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A Sentimental Journey Across Egypt, Libya, Israel, Saudi Arabia, and Italy
Day One:
Arrive. Late. Both in absolute (or as absolute as you're going to get) and relative time. Police accompany the bus to the hotel, which is in Cairo, over the river and an island. Named after a woman, I think. This is probably not quite so good an advertisement for the hotel as they hoped to get, paying 500 Egyptian pounds. As that only works out to around £0.05, I don't feel too terrible. If it helps, it began with a 'C'. It was also within a taxi ride of a Baskin Robbins ice cream shoppe.
Saw lone fly on bed in room, after plunking down ridiculously heavy rucksacks. Thought lone fly was cute, and considerably better than the seven billion mosquitos expected, so it was left to live another day. Or at least the evening, if it is flies that only live 24 hours. Made mental note to check up on how long common house flies live, then allow for cultural differences, if looking up in an English or American or Irish reference book.
Fail to see any scorpions, so even happier to let fly live, as, at that hour, fail to have time to contemplate vast preparatory readings on scorpions for any mention of chameleon-like scorpions that disguise themselves as flies.
Day Two:
Wake up. It's still dark. Or no it isn't, it's just early and I don't think I've managed to open my eyes just yet. Or perhaps that one fly that I'd deigned to kill the previous evening is sitting across my eyes, proving his own lack of weakness by sitting on his possible killer's eyes.
Stumble downstairs, onto some sort of bus. Cold. Cold bus. And dark, still. Or no, it's definitely that I haven't opened my eyes yet. Or so I say when I try to explain why I'm wearing plaid shorts. It was that or blame it on the fact that plaid shorts are almost compulsory holiday wear for large segments of the world's population. Well, a certain segment, anyway. The ill-dressed segment, I suppose. Last remembered retort to comments on plaid shorts: "Well it's the pyramids, anyway, what do they care?" Believe this is categorised under newly minted Shelley-ian logic.
The bus stops at large sandy triangular-like things just past block upon crowded block of what must be described as "cosy flats with views on last remaining wonder of the world. Running water occasionally. Clear and different shades of colour, no charge."
Interesting that the pharaohs didn't realise those shifty youths hanging about the base of their pyramids with their skateboards wouldn't take loads of pictures, mould mini-pyramids from the photos, and then sell off their models at reasonable prices at a later date. Or that their uncles would show up with the family camel, and tell tales of the times when camels used to roam Giza, carrying locals and the occasional traveller.
Wander down the hill, as instructed by a man of learning, to the Sphinx, which is not known as the Sphinx, but as something else. The professor will also probably not be as thrilled as he might have been with this name for the Sphinx, but you know how those academic types tend to approach monetary endeavours...
First taste of real Egyptian food: fried chicken in bread, something they call a chicken sandwich... bizarre... and served with a bottle of water and crisps.
Get back on bus, bus begins to go out into desert. You can tell this because after fifteen minutes marvelling at sand and more sand and sand piled into mountains and sand whipping over the road and little huts covered by sand the people on the bus fall asleep.
Arrive at desert camp sometime a bit after having had fallen asleep, which looks remarkably like normal camp. There is a comforting lack of scorpions in the bed, even after multiple checks, and test runs of turning off the lights and then turning them back on, in case scorpions wait until it's slightly darker to come out and hang out in the bed waiting for their prey.
disclaimer:
This is part one in the travelogue, Sterne-style (ish, I've let him down on a few fronts), across Egypt, Libya, Israel, Saudi Arabia, and Italy.
Stay tuned for a further so many episodes, covering all eighteen days of sentimental rubbish!
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Yer Weekly Horoscopes.