Cairo: The King's Jungle
45
sandals, the toes protruding. A few wore a sash around their
waists. Some had brightly colored calico skullcaps. The cheeks
of some of the darkest-skinned were scarred with deep vertical
gashes—tribal decorations. These were Sudanese, natives of
the great rich land to the south of Egypt.
In some concern I asked my Armenian friend: "Where
are you going to sleep tonight?" I had made no p lans for myself.
"I have reservations at the Continental Hotel," he said.
"Suppose I go there with you," I suggested. "If I don't get
a room, will you let me sleep on the floor?"
He smiled. "Oh, I don't think it will be that bad," he said.
And then he spoke with Armenian hospitality: "But, please,
you are welcome to use my bed. I can sleep on the floor—it
will not be a new experience for me."
More than two hours later, we were still trapped in red
tape and inefficiency in the airport. When we were finally
cleared by the customs it was ten p.m. We emerged through
the doors with a sigh of relief, only to find ourselves plunged
into a new bedlam as porters, idlers, hotel-hawkers all lunged
at our luggage at the same time, pulling us in half a dozen
different directions.
"Please, sair, my hotel is the best in Cairo, with hot water
and clean beds. . . ."
"Please, sair, there is no better hotel in Egypt. This way,
sair."
We fought our way to a taxi, carefully supervised the loading of our bags, and hurled ourselves inside. We left behind
us the jungle of Almaza Airport and two loudly protesting
nightshirted porters who had received the equivalent of a
dollar tip.
"Give them a pound,"1 the driver muttered in heavily accented English, "and they will still curse you."
Cairo, an hour or so before midnight, was wide awake.
Many shops were open and the sidewalks were crowded.
1
The Egyptian pound was then worth $4.12.