There’s nothing like that first breath of Cairo air after a month on the road in West Africa. The dust, the energy, the slightly chaotic charm—it feels good to be back.
People often ask, ‘What do parts of West Africa have in common?’ A friend once summed it up perfectly—two things. The tourism boards face uphill battles, and you’re just as likely to be robbed by the security forces as by anyone else.
I step out of a battered jalopy and gaze up at the grand old palace frontage. The Marriott. Zamalek. My R&R home for the next three nights.
In the early 2000s, I was a regular here during breaks from the harsh realities of Sharia law and Sudan’s earlier civil war. Back then, this was my sanctuary: Egyptian cotton sheets, a room service breakfast, a hot shower, working internet, a balcony view of the Nile, cold beer, the Phil Collins soundtrack, and the occasional roll of the dice in the casino. Who could ask for more…
It’s just past 10:00. The hotel kindly allows an early check-in. I unpack my month-old laundry— “dobie” as we used to call it—and head for a shave.
Abdullah is still at the hotel barbershop. His theatrical wet shave includes the removal of nose and ear hair. It’s 800 dib-dobs according to his calculator (plus baksheesh), but hey—it’s R&R.
Is the old shoeshine fellow downstairs? He is. Mustafa wears those billowy cream trousers gathered at the ankle, a white shirt, an open black waistcoat, and a fez. I sit on the old high-backed throne while he restores my boots. 200 dib-dobs, plus baksheesh… he’s an artist.
A late breakfast follows of scrambled eggs, pancakes, and decent coffee on the promenade. Three hundred dib-dobs well spent, plus baksheesh. Cairo, you’ve still got it.
Early O’clock: Running Zamalek
Sunday morning. Just after dawn, 22°C, light traffic, and I’m feeling good—perfect for a run. We head west along the Nile with the sun on our backs (you’re with me).
Weaving through Zamalek, crossing three bridges, heading toward Tahrir Square—the epicentre of Egypt’s modern history. No headphones. You need all your senses in downtown Cairo. This city doesn’t have rules; instead, it has traffic suggestions.
With any Egyptian security personnel or authorities, you must roll with it. First, there’s the uniformed black jumpers brigade and then the ever-present plainclothes brotherhood. The plainclothes fellows are easy to identify; they are short, bald, sporting proud moustaches, and all wear brown leather jackets with a half-smoked cigarette hanging from their bottom lip.
The museum doesn’t open until much later. There’s a change of shift at the perimeter involving the black jumpers. About ten of them are smoking, drinking chai, and giving instructions towards me in Arabic and English.
As my old drill sergeant used to say, we can go left [flanking], right [flanking], or, hey diddle diddle, right up the middle. So, walk confidently straight through, feigning ignorance. One man in a black jumper raises his hand and asks me where I’m going. Another joins him. At times like this, I say, “Salam, kaflik, cull sewag fee Khartoum madgenoon.” One laughs; one doesn’t. I gesture that I’m only taking a few photos of the area, and I’ll be back later when it opens. One says, “Tammam” and waves his arm. “Shukran.” I’m through…
A few hundred metres later, here we are, Tahrir Square.
The Egyptian revolution of 1919, the Egyptian revolution of 1952 (monarchy to a republic), the bread riots of 1977, the Iraq war protest of 2003, and the Arab Spring of 2011 (‘bread, freedom and dignity’) resulted in the rapid demise of Mubarak, as well as the fall of his successor, President Morsi, in 2013. If revolution had a postcode, this would be it.
Let’s jog back for breakfast.
The following afternoon…
“I need some help. Can you please give me $100 for a wheelchair?” I’d seen this elderly gentleman, who had mobility issues, using two walking sticks and an oxygen mask, struggling along the promenade at the hotel. He has a splendid mane of grey hair. He claims he has $150. He needs another $100. He looks like he’s had quite the paper round. I’m thinking, Chernobyl.
I ordered us some chai. He tells me he’s from Jordan. I share a story about once having lunch with the then-Crown Prince Abdullah, now King. He laughs at the punchline involving sheep. We’ve bonded. He quickly returns to the wheelchair. In this part of the world, it’s customary to engage in the small talk before moving to the big talk.
I tell him: if I win $100 at the casino tonight, it’s his. He puts a hand on his heart. We have a deal. A wheelchair isn’t a big ask—if the blackjack gods are kind.
You come across some characters in this hotel. Gary Kasparov once sat at the table next to mine, almost in the same spot, back in the day. I remember asking him to pass the salt. It took him 28 minutes…
That evening…
I’m quickly down to my final $10 chip. I go to the roulette table. Always bet on 22.
Round and round she goes… 37.
No wheelchair tonight. Sh*t happens.
Three days of R&R in Cairo—clean boots, good food, a sunrise run, and some unforgettable characters. There’s something timeless about this city. You never quite know what you’ll find or who you’ll meet.
Next stop, next blog: Paris.
