Cairo

Sorry for the delay in getting started. Circumstances beyond my control.

I can't post things via my iPhone as I had hoped. That's not a problem in itself, because I've found an internet cafe. The real problem is that like most old geezers I need to look at the keyboard as I type, but most of the letters are worn off. You do get two chances though, because they are duplicated in Arabic script. Sadly that's not much use to me.

Next all the instructions and tabs on this page have mysteriously changed into Arabic. Fortunately there are plenty of people around who are extremely polite and painstakingly helpful.

It is both odd and entertaining to see a woman in a burka peering fixedly at a computer screen, then angrily berating the hapless attendant for her own lack of IT skills. Even in this increasingly homogenised 21st century world, there are still marked cultural differences to be found, and I thank God for them.

There are really only three things you need to know about Cairo:
- it's dirty
- it's hot, and
- you can't get a beer

To be fair, you can. But only if you are not sensitive to the pitying looks of the locals. They can't hide their sympathy with your affliction - and are clearly thanking Allah that they have been spared from it. They will direct you to a Western chain hotel - but that's not in the spirit of this trip and, frankly, cheating.

I arrived here on Sunday night, shortly after a bloody riot in the main square. Nobody has been able to tell me what it was all about, so you probably know more about it than I. Venturing out of my cheap hotel (which I should say is simple, clean and run by delightful people) in search of dinner, I got cut off by a second demonstration which, though boisterous, appeared to be good-natured and pro-government (if indeed there is a government). But I couldn't get back to my hotel for a couple of hours, until the police moved the demonstrators on - firing off some blanks to get everybody's attention. A young man explained the auditory differences between blanks, tracer, and live rounds. Most enlightening, and if you buy me a drink some time I might share with you my utter boredom.

The upshot was that I dined, late, on a packet of Mentoes and a Cornetto. My questioning gesture signifying "Where do I put the wrapper?" was met with a mystified stare, and an arthritic finger pointing vaguely at the gutter.

On Monday night, for the want of anything more productive to do, I went to one of the tourist hotspots. The details are neither interesing nor important. Please note: I didn't "do" it, I visited it.

Almost immediately I was scooped up by Alex. A lovely boy, with nothing on his mind but the altruistic desire to help a visitor to his city and to practice his English. I didn't really need company, or to be introduced to his many friends in the retail business who were apparently willing to offer me very good prices for things I neither needed nor wanted.

But I figured: what the hell, I'm going to get hustled whatever I do so I might as well choose my own hustler and let him show me around. I could sense that he was faintly disappointed with my lack of acquisitiveness, but he kept up an entertaining and improbable patter and fended off other would-be guides.

At the end of the evening, he sorrowfully showed me a picture of a 4-year old child taken at least 25 years ago. "This is my daughter." "Very pretty. How old is she?" "Two."

It was all rather touchingly transparent so I got my bid in first. Proffering a couple of small notes, I said: "Thank you for all your help Alex. I know you won't accept money for yourself, but please take this for your little girl." He seemed to find that acceptable, so for the price of a beer (which I didn't get) I had the company of an engaging young man, and a painless visit to an interesting part of town - without the need to be rude to anybody. Worth every piastre.
He wanted to send me more pictures of his daughter, but unfortunately I think I misspelt my email address.
There aren't many tourists in town, so the pickings are slim, and the hustlers are having to work overtime.

Some normal stuff has happened since I got here, fairly mundane, but I'll set them down for the record:, e.g:

- I was passed by a convoy of 12 large prison lorries, packed to the roof with malefactors or, more likely, peaceful protesters caught up in the aggro caused by a minority of armed troublemakers. Apparently there are people paid by Mubarak loyalists to do just that.
- an interesting metro journey. Quite how I managed to take three different trains, in both directions on the same track and passing my point of origin twice, will have to remain one of those mysteries of the dark continent. All this on a line which only went east-west or west-east. No branches, no changes required, just a bamboozled foreigner who fortunately had time on his hands.
- having explored the line in both directions, one of them twice, I found myself the only man in my carriage and the focus of dozens of horrified female eyes (two per female). One of them (females not eyes) hesitantly approached me and politely explained from behind her veil: "Lady carriage." Funny old world.

Enough already. This was supposed to be pithy. From now on I'll try to stick to the highlights. Next time I've got a great bit of name-dropping to do. If it's good enough for Paul Theroux, it's venial enough for me.

Mind how you go,

Chris