The Bus

We should have known from the drive there. But we didn’t. Like lambs on their way to the abbatoir it felt just like another outing with the family. She, he and myself along with our guide and driver floated down the highway in airconditioned air separated from Egypt by the walls and glass of the van. And then we arrived at the bus depot.

The depot was exiled to the desert for its ugliness, never to return. High walls splattered with mud encompassed a herd of small vans and the ‘facilities’. The buses themselves were banished to outside of the compound, too ugly even for these challenged surroundings.

The bus was billed as super deluxe, modern and airconditioned with washroom and movies. We’d travelled in such buses in Turkey where a steward served tea and brought warm, damp towels and cologne (a lime/menthol variety that was wonderful for coolness in the close surroundings). The side door on the Turkish behemoth opened with a hiss, like the door of the mothership, then slid sideways revealing its cool, dark interior.

The Egyptian version had a padlock on the outside. I imagined the bodies piled up behind the door after a fire, burned beyond recognition, their skeleton hands clawing at the interior begging for escape. First impressions are lasting impressions.

Bags stored below, we climbed onto the bus and noticed the carbon monoxide exhaust that swirled around the bus was even stronger inside. It drifted up throught the holes in the floor and was revealed by the sunlight that pierced the cardboard covering the former escape hatches in the ceiling. The doors on the overhead compartments hung loosely, their latches long since worn out and they would clatter their applause as we bumped down the highway. The wires for lighting had been pulled below the ceiling nad were reconnected with a twist, some with the benefit of tape, others not. It didn’t matter; none of the lights worked. The twiston/twistoff air vents were either missing or frozen closed leaving the passenger with either unrestrained wind or none.

We exchanged looks. Raised eyebrows and shrugging shoulders let each other know we weren’t expecting this. We were the only Whites on board, She the only woman, he the only child.

But the people, as through all of Egypt were outgoing and friendly. They were as curious about us as we were wary of them and their vehicle.

With a plume of smoke and a rumble from the rear, we set off, the desert beckoned. Ah well, we can endure anything for three hours.

Tourist vehicles are generally required to travel by convoy for their safety but as we were the only tourists aboard I guess we didn’t qualify. Those seeking to destabilize the economy and country strike at the pocket book first so with a fifth of the GDP coming from tourism, all tourists are potential targets. We were likely safer with our brown skinned companions than with the whiteys. Safe from terrorists anyhow.

The poor condition of the bus dipped below the surface, the mechanics were in no better state of maintenance than the lighting. We only made it as far as the first town, Kuft, about an hour down the road when the bus refused to go any farther. An English speaker confirmed “bus...kaput”. Info was pieced together from several unreliable sources and we learned that they could fix it with parts arriving soon “five, ten minutes”.

Twenty minutes later another bus pulled in and pulled close. With some chunks of cable sans clips they attempted to jumpstart it. The bus was having none of it. The shaking heads and averted glances told me we’d go no further in this bus.

The one English-speaking, suit-wearing Egyptian on the bus started to get in a small cab with several others when I tapped his shoulder and asked my family could also cab to Hurghada. “No, no, Police, no foreigners”. I think what he was trying to tell me was that a vehicle that size with foreigners needed to be in a convoy. Shit.

Deep breath. Calm. Lemons and lemonade time. I got some great pix, some ‘Mesch’ with Egyptian bread from insistent natives and a little info. “Next bus five, maybe ten minutes, maybe half hour”. Deb found a telephone number for our agent and a store willing to place a call but zero surprise that we weren’t able to contact him. We did get a hold of Gerges but as he’d already passed us off to another guy we were no longer his responsibility though he did promise to attempt to get hold of the main agent to let him know of our plight. We never heard back.

An hour later an equally decrepit bus limped into the station but no-one moved. My inquiries fell on deaf ears so I retreated once again to the shade in the dirt floor rest stop. I ambled by the bus again ten minutes later and noticed people moving a little quicker. “What’s going on”, I asked aloud to no-one in particular. One guy motions to me as if saying “come, come”. It seemed this was, in fact, the bus and people were hurriedly transferring their bags over. I jumped into the fray while yelling for She to join me. She grabs his hand and runs toward the bus, a kid from the rest stop chasing her for the two pounds (forty cents) for the tea.

She and he climbed aboard to secure seats as I ensured our bags were stowed and as soon as I stepped on the bus rumbled away. I found a seat down near Hers and found the only working speaker on the bus was directly over my head. Not bad at first as the unending vowel movements of Egyptian music whined above me. Then came the mullah. A cross between Hitler ranting and Latin benediction, it went on and on. And on. The next four hours. She thought it was a religious radio station but commercial free, I think it was one of the driver’s favourite cd’s “Ayatollah’s Top Ten”. Fortunately She had earplugs. Thank Allah.

Day ended and night began. The vista of a desert too dry for tumbleweeds vanished and with it the only light. Pools of dim blue light from a half dozen cell phones moved cautiously on the ceiling of the bus. Nothing one could read by and as the fumes hadn’t yet put me to sleep I pulled out the big gun; this computer.

Those nearby leaned over my shoulder as I began to edit pix of Egypt drawing excited “Ahs!”. I switched to music and passed the headphones around as Elvis snarled “Jailhouse Rock” . It was a hit.

We eventually made it to Hurghada and godblesshim our guy was there in spite of of three hour journey becoming eight. Gerges had apparently been able to get through to the main guy who’d called this guy who took us to Magawish resort to feast and crash.

I’ll tell you next time why I hate all-inclusives, our flight to Sharm El Sheikh and drive to Dahab where I’m now sitting on the beach contemplating the age-old question “Is it beer o’clock yet?”