Cairo Postcard Trust, from TIMEA
Gradually this time – thank God – the bus decelerates, and comes to a stop at the bottom of the hill where the road is cut by the water. We file off, and watch as it rolls onto a small, flat-bed ferry along with three large trucks. Once the vehicles are safely on board, the passengers are allowed to walk on. I stand next to the bus not wanting to get too far away from my ride and my possessions, and look over the side. It isn’t until we slip away from the shore and begin the crossing that I realize this is not a river, but the Suez Canal. “Wow,” I think, “the Suez Canal,” because I don’t really know what else to think. I didn’t bother to read much of anything on the history of Egypt before the trip, but I have a solid hunch that the Suez Canal is important. I try to immerse myself in the awe of this vague sense of historical significance, and recall a dramatic scene from “Lawrence of Arabia”. With my knowledge of history, the pyramids are sure to be fascinating as well.
The journey across the canal, off of the Sinai Peninsula and onto the African continent takes about five minutes. I have never been to Africa before, but not having consulted a map, I don’t actually realize I am here until sometime later. (Does that mean I was in Asia before?) Besides, this isn’t the “dark continent” of Conrad; it is the beige continent of sand fired hard in the sun’s kiln – I think that is from Lawrence of Arabia too. Africa or not, it feels like the Middle East. And I guess if you can fight a land war with Israel, it is.
We re-board the bus and the original driver, to my relief, resumes his rightful place behind the wheel. I have no idea how many more hours it will take, but decide it is time to start figuring out what exactly I am going to do when I get to Cairo. I try to mine Kent and his friend for more information, but finally decide I am on my own. It is time to read the instructions – I pull out my guidebook.
According to the book – and this is a good one – “most travelers wind up in Midan Tahrir at the beginning of their visit to this surprisingly compact city.”[1] This is good news. The one bit of useful information to come from Kent and his friend was their Magic Hotel recommendation. They really liked the place – in fact it seemed to be the only thing they liked about the entire country. If they weren’t going to sleep at the airport, they would, they assured me, go to the Magic Hotel. And, it was on Midan Tahrir. Kent marked my tiny map to show its precise location. I “can’t miss it.”
There is no entry for the Magic Hotel in my guidebook, and after following these peppy Australian books more or less across the globe, through countries I had no idea about or probably business being in, I have come to regard them as a sort of gospel. But Kent’s enthusiasm combined with my less than pleasant stay the night before in a Tel Aviv hostel persuade me to veer from the guide and try for the Magic.
Cairo first becomes apparent through the windshield as a greasy, shimmering smudge on the horizon below the reddening sun. My hopes of arriving in daylight fade as the shadows stretch and the highway traffic thickens. By the time we reach the outskirts the sun is gone.
It is at this point that our guide begins to render his services. He walks down the aisle of the bus inquiring gruffly whether everyone has accommodations in Cairo. I overhear his conversation with a hapless couple a few rows in front of me:
“You have hotel?”
“No.”
“No? No problem. I can take you to a hotel. Very good – very cheap.”
“Where is it? How do we get there?”
“No problem,” he assures them, “the bus will take you there. OK?”
“OK,” they nod.
Considering myself an experienced, independent traveler, I am disgusted by their malleability. I would never blindly follow someone to a hotel they were pumping, let alone a fat guy with a revolver shoved down his pants. My travel philosophy, much like my life philosophy, is that true gems have to be mined, often through hours of wandering around sweaty and disoriented with fifty pounds on my back. How can you sleep knowing you haven’t utterly exhausted your possibilities, not to mention yourself? Who knows where this guy is taking them?
“You have hotel?” he asks me.
“Yes,” I nod, defiant.
“Which hotel?”
“The Magic Hotel.”
“The Magic Hotel? I never heard of the Magic Hotel.”
“It’s a good place.”
“Where is it?”
I don’t know. I look at Kent who shrugs and says, “It’s near Midan Tahrir.”
I nod and repeated, “It’s near Midan Tahrir,” not having any idea really what I am saying.
“Midan Tahrir?” says the guide, seeming to shift his weight to make the pistol more obvious. “I never hear of the Magic Hotel. How much does it cost?”
“I don’t know.”
“Midan Tahrir is very, very busy, very noisy, very dangerous.” He draws the last word out for maximum effect. “I have a hotel that is much better. Much safer. You will like it. My brother, he owns it – very nice and very cheap.”
I am undaunted. “No thanks, I’m going to the Magic Hotel.”
“Impossible, the bus does not go to Midan Tahrir.
This is a surprise, as I am sure that I read somewhere that the terminus of the trip is Midan Tahrir (whatever exactly that is). Kent and his friend apparently read the same thing, and as, Midan Tahrir is where they plan to catch a bus to the airport, become visibly agitated. They demand that we be dropped off at Midan Tahrir. A debate ensues with the three of us demanding to be taken to Midan Tahrir and the guide bellowing that the bus does not stop there. Eventually a couple of Dutch girls a few rows back come to the realization that the bus is apparently being hijacked and join our cause. “Midan Tahrir!” we all shout feeling it has become something like a human right. In the end, half the bus is demanding to be let off somewhere none of us but Kent and his friend have ever seen. The guide, finally relents in the face of our uninformed insurrection and laughs good naturedly, “OK, OK, no problem – you want to go to Midan Tahrir, we take you to Midan Tahrir.”
Ten minutes later the bus stops and lets out a sigh of compressed air. The guide looks at us rabble-rousers and shrugs, “Midan Tahrir.” I scramble to get my belongings together and get off the bus while the driver throws our packs from the cargo compartment into the street. Watching the bus pull away heading to god knows where, and the guide’s brother’s hotel, I can’t help but think, what a bunch of rubes the rest of them are.
This feeling does not last.
[1] Middle East on a Shoestring, 2d. edition, Lonely Planet Publications, 1997. Lonely Planet – don’t leave home without it.