Day 1: Cairo was as mad as everyone says it is and I loved it.
Carl approached backpacking as though it was a job, with the primary tasks of finding somewhere to stay, and getting some healthy food. The former to be accomplished prior to nightfall, and the latter, prior to passing out. After landing in Cairo, he was scuppered on the first of his tasks, since darkness had already descended.
A guy claiming to work for the tourist authority said he could book Carl into a hotel and organise a taxi. It was dark, it was strange, so he went with it. Preparation meant he knew how much he would be expected to pay and therefore ruined the guy�s plans for lining his own pockets with tourist stupidity tax.
Despite the hotel being further than stated, and in a different district, he had no complaints. The communal lounge sat on the 11th floor, which won in favour of contemplating the walls of his room on this first and lonely night. Incredibly loud Egyptian music (Walk Like an Egyptian? - Ed.) blared out to disinterested parties engaging in chess or backgammon.
The beer was good, and he soon got chatting to a stranger whose English was good enough for conversation. Taking up the invitation to meet the guy�s friends, he joined them on another table, raising laughter even from those speaking no English. They invited him to go riding around the pyramids in the next day or two, but it clashed, so he had to decline. Exhausted and happy to meet such great people on his first day, he crashed back in his room, now the proud owner of a pendant bearing indecipherable (to Carl) Arabic writing.
Day 2: The next morning I decided to go for a long walk.
Not wanting to do the traditional tourist things, Carl took a stroll towards Tahir Square. Despite people, cars, and noise being everywhere, he was in the frame of mind to take a relaxed walk and absorb the atmosphere. It was hot, dusty, and noisy, and he liked it.
Ambling around, he obviously looked lost, since a student approached claiming to point him in the direction of somewhere to get a drink and some shops to look in. Obviously mistaking lost for gullible, the affable chap thought he could make some commission by getting Carl to buy some Egyptian paintings at the shops he was recommending.
The guy�s name was Magdi, who bought Carl water, and chatted to him whilst waiting for someone to turn up. When the guy was a no-show, Carl hopped into the complete stranger�s car who drove them with mad abandon to his home district to meet some of his friends, chat, and have a beer. Magdi signed Carl�s hat, and proposed food, a trip around the pyramids, food, and food, for a complete and utter bargain-basement once-only deal. Sale ends today!
Carl accepted, grabbed his camera, and met up with Magdi, and his wife and children. Carl then found himself riding around the pyramids on a horse. On the journey back, the horse realised he was on the home straight and burst into a gallop, which Carl put a stop to pretty quickly, before realising how much fun it was, and urged the horse to continue where he left off.
Magdi picked him up in the car, and they headed back. They went to a museum, or something, I don�t know. Carl still didn�t want to buy the paintings and was full from the food earlier, and so returned to the hotel for an early night in preparation for the 4am bus journey to Tel-Aviv.
Day 3: Taxi to the Sheraton Hotel in the Giza district where the coach to Tel Aviv departs
Budget: 45-quid. Cost: 22-quid (+commission). Result: Bargain!
At the departure point, three people were waiting: a young couple from Holland, and a South African called Ingrid, who�d been travelling for 7 years (Johnny Travel advises that she picks up a map, and sharpish!).
The journey brought complaints from everyone except Carl, who thought it was great. They had to stop for tourist police escorts, and at one point had three armed police in vans in front and behind the 6-passenger minibus. Dozing off, Carl�s eyes shot open as a policemen out of uniform paced their bus with an automatic rifle. They had a tough time convincing one of the passengers this was not a hostage situation.
Border control took two hours when the transfer bus arrived. Ever-honest Carl told them he intended to work on a kibbutz; a mistake, since he only had a three month tourist visa. Consequently, they reduced it to one-month, advising him to get a working visa at Tel-Aviv.
Ingrid was going to Jerusalem, but when she saw everyone else going to Tel-Aviv, she changed her mind. She had friends there, and decided to visit them before going to Jerusalem. This was good for Carl because she pointed him in the right direction. They caught a bus from the central bus station to an area where there was a hostel that the Dutch couple recommended.
Unfortunately, they had never stayed there themselves, and such second-hand recommendations are nothing if not consistent in inventing new regrets. Carl went in to see a loudmouthed and aggressive American in the reception and a bloke doing some plastering. Well, he didn't go in to see them in particular, but that's what he got. First impressions led him to believe things did not bode well for the future. First impressions, however, flew right out the window when he was informed that it was only 5-quid a night. Both Carl and Ingrid checked in.
Later, they walked along the beachfront, chatting. It was the first time he had relaxed since leaving England. He walked her back to the hostel but it was still early, so he continued to wander around, checking out another hostel which may or may not have been better. Only details of price and quality of rooms would sway such a decision, neither of which he bothered to find out.
Getting back, and reckoning he deserved a beer, he delved into the budget and had a beer in reception. The TV was blaring MTV, some guys were playing cards and another was drinking beer. Beer was good; stronger and bigger than the 80-pence suggested. Absorbing the hostel atmosphere, he felt like somebody researching a fly-on-the-wall documentary, not having the inclination to interact, but with the camera and sound crews curiously absent.
Later, a few girls came bursting in, giving him his first insight into the hostelling scene. They basically move from one place to another picking up crappy casual work, hanging out. The irony was that you would expect travellers or people living this bohemian lifestyle to be welcoming to all others, but he got the impression that to be in, you need to be �in� - things are the same wherever you go.
The room he was in was like Carl�s favourite magazine - Men Only. He wanted an early night as he�d been up since 4, but an early night does not equate to a sleepful night. A Russian called, naturally, Sven, was below him and came in at 10.30 and then went out for a run. He�d been here for 12 months. Some others were smoking and chatting in Hebrew until 11.30, and when he eventually fell asleep, the loudest snoring in the world woke him up. He tried to bear it, couldn't, so grabbed some Apollo earplugs instead.