Walking Like An Egyptian

By Jack Dash

Into the hustler’s paradise of pre-revolution Egypt comes an eccentric Englishman hell bent on making his fortune in a country where everything is late, nothing works and everyone is on the take. To pay off a savage mortgage, he leads a double life teaching in a posh school by day and haggling down the back streets of Cairo by night, trying to beat those wily Egyptians at their own game.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jack Dash
• Release date: Jan 3, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311328939

Jack Dash

Jack started reading grown up books at the age of seven and has averaged four a week ever since. Not surprisingly his childhood dream was to become a writer himself but, as is often the case, life got in the way of his ambition and he finished up working as a costermonger on York market, a fish salter on Grimsby docks, a newsagent at the seaside and all that before attending York University to become one of its first computer science graduates. After university Jack went on to a long career in the computer industry, the last ten years of it running his own software company. When they started making computers that worked properly, Jack lost interest and sold his business to become a teacher. Jack taught at schools around the world, including the Lake District, Egypt and Hong Kong before early retirement to follow his childhood dream and become a writer.

Book preview

Into the hustler’s paradise of pre-revolution Egypt comes an eccentric Englishman hell bent on making his fortune in a country where everything is late, nothing works and everyone is on the take. To pay off a savage mortgage, he leads a double life teaching in a posh school by day and haggling down the back streets of Cairo by night, trying to beat those wily Egyptians at their own game.

By Jack Dash

Humour/Travel

Walking Like An Egyptian

Paranormal

Embers of Avarice

Science Fiction

Anvil of Change

Hammer of Fate

Forge of Time

Sword of Life

__________________________

WALKING LIKE AN EGYPTIAN

A Year in Egypt

JACK DASH

__________________________

Copyright 2016 by Jack Dash

Smashwords Edition

ISBN: 9781311328939

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be transmitted, copied or stored without the prior written consent of the author. The author has asserted his moral rights. All characters in this book are entirely fictitious and any resemblance to a real person is purely coincidental.

Acknowledgements

Thanks to my proof readers Margaret and Peter.

And to Kevin for the feedback.

To Kevin and Michelle

Long-time friends and good-hearted people.

Contents

1. Foretaste

2. August

3. September

4. October

5. November

6. December

7. January

8. February

9. March

10. April

11. May

12. June

About the Author

1. Foretaste

The job offer was a godsend. A two year contract as Head of IT at the most prestigious school in Cairo, it was a great career move. The money was good too and I had been on holiday to Egypt, so I knew what I was letting myself in for. Admittedly, it was only a one day stopover, but the experience was memorable, to say the least.

I had fallen prey to a rather enthusiastic travel agent who tempted me with a Nile cruise and I remember his words to this day, Imagine those timeless monuments sailing by as you sip an early evening aperitif on the sun deck. Picture that ancient land of mystery and wonder, a land full of pyramids and golden pharaohs. He threw in a camel ride, a visit to King Tut’s tomb and it all sounded so wonderful I was ready to sign up on the spot. I mean, who could resist a pitch like that?

Unfortunately for me, the wife could, but a quick note before we go any further. In my native Yorkshire, men always refer to their better halves as ‘the wife’ but we pronounce it The Wife, capitalised, as in Your Majesty. It shows the true balance of power in a Yorkshire marriage.

Anyway, I fancied a holiday in Egypt but the wife had her heart set on Greece – so we compromised. We had a one day stopover in Cairo and a fortnight in Athens – you see what I mean about the balance of power? So much for my Nile cruise but at least I would get to see the pyramids.

A few weeks later, the 747 taxied to a halt at Cairo airport and, leaving the cool, air-conditioned interior, we were hit by a wall of hot, steamy air. It was like a sauna on steroids. The travel agent had obviously forgotten to mention the rampant humidity that smothers Egypt during the summer months.

Last off the plane, we finished up at the back of the queue and stood waiting in the hot, muggy air, desperate for the transfer buses and some air-conditioning. But it would be a long wait because, like everything else in Egypt, the buses were late.

As we waited, a peculiar smell tickled my nostrils as it percolated through the engine fumes. It’s a smell that pervades the entire country but it’s rather difficult to describe, exactly. Imagine a mixture of donkey droppings and cat pee gently simmered in hot sunshine for a thousand years and you’ll get some idea. It’s a lethargic kind of smell, a smell that says, ‘I ain’t going anywhere soon and even if I do, I’ll be taking my time about it.’ With one sniff, I had the essence of Egypt.

Suddenly, I was distracted from the vintage pong by a vintage van as it drove up to the plane. It was a WWII Bedford still wearing its original coat of khaki paint and it trailed a black cloud of smoke as it came to a gear-crunching stop. Whereupon the whole queue surged forward and ran for the door.

Fortunately, the door opened in time because it was clear to me that no one was going to stop if it didn’t and elbows were everywhere as the passengers fought to get on board. This was my first experience of the Egyptian queuing system and I recognised it immediately. In England we call it every man for himself.

At this point, I realised the battered van was in fact the long awaited transfer bus and the fight to get aboard told me a second bus any time soon was most unlikely. Come on lass, I said to the wife, we don’t want leaving behind in this heat.

The panic to get aboard was infectious and I picked up the bags and ran for the bus – even though we were last in the queue. I put my shoulder to the man in front and pushed everyone up to make room for the wife and it seemed to be expected because no one complained. After shoving the missus inside, I pushed again to make room for myself and just managed to squeeze inside as the driver pulled a big lever and shut the door behind me.

Inside the bus, the longed for air-conditioning turned out to be what I usually refer to as open windows. Well, the windows weren’t exactly open, they just didn’t have any glass.

The driver wore grubby slacks, shoes with no socks and a shirt that had seen better days. Stubble, brown teeth and an oily skin completed his ensemble and he hawked up forty years of smoking Egyptian lung-busters before spitting through the air-conditioning.

He started the engine and crunched into first gear as he set off, trailing more clouds of smoke. The driver spat through the window again but the bus was moving now so the slipstream whipped the phlegm back in through a side window to hit an old man on the back of the head. So far, I was not impressed with Egypt.

The ancient bus did its best to cope with its heavy burden but half way to the terminal, it backfired and died. Jammed up like sardines in a can, we sweated away in the humid air as the driver tried to resuscitate the dead bus. He swore as he turned the key and thumped the dashboard a few times before finally throwing his hands in the air and shouting, Khalas, it’s finished. With no warning at all, he pulled the big lever and opened the door behind me.

Whereupon, the tightly packed bodies exploded out like a hand grenade and, being last in, I was first out to land flat on my back, closely followed by a short, fat Egyptian who landed right on top of me and mashed my nose with the back of his head but thankfully, it wasn’t the old man.

Ignoring me, my little fat friend scrambled up and waved his fist at the driver as he shouted, "Enta humar," you stupid donkey, but the driver was distinctly unimpressed by this rather feeble retort.

You see, Egyptians take great pride in their invective and, over many thousands of years, it has matured into quite an art form. A skilled derogator will make artful references to his victim’s bestial parentage and proffer disparaging remarks about the size of his penis and species preference for sexual intimacy – men being de-rigour, of course.

The driver flicked a thumb off his teeth and retorted with a rather more colourful, "Elf zubra fee teezak," a thousand men at your bottom. Not quite the worst possible insult—which involves doing unspeakable things to your mother—but it was bad enough for my little, fat companion to go red in the face and climb back into the bus to give a more physical response.

We left them to it and followed the other passengers as they trailed across the tarmac to the arrivals hall. Desperate for some air-conditioning, we ran the last hundred yards to the arrivals gate – only to be greeted by a sign on the door saying, CLOSED FOR RENOVATE and a little green arrow pointing right.

Following a trail of green arrows, we arrived at what looked like a derelict warehouse but the big swing doors had a scribbled note saying, ARIVAL HERE, so I presumed this was it. I pushed through the doors and stepped into a furnace.

Inside, there was no air-conditioning whatsoever – not even an open window. The clock on the wall cheerily informed me it was 01:32am and 99oF but, with only two-digit displays, God knows what the actual temperature was.

In the oppressive heat, the sweat poured off me as we shuffled through the long queue to passport control. Eventually, we toed the yellow line at the front and waited eagerly for the customs officer to wave us forward – only to see him get up and bugger off.

We had an anxious wait, worried they would make us join the back of the other queue, but he came back after a few minutes holding a glass of tea. He waved us forward and quickly flicked through our passports before saying, Where is currency receipt? His English was good, but not perfect.

What receipt? I replied, with some trepidation.

You must have receipt to show you buy Egyptian money. He pointed at a window at the back of the hall, You can get from exchange.

No, it’s okay. I have Egyptian money. I said hopefully, reaching for my wallet to show him the thick wad of Egyptian currency I had brought with me.

You must have receipt, said the bored customs officer as he introduced me to the Egyptian shrug. His shoulders rose up to meet his ears as he held his palms up and turned his mouth down. Roughly interpreted, the shrug means: this is the way things are in my country and there is absolutely nothing you can do about it so live with it. Parisian waiters have a similar shrug.

Anyway, the wife elbowed me in the ribs to make sure I didn’t become unreasonable and said a polite thank you to the customs officer. Collecting the passports she dragged me to the exchange where we had to queue for another ten minutes.

As we waited, one of those Crocodile Dundee clones that Australia turns out by the dozen spoke to me from the next queue, You have to buy seven hundred Egyptian pounds each or they won’t let you in and the exchange rate’s a bloody rip off, too.

You live here? I said, hopefully. If you ever go abroad, don’t bother seeking advice from fellow tourists, find an ex-pat who lives there. The survival tips are far superior.

Yeah, said Dundee, and it’s a bloody pain. The man was obviously an old hand and I milked him for all the advice I could until we got to the counter. I handed over my sterling and the teller went through a lengthy process of counting it and making sure the notes weren’t forgeries before handing me my precious receipt and two pre-wrapped bundles of notes.

Count it before you leave the window, mate, said Crocodile Dundee.

I did and both bundles were short. The teller didn’t even bother to check, she just handed over the notes that had accidentally fallen out of the tightly wrapped bundles and gave me an Egyptian shrug by way of apology as she waved her next mark forward.

We joined the queue for customs again and, after another lengthy wait, the officer carefully inspected the currency receipt before he stamped our passports and waved us through.

We were in!

Sighing with relief, we shuffled through the swing doors into baggage claim—Dante’s version of baggage claim, that is—the hall was about the size of your average airport toilet and funnily enough, that’s exactly what it smelt like.

The heaving mass of sweaty bodies pumped up the humidity so much I got a free drink every time I took a breath and, jammed up like a rush-hour subway, the baggage hall needed more people like a centipede needs extra legs.

The hall was mostly packed with locals and it was here I made my first discovery. Egyptian men only come in two sizes: skinny runts who do all the work and the bosses who are, as the Italians say, men of belly.

Being of the skinny runt variety myself at the time, it took some serious pushing to get to the carousel and yes, that’s carousel – singular. The toilet sized baggage hall only had room for one and, irrespective of its meagre capacity, the conveyor belt vomited luggage onto the track faster than Niagara spews water.

Bags, boxes and cases of every description piled high to form a kind of luggage version of the Alps and the excessive weight meant the conveyor belt could only move in fits and starts.

As a luggage jam forced the track to a standstill, I saw a daring young man climb up to grab his bag – only to be caught out as the carousel juddered back into life. Losing his balance, the reckless fool made a tumble back to earth where—adding injury to insult—a case thumped him on the back of the head as it followed him down.

No one lifted a hand to help the poor sod but at least the owner of the case said a polite thank you, to which the young man responded with a heavily accented, Merde! So that was all right – he was French.

Barefoot porters in brown, one-size-fits-nobody uniforms scampered over the luggage mountain like spider monkeys, pulling cases out at the direction of shouting passengers and collecting baksheesh for every bag rescued, a few piasters from the Egyptians or a few pounds from stupid tourists.

On the track I saw a metal Samsonite case that clearly belonged to someone who knew what to expect lying on top of a mashed up box that belonged to someone who obviously didn’t.

Thank God we used the red case, I said to the wife, it should be tough enough even for this luggage grinder, and I was mostly right. Coming round the carousel I saw a heap of bags covered in lingerie and chuckled as I nudged the wife, Look over there, some poor cow’s in for an embarrassing time.

A little red faced, the wife thumped me on the arm and said rather sharply, Those are my clothes!

The thick plastic case had indeed been tough enough but unfortunately, the lock wasn’t. It had burst open and the aforementioned poor cow turned out to be my own darling wife. Our clothes had spilled out and she’d packed her underwear at the bottom so it had been thrown all over the place.

The wife snapped at me, Well don’t stand there gawping, get one of the porters.

The idea was too horrible to contemplate, Nay lass. I replied, There’s no way I’m asking a porter to pick up your knickers, I didn’t know the Arabic word for lingerie, anyway.

Well you get them then. And hurry up before they go round again, said my ever-loving wife as she pushed me onto the luggage-eating conveyor belt. After a scary climb up I grabbed the case and shoved in the nearby clothes before sliding it down to her. Then I went after the underwear.

My respect for the porters went up a couple of notches as I staggered around falling on my backside every few steps but I managed to get her stuff without killing myself. As I scrambled back to solid ground, one of the spider monkeys followed me down waving a fistful of black undies I’d missed.

So there I stood, juggling an arm full of lingerie before an audience of smiling Egyptians as I dug out my wallet to pay off a grinning porter as he triumphantly held up my wife’s knickers for everyone to see.

Needless to say, the wife was not best pleased and she snatched her underwear out of his hand as I handed over the baksheesh. Shoving her knickers into the case she said in exasperation, Try not to drop it.

I was about to tell her it wasn’t my fault but I saw the look in her eye and changed my mind – I have learned not to argue with the wife when she has her dander up.

Holding the suitcase closed as best I could, I pushed my way through the milling crowd to the customs desk where the officer waved me straight through with a grin – he had no need to check my case because, like everyone else in the airport, he’d already seen its entire contents.

After customs, we ran the gauntlet of taxi touts. There were dozens of them, all shouting the same thing, Hello mister, welcome in Cairo, you want taxi? I give you best price.

My Aussie friend had warned me their promises were as reliable as their grammar and not to hire a taxi inside the airport. Not unless I wanted to pay five times the going rate. Pushed and pulled on all sides, I ignored their desperate pleading as I fought my way to the exit.

Finally, we burst through the swing doors and made it outside where I took a deep breath of the rank, steamy air but, after the baggage hall from hell, it felt like a mountain breeze.

I put a brave face on things as I said to the wife, Well, that’s the worst of it over with. In response, she lifted an eyebrow and gave me that special look she uses when she thinks I’m not being very sensible. I call it the talking bollocks look.

Intimidated by the eyebrow, I shut up and joined the queue for a taxi. After a long wait, a traffic cop dressed in full motorcycle gear directed us to a black and yellow taxi that looked like a demolition derby reject. It would need major repairs just to be fit for scrapping but, regardless of any safety considerations, the cop waved us inside and carefully noted our destination to make sure he got his baksheesh from the cabbie later on. Baksheesh is the lifeblood of Egypt and you have to pay it for everything – especially when the police are involved.

My instincts were right about the taxi though, the door on my side actually fell off when we braked at some traffic lights. Calmly getting out, the driver shrugged as he said, "Mafish mushkila," no problem. It was obviously a regular occurrence.

As he was fixing the door, the lights changed to green and we sat there holding up a long line of impatient drivers as they continually blasted their horns – traffic noise is another one of those little things travel agents always forget to mention.

The cabbie gave the door a final kick to boot it back into place – just in time for the lights to change back to red. The car-horn cacophony climbed another few angry decibels but the driver only shook his right hand at them, fingers together in the Arabic gesture that means ‘gimmie a break,’ but the noise only got louder so he made the same gesture with his left hand which, being the dirty hand, is the Arabic equivalent of giving someone the finger.

It looked as if we were about to witness another punch up but the lights changed to green again and off we scooted. The ride took two hours on packed roads, weaving in and out like a banger car race – except, of course, that banger cars are in better condition.

We clattered along in our beat up old taxi, racing through a city reminiscent of London after the blitz and the buildings flew past with most of them in a process of construction, renovation or demolition. In a phase of rapid growth, the city of Cairo well deserved an entry in the Guinness Book of Records for being the world’s largest building site. When we arrived at our destination, even our hotel had scaffolding up the front and a large stack of bricks almost blocking the way in.

The taxi door fell off again as I opened it to get out but I ignored it and went round the back to get the bags. The boot was stuck fast but the driver came over and gave it another kick—booting the boot as it were—and it popped open no problem. It sure takes an awful lot of footwork to handle a fifty-year-old taxi.

Crocodile Dundee had told me the fair to Cairo should be forty Egyptian pounds but