Walk like an Egyptian

You’ve perhaps read a great deal about Shakespeare’s collected works being reduced to a mere 20 minutes, or Charles Dickens getting the minimalist treatment.

Well now is the time to brace yourselves for another modern-day Brodies notes version of “everything you wanted to know, but were too idle to find out about” in yet another astonishing tale from the 30 dynasties of Pharaoh history.

Children and adults beware. This is a tale, which combines pre-feminist feminism with the immaculate conception, donkeys years before Christianity first hit the tabernacle headlines.

Or in other words it’s a case of the world’s first women’s libber rewriting history and inventing her own virgin birth.

Hatshepsut was the only female pharaoh to have broken into the male-only dominated club and earn her place in Egypt’s Valley of the Kings on the outskirts of Luxor. Now this is where the whistle-stop history lesson kicks in. And don’t be confused by the more than incestuous relationships involved. In Pharaoh-world it was pretty much par for the course.

Born to Thutmose I and his wife Aahmes, Hatshepsut had the purest of pure blood to be the next Pharaoh. The only problem being, she was a woman. So instead she was passed over for her half brother Thutmose II – same father but different mother, whose royal lineage was less than top notch.

This being ancient Egypt, Hatshepsut was not to be thwarted and married her half brother. But they only managed to produce daughters so he cast his net wider to take another wife – also of dubious royal lineage – and into the world finally popped a son, later to be crowned Thutmose III.

T II popped his clogs when T III was just eight years old. Clearly he was too young to seize the reigns of power and that gave his aunt/step-mother (yep remember this is ancient Egypt) the chance to step in as regent and appoint herself Commander in Chief.

But Hatshepsut had her sights set on her own place in history. After all why shouldn’t she be the first female Pharaoh?

Now this is where the rewriting of history sets in as she had to convince those around her and of course the common folk, that not only was she up to the job, but she also had the right blood qualifications – especially as she self-evidently lacked the one essential to become a Pharaoh. She wasn’t a man.

So she carved out a story whereby her father was not only T I, but simultaneously the Sun God Amon Re who had somehow managed to impregnate her mother Aahmes without the usual sexual shenanigans. Sound familiar?

Well the long and the short of it is that she did indeed manage to convince everyone that her version of herstory was in fact the truth and settled down to 22 years of rule.

Mind you, in the process she apparently donned a false beard when the occasion suited and deleted all references to her gender from the record books. So perhaps it wasn’t the “all encompassing” blow for feminism that it appears at first sight.

When she died, her stepson/nephew TIII of course set about discrediting her reputation and vandalising the temple she had built in honour of herself Al Deir Al Balhari.

But that hasn’t, and didn’t stop Hatshepsut from claiming her rightful place in history. She proved herself more than capable of outmanoeuvring the men during her reign and making sure she kept the power where she wanted.

In perhaps one of the most tragic modern twists on ancient Egyptian history, her temple is perhaps just as well known nowadays for the appalling events of November 17, 1997.

For it was the site of the massacre by Islamic terrorists of 62 people – most of them foreign tourists. In an early morning attack, six members of the Jihad Talaat al-Fath (Holy War of the Vanguard of the Conquest) descended on the temple disguised as security officials. The horrific accounts of the survivors not only shook the world because of the brutality, savagery and extent of the attack, but also persuaded Egyptian authorities to step up security at all tourist sites throughout the country.

Boat people

A boat journey along the Nile from Aswan to Luxor, stopping off for a gentle temple trip or two along the way should be a leisurely affair.It sounds enchanting, entrancing and to use the rejuvenated jargon that’s once again full in fashion, totally cool.

The reality though couldn’t be further removed from the theory.

The Nile is a virtual fluvial motorway and in peak season you can count on crossing another boat teeming with tourists heading in the other direction roughly every five minutes.

The river is awash with traffic – around 300 cruisers in total – and innumerable falloukas for hire as well as local boats. With an average of 70 cabins for each cruiser and 2 people per cabin – you do the maths as to how many holidaymakers are taking the three-or-five day trips at any one time. And each port of call of course quickly resembles an ancient civilised bun fight to see who can get to the temple door first.

It all means that tour guides have to run the tightest of possible ships. It’s made more complicated not only by the sheer number of tourists, but also the mix of nationalities.

“Line ‘em up, pack ‘em in and send ‘em off” seems to be the unspoken dynamic behind visiting Egypt’s ancient treasures along the Nile. Conveyer belt tourism at its very best.

Take just a typical day on board. The wake-up call, courtesy of front desk, is at six o’clock for a briefing 45 minutes later. And then it’s a rapid route march off to the Kom Ombo temple.

Standing shoulder to shoulder with hundreds of other early risers, it’s like opening day at some sort of ornithological January sales, as mother goose guides jostle to the front and hope somehow their goslings will be able to waddle together obediently in their wake.

First of the mark – and forgive the cliché – are of course the Germans. Maybe they’re not actually the first through the door but they’re certainly the fastest around the site as they ferociously gobble up culture at a furious rate. Schumacher brothers eat your hearts out.

The French aren’t far behind, although they seem to do it much more intellectually and take the sophisticated approach of actually listening to what the guide is saying.

The Russians show little interest apart from striking gum-chewing poses in front of walls of stunning hieroglyphics, whose monetary value they could well be trying to assess, as well as the price for shipping the lot back home.

The Chinese are ecstatic if their excited chatter is anything to go by, and are big hits with the hawkers peddling their wares as they shop insatiably. Next up are the Italians, their guide rattling off the centuries of history one-hundred-to-the-dozen and as with all groups camera shutters are working overtime.

Finally in the morning melee are the Anglophones. The Americans looked just a little dazed by the whole experience – and who can blame them, while the British, probably nursing a hangover from too much of the local tipple the night before, trumpet loudly that they’re all “templed out”. Vive le cliché indeed.

Yes this is mass tourism at its very best and worst. Egypt could surely teach the United Nations a thing or two. The doors have been open barely two hours. The first groups are through and the second “sitting” is ready.

Back on board for a quick breakfast as the boat slides through the film of fuel that has been belched out over the years to give the Nile its distinctive hue and then it’s rendez vous at eleven hundred hours for another briefing before disembarking for the next manic two-hour temple trot.

This pace is relentless and sometimes remorseless. On a previous day, one poor tour group had had prised themselves out of bed at 2.30am for a trip to Abu Simbel – which can only be reached by strictly scheduled convoy. They returned exhausted at 8.00pm, shovelled away a quick meal and than collapsed into bed for yet another early start the following day.

Undoubtedly Egypt needs the tourists and the currency they bring in, but there’s an awful lot to take in. The history, and its documentation are glorious even if some of the stories are quite preposterous – along the lines of “Pharaoh marries mother, has daughter, bumps off mother to be with daughter, who is also his half sister” sort of thing. So basically the stuff for which any modern day soap opera script writer would be laughed off screen.

Perhaps if the organised boat tours along the Nile concentrated more on quality than quantity there would be a little more time to appreciate truly what marvellous treasures this country has. But that’s just not going to happen, as it’s the push to get as many punters as possible through the doors that takes precedence. The philistine might of course say that it’s “up before dawn’s crack to visit yet another pile of ancient stones.” But that would be a far from fair evaluation. To give them their due, the guides are not only knowledgeable and professional, but they also have an enthusiasm, which quickly becomes infectious.

Maybe the best advice to anyone wanting to dabble in the delights of Egyptology without knowing quite where to begin, would be to give the boat trips a wide berth. Stay in town, and pick and choose your guided tour carefully and at your own pace.

After all there’s so much to see, you’re never going to able to “do” it all.

Damned Aswan

For a couple of centuries now Aswan has had had a very special place in the hearts of many visitors to Egypt. There’s no doubting it has its own fair share of pharaoh treasures that are well worth a visit in their own right.

And let’s not forget there’s always the splendour of taking tea on the terrace of the Old Cataract hotel and being briefly transported back in time.

The town of 250,000 inhabitants has also become the major embarkation point for trips further down the Nile to share in the glories of Luxor, the Valley of the Kings and of course the capital Cairo. And with its international airport, Aswan remains the only possible stopover for the onward journey to the treasures of Abu Simbel – 250kms south towards the border with Sudan.

But since 1971 it has also been the site of one of the greatest engineering projects of the twentieth century and, which even today can still spark a heated debate about the environmental consequences – The Aswan Dam.

In truth, it’s the High Dam built from 1960-to 1970 which at the time caused such a controversy that even now rumbles on.

It was the brainchild of the former Egyptian leader Gamal Abdel Nasser, who secured Soviet financing and support for its construction.

His aim was to prevent the flooding of the Nile that had occurred regularly downstream, in spite of the original, smaller dam built by the British back in 1902. That had been breached several times and repaired, but the resulting flooding caused recurring havoc in an area where the rainy season normally lasts for four months every year.

Nasser’s plan was to “control” the flow of water properly with a much bigger dam that would also provide a source of power in the form of electricity.

The dam is impressive and jaw-dropping in its immensity, and even today it’s an engineering marvel that’s more than worth a visit.

Behind the construction, the facts and figures are staggering. It took for example a workforce of around 35,000 (mainly) Egyptians, putting in the hours night and day for 10 years to build it. At its crest it’s five kilometres long, and one kilometre thick at its base. It rises 107 metres above sea level.

Although it’s made mostly from local granite and sand, it still needed 66 million tonnes of concrete at its core and after it was finished it helped create the world’s largest reservoir – Lake Nasser. At 500 miles long the lake lies two-thirds within Egypt and one third within neighbouring Sudan.

And therein lie some of those ecological issues that are still posing a problem even today.

When reservoirs are created, they also alter the natural flow of a river and that’s exactly what happened along the Nile.

The construction of the High Dam meant that the mineral rich sediment that had previously fertilised land for crops or been a source of nutrients for animals further downstream, no longer made it through in the same kind of quantities.

In addition there was a general increase in the erosion rates along several sectors of the coast at the Nile delta.

It wasn’t until eight years ago that the Egyptian government actually took action and began yearly flooding on a controlled basis. And that has far from resolved entirely the damage already done.

There have also been important health issues surrounding the creation of such a large man-made reservoir. Because of the intense heat in this part of the world – especially in summer when temperatures regularly reach 45 degrees Celsius - a certain type of parasitic worm began to flourish in the water and that made it unsuitable for drinking.

Even though the state has once again taken measures to try to resolve the problem, people are still wary of drinking water from the dam.

And that of course presents a particular problem as the High Dam and the reservoir are supposed to be not only an important supplier of hydro-electricity (meeting around 20 per cent of the country’s current energy needs) but also a major (drinking) water source.

The enforced movement of people, and cultural costs that followed the dam’s construction have also been enormous and widely felt. And although it has undoubtedly brought economic and political benefits to Egypt – a huge chunk of its trained and qualified workforce was involved in building China’s Three Gorges dam for example - it has also placed a heavy burden on the country’s security forces.

Although the military is seemingly omnipresent throughout much of Egypt, nowhere is its presence perhaps more evident than in the south. The army and the air force both have major bases close to Aswan and there’s stringent security around the dam.

The simple truth is that if any attack were launched on the dam it could have a rippling economic and political impact throughout much of the Middle East. But that’s another story.

It’s well worth a visit just to see how modern day Egypt has been able to compete with its illustrious past. But tourists would be well advised not to try any flippant remark with guards and leave those long lens cameras behind.

A door closes on time

The Old Cataract hotel in Aswan is one of those magical names that conjures up all sorts of romantic images of a gentler, more genteel, bygone era.

Of course such sentiments may no longer be either politically correct or justifiable, but the hotel certainly has a reputation built on its heyday of the first three decades of the last century. 

And that’s still what most visitors are looking for. It’s the sort of place whose behaviour, if it were a person, would probably be best summed up as someone who combines jumping to attention with a nonchalant shrug.

Yes it’s full of contradictions. Its setting is incomparable. As its name suggests the hotel sits on the bank of the Nile where the water once crashed against the natural rapids of the river’s granite bottom.

But far from fast flowing, since the construction of the High Dam, the Nile at this point is now often a tethered beast with the gentlest of currents. Moreover the imposing sunsets and the uninterrupted views towards Elephantine island have been marred somewhat by the tower block construction of the New Cataract hotel built in 1961, with all the prevailing aesthetic values of the time.

The hotel strives to retain some of its past British colonial trappings, which of course are now clichés. Royal tea is served to order at the appointed hour on a terrace reserved for the hotel’s “residents” or guests. Breakfast is “obligatory” – a quaint way of saying that it’s included in the price - and there’s a smart/smart-casual dress code for dinner in the “1902 restaurant”.

Hither and thither throughout the grounds are brass plaques reminding residents that appropriate attire should be worn at all times and a more detailed read of the “rules and regulations” reveals that this means open-toed sandals may only be worn around the pool and jeans are frowned upon in the evenings.

But once again the hotel proves itself to be at odds with its polite and proper intentions. In reality it is neither as staid nor as formal as it purports to be and indeed the atmosphere is more relaxed than at first appears.

In all honesty the old lady is probably in need of something of a facelift. The hotel combines the elegance and architecture of the Victorian age, from which after all it originates, with Moorish-inspired interior decor, whose muted colours are gentle on the eye.

The rooms are high-ceilinged and therefore voluminous and while not exactly luxurious they are far from being spartan. Maybe they’re a little on the old-fashioned side – outdated even - but clean and comfortable and comforting without being pretentious.

The air-conditioning is a touch geriatric and along with the plumbing clanks and clonks a fair bit of the time, but that could also be interpreted as part of the hotel’s charm.

Most disappointing perhaps is the food and the restaurant which needlessly turns people away after they have gone to the trouble of togging themselves up for the evening. Surely the front desk could have advised guests of the necessity to reserve a table. And the service throughout the hotel is also a little haphazard.

But this could all be down to the fact that there’s currently a dip in staff motivation – and that might be putting it mildly.

For here’s the rub. From summer of this year the Old Cataract will be closed for business. It’s due for a complete renovation, which should take about two years and the chances are that the current leaseholder – the hotel is owned by the state – the French chain Sofitel, will not have its tenancy renewed.

So that’s all left the hotel’s future rather up in the air. Perhaps the fact that it’s the Egyptian authorities that will have the last say in what happens, means that the building’s illustrious past will be an equally important element of its future.

After all it’s hard to imagine that the memories of Agatha Christie, a young Winston Churchill, Howard Carter or Aga Khan III to name just a few of the host of names to have graced the carpeted floors of the Old Catararct, will be brushed aside by a Las Vegas style glitz ‘n glamour makeover.

Oh yes and one saving grace for future residents whenever it reopens its doors - the eyesore that is the New Cataract Hotel is due for demolition.

On the move

When the British slapped up the lower dam here in Aswan back in 1902, the fate of the Philae temple was already sealed. It was to die a long, slow death as the water levels inevitably rose. And rise they did throughout the twentieth century until the building of the upper dam from 1960 to 1970 finally left the whole thing completely surrounded by water and in danger of total submersion. 

In true heroic style befitting such an ancient treasure, there was only one way to save it and that was to literally up sticks and move it to dry land.

No mean engineering feat even by today’s standards. Of course the Philae temple is not the only world heritage site here in Egypt to have had to hit the road.

When the then Egyptian leader, Gamal Abdel Nasser, finally secured Soviet financing and support to build the dam that stands today, he wanted to prevent the regular flooding of the Nile that occurred further downstream in more densely populated areas.

But the construction inevitably meant that there would be a price to be paid – ecologically and in particular culturally – with some of the world’s most valued treasures coming under threat.

The solution was to move as many of them as possible. The most magnificent maybe is Abu Simbel – 250kms south of Aswan towards the Egyptian border with Sudan. There a whole mountain had to be built to act as a backdrop to the block-by block reconstruction of the temple.

International agreement and funding for relocating treasures such as Abu Simbel and most of the other sites had been secured before the construction of the dam had been completed. In other words, as difficult and unimaginable as it might have been, it was a “simple” case of moving across country - from dry land to dry land so to speak.

What sets aside the modern-day fate of the Philae temple is that it was already surrounded by water. Indeed work on moving it wasn’t started until after the Aswan dam had been completed in 1971. It took the best part of the next decade to lug the whole think just 500 metres to its new resting site – the island of Agilika.

So with all that effort put in to saving the site, Philae had better be able to come up with the goods. And of course it does although the frequency and relentlessness with which visitors snap away, does raise the question as to whether this wasn’t perhaps just another “thing to do” and place to have gone, ticked off the list.

One very popular way to see the temple is by night. It’s a trend the Egyptians have well got the hang of throughout the country – the tourist trap by day becomes a pay-again must-see after sundown as the Sons et Lumières show blasts out centuries of history in the matter of an hour or so.

Mind you that’s perhaps all it’s worth as it does come across rather as a 1960s Hollywood B movie, minus the actors but complete with cheesy music.

The plot is as incredible as the setting is majestic, but somehow loses a little in translation, especially if you miss the nightly English version and end up traipsing around the French “production”.

But in short the visitor learns that Isis, for whom the temple was built, resurrected her husband, Osiris after he had been bumped off and his body parts scattered (his private bits were never found) by his brother, Seth. She then of course marries him, bears a child (no mean feat given his still-missing genitalia) and is venerated for centuries to come. Clearly a lesson to all of modern civilisation somewhere along the line as Isis, Osiris, and Seth were siblings. But perhaps we’ll leave the matter there.

The problem with this particular Son et Lumière production – promoted, as “glamour pure” is that parts of the temple seem to be illuminated indiscriminately and a barrage of snap-happy tourists’ cameras flash seconds after the lights have moved on.

How much they’ll ever remember of the story or understand of the walls of hieroglyphics they’ve been shooting is open to question.

But if nothing else they’re sure to treasure the boat race back to the mainland after the show, which is itself not for the weak-hearted or loose-wigged.

That’s so heavy. Do you have a gun in there?

It’s hard to know how to answer such a question when first going through the security checkpoint at the hotel in Cairo. After all it’s not every day a guard appears to be so flippant.

Metal and explosive detectors may make a visitor baulk initially, but that’s perhaps an indication of just how important tourism is to this country’s economy.

Past experience and present threats have left the authorities in no doubt as to how carefully that precious trade must be protected. And quite quickly it becomes a simple part of the visitor’s routine to pass through a control – just in case.

Off-the cuff remarks don’t normally go down too well with security guards. So of course even though their ribbing at the heaviness of the holdall seemed good-natured enough, common sense advised playing it straight, and owning up to lugging around an overweight laptop instead.

Strictly speaking there had already been a frisking of sorts as the taxi from the airport pulled into the hotel “compound.” It was engine off and a quick reconnoitre by a guard and his dog before being waved on to drive the remaining 600 metres.

So security, police and checkpoints seem to be a given here in Egypt.

Police are everywhere – at least in the capital. Whizzing past public buildings on the main avenues, their presence isn’t too unexpected. That is after all what can be found in many major cities anywhere in the world.

But Cairo seems to post additional clusters of differently-uniformed officers on most street corners,

Then of course there are the multitude of traffic police – out in force at each and every crossing and roundabout, vigorously waving their directions while chatting with passing drivers. Once again it all comes across as too good-humoured to be taken seriously.

Guaranteed full employment it would appear as the traffic lights, which should be controlling the flow seem to be set permanently flashing on amber, with motorists and pedestrians competing against each other for priority.

And of course who can forget the tourist police. They are huddled around every major monument ancient and modern, once again coming in quadruple packs with three watching and one checking as visitors file through the detector.

And there’s a thing. With belts, bags, cameras, mobile phones and all manner of metal passing through, the poor machine seems to be on beeping overload as the hoards make their way ever onwards. Not an eyelid is batted by those ever-vigilant law enforcers. Clearly everyone in principal is a potential suspect, but at the same time they all make the security grade.

Similarly the smooth passage through the airport when alarms shrieked as baggage and passenger went through the detector seemed to attract only cursory attention.

All right so there was a brief frisk from one of the – yet again several does it really take so many – guards, but it seemed to be more of a bored formality than a serious search.

Perhaps it was also because it was a domestic flight terminal only, but all the same it came as quite a surprise and leaves room for thought. As does the fact that last-minute passengers managed to scoot past the final security check with full bottles of water in their carry-on.

So that was security for what it’s worth in and around Cairo. Full of good intentions and certainly the sheer numbers to enforce whatever controls might be deemed necessary. But there’s also a sense of awareness that the tourist doesn’t want, or need, to be harassed constantly.

Pyramid perils

More tales of the road as our driver hurtles along at breakneck speed from the hotel to the pyramids of Giza on our first day of sightseeing. His course sees him bobbing perilously between lorries, cars, the occasional horse and cart and the more frequent donkey dragging an overladen trailor of vegetables. Oh yes and let’s not forget the odd camel or two.

I quickly realise that this makes France’s infamous Arc de Triomphe look like a doddle to drive around, and count my lucky stars that we hadn’t even thought about a hire care. I briefly wonder why there are no Egyptian formula one drivers (lack of money I muse) but my attention is quickly diverted. “Hang on isn’t that a 1970s Peugot 504 taxi headed straight towards us – on the wrong side of the road?”

I’m so Zen that it doesn’t seem to matter. I’m not buckled up and have long since stopped worrying about the future. And yes of course it’s on the wrong side of the road, but with one deft manoeuvre our driver has avoided a head-on collision and instead cut in front of a gas-belching truck. Our only concern now is to wind the windows up as quickly as possible.

Nor am I really listening to the guide, who is trying to give us centuries worth of ancient history in just a few minutes – less than 60 seconds for each of the 30 Pharaoh’s dynasties. Instead I’m gazing through the window, gaping at 21st century life – which I’m having enough problems grasping never mind what has gone on before.

Cairo is enormous - around 25 million people we’ve been told – and it’s one of those places where the very rich rub shoulders with the extremely poor – and it just seems to be the natural order of things.

It’s all very difficult to arrange in one’s pea-sized brain, especially as there’s also the cultural element to factor in. I shouldn’t but I do, stare at women in headscarves – by far the majority here it seems – and wonder what all the fuss is about back in Europe. Here they seem to just get on with life, wear the thing proudly and accept it. But heck, what do I know, I wonder to myself. Maybe it is after all just a way of keeping women in their place. And then I see a couple wearing the whole black caboodle from head to toe, with just their eyes peeping through. I’m even more incensed and horrified, staring further in incomprehension.

The pyramids soon provide me with another distraction. Boy is it hard to keep one’s focus in this country as the ancient and modern collide with each other so frequently and so noisily.

There are the young boys desperate to sell me any kind of nonsense for a few Egyptian pounds, and there are the tourists all striking the same stiff pose as the camera lens clicks for what must be the umpteenth time in a gesture we know has been and will continue to be repeated ad nauseam over the years.

I try hard to join in, but I feel embarrassed and superior and anyway, the guy perched on his camel as we drove past, would have made a far better picture. Except now I’ve been told even if we had wanted to take a photo of him, we would have had to pay for the delight.

Still I marvel at the sheer effort there must have been in moving all that stone in worship of a pharaoh. Not strong on the original thinking I guess. But would anyone be willing to do the same for Posh n’ Becks or Brangelina today I wonder if they decided they needed immortalising in the same way.

A quick lesson on mummification from the guide takes the stomach to unchartered territory so far on this trip. Perhaps that’s still to come with my steadfast refusal not to be persuaded against eating the fresh fruit and veggies.

Time for a quick peak at the Sphinx, minus its beard, which apparently the British museum still refuses to return, although quite why yet again escapes me – and the tour guide wasn’t much help on that front either.

So the whistle stop is over and Aswan beckons. Internal airlines will test my steel.

Page Viarge

After piling off the bus, which brought us from the 'plane to the gate – just how we managed so successfully to be first on and of course last off will remain forever a complete mystery – we shuffled towards a mass of waiting tourist reps.

Each was waving a board rather like one of those exits from an Italian motorway when you can’t find the sign for where you want to go because it’s lost in the sheer of multitude of advertising boards.

Miraculously enough though, through the wood we did managed to see the trees. There holding aloft our names was Omar Sharif (or so he claimed) in appalling French. His English was apparently better, but there was no real proof. He promptly provided us with our visa (included in the price clearly) on a “page viarge”, which neither we nor the other couple he had collected understood, but which turned out to mean two blank pages in our passport – one for the stick-it-on-yourself visa and one for the official stamp. His English really was better than his French as I wheedled the explanation out of him.

Luckily the interminable wait for the luggage was accompanied by some light entertainment in the form of one veritable mountain of a local man shouting very “largely.’ No idea what it was all about of course as my Arabic only goes as far as to say “thank you.”

And that’s courtesy of Michael, in whose care Omar Sharif left us after we had cleared customs He was there to usher us into our taxi. The welcoming melee was to be expected and far from disappointing as drivers set up a honking serenade to see who could get closest to the pick-up points.

One family successfully managed to try to stuff far too much luggage into a waiting car and a mad woman headed straight at a throng of people, hitting the horn relentlessly to clear her path. It obviously worked as within minutes she had parked, and engine still running, hopped out of the seat to shower what surely could only have been her mother with a such a joyous embrace it would have been impossible to view her driving and parking skills as delinquent.

We’re eventually bundled into our taxi and driven off rapidly to our hotel.

Ah yes on the roads, the Egyptians are something else. There are lanes for sure, complete with solid white lines for no overtaking of course and panels indicating what you should do. But what the heck. This is a free world. This is still a democracy – of sorts - and there ain’t nobody gonna tell anybody else how to drive.

But there is one rule of the road and that seems to be “SOUND THAT HORN” and the longer, the more often and the louder the better!