Our last night in Sharm
El-Sheik is upon us. To celebrate, we’re having our official farewell dinner at
a restaurant on the promenade. The group meets at the pool area, site of the
booby-trapped chair’s last stance, and where a gleaming new wheelchair awaits
me. As I get closer to the chair and get a good look at it, I almost let out a
whoop of jubilation. At last! This chair is in perfect condition, with no
missing parts, observable defects, or contrary disposition. I take a seat in
the Rolls-Royce of wheelchairs, and we leave the pool deck, traveling along the
little paths that lead toward the seashore, and merge onto the promenade, a
lengthy walkway bordering the beach.
Nothing, other than
restaurants, hotels, resorts, and the occasional dive and snorkel rental
place—should the urge strike you to go visit Quasimodo the Eel—resides on the
promenade. With that in mind, you’d think our journey would be short. But you’d
be wrong. It takes almost thirty minutes to reach our destination due to the
sheer number of said establishments. And to think that, thirty years ago, there
was a couple of dive shacks and nothing more!
At the restaurant, our table
is located on the second floor. No problem. We park the Rolls, and I crutch up
the stairs as if I’ve done this a hundred times before. But wait, I have done this a hundred times before!
That’s why my arms are the size of my thighs. What’s worse is that, with the
lack of walking in almost three weeks, my left lower leg has shrunk to the size
of one of my original arms. My arms have become legs and my legs have become
arms. How freaky is that? If all my body parts decide to switch assignments, I
can look forward to putting nail polish on my pancreas, brushing my eyeballs,
and eating my dinner through my ears. Hoping that I’ll not end up sitting on my
tonsils, I join my companions at the table.
When the main course arrives,
I’m already full from stuffing myself with the bread and hummus appetizers. I
still manage, however, to make room for the chicken, beef, lamb, vegetables,
wine, desert, and coffee in what appears to be a newly grown second stomach.
While I should be grateful that my internal organs haven’t changed their job
descriptions just yet, I’m not thrilled at the thought that they may be cloning
themselves. Just how much radiation did
I get when I was in the hospital in Cairo? The logical and analytical part of my
brain takes this opportunity to scream at me, You ninny! You’re not making any sense. Shut up and eat.
During the meal, a number of
artists perform for us, starting with the requisite—and barely clad—belly
dancer. She’s followed by a whirling Tanoura dancer who proceeds to spin away
as if drilling for oil. The magician, act number three, gains our attention with
innovative tricks and tight pants. When the Nubian dancers with their colourful
costumes, beads, and feathers finish their last number, I’m convinced that
we’ve seen every type of entertainment possible in one evening. I should know
better, by now.
A male performer enters the
dance area, wearing a long white robe with a black sash around his hips. Not
exactly sure what’s to follow, we all watch as he starts to belly dance, I mean
belly dance for real. Hip gyrations, sensual arm movements, and jiggling
posterior. And he’s really very good, much better than the girls we’ve seen up
to now.
I’m mesmerized by this
bearded man, undulating and shaking things I didn’t know a guy could shake.
He’s got all the moves and is quite amazing. Noting the stunned expression on
our faces—especially the faces of the men in our group—Yasmin explains that,
although performing male dancers are uncommon, teachers of the art of belly
dancing are mostly all men. Huh! That certainly was a fact enquiring minds
didn’t know.
The dinner, show, and
farewell celebrations ended, we gather our belongings, and make our way out of
the restaurant. My tour mates head back to the hotel, but Yasmin has other
plans for me.
“I want to show you
something,” she says, excited. “Most of the others have been there already, but
I wanted you to see it too.”
With those cryptic words,
Yasmin grabs the wheelchair into which I’ve just settled my tush, spins it
around one hundred and eighty degrees, and propels it toward the unknown. Well,
unknown to me anyway. With Yasmin pushing, and me sitting, we walk and roll for
a while, passing more restaurants and resorts, the promenade seemingly endless.
Even fuelled with plutonium, I would never have made it this far with Beatrice
and Matilda alone.
“There’s a huge shopping and
dining area not too far from here,” she explains. “It has just about
everything, even a McDonald’s.”
I had heard of such a
legendary place—the shopping venue, that is—from information gleaned during
conversations with others in the group who had made the pilgrimage to this
shopping Mecca. And I would have gone too, had I been as able-bodied as the
others. As it was, during our stay in Sharm El-Sheik, most of my free time was
spent lounging around the resort. Not a bad alternative, but now, thanks to
Yasmin, I get a chance to see the shops with my very own eyes, which luckily
haven’t yet been reassigned to perform some other body function.
We arrive at a huge
agglomeration of outdoor cafes, shops, restaurants, and people. Lots and lots
of people are milling about, buying souvenirs, enjoying late-night cappuccinos
or martinis, or just plain sightseeing. It’s after ten o’clock at night and the
place is crowded to the gills with tourists, making it a challenge for Yasmin
to guide the chair, down the main avenue, without running anyone over.
I notice several shops
selling ornate glass lamps and all kinds of stained-glass baubles and
decorations. I’m tempted to ask Yasmin to stop so that I can crutch in and
browse, but the shops are so jam-packed with customers that I doubt there’s
enough room to manoeuvre without Matilda going wild, poking and slashing her
way through the mob. We roll on without stopping.
I’m getting a bit worried
about Matilda. She’s developing a decidedly assertive temperament, almost
pushy, and possibly belligerent at times. If this keeps up, I’ll have to
consider sending her away to obedience school. I just hope that Beatrice can be
a calming influence on her in the meantime.
I know that you’re shaking
your head, esteemed reader. I also know that anyone who owns a dog would tell
me that it’s not the crutch that is the problem, it’s her handler. Just like
there are no bad dogs, just bad dog-owners, by that same reasoning, there would
be no bad crutches, just bad crutch-handlers. I beg to differ. Matilda the
crutch is behaving as though she were Beatrice’s evil twin. What I don’t
understand is why this is only now coming to light. Before the Dock of Despair,
she’d been as good-natured as her sister. If there was any poking to do, I was
the one initiating it. Now, I get bad vibes from her, as if she’s spoiling for
a fight at every occasion.
Ramses comes to mind.
Perhaps he’s trying to “take over” Matilda and bring her over to the dark side,
and thus, use her to hasten my demise by some twisted crutching accident. Or
maybe, he’ll use Matilda to frame me for some unspeakable acts of violence
perpetrated against innocent bystanders, be they of mineral, animal, or
vegetable origin. If that’s the case, then nothing on earth is safe. I ponder
all this as Yasmin and I return to the hotel.
The next morning at
breakfast, Friendly Young Waiter is nowhere to be seen. Very well then, I’m
left to my own devices. Beatrice, Matilda—under close surveillance for any sign
of malice or bellicose tendencies—and I advance to the buffet. I survey the
feast spread before my eyes, but alas, there are no pancakes or French toast in
sight. I amble around, exploring the wide array of food products on
display. One of my tour mates joins me,
acting as an impromptu waiter and loading a plate for me. With full plates, we get
back to our table and I sit down to enjoy my one egg, two slices of toast, one
banana, two pieces of melon, and a wedge of cheese. I’m nothing if not
predictable and besides, I need energy for the upcoming gold rush.
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