Ashraf saw us away from the Luxor Hotel with customary charm and a sincere wish that we would return sometime soon; or at least that we would send someone in our stead to fill his empty rooms. Clasping his card and brochure tightly, we took the taxi to Hurghada airport for the shortest flight it is possible to take, with the possible exception of the stairs - and then only just.
The airport check in run was brightened significantly by the divisive availability of only one economy seat meaning that Clare was to spend the flight in Business Class while I was destined to languish at the rear with my ankles around my ears. One of the benefits of Egypt Air’s Business Class is the token entitling the bearer to a free cake at Segfredo which is not to be sniffed at.
It was at the counter I discovered that the sweetener, that Segfredo had offered to Egypt Air to secure sole concession rights in the airport, had long since been soured by the comfort of incumbent exclusivity. There was no free cake to be had and pointing repeatedly at the card that said there was produced nothing more than a shrug of indifference. I took it calmly but felt a certain degree of satisfaction when the confluence of Egyptian male machismo and outrage at the similar denial of cake rights sparked a major security incident.
A young corn fed Egyptian, accompanied by a deeply tanned fifty-something sugar mummy, vented his impotent decibels at Segfredo like a peacock flashing his tail feathers. As the volume increased, the security guards approached and then the dispute became less about the cake and more about airport security. The Revolution was only part baked and anyone with a gun was still a bit jumpy. As the red mist dissipated, the plucky peacock gradually saw sense and, honour restored, he wandered off cakeless but rewarded by attentions of his satisfied mate.
For non-Arabic speakers, it is hard to distinguish between polite discourse and threats of a blood curdling nature. Men speak fast and loud. The guttural sounds of Arabic lend themselves easily to that species of conversation which precedes murder and the tenor of exchanges can boil over in seconds; but just as easily they can subside and apparent enemies are as likely to hug and kiss their goodbyes as come to blows.
Egypt Air have long since realised that it is not necessary to fly from Hurghada to Sharm El Sheikh. The stretch of water is so narrow that with a good run up you can bound over the straight without getting your feet wet. But with due deference to the sensibilities of the passengers who have paid $50 for the privilege of a 25 minute flight on a route with no competitors, they at least maintain the semblance of a domestic carrier. The engines whir and the ground recedes as it should but the charade can never be entirely concealed, not least because the aircraft never exceeds the height of a self-respecting palm tree.
And then there is the poorly disguised elastic band.
From Sharm El Sheikh, we intended to catch the bus to Dahab, a sleepier but infinitely more satisfying version of Sharm, 90km up the coast of the Red Sea. The bus was either late, on time or cancelled, depending on who we asked. Adopting a consensus, we concluded that it was safe to come back later and get some lunch in the meantime. The ignominy of being fleeced by the taxi from the airport to the bus station was more than off-set by the falafel and peppers we ate at the local den between the joinery and the exhaust shop. The language barrier presented no obstacles as there was no menu, only what was offered and Barack confounded us by asking for one fifth of the cost of the short taxi ride, with a short Arabic lesson thrown in for free.
The bus trip was a roller coaster ride through majestic, mountainous desert. A touch of pre-revolutionary heavy handed policing surfaced at the last check point before we arrived in Dahab. On climbed a Tourist Police officer backed up by a soldier with an AK-47. Each passenger had to show their papers and one lad who couldn’t comply was escorted off the bus, only to appear later, thankfully with a cheeky grin. All the while AK stood with the barrel of his 47 at the temple of the bus driver. Not deliberately, you understand; just in the casual manner of a conscript for whom the words ‘accidental’ and ‘discharge’ are usually accompanied by the words ‘shotgun’ and ‘wedding’. The driver reacted to the situation with aplomb, unfolding and shaking out his newspaper, lighting a cigarette and never once betraying any hint of annoyance at the prospect of having to scrub his own brains from the upholstery.
Once past the security shenanigans, Clare bargained hard at the taxi rank and demonstrated admirably why I should never be allowed to handle money or purchase goods and services. We processed through the small town of Dahab to our lodgings at Penguin Island, in a beaten up pick-up taxi, for a sum so small that even your calculator would refuse it on principle. Fortunately, everyone was a winner as his fare was supplemented handsomely by the twenty-nine other Egyptians he picked up en route and the selection of office furniture that they brought with them.
Penguin Island is next door to the Alaska Hotel.
As the mercury held a steady 39 degrees, I think they were being ironic.
No comments:
Post a Comment