E is for Exotic Egypt

I made my one and only trip to Egypt in about 1980 or 1981. What matters about the trip is that I had planned a vacation with a Swiss piss-artist friend who was working in the Ivory Coast, and found the most convenient (and simultaneously cheapest) route was with EgyptAir (provided that I stayed five days in Cairo). A chance in a lifetime to see the pyramids and the Sphinx for nothing extra, so why not?

Because there was a stopover in Lagos in each direction, I was induced by my employers to do some PR business in Nigeria on the return stopover in the hellhole that was then the capital.

My travel agent in Geneva had warned me that EgyptAir, either served booze, or didn’t, according to the religious beliefs of the pilot. We clearly had a disbeliever on the Geneva-Cairo leg, but strong believers onwards to Abidjan and the two return legs. I had naturally gone armed with a litre of vodka, but on the first leg, I committed my usual sin of ordering two or three mini bottles of champers. Quite the best way to pass an hour or two in the sky, I always feel. The big advantage for me is that it is something I can drink without serious damage at any time at all of day or night.

Emerging from the terminal building, and regretting the size and weight of suitcase I had brought with me, I spied a personable young man carrying a medium-sized placard bearing my name. Correct down to the middle initial, P. Now, much as I hate being seen off on trips (it’s lost cruising time), I love being met. But in this instance, I was immediately suspicious, because the only people who knew my travel plans were my travel agent and EgyptAir. Not even my employer; this was after all vacation.

Smelling a large rotting rat, I asked the placard bearer why he was looking for me. "My brother, Ahmed, he works in a hôtel in Geneva. He asked me to come to meet you and look after you."

The idea of being looked after by him was attractive, but I had had numerous warnings about how one can finish up floating in the Nile. I pursued my enquiries, but he insisted that his brother Ahmed worked in ... You get the picture.

Now I was sure and certain that I knew no-one called Ahmed who worked in an hôtel in Geneva. But I had not allowed for the delusions my neurotic state was bringing on. I went towards the taxi rank ("wreck" rank would have been more accurate) and joined the queue. So did Ahmed’s brother, continuing his tale.

Eventually, seeing me agitated, a policeman came over to me and asked if this man was being a nuisance. Not really, I said, but he thinks I know his brother in Geneva, and I don’t. At this point Ahmed’s brother was "asked" to leave, in official company.

The mystery was not solved until I returned to Geneva. A couple of days after getting back, I went to the quite pleasant Lebanese restaurant on the first floor of the shopping centre near my apartment. I walked in, sat down, and was immediately greeted by an angry tirade from George, the waiter, who I then remembered was an Egyptian.

Some weeks before leaving I had told him of my trip, he had said he would write home - no doubt to his brother - and ensure