Moroccan flags flap in the morning breeze
But first; travel regularly and once in a while, you will find yourself on a flight from hell. Our first FFH for a while came on Friday 18 December, travelling EgyptAir to Cairo en route to spend Xmas with our kids.
We checked in hours early. This is now an everyday necessity; a precaution precipitated by an earlier than necessary hop from Cape Town, in an attempt to avoid missing our outbound plane. Why so? SA’s permanently and seemingly incurably tardy internal flights and no promise of better performance anywhere near the horizon.
Johannesburg and a brief digression if I may; going through the heretofore impressive security, prior to boarding, we follow an African man, who having had his bag x-rayed, is found to be carrying a large assortment of after shave, skin cream, deodorant, shower gel and who knows what else. While collecting my own bag, it was easy to listen to his interaction with the security official, who was pointing out to him that he couldn’t take all of those things onto a plane.
Unperturbed, he offered; “Can I put something in there” (the bag) to the security officer.
“I can’t the boss is watching,” was the reply.
He was still wrangling when we left for passport control, where I spotted what seemed from his uniform to be an officer and related the story to him.
The dispute was still under way and I pointed out the man. The officer seemed to be very reluctant to take any action, beyond “I will look it.” At that point I gave up.
From that minor hiccough, I should have guessed what was coming; the FFH.
We had checked-in to be told by the EgyptAir ground staff that it was impossible to be seated together as the plane was full. Huh?
Still, there was no point in arguing. We boarded amidst a bewildering crush of ethnicities. Seat 24D (mine) was inhabited by a man I would have sworn was Fawlty Towers’ waiter, Manuel; this man I was to discover as devoid of intelligence as his TV doppelganger.
Manuel moved to his own seat (24E) reluctantly. There was a blanket on my seat, but no pillow. “I’ll ask for one once we’ve taken off,” I thought.
Scheduled to take off shortly before 10 p.m., the EgyptAir flight was almost half an hour late getting airborne. Now the norm; no explanation was given for the delay.
Meanwhile, Manuel had taken up conversation with his other neighbour in seat 24F; a student from Belgium if I overheard him correctly. Manuel talked and talked and talked, which I decided I could easily fend off with my iPod and headphones, once we were aloft. The problem was his arms and hands which at turns drummed and flapped so enthusiastically in time with his chatter that I was worried that when we arrived in our hotel, Mrs P would ask where I’d gotten all the bruises from.
Takeoff; the fully laden and quite ancient Airbus lumbered into Jozi’s evening sky. Manuel helped it aloft with some additional flapping, for which I’m certain the aircrew was very grateful.
A couple of kilometres out of Jan Smuts, Johannesburg International, OR Tambo, the aeroplane did it’s auto pilot thing and in the middle of climbing, throttled back alarmingly. A similar occurrence on a Europe-bound Airbus earlier in the year had me scuttling for and cleaning-up in the loo as the seat belt lights went off. I found out later that this is a new Airbus fuel saving prank and in common use. As usual, the fare payers in the soiled underwear are the last to be told.
Back to the Cairo express.
Manuel settled. His Belgian chat buddy was feigning sleep to make him STFU and so he turned to the pages of the broadsheet Al Ahran. I heard the engines throttle back even more as he started on the sports section; he was creating massive additional updraft for the plane as he flapped and folded every few seconds.
I got up and politely asked the stewardess for a pillow. “If I can find one. There was one on your seat.”
“No there wasn’t or I wouldn’t be standing here now, would I?”
“Humph.”
Of course, it never arrived.
I tried again an hour or so later with a senior steward. Same promise, similar response.
Drinks. “Aaah yes. I will numb myself with several glasses of Scottish communion wine and pretend Manuel doesn’t exist.
Nope. EgyptAir is as dry as the desert it serves.
Bugger.
“I’ll read a while.”
Can’t do that. The lights would be switched off soon to allow passengers to sleep and it was clear that the centre section of the plane had been fitted with new LED reading lights. I switched mine on and it lit up the Belgian chap in seat 24F. Having shut Manuel up, he was now genuinely asleep. The spill light falling on my book would make a Toc-H candle seem bright.
OK then, I’ll watch the film.
Nope to that too. There are no seat back screens, just central screens of such antiquity that the movie characters are all pale and blurry, like faded Polaroids. Everything had Arabic sub-titles and I decided that watching a faint two hour Disney cartoon with Arabic flashing on and off wasn’t what I had in mind for a fun filled Friday night.
Meanwhile, the paper reading was proceeding at such a pace next door that Manuel had gotten all hot and bothered. He called the same air hostess that had been visibly absent seeking my pillow for more than an hour. “There’s no condition!” He flapped and wailed sweatily.
Her Cleopatra-d eyes (thick black make up, like two slitty buttonholes with upturned edges) gazed bovinely at him; “The plane is full.” And that, was the end of that.
In his defence, I do have to say that it was uncomfortably warm and on the sole occasion I headed for the toilets, found an oasis of cool. Aah yes, the toilets; the exact place you don’t want 300-odd passengers hanging about and basking in cool comfort. Bah.
The food arrived; “Beef or fish?”
“Beef.”
It was now almost midnight and as is so often the case on these flights, all you really want is sleep, but can’t because the tray table is open and the aluminium foiled substance you were given masquerading as a meal still hasn’t been removed. Nor will it be for another hour...
Manuel flipped, flapped and wailed all night. Every time I managed to shut him out of my consciousness, he writhed-up in his seat again, as though he had sat on a dildo that was hidden in the seat squab. Perhaps it was the cobra he had secreted in his pocket. I didn’t know, nor did I care much.
At 04:15 the lights went on. We were due to land at 05:30 and the rules said that we needed breakfast first. Another meal - more execrable stuff in aluminium - and we finally were on the ground in one piece and for once, on time.
“Goodbye and thank you for flying EgyptAir” said buttonhole eyes as we got off. I confess to having been at a loss for a riposte.
Khan el Khalili bazaar, Cairo
Khan el Khalili bazaar, Cairo
Actually, we were only in Cairo en route to Marrakech, where we had a week of timeshare swap booked for Xmas. Laura and Julian were due to fly in from London, arriving about an hour after we arrived.
As usual, things didn’t go entirely to plan.
First-up, we had the best part of a day to sightsee in Cairo (we went to the central bazaar - more of that later) and the following morning had a 03:00 alarm call and an 03:45 pick up for the 07:10 flight across the very top of Africa to Casablanca. From there, it was just a thirty minute flight to Makkarech. The airport was surprisingly busy as we arrived somewhat before 5 a.m. and booked in, only to be told that he flight was delayed by two hours. By way of compensation, the Royal Air Maroc check-in clerk gave us each a voucher for coffee and a sandwich at the airline’s favourite cafe in the departure lounge and accompanied it with a warning that the cafe didn’t open until 06:30. We had to be boarding our 07:00 flight by then.
Sigh.
The flight across Africa’s giant shoulders was wonderful, with bright sunshine and views as far as the eye could see. The flight arrived very late, but it didn’t matter, as we still had several hours to wait in Marrakech for our kids’ flight to arrive, before we could proceed to the hotel.
The five p.m. take-off time came and went and no word from Royal Air Maroc (RAM) as to where our half hour hop to Marrakech might be. The flight eventually took off two hours later and only after a huge altercation in Casablanca’s departure lounge between a lone RAM manager and some seriously disgruntled passengers who had flown in from Bankok. Carried out in French, the gist of the argument was that RAM had a number of flights grounded in Europe (hopefully because of the weather and not mechanical problems) and our plane had yet to arrive.
The passengers were complaining about not being informed and demanded a flight immediatemment. The yelling was pure Gallic farce and provided a degree of light entertainment on an otherwise dull afternoon.
To cut quite a long story short, a Marrakech-bound plane suddenly appeared to be waiting on the tarmac and we all made a run for it, grabbing whatever seats and luggage space was available. Security? What security, this was important stuff!
A half an hour later we landed at our destination. And miracle of miracles, our luggage appeared on the conveyor minutes later.
It was now close to 21:00 and we were told that our kids’ flight was delayed. Then minutes later, cancelled. No other information was forthcoming from EasyJet’s slothful French-speaking staff.
Curiously, we had been getting SMS messages from the kids until about 19:00 and then we told by the phone system that their phones were switched off - a fair indicator that they were probably airborne after all. We decided to head for the hotel and sent an SMS into the ether regarding their final destination, should their plane arrive after all.
As it happened, their flight was airborne, which speaks volumes for EasyJet. They finally managed to find a taxi and made it to our hotel close to midnight; about an hour and a half after us.
For most travellers, Marrakech was immortalised by Graham Nash’s song and it is difficult to imagine the city they saw four decades ago. Today, the old city is as it was centuries ago, with its huge souq, open air Djemaa el-Fna square, coffee, spices and Morrocan food on every corner. There are beggars, scroungers, people with tame monkeys, snake charmers and just about everything else. They will all do the most extraordinary things for a dollar.
Marrakech's souq
Yves St Laurent's Jardin Majorelle, Marrakech
Yves St Laurent's Jardin Majorelle, Marrakech
Yves St Laurent's Jardin Majorelle, Marrakech
Wet day in the souq, Marrakech
Wet day and the old city wall, Marrakech
Brass lamps in the souq, Marrakech
Old city, Marrakech
Old city, Marrakech
Souq, Marrakech
Women's hammam, Marrakech
Souq, Marrakech
Souq, Marrakech
Souq, Marrakech
Souq, Marrakech
Souq, Marrakech
Souq, Marrakech
The new part of the city is largely modern France with palpable Arabic overtones. it is clean, well thought out with broad avenues and squares, built for a relaxed lifestyle. It is a place where anyone looking for a hint of the European lifestyle in North Africa could settle. While generally dry, the new city has many cafes where beer and wine are available and the Pertons spent many happy hours watching the passing parade.
The city is also predominantly Islamic and the ubiquitous call to prayer echoes into every corner of the city from the hundreds of mosques that form an integral part of the city’s fabric.
In our Marrakech week we walked about 80km, wandered the alleyways and streets, watched the people go about their daily business, ate, drank and celebrated Xmas with a wonderful dinner in an arabic restaurant. The last afternoon in town, Julian and I made the mistake of taking on the souq unaccompanied and quickly realised that getting badly lost was just the next corner away. We retraced our footsteps a kilometre or so and were very grateful to see the city wall and it’s gate appear as if from nowhere. Take the advice of the guide book; don’t try it unaccompanied.
All in all, we had a fab time.
Sunday 27th and all too soon, it was time to leave. Laura headed back to London and work and the three of us left for Casablanca and Cairo. RAM almost managed to get both flights out on time.
Our brief stopover in Cairo on the outbound journey had left us with a feeling that the city had been given an unfair reputation. We'd seen a dusty city, bustling and full of intrigue and activity. Our hotel in the Zamalek district gave us easy access to shops, restaurants and taxis to get around in. We were looking forward hugely to a longer stay.
That stay put us into a hotel at Giza; 20km out of town, near to the pyramids. The transfer from airport to hotel was a revelation; suddenly the city we had glimpsed so briefly and liked was transformed into a dusty rubbish dump.
The dust is understandable, as the Sahara is at the city's doorstep and Egypt’s famous winds must lift millions of tonnes from the desert into Cairo's streets annually.
Impossible to excuse is the welter of litter that is everywhere. The locals toss cigarette butts and fast food containers with equal abandon. And meantime, the local authority either leaves it where it fell, or sweeps it into huge mounds and leaves it. In a week, we see not a single street cleaner, mechanised, or manual.
Between the dust and the filth, the city exists. Elegant restaurants, their tables robed in the finest of Egyptian linen napery, close their doors on the mess and immerse guests to a totally different world, where fine food and fine wine help one forget the squalor outside.
I suppose as a resident, you see so little of the mess between home, car, car park and work/restaurant that you might try to convince yourself that it doesn’t even exist. I suspect that few succeed and when asked about the detritus, the locals just shrug resignedly.
Ferried by a series of minibuses, we see the pyramids, sphinx, Egypt Museum, Saqqara and on a separate day trip to Alexandria, many other sites of antiquity. With the exception of Alex’ Pompei’s Pillar, which is displayed in a protected park area with many other relics, every single site of massive national importance is decrepit, un-loved, un-managed, graffiti-d and sinking in litter, camel, horse and donkey shite. Unlicensed, aggressive hawkers set on the visitors to each and every site, with the sole objective of selling them some kind of China-made tat. Casting a glance at one of these bandits will bring demands for money and woe betide you if you even think about pointing your camera in their direction. Photographs start at US$1 each.
I suppose that is OK if you are travelling with pounds, dollars or euros in your pocket, but for the 1:5 Rand traveller, that’s a no-no. It’s tiring and made worse by a complete ignorance of “no”.
Giza pyramids
Sphinx and pyramid, Cairo
Pompeii's Pillar, Alexandria
One scheduled stop was the Egypt Museum. We arrived in our minibus and immediately found ourselves in amongst thousands of other coach-ferried visitors. The queue snaked into the museum and through the inevitable security screening - they are at every site and bleep mournfully at one’s passing, but evince no response from the multitude of AK47-toting Tourist Police sitting idly, smoking and watching through dull, uninterested eyes.
The museum is home to some of the world’s major relics, including much of the Tutankhamun haul. We enter and see crypts, mummies and statues in various cases. In the main, they are filthy and poorly, or totally unlit. The halls they are exhibited in have probably not seen any kind of maintenance or even a lick of paint for decades and the light fittings on the ceilings were probably out of date in the fifties when they were first installed.
Much worse, there is tourist graffiti on just about everything.
The Tutankhamun room is an area at the rear of the first floor, sandwiched between large showcases containing the lad’s many giant sarcophagi. The small available entrance space for visitors is clogged with hundreds of tourists, all on a strict timetable from their tour guide. Entry to the glass walled room is watched over by an inert guard and an equally dull woman who vaguely flap their hands at visitors as they pass. There are hundreds of people inside and it is impossible to see anything.
We enter and the press gets worse and worse. More and more time conscious people squeeze in, watched but unmanaged by the unmoving and disinterested security officials. We decide to give up on seeing Tut’s 11kg headgear as the tourists are twenty deep around the display and still more people are squeezing in.
We find some space close to the farthest wall and wait. It is clear that mass panic is close as one woman with a baby yells in English “Please move forward, go out.” But no-one can move as the press of bodies is so great.
The fear is palpable and I wonder how long it will be before the shoving starts. Fortunately, we are reasonably safe against the wall, with no-one behind us, but that just means it will take longer for us to get out.
Still more people are being herded in by the guards and now finally, people are able to exit as the masses that were waiting to get in have succeeded and the space they left outside means we can exit. It’s very dangerous and doubtless due to totally shambolic management. The overcrowding, danger and laissez faire attitude is something we will see in many other places in and around Cairo.
Upside to our visit? We watched the evening sound and light show at the pyramids; fantastic entertainment and well worth the cost. The narrative describes the history of the pyramids and sphinx, while music and lights play their role in a true experience.
Sound and light show at the pyramids
Sign at the entrance to the Citadel mosque, Cairo
The history comes at you like a tsunami; the guides talk and talk and talk and talk. You get to tune in or out as it suits. The tour we booked covered most of the major sites and several other excursions were available for the cost of (relatively) few Rand extra. On our last full day, we went to the ancient site at Saqqara, saw the pyramids there, the statue of Ramses II and a lot of the desert. We also saw the main bazaar in the city centre; a must for any traveller, but make sure your tat deflectors are set on high and content yourself with the views rather than the commerce.
The final stop of the tour and a definite highlight was the Pharoanic Village; a promised pastiche of ancient scenes re-enacted by professional actors and scale models of antiques and antiquities.
I always felt that Jozi’s Gold Reef City was a bit of a take-on, but the Pharoanic Village has world class awfulness down pat.
Intended to be seen from barges with seats for visitiors, we were asked to make the tour on foot because the level of the Nile is so low. We saw a replica of this temple and that house. We saw pretend metalworkers idly tapping at bits of copper, wine making, beer making, papyrus making and bread making. In between each group of pretends we were herded into a little sales area, where it was possible to buy tat related to the exhibits. Then it was on to the next pastiche, including a scale model of Tutankhamun’s tomb and his various assets. We finally made a break for freedom as we left the Islamic museum and the Nasser displays loomed ahead.
The whole place is so badly run-down that the fibreglass shows through the paint on the walls, chairs, tables, cables and light fittings are falling off/over and the inevitable litter is everywhere.
It was truly awful, awful, awful.
And now, it’s just the two of us. Julian has left for the airport and we have the lumps in our throats we always have when our kids leave for what they now call home. We leave in a few hours for Jozi and Cape Town. This trip to Egypt is especially poignant; the general lack of government commitment, interest, activity and care is what we are now seeing become the norm in South Africa. In so many ways it reminds us of why we have more reluctance to return than is comfortable.
As if we needed reminding; it’s also why our kids left in the first place.
Posted on January 4, 2010 by Paul
