Hurghada

"Welcome to Hurghada. I can do anything to help you. You are simple girl. I like that."

"Hello? You need cigarettes? Watches? Scarves? Washing machine?? Fridge?! Air-conditioned donkey?!!"

Hurghada...where chat-up lines & sales pitches merge seamlessly into one.

Woman versus rat

The following morning dawned bright and clear. The only thing occupying my mind was the desperate knowledge that I had to do whatever needed to be done to rid my house of the scourge of Kamikaze Rat.

So I went to speak to my bewaabs, to ask if they could call an extermination company to come over, remove Kamikaze Rat and make sure there were no other unwelcome guests lurking in the house.

They were perplexed, to say the least. Apparently the normal way of dealing with rats is not to demand exterminators come and spray poison around your house. It’s possible – possible – that I was a little hard to reason with at the time. I do remember being very shrill. But then I did have a rat hiding in my kitchen.

The exterminators arrived, carrying a container of innocuous-looking liquid poison to spray around the house and poisonous food to place in strategic locations. They assured me that any creature that imbibed these would be dead within a day.

It wouldn’t die in my walls I asked, concerned. The last thing I wanted was Kamikaze Rat exacting brutal revenge by dying in some hard-to-reach place, effectively taking us all down with him at the moment of his demise.

No no, they laughed. He’ll die in an open space. If he’s still here, you’ll stumble across him on the floor tomorrow morning. And we’ll come back and remove him, at no extra charge.

Wonderful.  

They then presented me with the bill. An extortionate 6000LE. My eyes literally boggled.

Now at this point you’re probably sighing in exasperation at how someone could possibly be so gullible as to believe that this bill could actually be accurate. You have every right to do this; I admit to being an idiot.

In my defence, my fitful sleep the night before had been punctuated by rat-filled dreams. I was seeing rats everywhere I looked. Every time I heard a noise, I jumped, expecting to see Kamikaze Rat flying towards me as he had the previous night. So it’s fair to say I was not at my strongest or my sharpest. Clearly the exterminators could see this and had decided to take full advantage of it.

What could I do? I didn’t have that kind of money on me. The most my bank would allow me to withdraw in a single day was 4000LE. I explained this to the exterminators, who I still had not worked out were crooks. I told them I could withdraw 4000LE then and they would have to come back and collect the rest from my bewaab on another day. They, obviously sensing a flaw in their plan, were reluctant to do this. Nevertheless, we all descended to the building’s entrance.

3m Mohamed, our head bewaab, is a benign and grandfatherly man if you are on his good side; a proper force to be reckoned with if you are not. I had seen him get angry with people before (namely young guys harassing me in the streets) and he’s really not someone you want to cross. I could see his face set into barely-contained anger when I told him the situation with the exterminators and what they were charging me.

Torn I suppose between the desire to protect me and the desire to not contradict me in front of the men, he waved at me to go and withdraw my money, standing between me and the exterminators so they couldn’t follow me. By the time I returned he was yelling down the phone at their supervisor, calling them thieves and criminals, deploring the fact that they would pull what was now quite clearly (even to me) a total scam. Calling me over, he said that because I had already agreed to pay 4000LE, there was nothing he could do to reduce that sum but that I was under no circumstances to pay anything more. He passed the money to the two men with a gesture of utter contempt, motioning for them to leave and never come back.

So all that was left for me to do now was start cleaning the parts of my house that were definitely rat-free and wait for Kamikaze Rat to show up like the protagonist of an Agatha Christie whodunit.

I went off and stocked up on cleaning materials as if there was an imminent mass Dettol shortage, as if I was planning to clean an entire school single-handedly, as if the zombie apocalypse was coming, as if….well, as if I was expecting to come across a dead rat in my house.

And for a solid three days, I cleaned feverishly. I slept on the sofa (rats dancing in my dreams), went to work, came home and cleaned until 4am every day for three days. Every morning and evening, miserable and exhausted, I entered my kitchen with trepidation, expecting to find Kamikaze Rat spread-eagled on the floor. Every time I felt the mixed relief and sense of impending doom at him not being there.

Relief because, really, who among us is strong enough to deal with the prospect of a dead rat in their kitchen with equanimity? Sense of impending doom because, by the morning of day 3, a really very bad smell had started to emanate from somewhere within the kitchen and curdle in the air.

Merde merde merde. Not only crooks but liars. Kamikaze Rat was clearly dead in a hidden part of my kitchen.

So I asked 3m Mohamed whether, if I called the exterminators to come back and remove the rat that evening, as they had promised, he would be around to make sure there were no further problems with them. He was with me, he said immediately, sitting up a little straighter in his chair and putting his hand over his heart in a gesture of solidarity.

I called the exterminators who, surprisingly, sounded delighted to hear from me. Of course they would be more than happy to come back and remove the rat, they said obsequiously… and collect the other 2000LE I owed them. One short, violent reply from me and the conversation was over.   

That evening I limped into my building, wan and pale in appearance, bedraggled in spirit. I was having problems remembering the last time I had eaten or slept properly. I could feel I was starting to resemble the man from the Pink Panther films that everyone believes has gone mad, hallucinating rats everywhere I looked. I had scrubbed my house so thoroughly with Dettol that you could smell it as soon as you exited the lift three floors down from my flat. Everywhere except the dreaded kitchen.

Please, I asked the bewaab on duty, please send someone upstairs with me. If I had to start hunting on my own for a dead rat in my kitchen, I would lose my mind. One look in my eyes must have told him I wasn’t exaggerating.

The two younger men he sent upstairs with me were teasing, jovial. They could not stop laughing for the whole time it took us to get to my flat – expansive laughter that made their bellies shake. 3m Mohamed, in outrage, had told people the story of the dishonest exterminators and now the whole building knew about it, united in anger (at the code of Egyptian hospitality having been broken; in the eyes of most of the people I meet in my building, I am effectively their guest) and, certainly in the case of these men, amusement at me having subjected myself to all this drama and expense. For a rat.

“If you want to spend 4000LE on a rat, I’ll bring you a rat”, one of them joked. “I’ll bring it, I’ll take it away and you can give me 4000LE”.

Inside, they plunged into the rancid stench of the kitchen and, a few minutes later, emerged. The dead body of Kamikaze Rat was wrapped in a black plastic bag, as they held him with a kind of solemnity.

Forget Agatha Christie; this was pure CSI. This was the rat who had aimed too high in his pursuit of glory. He had aimed to be Splinter, sensei to the geckoes perhaps. Or maybe he had had lofty ambitions of living in my kitchen and cooking delicious meals, like the rat from Ratatouille. Either way, like an aspiring actress whose dreams are corrupted by the sordid realities of life, he had sipped from the poisoned chalice of the con-artist exterminators and all his plans had turned to dust.

Unable to resist one parting rejoinder, the more talkative of the two men turned to me as they were leaving. Waving the corpse of Kamikaze Rat in front of me with obvious glee he murmured “You know, if you were in the army….you would be eating him for dinner!”

Morals of this story:
1) A nice bewaab is worth his weight in gold. 

2) A gecko cannot eat half a potato.

3) Keep your friends close. You never know when you might need them to come and battle ninja rats with you. 

Ratgate

“Lucy, you don’t think a gecko could eat all this, do you?”

It was a fairly innocuous question posed to me by my flatmate R one morning, as he proffered a half-eaten potato.

It was a question I had little trouble answering with a resounding negative, even halfway out the door on the way to work.

We were familiar with our house gecko, comfortable with him. He made occasional appearances, chilling in the bathroom sink, scooting across the floor in a flash if you returned home unexpectedly. Occasionally, late at night, you would look up to see him brooding on the ceiling.

He was an utterly familiar part of our day-to-day life, a known entity.

But, gazing on this potato, I knew immediately that we were dealing with something unknown and sinister. A force to be reckoned with.

I had, at this point, no idea of the extent to which my feelings of foreboding would be borne out by actual events.

A brief conversation confirmed that the culprit of this potato-theft must be either a cat or a rat. We live on the top floor of a 13-storey building - so our house attracts the heat - and R, a freelance journalist, often preferred to leave windows and doors open to cool everything down at night.

We prayed that our hungry visitor was a stray cat prowling around the rooftops in search of rogue potatoes to munch on. I recollect making a vague promise to myself that if any stray creatures turned up, I would find an alternative place to stay until they had been dealt with. R was going to Turkey for ten days; I couldn’t afford to take any chances.

Or so I thought.

R departed, and I spent Thursday evening at a friend’s house, returning to the flat on Friday late-afternoon. As I walked into the flat, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that the cupboard to the immediate right of our front door, filled with odds and ends that do not belong to us, was ajar. I thought little of it, and went to sit down in the large, open sitting/dining room which is the focal point and heart of our flat.

I took off my glasses, without which I am as good as blind. Lost in thought, I noticed a creature of indeterminate (but significant) size and shape run down the stairs to my left and jump into the cupboard, with its door standing ever so slightly ajar.

Merde.

Blind or not, I could see that our culprit bore the gait of either a rat or a ferret. It was larger than a mouse but smaller than a cat. It was brown. It was agile. It was here with me in the house while my flatmate was in Turkey for ten days.   

Merde.

Panic stricken, I called a friend, Crazy Salsa Dancer. My high pitched voice no doubt said it all. “Whatever you’re doing, please, you need to drop it and come and help me right now. There’s a creature in my house!”

For 45 minutes, I sat immobilized, my eyes glued to this cupboard.

To his credit, Crazy Salsa Dancer not only turned up but brought a friend. Together, the three of us circled the cupboard like reticent hyenas. Opening the door, the two of them started poking at a pile of sheets and towels with the long stick they had brought as a weapon. No response. They began berating me; clearly the creature had run away. I was adamant – I would not rest until I had searched through the whole cupboard to make sure there was nothing inside.

So we erected a barrier, consisting of an old mattress, outside the cupboard. We started removing old sheets and towels from inside.

One sheet …nothing.

Two sheets ….nothing.

Three sheets ….out jumped a kamikaze rat, teeth bared, eyes flashing fire. It’s hard to tell whether he was actually a black belt in karate or whether I just imagined it, but in any case he expertly ricocheted off the mattress and ran into the kitchen – while I, as if burned by fire, ran squealing into the hallway.

It took ten minutes to calm me down, by which point Kamikaze Rat was trapped in my kitchen. A fruitless search by the boys, with the long stick, proved that he had either escaped through a hole in the mosquito netting covering the kitchen window, or was still in hiding. They had to go.

We barricaded the kitchen door like the poor veterans of the First World War barricaded the trenches. Cushions, chairs, towels – everything you could think of to prevent a Rat Escape. And, it being now 10pm, I could think of nothing more productive to do than go out, get drunk and sleep on the sofa. So this is what I did. 

Gecko

The gecko and I
live harmoniously together
except when he jumps out of the rubbish bin
and scuttles across the floor
like a small
translucent
crocodile

Don't mess with Um Abdallah

A quiet Wednesday at work. I receive a series of phone calls from an unknown creepy caller.

My colleagues Hamdy and Mohamed talk politely with the caller, listening to his excuses for calling eight times in five minutes – I was sure this was my cousin’s number, etc – before telling him firmly not to call again.

Um Abdullah, in the background: “Hua kaddab! Hua ibn al k***! Hua 3ayez aih??!” ("He's a liar! He's a bastard! What does he want??!")

No question who I’m asking to answer the phone the next time I receive one of those calls.

St Valentine met a sticky ending...

...and when you look at what his commemorative festival has become, you can see why.

But actually Valentine's day this year had some sweet moments for me, despite the fact that lots of people here go in for cutesy and saccharine in a big way. I'm not just talking about teenage girls, who can be forgiven for it. From the middle of January, paper hearts and flowers start creeping over restaurant windows like a fungal infestation and an army of giant red teddy bears emerge from hibernation to hold court at card shops all over the city. One has even been stationed at a local flower shop, permanently straddling a motorbike in a slightly threatening way. You gotta problem punk?

Still, this coat of sickly sweet gloss masks an inclusive outpouring of goodwill. I walk into work and Om Abdullah, beaming, proudly wishes me a happy Valentine's Day, in English. On my desk is a red rose, the attached note simply addressed to "love"; Hanaa's small act of subterfuge to push me into the arms of a Prince Charming - a huge act of love itself.

Even the most hardened cynic would be worn down by message after message on Facebook wishing a happy day not only to the couples enjoying expensive restaurants and new underwear, but to friends and family - incorporating all the different kinds of love into this day which to many is so exclusive and alienating.

Until Prince Charming comes out of hibernation with the giant red bears, what else can you do?

Mourning

It feels as though a chasm of understanding, or misunderstanding, is opening up between people of different opinions. Those who support the Revolution, those who don't; those who think the SCAF should go immediately, those who think they are still needed while the country is in a transitional period; those who think that even a weak Parliament is better than what we have now; those who believe that the country needs a strong President, those who see the position as being that of a figurehead; those who think that all the events going on in Egypt at the moment have been orchestrated by outside forces, even if they're being executed by the SCAF, or supporters of the SCAF, or supporters of Mubarak (usually referred to as thugs, or paid thugs).

Me - I don't know what to think. It feels like the world is going mad. Not just in Egypt but Syria, Nigeria, Senegal, Iran - all over the place. The more details you hear about what happened yesterday the more sinister it sounds. It's looking increasingly as though the killings at the football match in Port Said between El Masry and El Ahly were a planned massacre rather than random violence or chaos, that at the very least what happened was done with the tacit consent of the police, but - much more likely - was orchestrated by the SCAF in an attempt to give them more credibility. If the country appears to be in chaos, without a police or army presence, there's an obvious need for the SCAF to stay in power. It's a similar rationale to Mubarak releasing prisoners from jail a year ago - to make it seem as though he was the only viable alternative to chaos and the destruction of the country.

The difference then is that in the face of an obvious emergency the country pulled together. People literally took to the streets to protect their houses and neighbourhoods. Now there is a lot more mistrust and even the most well-meaning people don't know where to channel their energy. Some who were avid supporters of the Revolution are so jaded by the election process - corruption/possible distortion of the results, huge victories to the Islamists, a new Parliament that seems full of ineffectual, uninspiring members - that they feel their country has taken a massive step backwards rather than moving forward. Others recognised that it was time for Mubarak to go, that he was party to corruption and that huge injustice took place under his rule, but have always felt that the Revolution was a mistake - that even if it was justified it unleashed chaos and that its effects are destroying the country. Still others feel that continued protests in Tahrir are the only way of bringing about change and giving meaning to the loss of so many lives.

A strong, united Egypt has shown it can do incredible things. I still believe, and will always believe, that the fact that the country did NOT descend into chaos in those early days of February 2011 is a minor miracle. But people are only as strong as we are united; divide us from one another, alienate us from one another and we are weak and vulnerable. We can be manipulated as people prey on our insecurities, coerced as we are threatened with things we fear or tempted by things we want.

And it's not just in Egypt that you see this happening. The experience of being here at this time and seeing how truth can be distorted is really making me think a lot about power on a global scale and the mechanisms that keep world order as it is. Launching an unjust war in Iraq and a huge section of the population being manipulated into NOT fighting against it because they believed the government's assertions that there were weapons of mass destruction just waiting to be used by people bent on "destroying our way of life". The half-hearted additional justification that Saddam Hussein was a tyrant who did terrible things to his own people, so it was actually in the Iraqi people's best interests that we invade their country - again, something that you can believe if you have faith in the system. But if the British government, the US government, or indeed most governments were all about justice and philanthropy then what the hell were they doing in Cambodia in the 70s, or Rwanda in the 90s? Where have they been in the ongoing mess of armed conflict and rape in the Congo or Somalia and brutal repression in countries like Myanmar??

It feels ever more important at this time to choose carefully who to support and what causes to stand for. The irony is that knowing this doesn't make anything less murky or the truth any clearer.

I feel so sad at what's happening, not just in Egypt but everywhere. There's so much more to say but right now I just don't have the words.