Ummmm ... does anyone remember the late 80s? I do! It was a time when I felt intensely engaged in the world, growing up and discovering an awful lot of reality in the space of a few short years ... and yet, hen I think back now, it's difficult to know what to say about it. Those years were weird and schizophrenic, and I'm not sure there's any adequate way to sum them up.
I mean, I s'pose I could go all flashbacky and talk about people like Gorbachev, hammering out the history-changing policies that made him a hero internationally and a spineless traitor in the eyes of his own people; I could evoke the memory of Red Noses sweeping the planet (a very weird image, I know!); of Eurovision letting new monsters loose on it (Celine Dion in '89, for example); I could mention Steven Hawking, topping the bestseller list and acquainting millions with the mysteries of cosmology; drop in a word about the Beta vs. VHS saga; comment caustically about Benazir Bhutto's ascension to power in Pakistan, long before smug folk in 'modern' Western countries like the USA and Australia had ever dreamed of electing a woman to office; and I could definitely wax nostalgic about the goths, swampies and an other gentle folk with whom the streets of inner Sydney were awash at the time. In fact, I could mention all of those things, and much besides. But quite frankly, you can find that stuff elsewhere on the web, and I'd rather discuss something else.
So ... let's talk about me )))
Oh, come on. You know you want to!
See, at some point late in 1988, while all the other late-80s shenanigans were going on, a youthful Word Nerd was boarding a 747 with his family, bound for Europe and beyond. Some time earlier, my father had decided that we could afford to do the Traditional Australian H.O.H. (huge overseas holiday). And to help him plan this odyssey, he'd asked each of us to nominate one place anywhere in the world which we really, really wanted to visit.
Dad himself chose, Ireland ('cause he wanted to trace a few family roots), which was cool. Mum chose a slightly bleak and depressing town in England where Royal Dalton* figurines are made. I chose Köln in Germany, partly because I wanted to see the world's blackest and most imposing gothic cathedral, the Kölner Dom (tortured little Teeny Goth that I was). And my sister Elizabeth – to my great and everlasting gratitiude – chose Egypt.
It was Elizabeth's wise decision that brought me, in the opening days of Feb 1989, to Cairo International Airport. A couple of hours after stepping off our British Airways flight (hideously uncomfortable, as I recall), we entered a vast city of a kind I'd never dreamed existed. I was terrified, bewildered and fascinated all at once; going to Cairo at such a young age probably turned out to be one of my 'formative experiences', in the sense that it opened my eyes how utterly, fundamentally different life was and is in many parts of the world.
Unfortunately not all of my time in Egypt was great – spending two days flat on my back in Luxor with food poisoning was a fairly low ebb! But there were loads of 'Cairo moments' which were instantly and permanently etched into my memory. Like watching the sun set over the pyramids through beaded curtains in an atmospheric hotel cafe. And drawing stares in a covered market that we found by accident – a real 'locals' market away from the tourist trails, where people leaned out from their clothes-strewn balconies and shouted at vendors in the street below. And watching people run at moving buses and fling themselves at the outside railings, assisted by other passengers who put their arms out of the windows for the new arrivals to cling onto. And walking around the Cairo museum simply stunned by the masses of priceless ancient stuff, seemingly scattered at random across several floors. And our bus driver yelling at a passing pedestrian, who reached through the window of a parked car and let the hand-brake off, so that the car rolled down the road and hit another one ... thus making space for our bus to park. And last but not least, riding a camel – that was lots of fun!
To sum up my impressions of Cairo in one sentence: it seemed to me that the whole city was completely mad. Clearly, this was a place to which I had to return to one day. The only real question was when.
So that was my first taste of Egypt. But how to segue from that point to the present day? Hmmm ...
Maybe you could help me by imagining the scene slowly dissolving (so a disintegrating camel with a disintegrating teenaged me on it is what you're aiming for – have fun!). Then replace that picture in your mind's eye with a temporary blackness, and let the light fade up again slowly. I'll supply the new scene details in a sec.
Could you do that for me?
Thanks )))
Ok, scene details. It's a Wednesday evening, and the Word Nerd is looking a lot meaner and less youthful, sporting a goatee and a brand new shaven-headed 'American History X' look (courtesy of his Russian/Ukrainian partner Yuliya, who decided it would be fun to remove all of Anthony's hair on day one of our Big Adventure). Sitting on the back seat of a minibus, he's teaching a young guy called Achmed the numbers from one to ten in Russian.
The minibus contains himself, The Fabulous Yuliya, his new temporary student Achmed, a woman from Moscow who we'd met about two hours earlier while horse-riding in the desert, and approximately a dozen strangers. Together we're screaming along well-sealed, palm-lined roads with hibiscus blooming on the median strips, passing an endless succession of ugly resort hotels that sprawl gracelessly in all directions. Arabic music augmented by a doof ** is playing at a ridiculous volume inside the bus, and the driver is flicking the cabin lights on and off about three times a second, to simulate the effect of a strobe light on a nightclub dancefloor.
As we lurch over yet another speed hump, Anthony briefly wonders to himself how it is that his life has become so full of these mad deathrides in the last few years ... but he doesn't have much time to ponder, 'cause Achmed has nearly mastered 1-5 but needs some pronunciation help on the nasty little word "четыре" (four). Also, in between saying numbers he's started clapping above his head to the beat and going "Ay! Ay!", and the urge to join him is irresistible.
(Might as well die in high spirits, right?)
We're joined in celebration by a handsome Cuban/German boy sitting opposite, wearing an Arabic head-dress. Achmed feels the mood spreading, and tries to persuade others to join us, but most of the passengers seem pre-occupied with something else. We've got the driver's attention, though; our clapping seems to have inspired him to even greater feats of recklessness, and now we're madly overtaking vehicles less than half our size and weight. I'm reminded of what a Turkish guy once told me about people's attitude to driving in his country: "If Allah wills it, we shall reach our destination".
And the strangest thing about this? Right now I'm feeling completely in my element. These manic moments are something I've missed since I left Kazakhstan, and they seem to typify one aspect of how I want my life to be from here on in. Weirdness.
Then we discover what it is that the other passengers are so concerned about: our driver seems to have no clue where we're actually going. Over the general din, I hear him ask Moscow Woman "Which Hotel?"
"Cleopatra", she answers.
"Kilipatra?"
"Cleopatra."
"Ah, Kilipatra!", he yells to his colleague, who says something in Arabic that seems to mean "Ok, I think I know where that is".
Then the same question to Yuliya.
"Country Club", she says. Her answer seems to be understood.
Then about two minutes and 3kms later: "Which hotel?"
All of these hotel details, btw, were checked and seemingly well-established before we boarded the bus. But this sometimes appears to be the way of things here: people ask for your information, roll it around in their minds, decide that it presents no problem ... and then forget it! So the first hotel ID check didn't worry me too much.
After hotel ID check #3, though, something seems to click in our driver's head. He yells something back at my friend Achmed, who relays the message to me: basically, we're in completely the wrong part of town. The bus pulls up abruptly, and Achmed says "Get out!". So Yuliya, Moscow Woman and I are immediately dumped on a roadside in an unfamiliar city, and told that we'll need to get a taxi back in the other direction.
Luckily, Achmed tags along to make sure we find our hotels, and spends part of the journey struggling with Russian pronunciation. (Oh gods, how I sympathise!) I ask "Why do you want to learn Russian numbers?", and he answers something like "Шестнадцат фунтов, пожалуйста" ("Sixteen pounds, please"). Clearly, my new friend is yet another self-made entrepeneur in this country where nearly everyone has something to sell you, along with a detailed story distinguishing their wares from everyone else's.
Several twists and u-turns later, Yuliya and I arrive at our hotel, where Achmed gets out of the cab and gives us both a warm farewell. Then he disappears with his video camera, and we're left to face the friendly but forgetful reception staff and the starving mosquitos in our room.
And yes, you guessed it: I've finally made it back to Egypt.
About frikkin' time, too!
* Royal Dalton: expensive porcelain figures of women in flowing ballroom gowns and the like. Really, REALLY not my taste, but for some reason my mum – who would no sooner put on a flowing ballroom gown than saw off her feet with a bread knife – loves them.
** "doof": not sure if it's used elsewhere, but in Australia this is the slang word for the beat in rave music – "doof tsi doof tsi doof tsi doof tsi" is how it sounds when you hear it coming from inside a car with speakers that are almost as large and heavy as the passengers.
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