I set my bags down at the gate and faced the Egyptian soldier. “Nothing is impossible.”
“Where is your bus?”
I looked around for the cameras. Nope. This was real. “I don’t do buses.”
The two truck drivers that were at the gate were also scratching their heads. Again, I went through the long process of trying to explain how I travel and why. As soon as I said, “Car,” the soldier asked for papers.
“No, I don’t have a car.”
“Motorbike?”
“No I–”
“Bicycle?”
“In this heat? No, I get lifts on trucks –”
“Ah, you truck driver.”
I blinked. Do I look like a fuckin’ truck driver?
“No driving.”
“You kadari?” he pointed to his legs and walked on the spot.
Sigh. “Aiwa, kadari.”
“Impossible.”
“Nothing is impossible. Can you please let me in?”
“No key.”
This had to be a joke. The gate to the great land of Egypt was locked and the guy with the key was off on his tea break or sleeping in.
I had managed to go through the comedy that is the Sudanese border for the last two hours, walked past trucks with their drivers sitting and chatting in groups in the shade of their cabs. I greeted them in Arabic. They seemed confounded that I was walking. I’m guessing this doesn’t happen often. That everyone is either in a car, bus, truck, bike or bicycle.
After an hour’s wait, two cars showed up behind me packed with families and luggage. A short fella on the Egyptian side looking every bit the Egyptian in an Egyptian movie opened the gate.
“50 pound,” he said.
“No, I already got the visa,” I showed him on my passport.
The guy checked my visa and grinned up at me. “50 pound entry.”
What is this, a club? An amusement park?
“I don’t have 50 pounds,” I said.
“Yes, 50 pound,” he continued to grin.
I searched my pocket. I had 60 Sudanese pounds. “Can you change currency somewhere?”
“Yes,” he continued to grin, enjoying the torture. “In Sudan.”
Sigh. “You take dollars?”
“No. Egyptian pound only.”
The driver of the first vehicle had stepped out and I approached him, asking if he could change some money with me.
“What do you need?” he asked with a helpful smile.
“50 pounds.” I didn’t even know the exchange rate. “I’ve got 60 Sudanese to change.”
“Here,” he handed me an Egyptian 50 pound note. “Don’t worry about it.”
What?
This guy just offered to pay for my entry into Egypt? “Shukran! Shukran shadida!” I thanked him and gave the short fella the money. He gave me a ticket, tore the end of it and directed me to a window.
“30 pound.”
Huh? “Shu, 30 pound? I just gave you 50.”
“50 entry. 30 customs.”
I blinked. Egypt was my 20th country in three years and I had never come across such a system. I paid $20 USD for the visa in Addis and now I was also paying at the gate. But everyone was lining up to pay. My time was short as I had to beat the bus crowds otherwise I’d be stuck in a line from here to Cairo.
I approached the window.
“Do you take Sudanese pounds?”
“No. You can change dollars in the cafeteria.” He took my passport as collateral and I headed over.
“One dollar is eight pounds,” said the kid.
I handed him a $5 note. He seemed to struggle with the calculation. “Arbaim,” I said. 40. He handed me two 20s and I high-tailed it to the customs guy who gave me 10 pounds change.
I was then directed to the security check, my bags going through an X-ray machine, the first time since Singapore that my bags went through such scrutiny. I was body-searched and collected my packs.
“Where do I go?” I asked the bag man.
He pointed to an area across the tarmac. I headed over to a closed window. A bus had pulled up from the Sudanese side and people were pouring out, clambering around me and the window. A silver-headed Egyptian man lightly conversed with me.
“I am Mustafar,” he introduced himself. I saw him fill out a card and grabbed one “Don’t worry, you are first. Number one. Welcome in Egypt.”
I grinned. He was from Giza and told me how he had climbed the pyramids, sat on the top and read a book while observing all the tourists below. Another bus had pulled in and more people were clambering around the still-closed window.
I bumped into the gentleman with the striped purple shirt – Abubaker. “We meet again,” I grinned as he smiled back.
A line of about a hundred people had formed and I was number one, at least according to Mustafar. We waited by the window for about an hour. When it finally opened, the customs officer took his time to wipe down his desk, brush off his uniform, receive a glass of tea from a colleague, check that his stamp had the right date, stare at me and then take Mustafar’s passport.
Mustafar told the officer to take mine next to which the officer grinned. He did as requested and looked at my photo then at me. I was wearing my gamcha, a colourful Indian fabric I was using as a head wrap (it’s amazing how fabric can really block out the sun’s heat), sunglasses and a beard.
In my passport photo I have short hair and I’m clean-shaven.
He indicated for me to remove my wrap and sunnies. I did as commanded and smiled. He looked at the photo and then at me and then back at the photo before he grinned and stamped my visa. I breathed.
“Wait five minutes,” he said, taking the next passport, putting mine on top of Mustafar’s.
Five minutes? For what? I sat by the wall. Mustafar had disappeared but found me.
“Don’t worry, they give it back,” he assured me.
Sure enough, ten minutes later I was handed my passport.
“Welcome in Egypt!” Mustafar slapped my hand firmly.
I grinned, grabbed my packs, got his number and arranged to maybe visit him in Giza and headed off for the gate where four uniformed cops sat with Ray Ban knock-offs looking like they had stepped out of an Indiana Jones movie.
I handed over my passport.
“Where is your bus?”
Not a-fuckin’-gain. “I don’t do buses.” I went, for the seventh time that morning, through the long process of trying to explain how I travel and why. As soon as I said, “Car,” they asked for papers.
“No, I don’t have a car.”
“Motorbike?”
“No I–”
“Bicycle?”
“In this heat? No, I get lifts on trucks –”
“Ah, you truck driver.”
I blinked. Do I look like a fuckin’ truck driver?
“No driving.”
“You kadari?” The cop pointed to his legs and walked on the spot.
“Aiwa, kadari.”
“Impossible.”
“Nothing is impossible. Can I please go?”
“La wen?”
“Aswan.”
