Preparations for the Desert
Egypt 1983
I had my work cut out with washing, cleaning and cooking. After doing the chores, I spent an uneventful day on the campsite, writing and continuing with the endless reparirs on my trousers which I had been patching up since leaving Cairo. It started with a rip above the left knee which worked its way upwards and then to the back. Wherever I had last stitched a patch, a spiderweb of new rips would start to form. Second hand German army combat trousers – I wonder if they split during actual combat…
Anyway, stitching the things back together had become a constant past-time. Reinhold quibbed that when I was finally through with them they would make a good exhibit for his “adventure museum” back home.
In the evening, when I had finished my day’s patchwork and put the finishing touch to the evening’s mashed potatoes, Udo returned with the news that our mates were back at the café so we returned for a last shisha. As we said our good-byes we knew that we would never see each other again. This is the down-side of travelling, forever on the move, forever saying goodbye!
(This was in the days before e-mail and the internet.)
On from Asswan to Luxor, from Luxor to Assyut.
Twenty km from town, our companions were waiting for us on a sandy strip by the roadside. We were pleasantly surprised to find the couple from Osnabrück with them. Siggi, keen to impress, revved the engine, changed gear and pushed down the accelerator. The mighty truck rattled violently, the wheels spun on the loose sandy ground, then we were stuck. While our companions were shaking their heads we had to jump off and dig out the wheels. With Siggi’s gently coaching, the lorry slowly ground onto slightly firmer ground. Siggi switched off the engine and jumped out. After a brief look around the truck and its load he turned towards Reinhold, arms crossed. We followed.
“Let’s hurry up – get to camp before nightfall;” Reinhold was unusually agitated, trying to divert us from the obvious conclusion that we weren’t desert-ready and that he had forgotten to get sand-ladders. Without these, we would not stand much of a chance. Even with them it was dubious.
We pondered this.
Had we joined a convoy in Asswan we could have driven on proper tracks but it was more than dubious that we would be allowed across the border into the Sudan. We would have to leave the track to get around the border posts, uncomfortably close by. We agreed that it wasn’t really an option.
The truck, as it was, wasn’t desert-ready. We agreed on that too. Siggi was confident that the truck was suitable, it was after all a six-wheel-drive all-terrain army truck, but the load would have to be rearranged to achieve a better weight distribution. We would have to return to Assyut and re-load. “And get sand-ladders”, I muttered.
Thankfully we were not the only ones to make last minute adjustments. Another driver was not happy with his jeep so we agreed on a two day stop-over in Assyut. Ulrike and I were pleased because we could do with more time to shop for provisions.
We did not find any sand-ladders but Reinhold shrugged it off saying that most Arab lorry drivers seem to make do without – although I presume they stick to the tracks. Siggi was optimistic that we would not get stuck once the load was properly distributed.
We were staying at the Police Officers’ Club which was pleasant although the bathrooms left much to be desired and the male caretaker came in whenever one of the women went to grab our hair and generally make a nuissance of himself. He was no danger, more of an irritation — like a particularly insistent gnat so we hissed at him and let it ride. It was obviously something we would have to get used to.
While the others started unloading the truck and bickered about where everything should go, I sat in my tent, stitching my trousers as per usual. When I emerged, the lawn looked as if a bomb had exploded in the vicinity. Ulrike, Harald, Norbert and I left them to it and went shopping. I was pleased that Norbert had agreed to come along because he was easily the best haggler of us all.
Here in town, female dress varied from simple sommer dresses and bare heads for the Christian girls to the walking-tent robes of married Muslim women. Ulrike and I were not wearing any head dress while Uschi wore her Stetson. Uschi and I wore trousers but Ulrike, the most feminine among us – if possibly the toughest – wore a light pink cotton skirt and off-the-shoulders top. Before long, a veritable throng of men followed in our footsteps. Ulrike ignored them while the blokes shot irritated glances over their shoulders. So it went for a while.
Suddenly, Ulrike span round with an ear-splitting scream, arms raised and hands curled into claws. The men crouched as one, heads pulled between their shoulders and dissipated shortly after. Just one love-struck guy remained behind. After five minutes, Harrold prodded me and I handed over my knife which he handled non-chalantly. When that message did not get across, Norbert turned around and offered the guy his hand. As he took it, he stomped forcefully on his feet. After that we were left alone.
First we had to change some money. We tried in a shoe-shop but found the going rate too low. A local stopped us in the door.
“How much do you want to change?”
“Fifty dollars.” (It was worth a bit in 1983).
He turned to his wife who stood behind him, holding a child in her arms.
“Fifty dollars!”
She beamed at him, but he had shouted it out loud. Soon, a crowd had formed around us.
“One for one!” shouted the first.
“I offer one pound five piastres per dollar!” cut in another.
“One fifteen!”
A scuffle ensued as more people pushed forwards. One or two traffic cops had joined in the bidding when Harald raised his hand:
“Listen up! We are going to change more than this, we just haven’t got more cash on us. If you want to buy dollars come to the Police Officers’ Club this afternoon…”
There was a moment’s silence.
“The Police…Officers’…?”
“What, the police?!”
“No, no not the police. The club. Listen…”
But now everybody was talking at once. Nobody wanted to come to the club, we would have to make a deal now. Eventually, we grabbed the original guy who dragged his wife and child along and broke into a little jog. Some of the crowd followed us but stayed behind after a few paces. We completed the transaction in a little alley, I think we shook hands on one twenty-five, and celebrated over a cold coke the nice man bought for us.
Next morning the wake-up team had overslept. We had to hurry with loading the lorry and getting started. When we arrived at the rendez-vous 90 minutes late, the convoy had gone.
We sped down the asphalt road to the oasis el Kharga, the final official stop for tourist traffic in Egypt and, so we thought, out of reach of most tourists. We were mistaken.
We tried to put off the touts and pestering kids by stretching out our hands at them hollering “Baksheesh? Baksheeeesh?” and “Hello Mister, change money?” which worked at first, but as soon as we had stoped for more than a minute we were once again under siege. The only way out was to run for it — fill up the tank and get the hell out of there. We had to catch up with the convoy anyway.
To our surprise it was the others who caught up with us, rolling into the petrol station at about the same time. They had stopped over in el Kharga and so we would start the journey together after all: two Magirus camper vans, one brown one white, two jeeps (ditto) and us.
Soon after leaving el Kharga we arrived at a check point. The officers looked dubiously at our barrels of water and fuel while Reinhold told them we wanted to make “a little trip” into the desert, then shook their heads.
The driver of the brown camper van got out. A German version of a redneck, he exploded at the gaping officers in a mixture of German and English:
“We want to cross the desert! Kapiert? Desert. Fahren. — Zack, Bumm!”
We were just as surprised as the officers — perhaps even more so, because it worked. We jumped into the vehicles and drove off. I don’t think the officers recovered their composure until we had gone from sight.
(Don’t try that, kids. It still makes me cringe today, but we were on our way.)
Denni