Sniffer Dogs and Bubble Baths

Three and a half hours later, we land in Cairo. Security is tight here; metal detectors abound. While in the wheelchair, I’m exempted from having to go through any of them, partly because the chair wouldn’t fit, but also, with so much metal, the detector would most likely be sent spinning into orbit. 

After passing through the security checkpoints, we make our way out of the airport to the waiting bus, a bright pink and white vehicle. It’s smaller than a big bus but bigger than a large van, and is so bright that it probably doesn’t need headlights at night; it just glows. I heave, bounce, hop, and crawl into the Pink-Mobile and we depart. Throughout all of this, my ankle has remained silent but uncooperative. In other words, it’s numb and refuses to work. 

Negotiating the traffic and crowded streets, Kareem, our bus driver—and a teddy bear of a man—expertly delivers us to our hotel in the Zamalek District of Gezira Island. The hotel sits on the southern tip of the island which in turn sits in the middle of the Nile. The fact that there’s an island in the middle of Cairo, a city with a population of over sixteen million inhabitants, is news to me. With that many people traipsing about day after day, it’s surprising that the island hasn’t sunk, or at least sagged in the middle.

At the hotel gate, the bus stops and Kareem shuts off the engine. Guards, unseen until now, inspect the bus with the aid of a sniffer dog which proceeds to sniff away while circling the vehicle. He detects no explosives, yet miserably fails to pick up on the Evil emanating from my ankle. Having otherwise passed the sniffer test and inspection, we’re allowed to proceed to the hotel entrance. I circumvent another metal detector and join my group, congregating in the lobby, while Yasmin, our tour guide, handles the hotel registration and obtains our room keys. 

I take this opportunity to absorb the lavish details of the palatial foyer. Terracotta-painted walls rise up three storeys to a wood-beamed ceiling from which hangs an intricate chandelier the size of a minivan; a giant circular staircase occupies a corner of the lobby, leading the tired and weary traveller to miles of couches, chairs, and divans arranged in inviting conversational groupings. Courtesy of floor-to-ceiling windows, the far end of the lobby gives an unencumbered view of the Nile, shimmering, sporadic glints of gold darting off its surface, spawned by the afternoon sunlight. Overall impression: not too shabby.

That's one big lighting fixture!

A few minutes later, with key in hand, Yasmin graciously wheels me up to my room where, still under the delusion that my ankle is only sprained, I manage to partially unpack my suitcases and change for dinner. I decide to wear a lovely cream and purple ensemble which matches the progressively deepening violet hue of the offending limb. 

At this point, I encounter my first wardrobe problem. I can’t get my swollen left foot into my nice fancy dress shoe. I can’t even get the toes of the satanic foot into the shoe. Even though I wasn’t planning on walking per se, wearing sexy footwear would have at least boosted my morale. 

Of the seven pairs of shoes I brought along, only two fit, and then only barely. I have a choice between the walking shoes I was wearing on the plane and an old, but comfy, pair of brown sandals. I choose the sandals, causing my astute sense of fashion and colour coordination to take a jarring hit. Still, I’m optimistic that this is a temporary setback and that I’ll get to wear and enjoy my other shoes very soon. Denial is a river in Egypt and I’m presently swimming in its deepest part without a life jacket.

The dinner takes place at a lovely traditional Egyptian restaurant. We’re served appetizers of hummus, bread, stuffed eggplant, and falafels. The main course consists of grilled seasoned beef and chicken with rice and vegetables. The wine is also Egyptian which is a surprise. Up to now, I had no idea Egypt grew grapes, let alone had them in sufficient quantity to squish into delicious wine. As they say, you learn something new every day; Egypt grows grapes and makes wine, and ancient curmudgeonly pharaohs expedite curses via airplane restrooms.

The meal ends with a delectable custard dessert and lively conversation, after which, we climb aboard the Pink-Mobile and head back to the hotel via the sniffer dog entrance, where the olfactory search procedure is repeated. The dog on duty that evening seems bored out of his skull, dejected almost. Given his mood, maybe he doesn’t even bother to sniff. Maybe he just holds his breath as he walks around the bus in a sort of canine rebellion. 

My eccentric sense of humour entertains the idea that perhaps Sniffer Pooch would be more animated if I carried a doggie bag with some leftover dinner from the restaurant. Even more so if the bag contained seasoned beef laced with TNT. We would surely see action then. And I would surely see the inside of an Egyptian prison cell, the Holy Grail quest cancelled indefinitely. Sobered by that thought, I leave Sniffer Pooch to his rebellion.

After getting back to my hotel room, Yasmin comes by and provides me with a tensor bandage and some anti-inflammatory cream that she has purchased for me; items sorely lacking from my mini-drugstore. Of course, this is the one medical catastrophe I hadn’t anticipated. But then, does anyone ever expect to get hexed by a dead king and wreck their ankle inside a flying cubbyhole masquerading as a washroom? 

The bandage, the box is keen to advertise, is called Miracle. Hope flickers in my mind, but before setting the miracle in motion, I decide to take a relaxing soak in the bath—another miracle cure for untold ailments. I hop around to the bathroom, fill the bathtub with warm bubbly water, remove my outfit with the clashing peasant footwear, and manage to lower my tired self into the bubble bath.

Reclining in the warm soothing suds, I concentrate, mentally trying to compel my ankle into spontaneous healing. Even though my pharmacist self doesn’t exactly endorse non-medicated hocus-pocus, I’ll try anything at this point to restore proper limb function.

I should have spent less time meditating on the rejuvenating benefits of hot water on sore ankles, and more time thinking about the fundamental logistics of bathing. In my determination to get into the tub, I hadn’t planned on how I was going to get out of it. Because of our friend, Mr. Gravity, going down into things is usually easier than getting up out of things. So, when the time comes to vacate the tub, with the ankle still out of commission—no rejuvenation having taken place—I flop around like a beached whale, unable to rise out of the sudsy water. As this is getting me nowhere, I analyze the situation and come up with a plan. 

Step one. I congratulate myself for having left the bathroom door open, in case I need to shout for help.

Step two. I drain the tub to minimize the slipping hazard. Damaging anything else on my person is not a desirable outcome at this point.

Step three. I twist myself around in the tub until I’m on my hands and knees. Lifting back my bad leg, I heave it over the side of the tub. I’m now lying face down, straddling the edge of the bathtub, my arms and legs dangling on either side. The cold porcelain feels icy against my skin and the expected goose bumps have arrived in droves. Still hugging the bathing apparatus, I prepare for step four when there’s a knock at the bedroom door. Damnation!

“Yes?” I shout at the door from my frigid horizontal ledge. 

“Hello ma’am. Is everything all right? Is there anything that you need?” enquires a hotel employee with a singsong voice that carries well through the bedroom door and into the bathroom.

“I’m fine thanks,” I reply, trying to match the intensity of the enquiring voice. 

“Do you have enough towels? Would you like me to bring more?” sings the voice.

“No thank you, everything is fine,” I answer politely, wondering how in heaven’s name he knows I’m in the bath, and add a silent “Go away!” I swear I’m starting to get frostbite on my front half from the freezing porcelain of the tub. Undeterred, the voice-from-outside-the-door continues, “Would you like something from the kitchen perhaps?”

“I don’t need anything, thank you,” I reply with a hint of snarl. At any other time, I would have been pleased that the hotel ensures the health and safety of their ankle-challenged guests with such persistence. At this crucial time however, survival instincts have taken over and I wish they would all disappear into the nearest black hole, he, his supervisor, and the lazy Sniffer Pooch. At last, after assurances from me that I will call should I need anything, he leaves and I attempt to complete the bathtub departure process in relative peace and quiet.

Unfortunately, the hollow spot between my boobs, still wet from the luxury soak and having been forcefully squished against the smooth porcelain, has turned into a mighty suction cup. It releases with a loud resonating slurp the minute I lift myself off the tub.

Praying that my noisy boob fart will not cause a return of the voice-from-outside-the-door bearing offers of towels, breath mints, or a selection of Japanese Gazuzu knives, I pull on my pyjamas, brush my teeth, and make a bee line for the bed, hopping on my one good, and now clean, leg. 

Using Yasmin’s supplies, I lather the abominable ankle with half the tube of cream, put the Miracle bandage on, and go to sleep with hopes of complete, absolute, and total recovery by morning. I know what you’re thinking. She’s being redundant and wasting words. All three adjectives mean exactly the same thing. I figure that if I hope and pray for all three, one of them is bound to stick. . . 

Ha!