Bread

/Jan 09 Filed in: Egypt & Beyond

You would think that buying bread would be a simple affair, wouldn’t you? You amble into the bakery, choose which crusty loaf you want, talk about the weather to the vicar’s wife and how the price of crumpets has gone up to the old dear with the blue rinse, who you cant quite remember how you know, pay your money and saunter out.

Now try doing it in Cairo!

I was in the mood for some French toast. You know, beat two eggs in a bowl, bit of salt and pepper and then dip your slices of bread in it and then fry it. To be served with Heinz tomato ketchup or for breakfast.

Egyptian bread is unleavened. That is to say that there is no yeast in it. So it is normally flatter than an eight-year-old girl’s chest. You can walk the streets here and almost every street corner has a cart with trays of white circular flat breads on it. It’s normally warm from the car exhaust fumes and the flies are not too choosy about being around the donkey’s arse when the trays of bread arrive.
But this is not the bread I needed for my culinary extravaganza.

I needed the brown bread made with rice flour that is used to make English muffins. It’s softer, doughier and when its warm and smothered in hot butter, tastes very similar to English muffins! Because it is doughier, it absorbs the egg mixture and is beautiful.

I guessed that the building across the road from me was either a manufacturer or a retailer of this brown bread. I had seen every type of humanity come out of its gap in the wall entrance with trays of bread, bags of bread and people just carrying a stack of the flat breads in their hands, like businessmen would carry a stack of legal paper under his arm!

So, I summoned up the courage to venture into this dark hole in the wall.

I have discovered for such a cosmopolitan city, not many people speak English.
With my Arabic being limited to the pleasantries in life, a few well-remembered insults that make people laugh at my pronunciation and some of the numbers, I was not very well armed with a rich vocabulary with which to dazzle my fellow bread-purchasers nor the retailer – so it was kind of courageous for me!

As I walked down a long corridor, the “retail” outlet of this building seemed to be nothing more than a table with a fierce looking woman holding a bunch of 25 piaster notes on the other side. Behind her was a cavernous room with about 15 or 20 men working on the flat breads. Either mixing, carrying sacks of flour, piling the breads, bagging the breads or pulling the trays of bread out of the ovens. It was a veritable hive of activity. All knew their jobs and there was hardly any screaming or shouting that normally accompanies large groups of Egyptian men.

I approached the counter and tried to determine how much each bread was. The white bread outside on the street was 5LE for a bag of 10 breads. But it seemed to be here that each bread was much cheaper. People were giving 10LE and walking out with a whole tray!!! So switching my 5LE note for a 1LE note I strained to hear the people asking for the bread and seeing what they handed over.
Polite queuing in Egypt is as rare as rocking horse shit, so this was no orderly wait, this was a bun fight!! Using elbows and shoulders the customers would try and bully their way to the front and attract the fierce looking woman’s attention by waving either 50 piaster notes or 1LE notes right in her face.
The problem was that there was no bread on the table, so she was not accepting any money. When the tray of about 100 breads arrived, the whole group of customers surged forward in an attempt to be first.
Enter the poor little white boy who ended up standing on his own at the back looking around wondering what the hell happened.
The guy stood next to me urged me to get in the melee. So I slowly walked forward to see what all the fuss was about.
I determined that 10 breads were 50piastres or half of one Egyptian pound. So I put away my 1LE note and got out my 50-piaster note.

My fellow customer, who had taken it upon himself to help the stupid tourist, indicated that if I used my bulk to get into the scrum, he would buy my bread for me. Helluva deal!!!
I told him I wanted 10 breads and we laughed at me being stupid!
So, once again, the gentle giant edged, and shuffled and slowly we made progress. Every person we got in front of turned around to question my parenthood or insult my ancestors, until they saw the size of their opponent. Having shoulders like an ox and persistence pays off sometimes.
The occasional upset female customer would try and barge me back, but I felt a gentle, yet persistent hand on the small of my back as my guide edged me on.
Any abuse from the old hags was dealt with by my Egyptian driver with a sharp word and the occasional shove!! Me? I just smiled my cutest smile and shuffled on.
We finally made it to the counter, just as the last bread was sold and we had to wait until the next tray appeared. My Egyptian compadre proceeded to harangue the fierce looking woman on the counter by thrusting money in her hand.
She, in disgust at this blatant attempt to “push in” threw it back at him and as he went to catch it, he accidentally elbowed the guy stood next to me.
This resulted in a bit of shoving and pushing, and I once again eased my way in front of my scuffling friend to prevent any harm coming to him! After all, he had my money and a great plan to get me bread!
When the tray of bread arrived, the human surge forced me forward to the table and within centimetres of the fierce looking woman’s chest!!! I struggled to stand upright as the people behind me were all trying get their money taken and get their bread.
My little friend had now worked his way to slightly in front of me, and thrust the 1.50LE into her had wile she was shouting at another person.
So now we have paid. Where’s the bread? I was gently but very firmly used as a human shield in the direction of the edge of the table and where a large pile of bread was being stacked.
When we got close enough the little guy found his voice and started yelling at the bread stacker to give him 30 breads. Possibly out of fear for the ferocity of the tirade, the stacker gave a quick glance to the fierce looking woman and she perceptively nodded and the 30 breads were rapidly taken and 10 given to me.
Now we had to get out. Time for more muscle – this time against the flow there were no niceties, I just walked forward and he followed me. People moved out of the way very smoothly and we arrived out of the bread pit into the daylight as a bus disgorged 20 people and they all headed down the tunnel.
Good timing as well!!
Like criminals fleeing the scene of a crime both went our separate ways, with some haste, to avoid a deluge of oncoming humanity all wanting bread!

Crossing the Road

/Jan 09 Filed in: Egypt & Beyond

Abuse of children, the infirm and the elderly, in my opinion, is reprehensible. The kids, cripples and wrinklies need special care to prevent them falling into the hands of unscrupulous operators who will take advantage of their non-linear thinking.

However, sometimes, their non-linear thinking can become very useful.

In a previous missive, I observed the delights of driving in Cairo. I have been here now for 5 days and I have decided that in my previous existence of Duncan Brave-but-oh-so-Dim, who happily drove in Cairo for three days, I was seriously deranged!!

Im sure that the density of the traffic has increased since I was last here in 1999, so much so, that there is hardly any space to get run over, let alone drive your donkey cart the wrong way down the highway!

But here I am, and still in one piece, dear reader.

All of these things sprang to my mind as I attempted to cross the road. I wanted to be on the other side of five lanes of traffic, then a central reservation, then 5 more lanes of traffic. My experience of busy cities and their traffic conditions is fairly comprehensive. I was a motorbike courier in Central London, I have driven in Athens, Rome and Bangkok (on a motorbike). So an overall distance of approximately 100 metres, really shouldn’t prove much of a problem to someone such as I, with a deft swerve and who is in fear for his life. (Adrenaline is a wonderful substance) After all, the world record holder can cover 100 metres in 9.76 seconds! Im sure if he tried this 100 metres with a trailing wind and a cloud of carbon monoxide, he could easily beat that!!!

So, my first attempt at this seemingly easy task was not all that successful. I made it across two lanes with no incident, and then had to breathe in, suck in my butt cheeks and throw my shoulders forward, all in one movement, to avoid a minibus! Back to the safety (?) of the sidewalk. Then I had a revelation. These people do this every day. They are experts. So let’s watch what they do.
After a breif survey, I have decided that there are 3 ways of crossing the road.

Firstly there is the Lemming.
The Lemming is a head-long attempt to make it in one go. Timing is critical. The posture is similar to the starting blocks of a 100m run. Shoulders lowered, eyes left (and right – to avoid the donkey cart heading down the other way) one foot in front of the other and breathing rapidly to prevent any pure oxygen from settling in the lungs.
Then at an undetermined moment, the attempter will have his eyes flicking between the destination and the left side and then makes a leap into the road, looking at no one in particular until he makes it in one go. Having made it to the relative security of the central reservation, he will then take a moment to reflect on his victory, with a small internal smile, before edging forward to the other side of the central reservation to continue his trail-blazing journey.
The dangers for this attempter are two-fold. Firstly, another Lemming coming the other way, and the abrupt collision of two vehicles in his direct flight path.
Both of which, dear reader, as you can imagine, would be enough to stop any Lemming in his or her single-minded attempt immediately. The repercussions of this are generally disastrous. Lemming splayed across fronts and backs of cars, taxis and the occassional motorcycle are commonplace (as accidents are very frequent). But for every one Lemming collision, there are hundreds of successful crossings every minute – but timing is everything for the Lemming. One straight attempt or nothing.

The second type of crossing is the Swerve.
Similar to the Lemming in that it is done in a single attempt, but it differs very radically in that there is no direct line of landing.
Again the crouch and hard stares are there, and the shallow breathing is also quite prevalent, but the major difference is that the Swerve attempter will have no idea where he/she will end up on the other side of the carriageway.
Once the Swerve attempter has made his move, he will not look forward at any time. He will only look left, weaving in and out of the traffic, swerving between moving vehicles and not stopping his inexorable travel until he can see the sidewalk in his peripheral vision. Then a very short glance to gauge how high the kerbstone is, and then back to dodging the oncoming traffic.
When in range, the Swerve attempter will then make a leap for safety up the kerbstone, whilst continuing to look left and land safely on the central reservation.
The dangers for the Swerve are more than for the Lemming in that oncoming Swervers looking right would not be seen, incorrectly gauging the height of the kerbstone could lead to a painful and very embarassing abrupt stop. However, the benefits of this attempt is that collisions and accidents are not a hindrance to the Swerver.
This is generally the commonest, fastest, yet most dangerous method.

The rarest of attempts is the Hard-Stare attempt. This attempt requires nerves of steel and a very hard stare. The principle is simple. Oncoming drivers will avoid you at the last moment because they don’t really want to kill you.

That’s the theory. In practice, its kind of different.

So the attempt is run like this.

Know your destination. Walk to the edge of the road and look towards the oncoming traffic. Make eye contact with a driver who happens to be hurtling along at light-speed with his hand on his carhorn merrily beeping the tune to “I left my heart in San Fran-Cairo”

Once eye contact has been made – step out!
The look of recognition, fear, gas, will appear in the driver’s eyes and he has microseconds to decide on what course of action to take.
Does he;
a) Drive on and say he didn’t see you?
b) Take a quick look in his rearview mirror to see if his customer has also seen the idiot pedestrian
c) Take a sidelong glance to find his exit strategy and see if there is a millimetre of space to edge into thereby missing the attempter
d) Brake really heavily, throwing the passenger forward in to the front seat, giving the horn a really hard push (obviously its louder the harder you push)

But you must not move. This is where it takes nerves of steel. Unless a space appears in front of you, for you to move forward, you must stand rigidly to the spot. Using your Vulcan mind meld, the Jedi mind trick and the sheer panic in the driver’s face, you will stare him down and dare him to run you over.
Obviously, if a space does appear in front of you, then you should judiciously take it. Otherwise the first vehicle driver will try to take it before you get there. This would be a catastrophe. You would then have lost the battle of wills and your hard stare would have been for nothing.
So hard staring and steel underwear are needed to cross the road in this manner, but when you reach the central reservation, the other pedestrians will be looking at you in awe, respect, ridicule, etc!

The dangers attributed to this type of crossing are many-fold.
Obviously if the driver ignores your hard stare and has decided that he wants to play chicken with you, then you are in a spot of bother as he kind of has the advantage.
If you decide that the vehicle you wish to try and divert is a mini-bus or a truck then the odds are also stacked against you

Then there is the inability to use your Vulcan mind meld or your Jedi mind trick, as the taxi driver, (or the donkey) doesn’t have a mind or has never seen the Arabic version of Star Trek or Star Wars.

Your stern stare only hardens his resolve to get to where he wants to be as quickly as possible, and you are a minor annoyance to be brushed aside. (or ran over) The donkey doesn’t really care as all he wants to do is get into his shed and get away from ‘orrible little kid who beats him regularly.

Generally, this attempt is only done by the tourists or those wishing to meet Allah before their time. I obviously fit into the first category, but my Jedi powers and my hard stare are legendary. I also have an inexhaustable supply of clean underwear, as I don’t normally wear it when I am diving and so it is almost brand new.

After watching all of these people risking their lives to cross the road, I decided that it was my turn. Picking a suitable destination (a point on the central reservation near a pile of donkey poo) I attempted the Lemming. But I bottled it!! I made it halfway across and realised my timing was off!! I was going to meet with certain disaster should I decide to run into that ambulance!
Back to the sidewalk.
Ok … the hard stare attempt … failed miserably. I didn’t make it past the first lane of traffic before a taxi driver decided to speed up in an attempt to get me as a customer. In fear for my laptop, I leaped back on to the sidewalk, nearly displacing a whole cart-load of bread.
Not being a popular tourist, I took a small walk away from my previous scene of embarrassment and thought about my next plan of attack.

A poorly executed Swerve attempt followed and I was left slightly embarrassed on the sidewalk, preparing for my next attempt as three small Egyptian girls jigged and weaved to the central island with ease.
Another Hard Stare attempt had great success. Although for one moment as I stood in the mixt of 5 lanes of traffic, my nerves (and possibly my bowels) wobbled. But a space opened up and I gratefully took it to the central reservation!
Part one completed.
Breathing deeply, and glancing over my shoulder, I then looked at the task before me. I had to do this again, this time looking to my right!!!
Being a flexible thinker, this should have posed no problem, but after 5 minutes of attempts, I was getting a little peaved.

Then I saw him!

He had to be in his 70s. He was hunched over (maybe looking for his contact lenses) and his leathery weathered face was the sign of a man used to being outside. The dirty galabeya, might have also been a small indicator. He was carrying what looked like a bricklayer’s hod with tools inside it and that completed the workman ensemble.

His attitude to crossing the road was simple. He would just walk out into the oncoming traffic and aim his hod at the nearest car, which would apply its brakes very sharply and the screeching tyres would leave a black mark on the road. But it would stop!

So as he came to the central reservation, I aimed for him. His method was brutal but efficient. So walking beside him, the smell of urine was quite strong, even through my bunged-up nose, I strode purposefully toward where he was going to make his attempt.
After a quick look left and right, he stepped out. The squeeling of tyres and the smell of burning rubber was quite comforting as we weaved our way in between the cars, with him using his hod, and me using my “Im with him” hard stare!
As we reached the far side, with one lane to go, he stumbled and missed his step. A passing taxi generously honked his horn and hurled, what I am guessing to be, abuse at the old man.
Straightening himself up, he pick up his hod and a small stone by the side of it, and hurled it at the now-stopped taxi.
I could hear the sound of the crack as it hit the back windscreen, as I hurried away, giving my “who the hell is that!” hard stare to anyone who would even think I was with the old man!!

Job done! Now I only have to repeat that lamentable display every day for the next month!

Driving in Egypt

/Jan 09 Filed in: Egypt & Beyond

Leave your mind at home, just bring a set of cojones Read More...

Immigration Day

/Oct 08 Filed in: Egypt & Beyond

Imagine waking up and walking out of your hotel room to have a blood-red sun rising over mist covered mountains in the background. In the foreground you have clear blue water inexorably rising and flooding the coral table, the sea making its way to the beach to only have to go all the way back again.

With the lack of wind the morning is warming up very quickly, even at 615am. Armed with your coffee, you do the things you have to do; yawn, scratch your head and squint against the sunlight.

Only when you are sat down do you truly appreciate the burgeoning beauty that has been presented to you.

What a beautiful way to wake up!

Well, forget that!
I woke up in my car in a city with the local school bus belching black smoke out of its non-existent exhaust system, whilst its school children were pointing and laughing at the wondrous sight that was yours truly as he, unshaved and very unkempt, looked bleary eyed out of the front window to see if the immigration office was open yet!

Yes!! Its time to do the 1 year tourist visa thing!

The last time I did this, it was an early start from Dahab, a two and a half hour drive to El Tur, speeding through Sharm el Sheikh, and getting all the necessary paperwork done and out again by 9am. Very efficient and almost a joy – almost!

This time, I had left the airport, after dropping a friend off, at 5am in Sharm, and slowly drove on, towards El Tur. The distance is only 95kms, so in my normal mode, I would have managed that in 45 minutes. But there seemed no point in being there at 6am when the Immigration office didn’t open for business until 8am.

I witnessed a beautiful sunrise over the national park of Ras Mohammed and this put me in a very contented, mellow mood. I stuck to the speed limits all the way and saw the temperature rise from 18degC (64degF) to 31degC(91degF) in the space of 30 minutes. So by the time I had arrived at the immigration office at 645am, it was lovely and warm. So, I just reclined my car seat and rested my head to get a small nap. Only to be rudely awakened by the multi-person, little people carrying monstrosity called a school bus!

No coffee, no water and a furry mouth do not amount to a very happy Duncan, but as there were no cafes nearby and as I was not going to start searching for a shop to mangle my Arabic in, I just got out of the car and wandered towards the building.

It looked like this building had been built with no aesthetically pleasing designs anywhere in its cavernous interior. There are tall blocks of apartments in the East End of London that would be made to look palatial compared to the passport & immigration office in El Tur!

It was painted a mid-yellow colour on the outside and in places the paint had run where the air conditioning unit had dripped off the condensate down the side of the building. I passed through the main gate, and two security guards filling their faces on bread and foul (An Egyptian breakfast made from beans. Pronounced “fool”, but tastes foul as in “disgusting&rdquo

. They took no notice of me looking like a tramp wandering into a supposedly high security area. So I just waved my passport at the two and scuttled on.

It seemed to be changing-guard time, so a big huge blue truck turned up and disgorged lots of very sleepy soldiers who formed a very ragged line whilst a senior soldier hurled all sorts of invective at them. They then took over from the eating soldiers at various points in the high-walled compound, and the much relieved night shift continued to ram huge amounts of bread an beans into their mouths as they climbed back on the big blue truck to go back to the barracks, I guess, to sleep.

Up two flights of stairs and where only the graffiti is missing, proclaiming whose “hood” this is, broken glass and cigarettes abound and I actually wondered if the cleaners do anything or do they just get paid as government employees.

The security guard, at the top of the stairs, woke up and after brushing the cigarette ash from his uniform, offered me his seat and a cigarette. I gladly took the seat and politely declined the cigarette.

No matter, he slowly dragged his feet toward the open door and leaning against the door frame proceeded to hawk up the contents of his lungs and project them onto the open roof in front of him. Having made room for more catarrh, he lit up a cigarette, himself, and smiled sweetly at me whilst puffing vigorously on it.
All of a sudden the cigarette went out, the guard’s back straightened and he was standing upright, and looking interested, as a civilian came up the stairs eating dates from a plastic bag.

The usual greetings were passed and I was wished good morning. Immediately the civilian asked if I had copies of my passport. I didn’t. Inwardly I groaned. The prospect of traipsing around El Tur trying to find somewhere that would photocopy my passport and then someone who spoke English, filled me with an ever-increasing dread.

The civilian, in excellent English, I might add, told me where the Post Office was and that they would photocopy what I needed.

Back down the stairs, across the courtyard, stepping over sleeping security guards, through the gate, around the corner to my car. Then up the road and on the left-hand side I found the post office.

I wanted to get this done as quickly as possible, as there was a strong chance that a hoard of Russians, also needing a new visa, would turn up and I would spend the day in the immigration office.

Passport copied in record time, I headed back to the immigration office.

Back around the corner, through the gate (ignored again), across the courtyard (more stepping) up the stairs and back to the table.

I was still the first to arrive! So I gave over my passport copies and my passport. A woman had joined the celebrity panel and she seemed to command an enormous amount of respect. She then summoned her superior, who I recognised from the last time I was here. I remember him as he seemed to do very little apart from pick his teeth, read the paper and drink tea. The last time he did these three very efficiently for nearly an hour, but I had faith, the woman had impressed me as she was very efficient and the whole team seemed geared up for rapid speedy processing …

[sigh] How wrong could I be? The superior arrived and initialled the form I had filled in, and then got out his newspaper, summoned the security guard to get him the whole team (and me) a tea and then got out some photos of a baby, who I gleaned was his newly born grand-daughter.

Baby photos, in the right place, at the right time are, I am sure a great thing. But having been woken up at 4am, had only an hour’s sleep in my car, and then to find that Mr. Superior wants to show off his grand-daughter, while I want to go home and get some sleep, is bordering on almost murderous!

Tea arrives, and with it, more photos from the back pocket! But my visa application had been passed along the line now to the original Mr Civilian. Finally! Something is going to happen. Two large books appear and after a five minute search through the pages to find the right entry point, everything stops again, for a cigarette!

Breathe and relax …. Breathe and relax ….

Another tourist had also arrived in the mean time and had duly filled in the paperwork. He had had copies of his passport, which Mr Civilian made a great show of. Grit your teeth Duncan, smile and relax!!!

Cigarette finished and to my application. But wait! Now he needs the toilet, after all the tea he had just drunk.

Upon arrival back at the table, Mr Civilian took one look at the application and yells at the security guard something. The security guard sloped off to return with two big boxes full of stamps. After a leisurely search through the box, two appear.

More yelling at the security guard and he returns with a stamp pad. So now I have two beautiful stamps in my passport proudly proclaiming I have a year’s permission to stay in the country as a tourist. I can come and go as many times as I please.

You forgot the big books, didn’t you? Uh huh … Mr Civilian now fills in two lines in each of the big books and smiles at me.

Am I nearly there yet?

More yelling at Abdou, the hapless security guard, and my passport disappears to the Head of the immigration, who happens to have moved from the end of the line of the tables to his office, approximately 10 steps away.

I can see him through the open door as he places my passport on his desk, rifles around in his drawers of the desk and pulls out a pair of glasses. These perch precariously upon his nose as he takes one look at me and smiles and then signs his name on the application form. The glasses go back in the drawer and he gives the passport and application form to Abdou, to return it to Mr Civilian.

Then the Head of immigration, following Abdou’s slow shuffle of feet, returns to the line of desks and sits down.

Mr Civilian then checks the paperwork for a final time and then passes it to the Head for further processing. The Head now becomes .... Mr Financial!

Mr Financial, (previously known as The Head), now asks for 152.25LE.

Luckily, I have the right money and then having paid, Mr Financial, (previously known as, The Head), fills out a receipt and passes that to Mr Civilian, who enters the receipt number in two lines of the two large books.
Then a joyous moment!
I get my passport back!!!
“More tea?” I am asked
“No, I very fine, thank you”, and I walk along the line with gritted teeth smiling at the unbelievable show I have just witnessed whilst shaking everyone’s hand.

Back down the stairs, across the courtyard, stepping over sleeping security guards, through the gate, around the corner to my car and safety!

I blame the British. The British were in administrative control of Egypt for nearly 80 years, and it seems, all we have left them with, is bureaucracy!

But, they do it so very, very well!

… and its only 365 days to go, before I have to do this all over again!