the decidedly unremarkable mosque money is suddenly mentioned. I am thankful that this deters the others from going further because in my state of heightened alertness I recall a similar tale from the pen of Ryszard Kapucinski (an absolute must read author for any travel to Africa). Young and inexperienced he climbs the minaret of a mosque at the behest of his guide, only to discover the top is very precarious. The hitherto amicable local plants himself menacingly in the entrance-way behind and threatens to push Kapucinski off the edge unless all his money is handed over. The tower door in our mosque is locked and there seems ample scope for similar extortion. Paranoia is not an attractive quality. But ‘better safe than sorry’ is not a mantra to be trifled with when travelling, especially in a country as notorious as Egypt with its 4000+ years experience of swindling tourists. Trust your instincts and if something doesn’t feel right, politely but firmly decline.
That evening we go for sheesha in a street cafe and find ourselves in ringside seats for a fight in which one man suddenly sucker punches another
out of nowhere. N refers to it as a paprika punch because in the hand of the aggressor is a load of chili powder, which he slams straight into the eye of his hapless victim. The whole place explodes and we watch it feeling a little confused.
Day two in Cairo is all about Egypt's, and one of the world's, premier sights; the Pyramids of Giza. At over 4,500 years old, they have overseen almost all of civilised human history and are the last of the original Ancient Wonders of the World still standing. And they stand majestically! Wandering between these behemoths of human engineering suitably in awe we are persistently propositioned with camel rides "to see Serfinxzes". Eventually we hop on a couple and wobble our way down to Ra-Herakhti, or as the Egyptians nickname it in Arabic; 'Abu el-Houl' - 'Father of Terror'.
The highlight of day three is undoubtedly N and my meandering mission to find the Old Islamic Cairo district. Getting lost once again we actually enjoy exploring the backstreets away from the tourist pockets. We get into the thick of Cairo, and also into the thick of the pollution. Emerging from
one side-street we hit a totally gridlocked main road. Like all Egyptian roads, lane markings mean nothing here, with three becoming a modest four and a further half dozen pedestrian pathways swarming around them. The traffic is going nowhere and we pass two separate stationary ambulances, sirens wailing forlornly. Everywhere sheep and goats mill around, oblivious to their imminent slaughter for the festival of Eid. I am given a firm, unfriendly shunt by a large city bus whose driver takes offence at the insufficient speed with which I cross in front of him. To my left a cyclist, precariously balancing an enormous tray of bread above his head with one hand one, miraculously snakes between cars. To my right a man gets into a cab before quickly realising his error and stepping out again. All around there is clutter, clatter, chatter, honking and haze. It is magically chaotic.
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