The First Part in which Steve travels to Egypt and is confounded by Local Customs

Egypt can be tough on the tourist.

At least it was tough on this tourist.

But don’t misunderstand me – with a few notable exceptions, every Egyptian I met was friendly, welcoming, hospitable. The ruins and relics, great and small, exceeded my most unrealistic expectations.  And, from Nubia to the sea, the ancient atmosphere that shrouds the Valley of the Nile like mummy-wrap seems to infuse even the commonplace with a deep breath of mystery and magic.

But it was tough, just the same.

Looking back, I suppose I was the problem, really. Anybody who knows me will tell you that I’m a swell fellow. Nice. Polite. Generally generous. I like to accommodate. Thing is, Egypt doesn’t reward the obliging tourist, but rather harvests that species like extra long staple cotton.

Boarding an airplane in Athens for the easy 75-minute flight to Cairo, Sweet Apricot and I had no idea what we were flying into. Then again, it might not have made any difference if we had. Some things you have to learn by hard experience.

We got our first lesson about 20 minutes after touching down at the Cairo airport, where we were approached by one of a small herd of blue-jacketed official greeters. “Welcome to Egypt!” he said, smiling warmly. “Egypt is great friends with America!” It was an encouraging start, and we gratefully accepted his offer to change $200 worth of our travelers checks into 400 Egyptian pounds (LE400), cash money. “If you do it yourself, he may try to cheat you,” our benefactor warned. “He will not try to cheat me.”

Our official greeter tried to cheat us out of LE125. If Sweet Apricot hadn’t immediately counted the tight packet he handed back to us, he would have succeeded, because one of my very, very few faults is a commendably  trusting nature. The greeter chose that moment to lose his smooth English fluency, and it took almost a half-hour for him to regain it, along with our missing funds. After once more expressing his boundless personal joy over the great friendship uniting our respective nations, he thrust forth an expectant hand.

We’d read up on baksheesh, the casual and omni-present form of social extortion practiced in that part of the world. Sometimes baksheesh is a charitable gift. More often it’s a tip for services rendered. We thought it the height of gall for that faithless greeter to even suggest a gratuity. Still unsure of our ground, we gave him LE5 and parted great friends. It was a discouraging start, and as we gathered ourselves at the dark and nearly deserted cab stand outside, Sweet Apricot and I resolved to stay sharp for the next two weeks. We were lucky, we agreed, to have been given fair warning at the outset. If we were taken again, it would be nobody’s fault but our own.

“American?”, the cab driver asked. “Egypt is great friends with America!” He was so happy, like whoever passes for Santa Claus in that neighborhood just climbed into his back seat. Flattered despite ourselves, we directed him to the Rose Hotel, near Tahrir Square, described in the guide book as clean and inexpensive. “No, no,” he said, dismissively. “Has bugs.” Sancho flipped through the guide book and showed him the page. He just shook his head and wrinkled his nose. “Has bugs.” Ever one to have her own way, Sweet Apricot insisted, and kept insisting until the cabbie agreed to take us to our infested preference. The Rose Hotel was reputedly near downtown Cairo, and about 30 minutes from the airport. After not more than 15 minutes on the road our driver pulled up in front of a gloomy brick building, deposited our backpacks on the sidewalk, collected the fare and received his baksheesh. “Fifth floor,” he said, and drove away. It wasn’t the Rose, of course, and cost twice what we’d planned for, but it was the middle of the night and the street was desolate and we were suddenly very, very tired. Before turning in, we renewed our little pact, only this time we meant it. We would never again be played for suckers in Egypt.

Next Time: Steve smells a rat!