Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
'Who's Turbo?'
'He's a great desert guide and driver. You'll love him. He's brilliant with cars.'
He bloody better be for that price
, I thought.
'Then there's all your food and water. No alcoholic drinks included! And the vehicle.
You'll need a support vehicle, plus fuel, taxes - and, of course, money.'
'
Fine, I get that but I've never had a support vehicle before. I've never had a driver . . .'
'Well, this is Egypt. You must do things the official way.'
'But thirty-four thousand . . .'
He cut me off. 'Well, it's up to you. No negotiation. I'm half-German, not some trinket
seller in the market. You can stay in Aswan if you like, but I can guarantee you'll never
leave.'
He was right, of course. Since the last revolution, which saw another general take
charge, Egypt had grown bored of its brief democracy and reverted to being a police state,
only this one seemed more controlling, even more paranoid, than the last. Tourists, Moez
had told me, are officially not allowed to wander outside of certain 'permitted zones' -
those being Aswan, Luxor, Cairo, Alexandria, and the Red Sea resorts. No independent
travel was allowed outside those areas without special permission and a security escort.
I listened intently to this mystery fixer on the end of the phone. I had battled my way
through many things on this expedition, but agreeing to this - all because of Egypt's total-
itarian regime - was not what I'd expected.
Wearily, I mumbled my assent and hung up. That sort of money would not only break
the bank, but it would max out my credit, bring a tear to the eye of my sponsors and bring
into question the entire ethics of the expedition. But if I didn't pay then the past seven
months of walking, and several years of planning, would be a complete waste of time.
There'd be no film, no book, and no money to give to the charities I'd wanted to support.
In effect, it was pay or give up.
The next day, I decided to upgrade to the Old Cataract Hotel. If I was going to spend
three weeks under virtual house arrest, it may as well be somewhere nice.
Three weeks later, I was going stir crazy.
I'd been trying to stay sane by sessions in the gym, swimming in the pool, and keeping
abreast of the ever-changing political upheavals in the country I was now in. Now I sat
on the terrace at the Old Cataract Hotel: waiting, just waiting. I hadn't heard anything
from Tarik, or Turbo, in more than a week, and I was beginning to wonder where all of
my money had gone. Waiters in quaint black waistcoats and red fezzes scuttled along the
opulent corridors and, outside, the fierce sun scorched the banks of the Nile. The hotel
pool was still and the sun loungers glistened, unused. On the terrace, breakfast tables sat
empty - yet all the places had been laid, in the vain hope that somebody would take a seat.
