Cairo

Monday, 1st March 1999

We slept in till late this morning and enjoyed the warmth of the sun whilst eating breakfast on the terrace. I've never tired of the view that lay forth and of the mysterious murky waters of the Nile. To be in Cairo and in the centre where two worlds collide - one of ancient kings and immense wealth and in the other a modern city where poverty is so prevalent.

Again we followed out well trodden route across the Nile and into Giza to see the unscrupulous fat little balding man at the Syrian Embassy. He showed us our visas with a great enthusiasm and then just before we handed over the money I put a cog in his wheel. "My father would like to have an official receipt for this from the Syrian Government", I said and he almost stopped breathing. In a blind fury he replied, "we don't give receipts. Here give me your passports and I will cancel your visas!". Whilst being flabbergasted and stunned I calmly asked him if he was trying to pocket our money and that if he wrote one on paper with his signature it would be just as good.

Anyway, to cut a long story short the consul and his family left the embassy and he realised that this piece of paper contained his signature and could get him in a lot of trouble. Then he rushed inside to try to get an official receipt. All the hullabaloo caught the attention of a visa processor who came down to sort out the problem. He was told another story and he yabbered something about not being able to give multiple-entry visas and if we wanted a receipt we'd have to wait until tomorrow. We couldn't tell if he was in on the Syrian "Christmas party fund" or not, but out of the blue he said that if we wanted to change to multiple it would be $US 40. Dave then took the opportunity to ask how much the single entry was and in front of our bald friend he said $US 30 or 105 Egyptian pounds. "Don't worry about the receipt", I said, "here's the 105 pounds each and thank you very much". Fancy trying to rip off foreigners in the grounds of a fundamentalist country. I've never seen a more pathetic sight than a sweating deceitful fat, balding Arab. Thankfully 99.9% are not like him.

We also visited Dr Ragab's Papyrus Factory floating on the Nile. He is the master of papyrus paintings in Egypt, although all that he had on sale did not compare with Mr Said's and we thought that the prints might have been made by youngsters in a sweatshop under his supervision, as he's become a celebrity.

Back near Midan Tahrir the smells of kushari, a traveller's staple meal, come calling. And then a fresh orange juice from the happiest of vendors.

Next it was on to Islamic Cairo, where the itch of challenge was electrifying our thoughts for the 54 minibus was taunting us again. We hurried along the streets in the bus listening to the roar of the passengers, a blind man trying to sell nuts, and were conscious of the stares of young men. From this point we walked through familiar territory below the Citadel, past large mosques, traditional dirt roads full of men on donkeys and workmen's dens. We passed Mr Said's papyrus shop and followed the local market until it came out at the beautiful Al-Azhar Mosque and University. It's intricate walls and minarets glistened white and under the lights of dusk shone like diamonds in the sand. This is the oldest university in the world and courses on Islamic theology can last as long as fifteen years. Some four thousand students from all around the Islamic world receive free board and tuition and live all year on mats around the mosque's courtyard. An informative guide showed us though some ceremonial rooms of the university, then into the mosque. The ceremonial rooms were beautifully tiled with marble floors and walls, whilst the twilight shone through stained glass windows. Oil lamps hung in the form of chandeliers and a decorative alter piece faced Mecca. The courtyard outside the mosque dazzled with shiny grey marble and in front of us lay wooden lattice like a barrier between us and Islam. We were honoured to be invited in for a few moments as the locals were beginning to descend for prayer time. Before entering I wrapped my second jumper around my head, forming a makeshift scarf. The inside was a picture of peace and tranquillity far removed from the work outside. Men mingled on the floor, their dark eyes watching our every move, the fresh newly laid carpet was decorated in small squares for every man to pray with feet joined. Small stain glassed windows let in an effective ray of light onto the "minbar" or pulpit, where special Friday addresses are given.

After paying our guide some small baksheesh we continued to take in the Islamic architecture of the area, including the exterior of mosques, caravanserai, a mausoleum (where the guard tried to charge exorbitant fees) and into the bazaar of Khan al-Khalili. The shopkeepers hounded for our attention , throngs of men, women and children lined the streets, cars blasted their horns, and donkeys and carts ploughed past. The fever was intoxicating, but not quite as exciting as one's in Morocco, and the gold was nowhere near as thick as ones sold in Turkey. We passed all sorts of tourist kitsch and small alleys until we came out in Midan Hussain Square, beautifully centred around palm trees, an unworking marble fountain, cafes and a mosque. From here we headed towards home via the juice bars (where Dave would have a cane sugar drink!), some English language bookshops, and the enticing cake shop and ice cream parlour. At nine we feasted on shwarma overlooking the action below our hotel.