This is Egypt. Relax!

In the morning, after rejoining my tour group, enjoying breakfast, and showing off my walking cast on which I’m forbidden to walk, we set forth by bus for the beautiful city of Alexandria, on the shores of the deep blue Mediterranean, a three-hour drive away. Much of the time is spent dozing in the bus, catching up on lost sleep. By the early afternoon, the Pink-Mobile is cruising along in the heart of the coastal city. Alexandria is vibrant and full of people, and traffic is not nearly as demented as in Cairo. It feels good to be travelling again. 

Kareem and Yasmin locate a drugstore at which I can get my prescription filled. In addition to antibiotics and analgesics, the prescription calls for a blood thinner injection which I’ve been instructed to use until I’m safely back home, in Canada. I’m enthralled by the joyous prospect of having to poke myself in the stomach every day with a sharp needle. Nevertheless, I’ll take the sharp needle over a blood clot frolicking with cheerful abandon around my brain. 

Even though VPSN Midnight Surgeon assured me I’d be able to buy this anywhere, I’m worried. I’m convinced that no friendly neighbourhood drugstore will carry this item. Back home, other than insulin, medications for injection are not easily obtainable, unless you go to a hospital pharmacy, or have them ordered specially. 

So, I extrapolate this Ontario difficulty into an Egyptian impossibility, and worry myself into a headache. Furthermore, VPSN Midnight Surgeon did not indicate the quantity of medication to dispense, nor did he sign the prescription, both of which are required by law in Ontario, and both of which escaped earlier detection by my pharmacist self, evidently asleep on the job. Anticipating nothing but problems, the headache is now joined by a churning cyclone of dread in my abdomen. I fear that Mr. Clot and I will inevitably get acquainted. 

With trepidation, I enter the bright and modern pharmacy, with Yasmin close behind me. The pharmacist, a young woman, is at the counter. I present her with the prescription and ask if she has the problematic item.

“Yes,” she replies.  

Stunned, yet pleasantly surprised, I decide to tackle the other problems. I point out the missing quantity and signature to her. In the background, Yasmin is laughing. I shoot her a look full of meaning: this is serious. She shoots one back at me: stop worrying. The pharmacist comments that the missing information doesn’t matter and asks me how much of the medication do I want. Flabbergasted, I stutter a garbled answer, after which, the pharmacist gathers my supplies, hands me the prescription back, and gets ready to ring up my purchases. 

This dispensing process is totally alien to me. Tittering like a schoolgirl, Yasmin explains to me that no official prescription is required for most drugs. People just ask for and buy what they need. As I continue to look bewildered, Yasmin simplifies this even further, “This is Egypt. Relax.” 

The pharmacist, smiling at Yasmin’s statement and nodding her head in agreement, informs me that my medication requires refrigeration. Okay, I think to myself, that shouldn’t be a problem. I’m right on that point. When staying in the hotel, the drugs will be safely stored in the room’s mini-fridge. For travel between hotels, I’ll simply carry my stash in a little cooler which is offered to me at a bargain price. The drugs are cool, I’m cool, everything’s cool. I take Yasmin’s advice. I relax.

With my acquisitions paid for, the goods are packed in the cooler.  Nothing else can stand in my way. From now on, everything will be hunky-dory. Or so I think. I’m wrong on that point. All tensed up once again, I realize that with crutches, the big drawback is that you have no free hands to carry anything of substance unless you’re a three-handed mutant, have a backpack the size of a Honda, or are “handy” at carrying things on your head. Since I’m deficient in the mutant and head-carrying departments, and don’t have the required automobile-sized bag, my tour mates come to my rescue and take turns carrying the cooler. I relax once more.

With sustained practice and concentrated effort, perhaps I could coax my body into sprouting an extra finger—after all, unwanted hair and moles have no problem growing, all on their own—but a full functioning arm and hand is definitely beyond my powers. Nevertheless, after much deliberation, I decide against trying for the finger, as I’m convinced that Fate would ensure that the digit spring forth out of the most inconvenient location, such as under the sole of my foot, or in the middle of my forehead. This latter spot, although mildly useful, would be way too tempting for others to hang coats, umbrellas, bags, snorkelling gear, or what-have-you on it, sentencing me, for the rest of the trip, to appear in pictures with the travel paraphernalia equivalent of the identity-protecting blue dot.

We ride in the Pink-Mobile for a few more kilometres, en route to our hotel, and out of the blue, someone comments that the cooler looks like the ones they use to transport organs for transplant. From then on, my stockpile of drugs, in its nifty cooler, is referred to as The Organ, Marie’s Brain, The Donor Liver, The Spare Heart, as well as other choice anatomic parts depending on the weather and the carrier’s mood. By the end of the trip, an assortment of vital organs, and some not so vital, will have been ferried about on buses, planes, and ships throughout Egypt.

Outside the bus, the scenery is sensational. We’re driving along the El-Corniche, the seaside road which boasts the Mediterranean on one side, and a multitude of hotels, restaurants, and shops on the other. The sea, enthralling by the vigour of its waves and spellbinding by its deep azure expanse, is the same sea upon which Cleopatra must have gazed, hoping to catch sight of Caesar’s ship returning from battle. I can almost see her, at the entrance of her palace, dressed in queenly regalia, recumbent on a cushioned chaise longue with fan bearers dutifully fanning away the midday heat, nibbling on figs and grapes, her anxious eyes scanning the ocean’s surface, her heart eagerly awaiting her beloved’s return. 

Okay, perhaps that particular scene never took place. Maybe Cleopatra, too busy ministering to the demands of her realm, had staff in charge of watching for incoming vessels bearing exotic merchandise, slaves, lovers, and other VIPs. Still, the imagery of the Egyptian queen yearning for her Julius is tantalizing.

The ride, along with the historical daydreaming, ends as we arrive at our hotel. After checking in and settling in my room, I explore the surroundings from my hotel window. While admiring the beautiful panoramic view with the Mediterranean on the left, and King Farouk’s Palace on the right, I notice something quite odd. It’s a palm tree, but it looks out of kilter with the rest of the landscape. Other than being very tall and big, the palm fronds are too green, and the tree is too symmetrical. 

Then it hits me. It’s a fake tree. Well, whadaya know! I’ve spotted a fake palm tree. More to the point, what is a fake palm tree doing amidst a forest of real palm trees? It’s not like there’s a lack of them anywhere and the city planners are reduced to installing manufactured ones in order to confer a tropical atmosphere to the countryside. This is baffling.  

Taking my camera and zooming in to get a better view, the fake tree now appears to be some sort of communication or transmission tower disguised as a palm tree. Is it a decoration? Attempted camouflage? Halloween for utility poles? It’s clever, whatever it is. Although, if it is camouflage, I can’t say that it’s very effective given the fact that the tower is twice the height of everything else around it. It sticks out like a dinosaur at a petting zoo. 

Doesn't exactly blend in, does it?