Cairo 2010

Welcome to Cairo

Flying with a little known Greek Airline I arrived at Cairo International refreshingly bang on time. It was a superb flight too with a lovely chicken kebab/Greek salad meal and a cuppa tea thrown in FOC. Nice. I decided not have milk and sugar in my tea for the first time in my life which was a little odd for me. It was jolly nice too.

So a brief wait for bags later and I was out in search of a taxi to get me to my hostel for the week. I’d only booked the joint from the free Internet pods in Athens airport a few hours earlier but the photos looked ok and at $12 a night I couldn’t go wrong. I was only granted 15minutes of free Internet too so I wasn’t in a position to be overly fussy. The few remaining minutes on-line had afforded me just enough time to do some homework on the place – you know the drill: what to do; what not to do; what to wear and where to wear it; what taxi to get and which to avoid etc.

I was mid-way through recalling this invaluable information whilst walking through the central console of Cairo International (multi-tasking – girls take note) when I was approached by a terribly respectable gentleman asking if he could be of some assistance. Guard down immediately. Sucked in good and proper I followed him like a zombie to his office upstairs where he offered me tea. Another cuppa necked without milk or sugar and I was right at home. I seemed to forget that my mission was to secure a cheap taxi to my hostel, the whereabouts of which I hadn’t quite ascertained, but Ahmed was so busy being nice that I forgot all about the purpose of my being in his office at all. 

Some time later a colleague, I deduced, started wheeling my bag away. This all seemed perfectly normal and credit must go to the sales skills of Mr Ahmed. I didn’t even shake a leg, just finished my tea and awaited further instruction and with any luck a top up.

Mohammed returned without my suitcase and politely asked if I might like to be reacquainted with it. Sure. So I followed nonchalantly down the endless conveyor belts of Cairo international being careful to remember the teas-made and the cuddly-toy of course. Those under the age of 25 won’t have a clue.

Minutes later I’m watching some random football match in a very peculiar bar whilst chatting to Ahmed about all things football. He is a Manchester United fan - surprise surprise - and wants Rooney to stay. Turns out he quite fancies Ronaldo back too – who’d have thought.

The sound of Pirelli’s disintegrating to my left distracts me from the beautiful game and Mohammed ushers me inside the swanky limo. I‘m about to bid Ahmed a fond farewell when he jumps in the back alongside another random and rather hostile looking Egyptian. This starts sending alarm bells clanging. My head starts spinning. Am I am going to get a sharp implement across my throat from behind and be forced into doing things my mummy told me I oughtn’t?

There’s a lot of Arabic being spoken too, unsurprisingly which also sends my weary mind spinning the wrong way. I’m just about to demand they stop and let me out when I realise I’m on a four lane motorway with at least nine lanes of traffic jostling for position between the barriers. I don’t even know if my suitcase is in the back. They’d really won me over in the airport this lot. If I’m going out to a bunch of Egyptian gangsters they’ve been awfully thorough.

Then Ahmed catches me off guard with a tap on my shoulder from behind and I start seeing tunnels of light and childhood images and if I’m honest a little drop of wee pops out unannounced.

“What is the name of your hostel Mr Keeping?”

“What?” I say rather unsteadily wondering if I can grab a tissue from the dash.

“Your hostel, Sir – what is the address?”

I start fumbling around for my iPhone hoping they don’t see my shaking hands but that’s not the biggest issue. My hands are sweating so much I can’t grab the bloody thing – it’s like a bar of soap. I eventually get a hold on it and it pops straight out of my hands into Mohammed’s lap whilst he’s driving.

Sir…?

I snatch it back a little too enthusiastically and, drying my hands on the corduroy velour, rummage through my inbox looking for the booking confirmation. Shaking the phone like I’m mixing a Mai Tai I hand it to Ahmed who, steady as a rock reads the address and conveys it efficiently to Mohammed.

No problem sir, half an hour ok? Christ, really? Can’t we just end it now?

Then Ahmed starts asking me about where I live and what I am going to be doing whilst in Cairo - the old ‘where you from?’ trick. So I tell him nothing. You’ll have to kill me first, tough guy. The trouble was I couldn’t help liking him – Stockholm Syndrome – you know, when you fall in love with your captors. I wasn’t falling in love but was awfully charming and I thought if I am going to go, I could have picked a more ruthless killer. This guy was a bloody nice bloke.

So I started to answer his questions monosyllabically until my heart rate slowed down to double figures and within ten minutes Ahmed was on my Christmas card list and his family were coming over for Ramadan.

Deep within nine lanes of fast chaotic Cairo traffic Mohammed turned the wheel ever so gently to his right across the other eight lanes without a glance in the mirrors or a hint of a signal and began to slow down. Had Ahmed wooed me into a fall sense of security with his calming tones and inane questions? Was this to be it? The car stopped on a stretch of the highway that couldn’t really be construed in the Highway Code as a ‘safe and considerate place to stop’ and then the rear door opened. Ahmed got out and approached my door. I bravely opened the window to about half an inch and said, “Yes?”

Goodbye Sir – it was a pleasure meeting you.

And through the narrow gap he passed me a business card.

If there is anything you need whilst in Cairo please just call and we can arrange anything for you at anytime. Goodbye, Sir.

And he walked into the night.

Twenty-nine minutes later I was at the door of my hostel and kissing Mohammed and Mohammed on each cheek and giving them a hearty tip for their ‘efforts’.

The Richmond House Hostel isn’t the most appropriately named joint. There is a Richmond House Hotel in Richmond, Surrey that charges over £300.00 a night for the honour of a bed and if you're lucky a cup of tea. This place didn’t even have a front door.

The lift was incredible and certainly not in this year’s KONE brochure. This contraption had less chance of working than a Jeremy Kyle guest. Having seen the sign out the front suggesting the hostel was on the 5^th floor I didn’t fancy lagging my bag up 10 flights of stairs. So I hopped in the one-man vertical coffin and trying my luck pulled across the wrought iron railing. I pressed the fifth button up from the bottom (the steel numbers had long since worn away) and like Apollo I3 we flew out of the blocks racing upwards at a rate of Gs. All that money spent on anti-sagging face cream, wasted.

Along the way up I passed a number of dubious looking floors that didn’t suggest there was going to be a nicely air-conditioned, cosy, welcoming hostel above. And there wasn't. Tipping my hat to the surprisingly efficient lift I headed into the reception area where I was met by a terribly amenable chap who was so pleased to see me he couldn’t stop smiling. He knew my name, and which room I was in without even needing to look at a diary or anything. I’ve been to Hilton’s who take ten minutes to find my booking - this place didn’t look like it had running water let alone the facilities to set up an account with Bookings.com.

So I was ushered to my room by The Joker and bid a pleasant stay chez Richmond House. In fairness the foyer and common room I passed didn’t look all that bad – rustic and traditional and in need of a slap of Dulux - but ok. When he opened the bedroom door the reason why I was paying less than a tenner a night hit me - hard.

It was a large double room – as advertised – but dilapidated would be a compliment. The walls were like something you see on CSI Miami; rising, falling and spreading damp; splats of long since departed creatures and a plethora of equally intriguing stains of dubious heritage adorned the walls. The bed was huge – as advertised – and even had a smaller sibling - which wasn't. The sheets were probably last washed when they were new. They weren't new. In fact they were long overdue a one way ticket to the great linen heaven in the sky. To quote Vyvyan in The Young Ones – It was only the stubborn under-stains that were holding them together! I sheepishly checked under the bed to see if there were any late night guests that I ought to introduce myself to before they beat me to it unannounced at four in the morning. To my relief I was sleeping alone tonight.

Having got up at 6am and travelled by bus, tube, train, bus, plane, bus, bus, plane, bus and scary limo I was in need of a shower and headed straight for the shared bathroom. What and whom exactly I was going to be sharing my bathroom with I wasn't sure. Once I’d wedged a few frolicking ‘roaches down the drain, the power(less) shower duly dampened my crusty skin and before long I felt human again although not necessarily much cleaner.

Like I say I had done a few miles and was ready for bed so considering it in my best interest not to spend too much time looking around the room, I closed the door, turned on the wobbly ceiling fan to full whack and turned off the 300watt bulb. I was asleep in seconds.

My mother brought me up well and I am truly grateful for the standards by which I lead a fairly fastidious lifestyle, but when you’re absolutely knackered and really need a good sleep the last thing you want is to wake up half an hour into an exhaustion induced coma worrying about the purity of the linen. It was quite filthy but I was tired, mum. Let me worry about it another time please…?

No chance. I didn’t really sleep and at 6am decided to get up. I knew of another hotel I had seen in my brief search the afternoon before in Athens and tried searching for a map of downtown Cairo on the hotel’s Internet. After a frustrating 20mins achieving next to nothing I was just about to give up on locating the whereabouts of the Travelers House Hostel when up popped up a window on my computer asking if I’d like to join the wireless network Travelers House Hostel. Well it can’t be far away then can it?

Not wishing to spend my day suspended halfway between two crumbling floors in a wrought iron coffin, I took the stairs and turning out of the building I saw that my hotel was number 41 and the Travelers was number 43 – again it couldn’t be far away surely. Numbers in Arabic and numbers in English are sadly different but surely we all count in the same order right? Must be the next door along…

I must have walked up and down that street for half an hour trying to find the Travelers House Hostel and it was only when I took one final look at the rickety old gate next door that I stumbled across an old piece of paper gaffer-taped to the wall saying Travelers House Hostel fourth floor.

It was 7am at this point and the rickety old gate was padlocked shut. I knew where it was now so I packed up my gear bid the still amazingly cheery fellow at reception toodle-oo and hopped in the nearest taxi to the golf club.