Thursday, November 16, 2006

In Which She Decides Never Again to Take the Night Bus

We were ecstatic at the ease of the bus situation in Dahab. This bus stop was right next to our hotel. It was small and relatively clean. The 7:30 bus had seats left on it, and we gladly paid for two. Dahab to Cairo, 7:30 PM. A Day in Dahab and no need to pay for a hotel that night. Fantastic.

As we boarded the bus, I immediately noticed the legroom. I have longish legs. Not really long long, but long enough to notice legroom. There was no legroom. I couldn't cross my legs. This is a problem. I grunted and scooted sideways to fit my knees together. It's ok, I thought. I'll sleep, I thought. It won't be a problem, I thought.

By 7:30 PM in Dahab in October, the sun is completely set. It was dark, and we were tired, but not so tired that we fell asleep right away. Which is good, because even if we had wanted to, we wouldn't have been able to sleep. After an hour ride to Sharm al-Sheikh's bus stop, we had a longish (rather too long, if you ask me) stop in Sharm, but not in pretty Sharm. In the Sharm bus stop. With the sketchy bathroom. 15 minutes of wandering aimlessly around the busstop, and we're back on the bus. We had hoped that the creepy dude with the ballcap in front of us would stay in Sharm, but we hoped in vain. He was there for the rest of the ride, regularly and overtly glancing back and inspecting us for seconds at a time.

First, we were entertained with musilsilat (TV programs) with a vaguely Ramadan theme. I think. All I know is there was an Asian-looking singer, an honest-to-goodness bellydancing dwarf, and two sketchy looking men with gelled moustaches. I put on my headphones, pulled my knees to my chest, and closed my eyes. I felt tired enough to sleep after our exciting and exhausting adventures in Dahab.

You would think that since we were STILL IN EGYPT and HAD NEVER LEFT Egypt and no one had gotten ON or OFF the bus since Sharm al-Sheikh, as there were no busstops in the MIDDLE OF SINAI, there would be no need for extra security checks after leaving the busstop. Yes? Well. You would be wrong. Not only are there security checks, but there are security checks EVERY HOUR. Rough looking men board the bus, check your passport and/or your bus ticket, and then leave you to resume your fitful sleep. It is an extremely annoying interruption, especially considering that you are not having that great a time ANYWAY, trying fruitlessly to sleep in a fetal position in a dirty bus with a creepy hat guy staring at you.

But more annoying? Is when they wake you up and make you get out of the bus. Because at 3 am, or thereabouts, a tall gruff man boarded the bus and yelled something about "SHANTAT!" Now, having already dealt with the word "shanta" ("bag" or "purse") after losing my luggage in Jordan, I thought, "Aha, he is talking about luggage! See how well I speak Arabic!" And we assumed, erroneously, that this was a repeat of a previous bus ride, where they had requested that those passengers getting off at certain stops bring their luggage up with them until that stop. The gruff man looked at us and yelled again. So we got off the bus.

Everyone else was already off, with their luggage lined up in front of them. It was the most orderly queue of people we had seen all week. We joined them, yawning. My eyes stung from the previous 6 bumpy hours of sleeplessness. It was chilly, but the air felt clean, the crisp, barren sort of clean that is one of the most beautiful things about the desert. At a command from the police, everyone stepped back one large step in a weirdly synchronized movement. "Weird," I thought, "Have they done this before?"

The policeman, once we had stepped back and given him room, fiddled with a small black gadget he held, then held it up in front of him, as you would a sword or a pistol, and speedwalked past the luggage, turning on his heels when he got to the end to speedwalk back. When he reached the end of the luggage line, he just kept walking, off to the desert behind the bus. And then, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, everyone picked up their suitcases, put them back in the bus, and made their groggy way back to their seats.

The whole thing was so surreal, so out of place, and everyone's reactions were so...normal. We had a hard time figuring out what, exactly, Mr. Policeman had done. Was it a metal detector? If so, wouldn't he want to check the bags in the bus as well as the bags under the bus? Wouldn't he want to check the individuals? It was very confusing.

And not two hours later, there we were at a nondescript busstop in Cairo, somewhere by the Nile. We had no idea where we were, but we did know that it was 4:30 AM and that 4:30 AM is when good girls are usually in bed, which is exactly where we wanted to be. We got in a taxi and told him the Four Seasons, knowing that we could sit in their lobby as long as we wanted, and really, just wanting to be off the street. The taxi driver asked us as soon as we started off, "How much?"

This is never a good sign in Cairo. As we learned from Anthony, this is how the taxis work: you get in, you tell them where you are going, and you pay them AFTER you've gotten out of the taxi. Otherwise, you'll get ripped off. But we were stuck, so I asked, in what I thought was a very clever response considering that we had no idea where we were, "How much do you want?"

He laughed. "How much do you want to pay?"

Then I made a mistake: "How long is the drive?"

"You don't know how long the drive is?"

"Well, we don't know exactly where the bus station is."

"It's the Ibrahim bus station!"

"Yes, um, I know the NAME of the bus station, but I don't know how far it is from the Four Seasons."

He laughed again. "80 pounds."

"EIGHTY?" I raised my eyebrows. "No. That is too much." I felt trapped in the cab speeding next to the Nile. I knew 80 pounds was a ridiculous price.

And then he actually said, "You don't even know where you are! How do you know how much is too much?"

I shot a Look at Lisa. The Look said, "This is so, so obnoxious." The usual cab ride is 5 pounds, ten if there is traffic or if it's a ways. Eighty is probably what that guy makes in a month. And at that moment, I lost my previous regard for Egyptian hospitality. What kind of person rips off two obviously lost, tired, young travelers at 4:30 AM?

The ride was not very long. We passed two wedding parties on our way, one with the bride and groom speeding away on a motorcycle, the other with the bride posing for pictures by the Nile. It seemed mildly absurd to have these brides so perfectly adorned at such an odd hour of the day/night, when most people were in bed with smudged eyeliner and tangled hair. But it also seemed fantastically festive. Why not stay up all night and celebrate a marriage? Why not take a stroll in your wedding dress by the Nile at 5 am? I kind of wanted to join the party, or at least follow it from a distance and eavesdrop.

We ended up giving the cab driver too much money, although he swore, "Wallahi, it's not expensive, it is a fair price." I knew it was too much, but I also knew that standing on the street corner arguing with a cab driver was not a good way to spend your Friday pre-dawn morning. I was annoyed that I had spent so much of my vacation getting ripped off by cab drivers, and I was ready to sit on the Four Season's couch, watch the sun rise, and decide what to do next.

Sunday, November 12, 2006

How My Blackberry Saved Me from Cairo

The previous chapter will be posted shortly--this is the final chapter in Cairo, right after our bus ride from Dahab, which you will be able to read all about as soon as I post it.

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After our fifty-seven hour night bus ride-which included seven security checks free of charge!-Lisa and I found ourselves in Cairo at dawn, listening to the recycled tunes in the Four Seasons lobby, waiting for the sun to rise. I printed my itinerary from the business center, just in case. It is Egypt, after all. Whent the sun did rise, we cabbed to Cilantro and got a tiny, expensive breakfast. Lisa was staying another few days, but my plane was scheduled to leave in a few hours, so we walked through the empty Zamalek streets to the President Hotel where we showered, dressed in our cleanest dirty shirts, and re-packed.

My wonderful, $7 Andiamo suitcase and I took the first taxi we saw to the airport, about a 45 minute drive. I could barely keep my eyes open, but I tried to pay attention to the expanse of Cairo below me as we sped toward the airport. Cairo is a brown city, like it rose of the dunes and never managed to shake off the dust. It leaves your feet brown, your palms dusty, and your skin clogged. The thick smog seems less to have settled than to have risen from the ground, kept close to the rooftops by a general languidity, a heat that is too lazy to rise into the atmosphere. The airport, too, feels brown and dusty, sleepy, and as I handed the last of my pounds to the cabbie, I felt a tingle of excitement at the prospect of a warm, clean shower in Frankfurt.

I walked to the check in gate for Austrian Air. I was the first one there. I felt svelt and well-travelled in my long, terra cotta skirt, my chic, borrowed jacket, and my tidy, rolly suitcase. The gate opened and I stepped up to the helpful looking man and passed over my passport and itinerary. "I have an e-ticket," I offered in my smoothest voice. He typed away for much longer than necessary. He called someone else over. There seemed to be a problem. "Ma'am, we don't see your reservation in our computer, so if you'll take a seat, we'll check and get back to you." "...you don't see it? Well, I do have one, because it's here on the itinerary." I gestured toward the itinerary. They repeated their offer "It seems your reservation has been ccanccelled. We'll do our best to rectify this." "Well...um...Is there a place to get a cup of coffee?" I asked. No, there was not, not until after you pass security with your boarding pass. Which I didn't have. Well, I thought, maybe I can get a 15 minute nap. I laid down on the metal seats.

Fifteen minutes and no sleep later, the same short, goateed man came over and told me that he was sorry, my reservation had been cancelled and there's nothing they could do. "What?" I was stunned. "Why was it cancelled?" "You used your free miles on this ticket, yes?" "...yes." "Well, you had a reservation on the 23rd, and you didn't show up, so they cancelled it because you have changed your itinerary after beginning your journey." "No, I'm sorry, I think there's some mistake. I never had a reservation on the 23rd. My reservation, AS you can SEE," I pointed dramatically at the itinerary, "is for the 27th. Today. Al-yeom." "Well, our computers say you were supposed to be here on the 23rd." "Well, then why does this itinerary, which is FROM UNITED AIRLINES, say that my reservation is on the 27th?" He shrugged. "I don't know ma'am. Next?" "Wait, wait, wait, what am I supposed to do now?" A sickening wave of anxiety washed over me: I could be stuck in Cairo another day, another night, and I really just wanted to leave, to get on the plane and go, go, until I landed in a country where the customer is always right. "Erm...go talk to the Austrian Air representative." I stared at them, infuriated. "Which is....where?" He yelled at the tall man next to him, "Ali, take her to the sales office."

Ali seemed nice enough, and he also seemed very confused at my state of fury and confusion. "Is there a problem?" he asked cheerily. "Iowa. Fii mushkila." "Ahhhhh! You speak Arabic!" This seemed to make his day. He whistled as he led me out past the security check I had already passed once. I was not in nearly as cheerful a mood. Up the stairs, down the stairs, past the crowds, to the Austrian Air office. I walked in with my trusty Andiamo.

The woman behind the desk leaned forward, clicking her long nails together as she talked to a tall man. "Begad?!" she lilted. They continued to have a long, fascinating conversation about her cousin's wedding. I tapped my foot and glared at her. She turned her head to me. "Yes?"

I explained the situation. She typed with her long nails on the keyboard, tap tap tap. "Erm, you did not show up for your reservation on the 23rd, so they have, erm, cancelled your reservation."

"I never had a reservation on the 23rd." I showed her the itinerary. "My reservation is on the 27th, today, to Frankfurt. This email is from United Airlines." I pointed at the United logo. I was holding back tears of exhaustion and frustration.

"Yes, erm, I do not know, but you do not have a reservation, and there is nothing I can do. You have to, erm, call the United representatives in the US, yes?" She looked at her watch. "But I think it is very early in the US and it is also the weekend, so probably you will have to wait to call them because they are not open now."

I looked at her without forgiveness. "So what am I supposed to do, sleep in the airport for two days? Do you have a solution?" She stared at me. I continued, whimpering, "Can I at least try to call from your phone, since this is clearly not my fault?"

"Erm, no, we do not have international phone lines."

I was incredulous. "Isn't this an international airport? ...never mind. Where can I call?" My eyes were red, I could feel them stinging.

"Go downstairs to the pay phone."

"Where are the stairs?"

"Outside my door."

"Yes, clearly, they are outside your door, but which way should I turn when I get outside your door."

She raised a penciled eyebrow at me and pointed to her right.

I took my Andiamo and I stalked out of her office. I went down two flights of stairs and spotted the pay phone. I held up my credit card at the little shop: "I need a phone card. Will you take this?" "Of course!" "Ok, 10 pound phone card. Thank you." I handed him the credit card. "Oh...no, sorry, this no work."

I didn't try to argue, although I could think of a few words he should have heard. "Where can I get cash?"

At this point, a round, helpful man walked up, perhaps taking pity on my teary eyes, and directed me up the stairs to the ATM. I went up, past the crowds, to the ATM. I got 20 pounds. As I withdrew the money, friendly taxi drivers hassled me, "Taxi, taxi, taxi? You need taxi to Cairo? I have meter in taxi!" I kept walking and waved my hand too angrily in their direction. I returned to the store. I bought the phone card. I slided to the pay phone. I dialed my parents, knowing they would be up at 7 am on a Friday morning.

My father picked up the phone. I started crying as soon as I started talking, tears of exhaustion and frustration. "Daddy, I'm stuck in the Cairo airport and--sniff--they say I don't have a reservation to fly to Germany and --sob--I can't call united because it's an 800 number and -- cry--I just want to leave *sob* this CITY." He was getting ready for work, but he put my mom on and I sobbed the story out to her, when the phone died. I bought another phone card and called again. The line was busy. I left a message saying I would call in ten minutes. There was no way they could call me.

I sat on my luggage with my back on the yellow tiled wall downstairs in the Cairo Airport. I felt alone. Men were gathered in small groups, praying, drinking tea, talking on cell phones. None of them offered to help. Even if they had offered me a cup of tea, I thought, how hard would that be? If I saw a stranger crying in an airport by a pay phone, I would offer her a cup of tea if I had one. (I didn't want to think about if this were really true or not. It probably wasn't. But it is now: If I see you crying in an airport, I will help you.) I felt them watching me as I sat there, tears gathering in my eyes and sometimes escaping down my cheeks. They stared, but they didn't move. The few women stood in groups and glaced over occasionally.

That's when I got out the Blackberry. It still had a bar of charge left. I emailed Fares and my parents, and not two minutes later, my mother wrote back. She was on the phone with United, sorting it out. 15 emails later, she wrote back: go check in at the Austrian Air office, it should be ok.

I walked into the Austrian Air office and sat down defiantly. "Please check my reservation again."

The woman clooked at her nails and then started tapping. "Hmm, yes, erm, Range? Yes. So...this ssays you never had a reservation on the 23rd!"

"...yup."

"That is so strange."

"Yup."

"Wellll, I guess...you can go through to check in now!" she chirped.

"Yeah. Great."

I walked up the stairs, outside into the dusty Cairo air, and back into the first security check. The man recognized me. "How did you get out without me seeing you?" I wasn't in the mood to explain, so I pointed vaguely in the direction of the other exit.

My mother sent another email: You should be going to the check in now. Sure enough, I was walking to the check in counter where this rigamarole first started. I got the same man, Mr. Goatee, at the counter. "I should be ready to go now. Please check."

He acted as if I hadn't just spent the last hour jumping through Egyptian hoops, calling overseas in a building with no international lines, and explaining that I didn't actually have a reservation on the 23rd. He acted as though he'd never seen me. Maybe he didn't recognise me with the red, puffy eyes. "Oooooh, your bag is 12 kilos. You will have to check it."

I looked at him blankly. "No. I am not checking this bag. it's 1 or two kilos over? I could take my shoes out and carry them and it would make the weight. Plus, last time I checked my carry-on, you lost it."

Mr. Goatee shrugged, "I am sorry, it is too heavy."

"Ok, let me take out the things that will break." I took out my camera, lenses, and headphones. "Now is it underweight?"

He looked puzzled. "Well ... I will check it through to Dulles."

"Wait a minute, wait a minute. I have a 20 hour layover in Frankfurt."

"Yes, it is rather long."

"You want me to spend 20 hours in Frankfurt with no change of clothes? You want my bag to sit in Frankfurt for 20 hours? You think it won't get lost sitting there all day."

Mr. Goatee thought about this. Then he tore up the ticket. Then one last thought seemed to occur to him. "Well, you shouldn't have wheels on your suitcase. That is a problem."

"They come off."

"...oh. Can you take them off? I mean, I just don't think the lady at the gate...she won't like it if it has wheels, maybe she will make you check it. I just want you to have a smooth entry."

I took the wheels off.

"Oh..." he handed me the boarding passes for my entire trip back. "Have a nice flight."

I didn't say anything. I walked to the gate. 20 minutes later, they called for boarding.

The lady at the gate? Was Mr. Goatee.

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The rest of the trip was seamless.

Wednesday, November 01, 2006

Chicks Dig King David

My favorite Internet Quote of the week:

Young men out there, take a lesson from David: He's a warrior, he plays the lyre—the guitar of his day—and he's not afraid of a good cry. Now do you understand why the chicks dig him?

From Slate.com.



Egypt Stories Coming Soon!