Hurghada, Egypt: A Stopover By The Red Sea (cont.)

The cab driver listens to Mustafah, stone-faced, and then speeds toward the “penis bar.” Ten minutes later we pull up in front of a cluster of small, occupied metal tables and chairs. Mr. Ash is waiting for us below the sign, which reads: Peanuts Bar and Grill.

If my brother were a martial artist, he would have been a boxer. No funny pajamas, no conscientious breath and open-hand, just good old fashioned, hard-panting fisticuffs. So I am confused when he orders rum with his usual beer. Only afterward do I notice Mr. Ash’s Coke has become a shade lighter. 

During Ramadan, the Muslim holy month in which the Quran was revealed, the majority of Egyptians fast from dawn until sunset. They are supposed to refrain from smoking tobacco and drinking alcohol as well. Foremost among the meanings of this custom is the teaching of self-discipline. For me, though, it is a moment of insight, of strengthened connection through the fraternal bond of cheating. Before that time, it had not occurred to me that the Muslim world-view was as individually pliable as the predominantly Christian, Western fold from which I grew. Sometimes things need to hit you in the face.

Despite the drink, Mr. Ash is anything but undisciplined. He tells us how he had come to own the Casablanca as he steers his car toward a disco. Born into extreme poverty, Mr. Ash became a gigolo as a young man, catering to middle-aged European women who came down to regain their youth or piss off their husbands. Eventually he invested the money he had saved from his tricks into the hotel. Now he spends his days ordering Mustafah around, driving his expensive car in circles. He wants to visit the U.S., but cannot even get a tourist visa without more property (enough to give him good reason to go back when it expired). Mr. Ash seems like a stuck, bored man.

I feel my age, my inhibitions and the non-stop train of liter-plus Stella bottles as I sit in the disco watching Hadwin dance.  Mr. Ash asks if I want an introduction to a desperate looking German woman in her late thirties, but his graphic depictions of his early career have left me feeling noble. I wave him away. “Get on with it, you old hound.” He probably does not hear over the music, but still gives a look as if to say, “Too easy.”

Energized by the Disco, my brother talks me into one more stop. I am sleepy but content to let the evening run its course, and I do not ask where we were going. After a drive that seems disproportionate to the size of the town, we stalk down a dark, questionable staircase, from the street, to a metal door guarded by three imposing Egyptians. They put their hands up to turn us away, but Mr. Ash speaks quickly to one, removing his hand from his pocket to shake, and the door opens in a burst of treble and sheesha smoke.

The inside of this odd cavern is set up better for a cockfight than a concert. A raised and railed bracket of concrete surrounds a miniature square, which butts up against the slightly raised stage. We note that we are the only tourists this time. The workers notice too, and immediately motion for us to be seated in the lowered quad.

“I leave you now,” Mr. Ash whispers. “It would not be good for me to sit with you.”

A classically trained Middle Eastern singer is wailing into a crackling microphone. To our soused, English-speaking ears, his voice is the splitting, ethnic culmination of every child’s movie, mummy impersonation and “King Tut” picture we have ever seen. It is important and prayerful, scary and different and pulsating!

“What’s he saying?” we ask the bearer of our drinks.

“He say to put money in the cup and then the belly dancer will come back out.”

Nodding solemnly, we contribute to the wad of piaster notes. The singer receives it with a slight bow and flexes his range one last time in an impressive wave of vibrato. After that his skills degenerate into those of a bad wedding disc jockey. He mixes Arabic and English and pleads for more money. We are breaking his heart.

 Eventually, the curtain shoots open and a vision of skin and dark hair, held together by spangled red cloth, swirls forward. She is sex and Jell-O and religion all mixed together and wrung into DNA. Hadwin falls instantly in love.

The fuss at the door starts to make more sense. It is Egypt’s holy time equivalent of a strip club. After another drink and another round of money collection, the dancer returns for a second set. She looks all the more erotic for being fairly covered. This time, we are singled out and invited to try our hips out on stage with the graceful dancer. The eyes of dozens of Egyptian men drop the curtain on that one pretty quickly, however, and we walk outside after the performance, enchanted and very tired. While we sit down to wait for a taxi, sobered by the night breeze, the dancer appears around the side of the building, covered from head to toe, and sweeps past us without a word or glance. We have no words either. Incense and tobacco dust on our clothing is still wafting up and filling our nostrils. Memories of Egypt are all returned on the heels of a smell.

Mr. Ash does not return with us. As our taxi smooshes cement pebbles deeper into the dusty streets, I look past the charm of its torn upholstery, out of the window, past the piles of defining brick to where I know the ocean is, by its shadow and its smell. Soon, the exhaust smoke and incense of the beach town will be filtered into new condominium buildings and luxury hotels. The buildings will be made whole and squared to contrast with the trash on the streets. Men like Mr. Ash will walk through them angrily, instead of owning them sweetly, and forget about his trips to the States or what might be held in common with a couple of American backpackers. Hurghada will be sucked further into the global marketplace where scuba rates will quadruple and spaghetti portions shrink.

Page 2 of 2  Previous Page

All contents copyright ©2006 Pology Magazine. Unauthorized use of any content is strictly prohibited.