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A month or
so before our Swan Cruise ship slipped into the vast harbor of Alexandria, a
gang of Islamic extremists had invaded the resort area not far from the
pyramids and killed a number of tourists. Germans, as I recall. The idea was to
break the back of Egypt’s then highly successful and lucrative tourism industry
in an attempt to weaken and then overthrow the dictatorship of Mubarak.
We even
got a call from our travel agent telling us that we could opt out of the trip,
if we wished, with no penalty. But they noted that the US State
Department had issued no formal warning. So we decided to live dangerously.
So did most everyone one else in the hundred or so of the roster, who, it
turned out, were primarily classic, stoic Brits. Even though the British
government had issued an alert, cautioning its people about the hazards of
traveling in Egypt, these hardy folks weren’t about to be intimidated by a
bunch of radical Muslim Arabs blowing up places.
So we all
sailed out of Athens on this 18-day tour of a lifetime into Mediterranean
history, complete with books and lectures. We had pretty much forgotten the
mayhem at the pyramids, until our last port of call. As we marched down the
gangplank at Alexandria, it seemed as though we had entered another world,
another century. Half-naked men wearing only loincloths sitting crossed legged,
smoking pipes and selling stuff. Women in full religious garb. And in the midst
of it all was this modern truck loaded with teenagers all in the uniform of the
Egyptian army. They, presumably, were to be our protectors. Perhaps
personally sent by Mubarak. Each was armed with a rifle. Many of them seemed
confused about how to hold their weapon, or, God forbid, use one. They, a
bakers dozen of youngsters in khaki, were to be our constant companions during
our stay in their homeland. To guard us from the terrorists.
While
waiting for something to happen, they were mostly directing traffic away from
us. But their presence made a difference. We felt relatively secure in this
strange, embattled land. People moved out of their way. Cars dodged us. I wasn’t
sure who was in charge but the uniforms helped keep order.
And it
worked pretty well. They protected us as we visited the great museums in Cairo,
had lunch at the Hilton, and so on.
Then we
headed out to the pyramids. Everyone posed for pictures on a camel, climbed
around the religious relics, bought souvenirs. Did all the pyramids things. At
dusk we were told to get back on the buses and head to the ship in
Alexandria. “So far so good'" said one of my Brit friends and we headed
north. As darkness fell and we were speeding past those so “terrorist ridden”
resorts, I heard a cracking sound near the bus ahead of us.
“What was
that?!,” said someone. “Was it a shot?”
My God, I
thought, is this my worst nightmare coming true?
The stoic
British couple started talking about the long, happy life they had lived
together. My thoughts were a little more desperate. I ran to our driver.
”The
troops, the soldiers, where are are they?,” I asked our driver, who had pulled
up behind the stopped bus ahead.
“They went
back to the barracks for supper. They don’t work nights”. My heart palpitated.
Here we were in the blackness of this road to Alexandria, naked of any protection.
“It’s
okay,” The driver said in broken English.
“The first
bus has engine trouble and is backfiring. We’ve called for help and they’re
on the way.”
We sat
there for about an hour, and then we were on our way again to the Alexandria
harbor and then on to the fresh air and sanctity of the Mediterranean Sea,
wondering whether the soldiers, our so-called protectors, had a good dinner and
were tucked into their beds by their drill sergeant.
I can’t
help but wonder what these, “boys”, (our protectors) are up to now, as
revolution, mass murder and mayhem prevail in that once magnificent Land Of the Pharaohs.
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