I Get Bombed in Alexandria

I was surprised to see an article in my local newspaper about a trip up the Nile. The writer might just as well have copied it from a tourist magazine.

I used to live in Cairo and I’ve been up and down this amazing river several times as I have lived at both ends, both in Alex, and on the edges of Lake Tana in Ethiopia.

Floating into a harbour with half the ships sunk or partially capsized is not the best way to arrive in a country. Bombers roared overhead barely a hundred yards above us. The noise was frightful.

I dont know how one copes in a war zone. It is an absurd place where absurd things happen, and the noise and confusion is frightful.

I’m on the deck of a ship. An Israeli bomber is roaring overhead, almost within touching distance. The noise disrupts your thinking processes. You wonder what your next move should be.

We passengers rushed down the stairs to hide below.

Two minutes later, the absurdity of that decision became obvious, so we rushed back on deck.

Should we dive overboard? Probably not.

Should we stay on board? Probably not.

What should we do? Haven’t a clue.

Do we just wait to be killed? Unfortunately, the answer to that insane question can only be ‘Yes’.

Ultimately, one survives simply by luck alone, which is hardly the best way to organise one’s life.

A day later I am on the front at Alexandria. The town looks to be a tip.

My first experience with this city unfortunately is absurd. A man approaches me. “You want fucksies?”

I looked at the guy. He said it again. It sounded so absurd that I burst out laughing.

There are about six or seven of us. A decent hotel costs a fortune, so we head for a cheap one. We are offered one room for all of us, which already contains several other people, one of which is snoring with the volume of a JCB. I kick him. He rolls over but carries on making a row it would be impossible to sleep to.

I insist on a better room with no snorers.

We are shown to an empty room. “But this room is more expensive,” he says.

I flick a switch. “No it isn’t. It is cheaper.”

“It costs more.”

“There is no electricity, therefore it costs less. We pay half.” I give him my money and tell him to clear off.

The following day we take the train to Cairo.

I walk out of the station into Rameses Square. I head straight across to the opposite side, and sit at a street table by a restaurant blasting out local music. Hey, I recognise that song. It is the wonderful Fairouz. She is the number one singer across the Middle East.

I am only there a minute or two before someone sits down beside me and starts to talk. Egypt is one of those places where you are never alone.

My new friend (called Farouk) asked me where I was staying. Since I had only just arrived, my present home consisted of the chair at this table. Farouk immediately offered me a spare room in his apartment which happened to be right above this restaurant.

For the next few months I went to sleep with the amazing sounds of the local orchestras, and the wonderful voice of Fairouz drifting up from below.

I think Cairo at the time must have been just like the London Dickens describes. It was not like a city in the style I am used to. Most European cities are complete and finished products. It is as if they have been constructed, finished, and then wrapped up and placed in position. Once wrapped up you can see people moving from one wrapped up part of the city to the next, but you don't see the city itself. You don't see its inner workings. Cairo back in the sixties was like a watch with the cover taken off, or a bee-hive with the top removed and all the trays laid out so you can see the bees hard at work.

The baker is baking bread, not behind a high wall in a closed-off work area, he is busy right there just off the street. You can see him making the dough. You can see him shovelling that dough into the ovens with a long wooden spade. Further down the road you can see someone making clothes. Someone else is making shoes. Further along is someone chopping up carcasses of meat which then go into the butcher's shop.

Walking down the street is like window-shopping on the whole of the local civilisation. Just walking along with your eyes open is an education into how the city functions.

Farouk has got on to the subject of English girls. “What are English girls like?"

"Yikes, I cant answer that question. They are all different. Aren't Egyptian girls all different?"

"No, they are all the same."

I don't believe him, but then I don't know any Egyptian girls.

"I will introduce you to some and you will see."

"Are they allowed to talk to me?" I ask, looking surprised.

"Of course they are. We are not all muslims you know. We are copts. You know copts?"

"Yes, I know copts," or at least I think I do.

And so, evening after evening I am sitting at a beat-up table with my red tea listening to a whole melting pot of cultures, attitudes, beliefs, and ways of living that interweave and create an amazing polyphony of culture that makes Cairo the most amazing city I have ever lived in.

There are the muslims worshipping in the great mosques liberally scattered throughout the town. There are the copts with their totally different way of life, and culture so similar to ours, and yet still different. There are those amazing pyramids in the desert, spiking up like some theatrical backdrop to the city stage. There is the teeming anthill that is the city itself, and yet, a few miles away is the empty desert where all you can hear is the strange sound of the wind in the sand.

There is the rich cosmopolitan downtown. There is a shanty town filled with urchins. There is the whole back-office of life being lived on the streets and on the edge of the streets. There is the rich peachy imagery of Durrell oozing around everything. And then there is simply the dirty streets all around me with little carts where men are cooking food, and the smoke spills dirtily out of funny little cocked stove pipes.

It's dark, and yet not really dark because the moon is high in a clear sky. The Arabic music swirls around above me. There is little or no traffic, but a constant tread of feet along the pavement and across the square. And the dark is a comforting violet colour, while towards the desert the gum haze has evaporated into a hard directness. And amongst all this polyglot of histories, activities, and shifting images I lean back and feel more a part of the city than I have ever felt before in any other city I have lived in. I don't think I will ever go home. Why should I? I am already at home. I feel as if I have lived here for ever, and my world is already filled with amazing friends and acquaintances.