An Interlude in Cairo

As the plane touched down in Cairo, I looked at my watch. It was 5 a.m. on Saturday, June 2, 1967.

When we landed, only two other passengers disembarked. They were both reporters for a Los Angeles newspaper. We walked across the tarmac into a three-story building.

“Gosh, no one is here,” I murmured.

It was strange that there were no employees or any other passengers present in this gigantic international airport. Having had no access to news for the past few weeks, I guessed it was because we had arrived so early in the morning.

Finally, an official came and processed the three of us. He barely looked through my two suitcases before pointing to a Hilton shuttle car outside the main doors. My normal traveling procedure was to go to a top-rated hotel the initial night and get my bearings. Afterwards I would transfer to a youth hostel.

The Hilton had lush landscaping in all shades of green, with elaborate fountains and tall palm trees in front of the high building. My room, with tiled floors and contemporary furniture, was on the eighth floor and overlooked parts of the bustling city. After a short nap I did my laundry and immediately changed the décor to modern hippie, hanging wet clothes everywhere.

From the hotel, I strolled to the nearby American Express office. In the sixties this was the place to pick up mail and meet other travelers. On my way there I viewed an array of boarded-up shops. Piles of sandbags were placed in front of the doors. Very few people were on the streets and virtually no women.

When I arrived at the AE office, the front door was open. No one was around. No young people reading their mail, no employees standing behind the counters. I shouted “hello,” trying to rouse someone to help me. With no answer, I walked down the narrow hallway to the rear offices, calling “hello” as I went along. Finally I came to an open office and saw a middle-aged man sitting behind a desk, bent over a pile of papers.

I introduced myself and asked, “Where is everyone?”

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Shocked by his abrupt manner, I answered, “I’m looking for my mail.”

He responded, “Egypt is closed to tourists. War is about to break out!”

Once I clarified that I had just arrived that morning and had been traveling for six weeks, he calmed down. He explained that he was John Riley, the manager of the office, and said the Hilton Hotel was now the operational base for all news media, foreign diplomats, a few businessmen, and now me. Egypt had become way too dangerous. All nonessential people, even John’s wife and children, had been sent home.

“You are not to be alone on the streets at any time,” he warned and escorted me back to the hotel. When we returned to the Hilton, John introduced me to the hotel manager, Hank Adler.

“Bobbi’s by herself. Please look after her until it’s safe for her to leave Egypt,” he requested.

What luck! Hank was in his early thirties, originally from Austria, and fluent in half a dozen languages. He was about six feet tall with dark brown hair, and drop-dead gorgeous. If I had to be looked after by someone, this was the person I definitely would have chosen.

Hank said, “Although our country is on alert, we go about our daily routines as much as possible. I’m going sailing in a few minutes. Want to join me?”

“Great. I’d love that.”

His boat was close by and for a couple of hours we sailed up and down the Nile. The late afternoon sky was an unbroken expanse of blue and the day became quite hot. I was lying on my stomach on the forward platform in my white-dotted bikini, sunning myself. Raising my head, I watched the landscape change from city to farmland.

Hank clearly took “looking after me” to heart. The next day he invited me to an unusual Egyptian restaurant. It was a few miles from the streets of Giza, across the Nile from Cairo, out in the barren desert. Customers had to arrive by camel or horse.

We rode with English saddles and bridles and paced our way from the outskirts of Giza into the nearby desert. The land was flat. No dunes in sight. Our horses walked and cantered most of the way along the hard-packed sand.

When we came upon the restaurant, I was astonished to see a huge, circus-like tent, possibly three-stories high, standing by itself in the middle of the sandscape. A few horses, camels, and their assigned attendants were stationed at one side. After we dismounted, two men in starched uniforms emerged, holding the tent flaps aside for us to enter. We were greeted by many employees, who all seemed to know Hank.

“Welcome, Mr. Adler,” they murmured, bowing slightly as he passed.

Our table was a mat on a carpeted floor, surrounded by hand-woven pillows. Spoons and fingers were our utensils as we sat cross-legged on the cushions. In this elaborate atmosphere of gilded chandeliers and oriental carpets, we were the only customers.

While we ate, we were entertained by piercing music coming from a small orchestra in the rear of the tent. Soon a barefoot teenage girl, dressed in a turquoise outfit, began dancing for us. The diaphanous pants had silver beads and coins attached, hanging from the lower part of her hips. The short top covered her shoulders and stopped below her breasts, leaving her midriff bare.

She moved slowly to the music’s rhythm, softly clicking finger cymbals. She seemed to be in a trance, her body arched backward, her long hair swaying. We sat looking up at her, our eyes following her every motion. It was my first time seeing a belly dancer, and her sensual, snake-like movements captivated me. Not just her stomach, but also her hands, shoulders, and neck all stirred and twisted to the sounds of the high-pitched music.

By the time we left the restaurant, darkness had fallen. We mounted our horses and commented about the sparkling lights in the distance.

“Before we return to Cairo,” Hank said, “I want to show you Egypt’s son et lumieres program. It’s a short ride from here.”

In this historic play without actors, a tale was told using synchronized lights, recorded voices, and music. It was a narrative about a pharaoh who was entombed within the Great Pyramid of Giza. The two smaller pyramids once contained the bodies of other pharaohs.

Hundreds of folding chairs, perhaps even a thousand chairs, were lined in a semicircle in front of the three pyramids. Music played, and when a deep voice came over the loudspeaker one of the pyramids lit up. We sat on our horses watching the play with no one else in attendance. Except for us, the entire arena was empty.

After an hour, we headed for the stables. As we rode away from the lights of the pyramids, a small group of beggars approached us, their hands outstretched.

“Not today,” Hank said, shaking his head.

One of the men grabbed the reins of Hank’s horse and shouted for his men to attack. Hank raised his riding crop and smashed it over the robber’s head.

“Run, Bobbi!” he yelled. “Get out of here!”

I kicked my horse and off I went. We flew from the robbers as fast as we could go, heading toward the city lights. It was incredibly dark, lit only by a waning moon. Bending over my horse’s neck, I encouraged him to go faster. The dust from the dirt-like sand flew in the air. After a few tense minutes Hank caught up with me, and we continued at full speed.

Out of breath and with my heart pounding, we dismounted at the Giza stables. Our horses were covered in white sweat and breathing hard. We handed them to the grooms and Hank told them about the attempted robbery.

“Call a taxi,” Hank said. “We’re going back to Cairo.”

The ride to the hotel was solemn and quiet. I curled up in one corner of the back seat and mulled over the dangers we had just avoided. Hank pulled me gently toward him, and I nestled into his arms. When we reached the hotel, he hugged me goodnight.

“We’ll see each other tomorrow,” he whispered.

Дата добавления: 2015-08-27