The flight to Egypt did not offer me any much-needed sleep, either. Every thirty minutes a stewardess made cumbersome announcements in several languages about the need for passenger clearance. First came the passport stamping, then signing customs forms regarding our luggage, then still another for who knows what. It was all a blur to me in my half-sleep/half-dead state. Sheer exhaustion overtook me just as we arrived near the Red Sea.
The airport was a desolate, dusty spot in the middle of a desolate, dusty expanse. A line of busses belched black fumes while waiting for the various tour guides to parcel their charges into the appropriate vehicle. Arab men swarmed around the busses like bees on a patch of dirty yellow flowers. They eagerly offered to carry luggage for a mere one dollar US. I shooed away many, but they refused to take no for an answer during the whole short walk of about thirty yards. A mere ten feet from the bus one overly aggressive man actually tried to wrestle the suitcase from my hand to earn a fee.
The drive through the vast, empty desert was occasionally punctuated by clusters of dirty concrete buildings surrounded by heaps of garbage. In the city of Hurghada itself the buildings were larger and closer together. So, too, were the heaps of garbage. None of this mattered to me. I was abuzz with excitement, not to mention giddy from exhaustion, because as a child I had always dreamt of Egypt. Amazingly, though, I was less thrilled at being in Egypt than being in Egypt with Bianca.
The second Bianca and I entered our room at the hotel in Hurghada, we dropped our baggage and began tearing off each others’ clothes. The room had two slender single beds, so we spared one arm each to hauling them together. The other was of course busy unhooking hooks and unzipping zippers. Once the beds were more or less together, we fell upon them laughing and loving and kissing and so much more. The world spun in a heady blur of passion.
Oh, for the anonymity of a hotel room! Oh, to not have to worry about squeaking beds!
But wait, that wasn’t the bed squeaking.
It was Bianca.
I paused, suddenly unsure. Other than the crazy, drunken romp in her cousin’s bed, I had never been intimate with a woman from another continent before. I assumed things would be more or less the same everywhere—but what did squeaking mean? My answer came when we both dropped to the floor in a crash of tangled limbs.
“OW! You bamboclat!” she blurted, slapping my arm with a wallop.
Lost in my own obsession, I had not noticed that Bianca had been desperately squirming to bridge the ever-widening gap between the two beds, which separated more and more with our bumping and grinding.
“I’ve been doing all kinds of bloody Nadia Comaneci gymnastics to save us! Where you been?”
Panting, I explained, “I was... I was in the zone, baby.”
Fortunately, she just smirked and said, “You sure were!”
2
That evening we sat in the hotel lobby, waiting to meet with our tour guide to decide which excursions to take while in Egypt. We waited patiently in a couple of deep chairs, sipping hot tea and snacking on fresh dates. As our guide, Bela, worked through the room and met with clusters of people, the blurry sound of Romanian and Magyar punctuated with Egyptian names lulled me to sleep.
Finally Bela came to us. He was an impossibly skinny man with even skinnier arms in a bright yellow T-shirt. His pimpled features were distinguished only by light brown hair in a bowl cut and large eye glasses, the latter tinted brown, fading to clear at the bottom. He began speaking to Bianca in Romanian, and I tried to piece together what he said. She translated for me as he explained the mechanics of the various excursions to the Pyramids, Luxor, the Egyptian Museum in Cairo, Abu Simbel, and others. We parlayed between Romanian and English for a bit, when suddenly Bela chuckled.
“How about I speak in English?” he asked sheepishly in solid English with a hint of a British accent. He continued, “I am sorry. I am tired and have been talking much Romanian and Magyar. My mind did not switch to English.”
Bianca nodded in understanding, leaving me only to imagine what that would be like.
“How many languages do you speak, then?” I asked.
“I speak Magyar, Romanian, Arabic, and Turkish fluently,” Bela answered. “And English, obviously. I get by in Italian and German. Anyway, as I was saying, one of the excursions is to spend a day with the Bedouin people. You will tour the desert and oases in American Jeeps, then stay with a Bedouin family for dinner. You will learn about their way of life as nomads of the desert. But really, if I may, it is really like being in a Gypsy camp.”
Bianca blanched.
“Not as bad!” Bela hastily added. “We would never allow your safety to be compromised, and we guarantee you won’t be robbed. Unlike the Gypsies, the Bedouin people do not feed off others and do seek legitimate income. These tours provide that, and they would not risk it over petty theft. Of course, the United States has nothing like this, so you may find it interesting.”
Bela’s look made it doubtful, and Bianca’s look made it clear: the Bedouin tour was out. We were not here to explore Egypt, anyway, but each other. We opted for an excursion every other day, which left us plenty of time to lie on the beach and on each other. After finalizing and paying for the various tours, we handed over our passports to Bela, who would ensure they were properly locked in the hotel safe.
Later, we sat upon our second floor balcony and watched the sea breeze thrash the palms. The air was salty and seductive, and the vibrantly red bougainvillea fluttered as if they, too, responded to our falling in love. Bianca smoked the day’s last cigarette, wearing only my shirt. That was one of those things women did to sink their hooks deeper into men, and it always worked. Well, my ex-wife had never done so, but that reflection was self-explanatory.
I pondered the wonder of Bianca blowing smoke into the air. Despite my cigar indulgence, I never in a million years would have thought I would be attracted to a smoker. The filthy habit had repulsed me since childhood. Growing up in the household of an ex-smoker, that most virulent of lobbyist, I just assumed I would never fall for a smoker. Was I ever wrong!
Bianca defied all my self-established assumptions. How could I sit beside a smoker and not be turned off? It wasn’t simply that I understood that in her culture smoking was common, but I was bowled over by sheer chemistry. She liked to smoke? No problem. She liked the lights off? No problem. Every touch resonated on a level deeper than I had ever known or even suspected. Our surface patterns had no relevance next to currents running so deep and so powerfully mixed.
Her touch was electric, but this was far more than lust. Like most men by age thirty, I had indulged in my share of girlfriends and one-night stands; some explosive, most not. Once married, I was happy to end all that foolishness. Then things started going sour, so we tried to spice it up. This happened to coincide with my job doing research for a pornographic website, so we had a... creative... playbook to draw from. I think we did everything that did not actually involve a midget. But our marriage's failure couldn’t be fixed by sex: the passion wasn't lost because it had never been.
But the passion with Bianca extended beyond her touch. It was her eagerness for good conversation, her fervor for travel, her zeal for life! It was no coincidence that she taught me the meaning of joie de vivre. This spontaneous trip to Egypt was only part of it. While not many people would just hop on a plane and fly to a different continent, it was not unprecedented. But how many people would shape their entire lives to ensure such crazy trips were possible? Bianca was the most entrancing woman I had ever met. It was chemistry, pure and simple. Or pheromones. Witchcraft?
The night caressed us, and we began to thirst for a nightcap. Unfortunately, gathering a casual cocktail in North Africa was not so easy. Instead we sucked on some juice boxes. The moon neared its zenith and we neared our retiring for the night. Soon our excitement at being in Egypt was replaced by excitement at not having to worry about waking the neighbors.
3
The next morning we had a la
te breakfast, famished after a long morning of finishing up what we started the night before. Unfortunately, the continental-style breakfast had little enough continent and even less style. The orange juice did not come from the overflowing local groves, but from imported single-serving cardboard boxes. The butter was in little plastic single-serving tubs, as was the artificial creamer for the coffee. The bread was nutrient-empty white, and the jams were merely colored corn syrup.
“Are we in Egypt or the States?” asked Bianca. “Check the dish there.”
A nearby chafing dish teased with inviting spurts of flavor-tinted steam escaping from the lid. I burned my fingers on it, and was rewarded with a load of boiled hot dogs.
Fortunately, two items were indeed local. The Egyptian yoghurt was thick and deliciously sour with a hint of salt; a worthy accompaniment to the thick pretzels. But it was the huge bowl of dates that was our salvation. The mound of glorious, fat, juicy dates delighted us in a wide variety of browns, reds, blacks, and yellows. Bianca went crazy over the red ones that were crisp and crunchy like apples.
Finally we hit the streets of Hurghada, leaving resorts large and clean and beautiful for streets, buildings, and cars that were not. Hurghada may be brimming with the promise of becoming the Red Sea destination, but it was also overflowing with garbage. Literally. Bianca and I hopped and skipped hand in hand amid waist-high piles of rubbish, but we didn’t care. We were lost in each other’s love, and it was obvious. We laughed and teased and hugged while skipping over pools of oil on the sidewalks and shattered bits of glass.
Between a tiny office and a rather dubious camera shop was a vendor that caught our eye. We fancied a pair of Egyptian leather slippers, and thought the hawker gesturing for us to enter his shop looked suitably appropriate. He was a young man whose extremely slender build could not be hidden by his flowing, full-length caftan. The tassel of his cap-like fez jiggled with enthusiasm for a sale, and his grin revealed the occasional empty slot beside a number of golden teeth. A thick, pointed mustache finished off his look. We stepped under the sun-faded drapery of burgundy and peeling gold that thrust out from a battered two-story building.
“Something gold for a golden lady?” the man hinted in well-mannered English, nodding to Bianca and then a rack of gold chains. I shrugged and gestured to Bianca, who readily stepped forward. She complimented him on his fine shop.
“Oh, thank you, madam,” he said with a bow. “Allah saw fit to grant me many treasures. Some are just for me, such as my children. But others can be yours...”
The hawker’s hand swept back grandly to take in his entire shop, which disappeared deep into the building. Masterfully he brought her attention back to the rack of chains. Bianca murmured that they were lovely, but she was more intrigued by the Egyptian leather slippers.
“Slippers?” he asked, turning to me. “Surely a lady would prefer a beautifully hand-crafted dress shoe, several of which I have to offer.”
“Not me, my friend,” I replied. “Talk to the lady. She’s the boss.”
He was too smooth to hint how odd that sounded to him. Instead he grinned widely and said, “Ah! A man of prudence.”
“Indubitably,” I agreed. “I must say, your English is excellent.”
He straightened taller and brought a hand to his thin chest dramatically. “I have been speaking the Queen’s English since the day Allah saw fit to place her upon the throne.”
“Allah saw fit to do so in the 1950s,” I pointed out drily.
He smiled sheepishly. “Nonetheless! You may rest assured that the worldwide praise for my goods is not exaggerated.”
“Perhaps not the praise, but the price,” Bianca interrupted. “Now, talk to me about these slippers.”
“But surely, madam,” the hawker demurred, “Allah saw fit to grant you such beauty in order to enhance it with some of my fine jewelry!”
Bianca smiled slyly and said, “Allah saw fit to grant me a family with feet.”
And they began verbally thrusting and parrying. He was delighted when she countered his proposals with humor. Bartering is an art form designed to make the transaction as much a joy as the item. As an American, I only thought of owning the item. The whole thing seemed to me a waste of time, but to both of them it was highly entertaining. When in Egypt, do as the Egyptians do.
As they debated I wandered the shop. I was unsettled by a man sitting in the deep shadows in the back, beneath a shelf of hookahs. He was much older than the hawker, with a wrinkled hand pinching a smoldering cigarette to lips lost in a flowing white beard. His turban covered his forehead, resting on eyebrows that were huge, ungainly clumps of wiry grey. They knit together as he openly glared at me. I regarded him as he regarded me, one curious and the other apparently angry. It was an unpleasant moment, and I was glad to return to Bianca as she finalized the sale of four pairs of slippers.
“We are agreed, then,” the hawker said as he bowed over a pair of slippers. “Four pair, madam, similar to these.”
“Exactly like these ones,” Bianca said, pointing to the slippers in his hand. “No switching for ‘similar’ colors or ‘approximate’ size. We aren’t leaving Hurghada tomorrow, man, and I will be back if you switch anything.”
“Oh, madam,” he replied, aghast. “I would never do such a scandalous thing to one who has conducted herself so magnificently in the fine art of the sale.”
“I’m sure,” she smirked with a twinkle in her eye.
He pushed one slipper into the other and handed them over with another bow. He did not offer a bag, but snugly pushed all the slippers into each other. Just before we stepped back into the blazing sun, I snuck one last look at the old man in the back of the shop. From this distance I could not see his eyes from beneath the tangle of his monstrous brow, but I could feel them boring into me.
We continued our tour, walking hand in hand through Hurghada’s sights, sounds, smells, and waste. Eventually we passed a long, empty lot between the huddled, sand-whipped buildings. The bleached dirt was barely visible beneath masses of garbage piled rank after rank like infantry.
Close to the street were two boys, both naked but for a pair of tattered trousers, torn off below the knee, which coincided with the height of the garbage they stood in. Their faces were still smooth and pretty with youth, but their eyes spoke of hardship more so than their gaunt frames. They stood beside a contraption cobbled together from old, rusty pieces of metal bent into a semblance of a grill. Smoke billowed up from it, somehow even fouler than the odor of the sun baking the garbage.
“Eat?” one called out to us as we passed. “Eat? Cheap eat!”
Both boys looked at us with hope twinkling in their eyes. On the greasy grill lay two small, but plump, fish. Sand was caked liberally over the charred scales. The uneven flapping of the meager flame made the fish half raw and half burnt. Flies buzzed through the black smoke, unimpressed by the pitiful flame. They crawled over the raw flesh and delicately avoided the blackened scales.
“Cheap eat?” the boy repeated. I didn’t know what to say, and Bianca squeezed my hand until it hurt. Scattered around the homemade grill were shards of broken glass. In fact, a majority of the garbage was glass bottles. The boys were barefoot, yet miraculously unhurt from walking on the broken bits. Amazingly, or perhaps merely because of their youth, they appeared vibrantly healthy, though the shorter boy had a fresh scrape across an elbow. Bloody, raw flesh was caked with sand, distressingly similar to the uncooked fish they offered us for lunch.
“No, thank you,” I said to them. I was tempted to give them all four pair of the slippers we carried, but knew the touristic items were hardly suitable for daily use. There was nothing we could do for the boys, in fact, for they were merely two among millions of desperately poor in Egypt. Had we offered them money, we would have been mobbed by others, so we hurried off. I was deeply disturbed by my first close encounter with the grinding poverty of the Third World.
We headed back towards the hotel when Bianca began
swearing. “I need to use the damn restroom,” she said. “And I don’t want to touch anything anymore in this bloodclot place!”
I replied, “I hate to say it, but see over there? There’s a place we could potentially have lunch. Potentially, mind you. But it will likely have a clean restroom, at least.”
She followed to where I pointed, then swore some more. “McDonald’s? You rasclat! All right all right, they probably have a clean toilet.”
So for our first lunch in Egypt we dined on a McArab burger. I loathe fast food, but was intensely curious to see how similar a burger would be to those back home. I discovered that there was no difference whatsoever between a Big Mac in Egypt or in Iowa, and was not inclined to think this was a good thing.
“This is amazing,” I said to Bianca. “The pickle tastes identical to the bun. How is that even possible? Isn’t it supposed to be, you know, pickled?”
Bianca just threw a French fry at me.
The restaurant was very small and filled with clusters of children hovering around an order of French fries. An apparent businessman in a corner quietly smoked and nibbled his burger while reading a local newspaper. When he put it down and noticed me, his eyes bored into me with as much resentment as those of the old man in the shop. I looked away quickly. Only then did I realize that after nearly four hours of wandering the streets of Hurghada, I had not yet seen one woman.
As we munched our astoundingly tasteless burgers, we explored our Egyptian currency. On the tray, we spread out multicolored bills of various denominations and tried to identify the men depicted upon them. The children laughed at our obvious wonder, and one brave little soul stepped up to Bianca and said in broken English, “I teach people. One dollar.”
Unsinkable Mister Brown (Cruise Confidential 3) Page 10