A Long Way From Sunday

It is 30th November 1994. ‘The Internet’ does not yet exist and mobile phones are brick-like objects mostly used by tradies. I am 25, Gordon is 30. Forty sleepless hours ago we boarded a plane in Sydney with a simple goal—backpack through Africa north to south, see what happens. If we’re lucky we will find a letter or two from home waiting for us Poste Restante in a handful of cities down the length of the continent. Meanwhile we have each other, and that is all the home we need.

THE FIRST THING I NOTICE about Cairo is the abundance of men in khaki uniforms wandering around with semi-automatic rifles. Never mind how young they look, or the irrational guilt I always feel in the presence of the law—it’s the casual way they handle those things specially designed to kill human beings that gives me pause. No one else seems bothered though, least of all Gordon, so I arrange my face and adopt a nonchalant stride, because I’m here for adventure after all, and we’re not even out of the airport yet.

We collect our packs, which look almost as rough as we do after the long process of getting here, and we walk outside into an unfamiliar air. It is night, cooler than I expected for a city in the desert. The air is thick, and there is a peculiar smell. What is it? Sweet and slightly disgusting. Smells within smells. Food and garbage and humans. And something else—dust. Defi­nitely a dusty smell. But it is the noise that drives home the fact we’re in a foreign place; like nothing I have ever heard. Car horns of every conceivable pitch and tone going off in a free-for-all; a jolly, insane orchestra gone wild.

Out on the pavement we are noticed, and marked, by a flock of men who descend at once. A shameless tourist-grab. Taxi! Taxi!They are literally pushing each other out of the way. We pick a guy at random and dive into the back of his car head-first. He shoots out triumphantly from the curb, hand hard down on the horn, before we even get the doors closed. We could be in a movie, executing the perfect getaway, and I love this place already. We scream away from Cairo airport to some hotel we picked out of a travel brochure and pre-booked for two nights; our idea of a soft landing. I am asleep the second my head hits the pillow.

In the morning I am out of the twilight zone and by necessity fully present. There is no known future and the past is of little use to us in a foreign city where we have no idea what we will do after breakfast. Our bare bones plan allows us roughly six months to get to Cape Town (overland-only, for no real reason). We want to see the pyramids, the gorillas, the Masai Mara. Otherwise the itinerary is open to whim.

Five months ago we were renting a house in suburban Warriewood and looking down the barrel of a premature future of domestic tedium. We had a small-sized business, a medium-sized dog, and a large-sized aversion to the drone of lawnmowers on a Sunday afternoon. Then one day we went to see The Lion King, of all things. The next thing I knew I was getting all emotional over a bit of hand-drawn 2D artwork and some on-point music—and a fascination with Africa that had been smouldering away since I was a ten-year-old painting gorillas on my grandparents' TV trays reignited. By the time the opening scene ended, the notion of going there had grown legs and the final drumbeat in Circle of Life made it imperative. Funny to think that Hans Zimmer popped that drumbeat on the end because he was under the gun and needed to finish the arrangement in a hurry, or so the story goes. You never know what spur-of-the-moment thing will change someone’s life, do you? What might bring someone into existence. Or take someone out.

Gordon didn't hesitate, as I knew he wouldn't. After all, this is Australia in the 90s. Taking off to foreign countries is almost a rite of passage. You work and save enough to buy a backpack and a ticket out of the place and away you go. And since a ticket is usually the most expensive part of the whole operation, you make sure to go for a decent amount of time—resign from your job, let the lease go on your place, offload all your furniture to your friends.

We flew out of Sydney on a Wednesday, which is the next best thing to flying out on a Sunday, and now here we are in Cairo, just the two of us, not a lawnmower in sight and the road ahead completely uncharted. I could not be happier. For the first time ever, a decent period of time that is totally free of obligation. Sure, there have been other trips: a three-month jaunt around the USA, six-months in a van around Australia. But they were more prescribed than this, and this is Africa—ancient, exotic, wild. This is a new kind of freedom. Everything we have left behind is stacked in a modest pile in the corner of Gordon’s parents’ garage in Cremorne. Apart from our medium-sized dog. The dog we have lent to my parents.

Meanwhile my partner and best friend sits across the breakfast table from me, buttering his stale croissant, oblivious to my thoughts. We have been together for almost four years and we are always trying to get back to each other. Finally there is nothing in our way and we can just be. He feels my eyes on him, looks up, grins.

“Let the Games begin!”

Okay, maybe not so oblivious.

Now it is nudging lunchtime and we are standing before an impenetrable moving wall of traffic that is paying no heed whatsoever to even the most basic of road rules. This I know because we have been standing here watching it for the best part of ten minutes, waiting for a break in the cars, bikes, trucks and taxis weaving and dodging each other four-abreast with what I have to admit is impressive skill.

“Just walk.”

A warm breath, uncomfortably intimate, tickles the side of my neck. I turn towards a middle-aged man in a suit and eye him suspiciously. He looks remarkably normal for a madman. Somewhere on the other side of these horn-loving lunatics is the hub of Cairo and, most importantly, food. It is true our current approach may not be working, but still, there’s a chance this guy hates tourists and prefers them smeared from one end of the street to the other. I think he senses my doubt.

“Really, it is quite safe. The cars will go around you.”

Gordon’s head pokes around from the other side of me, “Righto. You first mate.”

The guy grins at that, more than pleased to be able to demonstrate. He turns toward the road and with barely a glance at the oncoming traffic, strides out among the moving vehicles and is across the street, unscathed, in the space of a held breath. He gives us a wave from the other side, prov­ing that he was not just a figment of our food-starved imaginations.

Gordon exhales, “God Almighty.”

“Yeah, well, we’re in Allah’s territory now. Unless we want to catch a taxi across the road, we don’t have much choice.”

A cab comes to an abrupt stop in front of us and cars swerve around him. “Taxi?”

“No thanks.”

“Okay. Let’s do it.” Gordon goes to step off the kerb, then leaps back as another taxi slides to a stop.

“Taxi?”

“No!”

We step off together and I envision us as cardboard cut-outs, a mere millimetre thick, barely there at all. It’s a delicate business, keeping my legs working at a steady and predictable (I hope, for the sake of all of us) pace against the whoosh of cars passing too close for comfort. I’m waiting for the sound of squealing brakes, some kind of thump, voices telling me to walk towards the light. And then in no time at all we are on the other side, our appreciation for the miracle of having survived robbed by a street vendor selling oversized barbecued cobs of corn.

“Roughage,” says Gordon through a mouthful of dry, rubbery mush totally devoid of flavour, let alone sweetness. We eat every kernel, then turn our attention to the city.

So many people, so much going on! I tune in to a whole new soundscape beneath the din of car horns: A donkey cart creaking down the street, a muezzin’s call to prayer, the mews of street cats fighting over piles of rotting garbage. We walk. Snatches of Arabic drift off the conversation of two men in long white robes passing by. Was there ever a city so alive, so dirty? Dust permeates everything. It hangs suspended in the air, tints the blue sky brown. We walk slowly, revelling in the novelty of fires burning in metal braziers along the pavement, old men lounging in dark shops sucking on giant water pipes, women head to toe in black. Ah the thrill of a foreign place, the smells! Incense and spices and the heady aromas of exotic food blended with the stink of pee in every alleyway, every nook and cranny we pass. Hawkers hover on every corner, pushing perfume, taxis, trips to the pyramids and, of course, student art.

Gordon already carries two rolls of papyrus under his arm, the result of a morning spent viewing the ‘private and exclusive’ works of an up-and-coming student of art while we were lost, somewhere between the stale croissants at the hotel and the kamikaze highway. A master of more than just painting, Ramy had rescued us with a warm welcome to Cairo, simple directions, a seemingly innocent chat. Within minutes we were following him up a rickety dark staircase into a tiny room lined with strikingly colourful murals of ancient Egypt. One depicting jackal-headed Anubis and his scales covered an entire wall. “The God of Death,” our new friend had explained, “who will weigh up the good and evil of your life and decide where you spend eternity”.

We sat on bench seats conveniently placed to sort through stacks of original paintings while Ramy refilled our glasses with a heady brew of tea and told of his struggle to make a living. We genuinely thought we were onto something special until an hour and a half later and a hundred metres down the road we ran into another student pedalling a variation of the same story and remarkably similar artwork. We are green, newly sprouted, although we do not, of course, like to think of ourselves as gullible. Nor do we spend any time on the fact that this very scheme is clearly mentioned in the Lonely Planet Guidebooks that we have been consulting for the last five months.

“Hellowhatisyourname?” A cheeky-looking kid has materialised at my side. He holds out his hand,“Baksheesh?”

He might be six, or ten. My experience with kids outside of siblings and school is non-existent. I smile, shake my head no and he shrugs and drops away. Might as well try I suppose. Even if I were inclined to hand over money to an outstretched hand, which I am not, on the whole, he doesn’t strike me as a child who might need to beg. But we represent Have here, despite being currently unemployed with no cars, no house and only a modest pile of possessions. The most valuable thing I own is the Canon camera with its big white lens carefully wrapped in a t-shirt in the daypack on my back. No one gave me the money to get here and no one will be giving me any during or after this little venture, and I am completely fine with that. I have enough savings, hopefully, to last me six months in Africa and to cover a rental bond and necessities when I get back while I look for a job. I don’t know what that lad does or doesn’t have or where he is going in his life, but I know I can leave my country whenever I want. I know I will be able to get a job when I return. My country is a democracy and while it is not perfect, it at least attempts to keep discrimination and corruption on a leash. This is what I have. This is what makes me rich.

We stop at a bank to change some traveller’s cheques, at a rate of 3.1 Egyptian pounds to the US dollar. The line is long, the wait longer. Doubtless it has something to do with the inordinate number of carbon copies that need to be generated for even the simplest transaction.

“I’m sure all those carbon copies are useful for something,” I grumble to Gordon.

“Yeah, useful as an ashtray on a motorbike.”

Back in our hotel room I consult the guidebook on a nice, cheap place closer to the action. At E£14-20 for a double, the Pensione Roma looks promising. Popular too, supposedly, which means it will be a good place to pick up information from other travellers.

“Damn. I think I’ve lost a hundred and fifty pounds!”

I look up from reading and it registers that Gordon has been searching for something for a while. His backpack is emptied onto the floor and I watch the bobbing of his closely-cropped head as he systematically picks up and shakes and delves into every article before tossing it aside. I think he would have an amazing afro if he let his black curls grow, but he can’t be convinced. His hair is clipped so short you can see glimpses of his scalp through the black waves. Now and then he sniffs. It’s unconscious; an irri­tation from smoking maybe, or a small tic. It typically appears when he’s stressed.

I grimace and say nothing about the missing money, because there’s a fair chance that whatever might come out of my mouth right now will not be helpful. If the hundred and fifty UK pounds is indeed lost, it will mean that we have managed to spend, in less than twenty-four hours since our arrival, almost one hundred times the thirty-five dollars a day that is our budget for the next six months. At this rate we won’t make it to the next country, let alone the other end of the continent.

I turn back to the guidebook and resume my hunt for new digs. The Tulip Hotel is another possibility. The rooms have balconies, and it is right on the Midan Talaat Harb, one of Central Cairo’s major intersections.

Gordon stops rifling and sits back on his heels, triumphant.

“Found it!”

Our arrival at the Pensione Roma the next afternoon is observed by a handful of cats in assorted colours and a uniform state of starvation. The door to the hotel is well-hidden, halfway down a narrow side street layered in mud and trash, with a tiny swinging sign the only clue to its existence. We open the ornate iron gate, and Gordon pushes on the heavy wooden door. It’s a Small World After All chimes out into the dingy alley.

On the other side is light and warmth. Backpackers are milling about, talking, laughing. A few are alerted by the door chime and glance our way, and we exchange brief nods and smiles. We line up at reception behind a couple negotiating storage for their bicycles. They look well-worn, like they’ve been on the road a while, and next to them we look brand new, still in our original factory packaging. We get the key to a room on the top floor.

“You’d have to be a bit mad wouldn’t you,” says Gordon once we’re out of earshot. “Riding bicycles in Africa.” I’m too busy lugging my ridicu­lously heavy pack up one steep stair to the next to do more than grunt.

Our room is large and airy with high ceiling, polished timber floors, a queen-size bed and a solid looking antique lounge chair covered in green velvet. It has the musty antique smell to match and I like it immediately. Apparently there’s a bathroom somewhere down the hall. I head over to open the window, furnished in a layer of dust, and hear the door play its freaky little tune downstairs. Down on the street below, narrow buildings stand shoulder to shoulder, their doorsteps merging onto the road where pedestrians share space with barrows and carts, chairs, stalls, bicycles, and all manner of merchandise. A shopkeeper is restacking a tower of packaged goods spilled all over the place outside his open-front shop. In the shop next to his there are woven baskets full of grains and spices, mounds of potatoes and steel wool, and something that might be soap. On the other side of the street, a man in a long white robe and skullcap is unloading a barrow of melons. Further afield, the cylindrical tower of a mosque rises up out of the hodgepodge of multi-story buildings.

Apart from the mosque, most of the buildings show serious signs of wear and tear and look to have been patched and renovated through the years with whatever material was available, the emphasis increasingly on function not form. The flat rooftops of the buildings are a world unto themselves. Some serve as extra living spaces with groups of chairs and washing lines. Others are dumping grounds for bits of old furniture and copious amounts of discarded building materials, including giant tangles of wires the likes of an electrician’s nightmare. Was there a time when this city was glorious? Some of the architecture suggests so. A more careful look reveals finely detailed fretwork, richly ornamental facades, columns, and creative eclectic architecture among the crude patching and stacking and stitching together of this and that, amid the brokenness and wornness. Beneath the infernal dust.