Nope, this is not a post about how you have to be nice when you drive in Egypt (just for the record: you don’t, if you are, you’re probably not alive to read this now).

It’s a post about green car licence plates. Here in Egypt personnel from embassies, the UN and the high ranking Arab League staff have a green licence plate on their cars. As if that didn’t single them out quite enough, there is also a number denoting which embassy/organisation the car comes from, which proves useful for the concierge – it lets him know how deep to bow, before the car stops. Kidding – well, sort of. Devised in Nasser’s time, numero uno goes, of course, to Russia. Take that US and UK. You’re not number one. Egypt can have other friends too. Ha!

Right.

The benefit of a green plate is that you can do what you want on the roads. Yes, if you’ve seen Cairo traffic, you probably thought you could do that anyway. The difference is that you can talk on your phone without worry that you might get spotted and possibly thereafter get a fine. You can park wherever you want, without worry of getting clam-bed (clamped). You can drive the wrong way around a roundabout and nobody will bat an eyelid. Oh wait, that’s just normal. There’s not a chance that you’ll ever get your car damaged as it’s being towed off by authorities. Best of all, and this is truly useful, you can bypass the automobile pushing, shoving and shunting that happens at checkpoints at busy times and just whizz through (or mount the pavement and whizz around), without having to show a driving licence or passport.

Wait, does that mean you don’t actually have to be able to drive if you have green plates? Hmmm. That hadn’t occurred to me until now.

Despite all these liberties diplomatic immunity heralds, driving around in a metal box that says, “Hello everybody! Yes I’m foreign, yes I’m (comparatively) wealthy, yes I’m here officially and yes, I’m from country X.” isn’t necessarily all that great. Not that it makes them a target. No, no, no. It just means that they’ve got barely anything to discuss when it comes to making small talk with strangers.

It seems that when all this happens on our own turf, we get a little antsy. BLOGitse has an article about unpaid car fines from London embassy staff. Now, we all know that Egypt has a bureaucracy large enough to stuff governmental buses full of workers from Cairo to Mars, and it’s fairly obvious to anybody who has been to the mogama’a when it opens (8am in case you’re wondering) that not everybody at work is actually, umm, working. But let us not scoff. Is it not better to have an army of officiates who take a bit of time to have their ful sandwich and shay before they get down to an hour’s productivity, than an overstretched bevy of bureaucrats chasing fines on cars with diplomatic immunity?

Ask any Egyptian right now what’s on their mind and the chances are that the ever rising cost of living will be foremost in their thoughts (for more, read this).

The government announced on Labour Day (1 May) that it was going to up public sector salaries by 30% – an interesting figure given that the official rate of inflation is somewhere in the teens, but unofficially everybody knows it’s, hmm…30%.

So there were a few days of rejoicing coupled with queries about where this extra money was going to come from.

A few days later it has became all too clear: 30% increase in the price of cigarettes, removal of tax-free status for private schools and 35-47% fuel increases. The last one is the biggie.

The whole world is suffering the problem of increased commodity prices, but Egypt has far more people living on or around the ‘bread-line’ than most other places. A large swathe of society cannot absorb these rises in the way that the majority of the developed world can i.e. grumbling about having less spare cash at the end of the month. These people have no spare cash at the beginning of the month, never mind the end.

There are plenty of forecasts of doom and gloom out there about Egypt’s future. What I haven’t seen these predictions take account of is the natural resourcefulness of Egypt’s people. Many will suffer and I don’t mean to down play that, however, humans are great at finding work-arounds and I have to say that Egyptians are absolutely superb at this. So while health and safety is an unheard of luxury, money-saving devices and ideas are likely to be making an appearance sometime soon.

On a completely different thread, is the Grand Hyatt’s decision to go ‘dry’. It is a large 5 star hotel in central Cairo with Saudi ownership. Rumours abound about why the owner/chief shareholder decided to take this route with some newspapers citing his personal religious beliefs, some saying it was the result of a dispute with top management and others saying that in the competitive summer market for tourists from his native land and the Emirates it was a marketing strategy. The result is that the story has made all the newspapers in Cairo with further talks about the Ministry of Tourism downgrading the hotel to 4 star status or even that the Hyatt will pull out of this hotel.

Meanwhile, H&M is apparently going to open in Cairo on 5 June. Whatever the state of the economy, this place is going to be packed out. Fashionistas won’t know what to do with themselves: a foreign brand with fashionable clothes at equal to and cheaper than Egyptian brand prices. It’s pretty amazing really. Three years ago I still had to go out of the country to buy clothes (unless I wanted Versace and the like – not really affordable on an NGO’s salary!) and now there are: Next, Evans, Accessorize, Karen Millen, French Connection, Mango, Top Shop is coming and there are more that I can’t remember right now. Not bad for three years!

Lastly, to follow up from this – we did change the clocks! Apparently some other countries in the region didn’t and next year Egypt won’t either.

Due to some work engagements of Mr S, I found myself heading to Alexandria again this weekend. I didn’t mind that he had to work, I was planning to take it easy at the hotel, reading my book on the balcony and looking over the sea.

I expected there to be a problem when we got to the hotel, there have been the two previous times I’ve stayed there. Apparently 5-star grading doesn’t take into account check-in (or check-out!) procedures. Anyway, I am not going to whine about staying in a 5 star hotel. Primarily because I think the stars are there purely as decoration, not as part of any rating. I will say, still not whining (only because I’m saving it for another post), that it is the only time in my life where I have told the manager of a place of accommodation directly to their face that I do not want to stay in their establishment. It was not a good weekend.

We took the train to Alex. It’s a decent train and usually runs pretty much on time. I’ve done this journey plenty of times over the years and until today, had not realised that every time I have gone, I have arrived in the morning and left the same day, or another, in the late afternoon/early evening. What brought this to my attention today was watching the commuter trains arriving.

You can forget right now any polished notions you have of commuter trains. These trains had not seen a lick or a spit probably since they were purchased in the seventies. A lot of the commuters themselves were not on the way to the office in freshly pressed suits, but were traveling in from outlying farming communities to sell their wares at the market.

I did not take any pictures of what I am about to describe, because I was so shocked and so sad at the suffering that I did not want to capture a moment of it on digital celluloid. A picture may say a thousand words, but in this instance, your imagination and compassion are required and words are infinitely better at conjuring them up (I hope I can do justice – and I am not going to weave a tale of whispering hubbly bubbly smoke and minarets in some far gone exotic land, that can be saved for the movies and writers wanting to make a quick buck off a Western myth).

Also, before I continue, I would like to clarify that although I now live in one of Cairo’s most exclusive neighbourhoods (so exclusive that I barely consider it part of Cairo), I have not always and I have worked for organisations actively working to improve life for some of the the most unfortunate in this country, so I have a fairly good idea of how life here is for many.

So, back to the platform. It was 7.45am and our train was due at 8am. The platform for the Cairo train is an island between four sets of tracks. We were standing on the platform as it filled up with other Cairo-bound travelers. Hawkers were working their patch selling newspapers and magazines, there were a couple of elderly female beggars moving from passenger to passenger looking for a small act of kindness that would secure their food that day. There was nothing unusual.

A train appeared down the tracks and Mr S commented that he had never seen third class carriages in Egypt. I assured him there were many, particularly on the type of train that was approaching. The engine passed and the first carriage was passing. Inside it was jam packed to the extent that people were hanging out the doors that were by now open. Movement inside the carriage of people wanting to alight made those at the doorways literally ‘pop’ off the train and onto the tracks below. They would then make their way over, in no particular hurry, to our platform.

Once the train jerked to a halt, the work really began. A boy about eight years old jumped off, on to the Cairo bound tracks and took a 1 metre diametre aluminium pot piled full with vegetables across the tracks to our platform. Then he went back and got another. His portly mother, in her long galabeya, sat down on the floor of the carriage and jumped out onto the Cairo tracks and took a sack of potatoes, easily 10kg and heaved it across to our platform. The little boy clambered back on the now moving train while she stood on the Cairo bound tracks waving him off. She then made her way up onto our platform and proceeded to drag her goods pot by pot across the platform to the other side. Once gathered there, she made her way down onto the tracks coming from Cairo, and heaved one of her pots over to the next platform, then made her way over to the tracks coming from Cairo. Just in time, because another train arrived. Doors open on both sides again, this woman then lifted her two pots and sack of potatoes onto the train, clambered aboard and slid in the single pot from the adjacent platform, just before the train left.

This story was repeated many times over, with her train and subsequent ones.

The train following hers, however, was (somewhat impossibly) even fuller. As the engine rolled past along with it came two young men, straddling the train buffers, holding on to the train with flat palms against steel of the engine and the front carriage.

Sure enough, at 7.55am they, as with many others, jumped off the train, onto the Cairo tracks and made their way, without much haste onto our platform. More women with lead heavy sacks and pots made their way across the tracks, either unaware that a train was due at 8am, or not caring much that it was.

The whole scene, in contrast to us holding our first class tickets and waiting for our plush seats in our air conditioned carriage was, and still is, extremely difficult to stomach. Of course I knew that the trains were crowded, extremely crowded and I’ve been squashed up against voluptuous female bodies on the Cairo metro at rush hour, and I’ve heard of people traveling on the roof on Delta trains. Mostly, however, I have not seen it and I was led to believe by the people describing it to me, that it was teenage boys who wanted to be dare devils. Perhaps so in some cases, but this was something quite different.

In all honesty, worse that watching it, was knowing that there is nothing I could do to help. I mean, yes, I could have tried to help the women carry the potatoes etc, but in reality, I would have been a hindrance more than a help.

So this is life in Egypt. You can live in a cocoon and never see anything like this and complain about how tough life is, or you can get out and about and see things what life can be like. The thing is, a poor reflection on me perhaps, it doesn’t stop the grumbling for as long as perhaps it should.

My previous life in Egypt, BMS (before Mr S), was pretty carbon neutral. I flew once a year on average and all my transportation in Egypt was either car sharing or in taxis (which are often shared too) and when in the UK, the train ruled.

I wasn’t too worried about my carbon footprint.

AMS (Anno Mr S), my carbon footprint seems to be forming a distinctly size 10, muddy wellington boot shape. By the end of this year I will have flown to Europe five times. I still walk and still take taxis and have started cycling, but more often than not, and primarily for safety, I’m in the car. That’s the car that every morning is cleaned, along with the rest of the cars in wealthier buildings in Egypt, with gallons of water.

Last weekend I went camping in the desert. Very carbon neutral – and we left nothing behind but footprints that have probably now been erased by the wind. So far so good. Prior to the trip I was already feeling pangs of guilt, however, as it involved 10 hours of climbing sand dunes in a 4×4 (albeit 2 litre) and in total there were 25 cars…

My next problem is that I enjoyed it so much, I’m already planning the next trip. On the up side, it’s not my responsibility to deal with other people’s carbon footprint and all the other cars used twice as much fuel as us in their 3.6 and 4 litre engines. What this means, is I can tell myself that for every one journey their cars make, we can make two, however, that doesn’t exactly reduce my carbon footprint any.

So having read, but not signed up to, the Guardian’s eco pledge scheme, I decided to time my shower this morning. I know that I don’t take long in the shower, I just love them so much that time stands still and it seems I’m under the (sometimes faltering) stream for eons. Five minutes was my limit. I put on the timer and under I got.

Waaaaah! Waaaaah! Waaaaah! Waaaaah! The next minute had the timer screaming at me.

It seems that my showers must be at least twenty minutes. Every day. At least once in the winter months. Closer to three times in the summer…

I fear I have found a solution to the carbon footprint conundrum: never mind carbon credits, my foot is so deeply stuck in the mud I can’t get it out to take a step.

A man came running past us last night on the busy corniche as we neared the felucca moorings. “Oh look!”, said one of our guests, “He’s wanting to get our trade before the others do!”, which, upon spotting a group of Americans (regulation trainers), including some girls in skirts that would be way, way too short even in Newcastle on a Saturday night, getting out of a convoy of taxis, was quickly followed by, “Oh, it seems he spotted them way before us!”

It was our guests’ last evening and Mr S had some colleagues visiting the office from overseas who he needed to entertain. Given the Nile’s tranquil waters being respite from a busy office and a great setting for the last dip of the sun of someone’s stay, we decided a felucca trip would be the best outing.

The running man must have seriously upset someone, probably before we were anywhere near, because an almighty fight broke out. We slithered past and descended the steps to the river edge, just to make sure it didn’t end up involving us. The work colleagues were arriving separately, so managed not to be there for the start, but had to pick their way through men wielding chairs and belts and screaming unintelligible insults amongst older turbaned men trying, bravely, to brake it up.

Safely on board we breathed a sigh of relief as we left the mooring.

Drinks started flowing, food was brought out, laughter filled the air and the gigantic red ball of sun set behind the palm trees.

Darkness soon fell and the lights of the restaurants and river side clubs sparkled on the water.

Our ‘Kaptaan’ regaled us with stories of his days teaching windsurfing on the Nile to Egypt’s elite and the sail fluttered in the breeze.

Mr S pointed to a section of the bank that was brightly lit and said, nonchalantly, “That’s where they clay pigeon shoot from.”

It was around that moment that all six of us realised that not only were the floodlights on for a reason, but we were at the edge of the light and heading towards them.

“Tell him to move!” Mr S shouted urgently at me. “No! No! Move!” he wildly gesticulated and shouted the the Kaptaan.

“It’s ok!” said the Kaptaan laughing, “it’s the Maadi Club!”

The next moment we heard the crack of a gunshot.

“Please just move away from here, we’re afraid” I said to the Kaptaan.

“Don’t worry,” he replied, as he continued skippering straight towards the shooting range, “They shoot in the air.”

By this time we had all slipped down low in our seats and were leaning sideways in an attempt to duck as the bullets flew somewhere over our heads, sure the shooting would stop, as bathed in about 20 floodlights, nobody could fail to see us heading along the range. I think it was around this time too that Mr S fully realised the difficulty of explaining to the higher powers that staff members had been involved in a shooting incident while visiting the Cairo office.

“Move! Get out the way! Mooooove!” we all yelled as our Kaptaan smiled and took us further into the danger zone.

“That’s it!” shouted Mr S, “NO TIP!”

It was then that a miracle took place: Kaptaan suddenly had full control of the felucca and promptly returned us to safe waters.

There have been reports in Saudi media saying that a causeway between Egypt and Saudi is due to start construction. Apparently it is to go from Sharm (Egypt) to Ras Humaid (Saudi). From a business point of view it makes sense. And that’s where I loose the line of sense.

Sharm is a spread out town of resorts that attracts primarily Russian and Italian tourists, but is pretty international. It is not really considered by Egyptians as being Egyptian, it is just in Egypt. Most Egyptians will never go there because prices are of an international level. Bottles of water that cost 1EGP in Cairo suddenly cost 15-20EGP in Sharm. Accommodation is purely targeting hard currency. Middle class Egyptians will honeymoon in Sharm and it often features in Egyptian movies (Egypt is the dominant movie production centre in the Middle East) as a place male characters go for fun and inevitably chase some scantily clad blonde (got to be blonde to prove she’s foreign – Egyptian girls have more morals..) around a beach.

First there are logistics. Many Egyptians go to Saudi on Haj or Omra, religious trips. It is likely that a large number of that transport would take the causeway instead of the notoriously dangerous ferries. Then there are the migrant workers who would again prefer a solid option rather than the rickety ferries. Then there are the lorries coming in both directions. A hugely increased amount of traffic on the already hairy roads.

If that wasn’t enough, there are only two roads out of Sinai: the single lane each way tunnel under the canal, or the sparkling new bridge built over it. Already there are queues at the bridge as buses have to empty their passengers and baggage gets searched and lorries who often have to take their cargo off for searches. After that there is the queue that is just caused by the tunnel’s bottleneck. It may be that lorries are forced to take the bridge, but I can’t imagine that buses from Cairo or the walking $$ signs from the Gulf will be expected to extend their journey times by about two to three hours.

Second is Mr. Huntington. Egypt is fast becoming the centre that the Saudis and Gulfies (people from the Emirates) retreat to for the summer with Europe ruled out for most after September 11th and the exodus from Lebanon last summer. A lot of them drive their Hummers or Mercedes or BMWs over (or, depending on resources, get their drivers to while they fly). The thought that Sharm will be the entry point for this group is mind-boggling. Samuel Huntington could come and watch the clash take place. Groups of holidaying men used to women exposing only their eyes or face, suddenly confronted with women wandering around in shorts and t-shirts. That’s before getting to the beach with teeni bikinis and topless sunbathers. The only way to really compare it would be to imagine going to Spain and finding almost all the women, mothers, wives, teenagers, pregnant woman, standing around posing in just thigh high boots and g-strings, playing with their naked nipples to make sure they were pert. Now add in some guys on a lads night out and you can see where some problems may occur.

My solution? Run! Go to Sharm now while you still can.

I’m beginning to wonder if I’m not supposed to be back. First there was the 1hr queue at Air France to check in. Then there was the assistant telling us that Mr S was ok, he had a seat, but I was on a waiting list. Then told that that was because the flight was full. Then told that the flight had 22 spare seats and 16 people wait-listed. Simple then. Apparently not: despite the fact that I had a fully paid ticket and there were available seats, she could not authorise me having a seat…

We got one and up up and away we went. Things on the ground in Cairo haven’t been much better. Arrived home to find a water heater had leaked for some reason, warping the cupboard and soiling everything underneath it with watered down emulsion. Not being the UK, a plumber was called this morning and arrived 1hr later. He fixed it. Great. Would have been brilliant if we’d actually had water because that would have meant he’d have noticed that he left a tap in the wall on. A little later I came out to find a river running from under the sink, across the kitchen and into the sitting room.

Home sweet home.

Or should that be Home Sweet! Home!

I have just entered a new era of Cairo life: bicycle riding. A whole new world of fun awaits me as I dash through the streets of The Hood on my brand new black Beejo*. The Hood, is suddenly all so much closer. Not that the Beejo is actually meant for my day to day transportation in Um El Donia. It is, Mom be worried, for my latest soon to be activity: mountain biking in the desert. More to follow.

*Beejo is Egyptian for Peugot

Ordering a “Yellow Cab” means, well, you’re ordering a taxi. So, when your preordered taxi does not turn up at 6am, it’s your fault. Why? Well, sometimes the driver phones to confirm your address. This means asking you detailed directions to the address you earlier gave detailed directions for to the call centre (no maps are available to or able to be read by the drivers..). Best of all is that this confirmation is approximately two hours before pickup. If you don’t answer (perhaps because at 4am you are sleeping), it means you don’t want the taxi. And how do you know that they are going to confirm? Well, after your taxi doesn’t arrive, and you call to complain, they tell you. Great.

Was looking (5th day in a row) at flats on Wed. and found one that was acceptable (with some alterations). Spoke to the land lady on the phone and agreed to sign the lease on Friday. It was on the 6th floor. We left the apartment, got in the lift to come back down and after about one floor it stopped. Then it started. Then it stopped. Then the lights went off. Then it started again. Then it stopped suddenly and the roof fell down, then it started again and stopped. We could hear voices outside, so we knew we’d finally reached the bottom. Was totally freaked out though. Then it started moving again and crashed at the very bottom of the lift shaft. No nice bounce, it was concrete on concrete/metal. One of the lights fell off and smashed on the floor and the four of us were stuck inside this tiny lift. By now I was half crying, half hyperventilating. I just wanted to get out of it, but the doors wouldn’t open. We had to spend what seemed like an eternity waiting for them to prize the doors open.

So, wasn’t moving into that apartment.