Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
The truth was I wasn't at all. Perhaps it was the three weeks of enforced indolence, or
perhaps it was the memory of how bleak and inhospitable it had looked from the deck of
the ferry, but I'd almost hoped I wouldn't get permission to walk around the lake and could
just continue my journey north from Aswan. The last place I wanted to go, after Sudan,
was back into the desert - and backwards, at that. But it seemed Turbo, and his boss Tarik,
had secured permission.
'Thirty-four grand didn't go to waste, then?'
Turbo smiled. 'Nope! It's all good.' I knew what that smile meant: it had taken every
penny to pay my minders, guides and expenses; and he had had to move heaven and earth
to get the police, army, security service, Ministries of Information, Tourism, Antiquities
and Borders on side. Wearily, I stood up.
'That's the spirit, Mr Wood. We leave this afternoon!'
It took four hours, rattling along the lonely desert highway in a 4×4, to reach the border,
stopping only to present our papers to bewildered policemen at isolated checkpoints. As
we followed the lake's western bank, the bleak desert stretching out on our right, I decided
it was time to get to know Turbo. Once this journey began there were still a thousand miles
between me and the delta, and I didn't want to walk them in silence.
'I have to ask. Why do they call you Turbo?'
'I like cars,' he said, plainly. 'Especially classic cars. I organise rallies in the desert and
meetings for classic car owners. Oh,' he added, 'and people think I'm a bit hyperactive.'
Whoever those people were, they weren't wrong. We drove on, Turbo bouncing behind
the wheel - and I found my mind straying. Was Turbo a government agent, reporting on
me like the hotel manager had done? There was only one way to find out. I decided to ask.
'Me?' he balked. 'An agent of this corrupt, Third World government? You must be jok-
ing! I can't stand them. Police, army, politicians - it's one big racket here. No, Mr Wood,
I'm a Bedouin. We don't do
jobs
.' He flashed me a smile. 'What, never seen a ginger Be-
douin before? I was an architect for a while, but I couldn't stand the thought of sitting in
offices or wearing a hard hat. I'd much rather be out in the desert. Look . . .' And here he
slowed the car to a crawl, the blue waters glittering outside. 'I know you don't want me
tagging along, but it's the only way, trust me. Nobody has ever walked around Lake Nass-
er - foreigner or Egyptian. You should feel privileged. You can't imagine the bullshit I've
had to go through to get the permission. You see, these government officials are so stupid,
they don't realise how ridiculous it is to prevent tourists exploring. Anyway, you'll barely
see me. I'll keep a good distance and just meet you at a prearranged rendezvous where we
can camp . . .'
'You mean - you're not walking?'
