We’ve left the ship, taken a
bus to the airport, and have now boarded a plane for our flight to Sharm El-Sheik,
a resort town situated on the tip of the Sinai Peninsula, on the Red Sea. I
swear this is the exact same aircraft that we had for our trip to Abu Simbel. I
know this because I recognize the smudges on the carpet by the forward lavatory
and the scuff marks on its door, most likely the product of a wayward or badly
driven beverage cart. Since I now tend to be leery of airplane washrooms, I pay
very close attention to everything within vicinity of Lucifer’s Closets, lest I
miss any telltale signs of another incoming cataclysm.
We’ve got the same plane,
but a different crew. The flight attendant, a cheerful, pretty young woman
named Myriam, helps us settle in our seats and get ready for departure. Even
though the flight is only a half-hour long, once in the air, Myriam offers us
refreshments.
Watching her expertly
manoeuvre the beverage cart down the aisle and smoothly negotiate the ups and
downs of air turbulence, it’s obvious that the mutilation of the washroom area
was accomplished by some other crew member. It was probably Pimply Dracula of
our incoming flight to Luxor (having most likely worked on this plane at one
time or another), in a fit of anger over a poor diabetic passenger asking for a
diet cola instead of a regular one full of sugar. I can just picture the
snarling creature, incandescent with rage, hurling the cart down the aisle with
the force of a canon in full firing mode then, seconds later, disintegrating
into a mound of smouldering ashes.
“How is this possible?” you
ask. The forensic evidence will show that during the collision with the
bulkhead, the cart’s shiny surface was bent into the shape of a perfect
parabolic mirror. This mirror, angled in such a way as to catch the sun’s rays
through the portside passenger window, intensified the reflected beams toward
the vampire, hitting her squarely between the eyes. The expected reaction of
sunlight mixed with vampire ensued, thus creating the ash mound. Ah, daydreams
are such fun!
We’re now flying over the
Red Sea, and I was expecting red, or at least something with a crimson hue. The
Red Sea beneath our jet is bluer than blue. My first impression is that someone
did their laundry in it and used too much Indigo, thereby ruining it. Not so.
Supposedly, the Red Sea is named for the seasonal bloom of a scarlet-coloured
microorganism which imparts a reddish tinge to the water. Well, the
microorganism is either on strike or on vacation because it’s certainly not
blooming now.
 |
| The Red Sea which isn't red |
We land shortly thereafter
and make our way by bus to our resort. The landscape is tremendously arid with
sparse vegetation. I spot another fake palm tree. I’ve seen a few throughout
our travels, but this one has got to be the most incongruous of all, sitting
all by its lonesome in the desert, tall and majestic. It seems as out of place
as a fully lit and decorated Christmas tree would be.
As we drive on, I also spot
fake cacti arranged in pleasing patterns along the roadside. It seems to me
that in a desert region, they should at least be able to grow decent cacti
without having to resort to artificial clones. I know that cacti are
slow-growing, and given the fact that Sharm El-Sheik has only been developed
for tourists for thirty years or so, they may not have had enough time to grow
mature specimens. Still, by now, there should be some real cactus nubs visible
somewhere. With all these counterfeit plants, I dearly hope we won’t end up at
a faux hotel.
Our non-imitation resort is located
right on the beach. In addition to the beckoning sea, there’s a fabulous pool
at the resort, both of which I’m not allowed to go into yet. I’ve been told I
cannot get my foot wet for at least two weeks after the surgery and then, only
after the stitches have been removed.
This is a blessing in
disguise as I had not planned to be seen wearing my bathing suit without a bag
over my head, or an otherwise clever disguise. Even if I wore the required bag
to mask my identity, I’m now totally recognizable by my invalid attire of cast
and crutch.
Consequently, the water restriction is a welcome excuse for me not
to wear the bathing suit in the first place.
Alas, the water restriction also
came with a price. Other than the luxury soak I had in Cairo that first night,
I’ve been unable to take a shower or bath since. My ablutions have been
performed piecemeal with a sink full of water, soap, and a washcloth, using the
age-old scrubbing-while-sitting-on-the-john method.
To wash my hair, I’ve had to
kneel at the side of the tub, bend over the side and hang my head under the
faucet. Unfortunately, in some bathrooms, this method is not feasible because
some idiot architect decided to put the toilet right next to the bathtub so
that only a giraffe or someone the size of a kumquat can reach the faucet.
Washing my hair, while
kneeling inside the tub, is out of the question. For one thing, my foot and
bandages would invariably get wet. For another, I remember the last time I got
into a tub: the method of egress was less than ideal. I therefore have to
resort to cramming my head in the sink, under the tap. It’s a tight fit and my
nose gets jammed against the drain, almost requiring the use of a snorkel so as
not to drown in the running water.
After checking into the
hotel, most members of our group elect to relax for the rest of the day. There
is no pre-arranged dinner and everyone is left to their own devices. I decide
to be decadent and order dinner from room service. This way, I don’t have to
trudge down to the restaurant. Having made my selection from the menu and
phoned the kitchen to place my order, I settle down to watch a movie on television.
Dinner arrives as my stomach
starts to growl. The waiter deposits the large tray on my table and promptly
rearranges the furniture. He moves the table close to the bed, turns the TV
toward the table for a better view, and sets out the chair so that I will be
able to eat, watch the movie, and still have my foot propped up on the bed. More
ankle benefits.
I remove the metal
plate-cover from the dish and dig into a good old non-Egyptian burger and fries,
accompanied by individual servings of mustard and ketchup in cute little glass
bottles. Egyptian food is excellent, but once in a while, nothing beats a good
burger. As a redeeming factor, I also ordered hummus. So this was a
semi-Egyptian meal. Of course, the menu said hummus side dish. And of course,
the hummus came heaped in a jumbo-sized bowl and could have easily fed three
people. Three hungry people. On top of that, it came accompanied by buns. Five big
buns. The size-of-my-hand buns.
Half an hour later, the
hamburger, one bun, and a respectable amount of the hummus is safely stored
inside my now silent but satisfied stomach. I have four buns and a gallon of
hummus left over. It seems a waste to just return the leftovers to the kitchen.
Mini-fridge to the rescue. In go the buns and the hummus to be kept safely
until tomorrow. Hummus: the pre-breakfast of crutching champions!
Instead of bothering room
service to come and collect the tray, I choose to take the tray and set it
outside the door by myself. Knowing that I can’t carry it, I lift the tray from
the table and set it delicately on the tiled floor, an easy task from my sitting
position. Once standing, I use a crutch to gently nudge the tray along the
floor toward the door.
This works well but is much too
slow for my tastes. I nudge with more power like a hockey player going for a
goal. Having misjudged the force of the nudge and the slipperiness of the tiled
floor, the tray careens across the room and comes to a harsh and sudden stop
against the wall, eliciting a clatter loud enough to wake up half the mummies
in Egypt.
The tray stops, but the
items on the tray choose not to do so, deciding instead to obey the stupid laws
of physics. The cute little mustard and ketchup bottles are ejected off the
tray spinning and sliding in different directions. The mustard comes to rest
under the bed while the ketchup has managed to enter the bathroom and is stuck
behind the toilet. There’s a fork on the floor in the middle of the room, and
the plate with the remains of my dinner sits on a slant, halfway out of the
tray.
There is now frantic
pounding on the outside of my door by a gentleman from room service who just
happened to walk by the room the instant I scored the winning goal for the
Stanley Cup with its culminating thunderous crash. Sheepishly, I open the door
to the alarmed waiter who inquires if I’m all right. The metal plate-cover,
having rolled off like a hubcap after the collision, takes this opportunity to
finish its death rattle and settle noisily on the floor in front of the
startled gentleman.
After ensuring that I’m not
hurt, the man comes in, and seeing the devastation, tells me, “You should have
called us instead of trying to carry such a heavy tray. It’s lucky the tray didn’t
fall on your injured foot.”
I can only nod my head and
offer my apologies as he repatriates the contents of the tray. I help him locate
the missing condiments but can’t bring myself to explain the exact
circumstances surrounding the incident. Would he believe me anyway? And besides, it was the crutch’s fault. I
retrieve the ketchup with the aid of the guilty crutch and repeat my apologies as
the waiter leaves with the reassembled tray and a ten-dollar tip.
The next morning, I wake up
early. The breakfast arrangements for this morning are for a later meal, almost
a brunch. After my morning routine of washing-up contortions and getting
dressed, I’m already hungry, and I’ve got two hours to spare. A bun and some
hummus from the previous night tide me over until it’s time to make my way to
the main restaurant of the hotel for the actual breakfast.
Spotting some of my companions
at a nearby table, I join them for the meal. A waiter appears, serves me coffee
and offers to help me with the buffet. He’s young and looks eager to please. He
follows me with a plate and to my surprise, puts the exact food and amount on
the plate as instructed. No more, no less, no unauthorized selections. Could it
be that he has not yet been corrupted by the Egyptian Food Principle?
After touring the whole
buffet, I have one egg, two slices of toast, one banana, two pieces of melon,
and a wedge of cheese. I proceed to the table, my plate following me dutifully
without being illicitly altered. I’m seriously impressed and secretly make a
wish for this eager young waiter to be present at every breakfast buffet.
I should have remembered the
old saying: be careful what you wish for.
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