Through A Black Iris

Through a Black Iris

Through a Black Iris

Alick Chingapi

Copyright © 2017 Alick Chingapi

Published by Alick Chingapi Publishing at Smashwords

First edition 2017

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system without permission from the copyright holder.

The Author has made every effort to trace and acknowledge sources/resources/individuals. In the event that any images/information have been incorrectly attributed or credited, the Author will be pleased to rectify these omissions at the earliest opportunity.

Published by Author using Reach Publishers’ services,

P O Box 1384, Wandsbeck, South Africa, 3631

Printed and bound by Novus Print Solutions

Edited by Vanessa Finaughty for Reach Publishers

Cover designed by Reach Publishers

Website: www.reachpublishers.co.za

E-mail: reach@webstorm.co.za

"I don’t spend money on travel; I consider it an investment in myself..."

Marta Vagas (Traveller)

"If you don’t like someone’s story, write your own."

Chinuba Achebe (African Writer)

Contents

Rejection at Bugesera Camp

The Distractions of the Giza Governorate

2.1 Sinai Ferry to Sudan

Sudan...Breaking the Stereotype

Disillusionment in Addis

Nairobi, Land of the Langata Lions

Uganda, the Colour of Green

6.1 Seven Hills of Kampala

A Thousand Hills of Hope

Byon Amagara – Piece of Heaven

8.1 The Bumpy Road to Dar

Deep Fried in Tanzania

9.1 The Great Tazara Line

Tantrum Tears in Zambia

10.1 Tears of Zambezi

Namibia, Land of the Brave

11.1 Land of the Desert Lion

South Africa

12.1 The Students Speak in Silent Voices

Into the Mountain Kingdom

13.1 Lifeline to Gauteng

The ‘Bread Basket’ of Africa

14.1 A Travel Back in Time

1

Rejection at Bugesera Camp

The policeman accompanies me to a mud hut along the fence, outside the camp where there are other people seated and waiting to be assisted. By now, he has taken my passport and given it to another man dressed in plain clothes, who seems to be commanding things at the mud hut.

Please sit. I will be with you shortly, the man says, pointing to a place on the bench in the hut.

The hut is close to dilapidation, as one section of the wall has broken down and there is no door. Two more men join the man in charge and peruse my passport, page by page. One of them, wearing sunglasses, approaches the bench, points to my bag and motions me to bring it to him. My bag’s contents are emptied out and thoroughly examined and my passport is flipped through page by page. I stand in trepidation and shock as my turquoise satchel is searched. I feel embarrassed, angry and annoyed when the three men peruse my passport while this middle-aged man, claiming to be a policeman, proceeds to view all the photographs on my camera. I am very uneasy with this as he scrolls through my photos.

Please stop; you can’t look through my camera. Are you police? I ask with some defiance as I try to get my camera back.

I am plain clothes, please, he says and moves away from me, holding the camera. He calls the one man who accompanied him, then points to a picture on my camera and they smile together.

I cringe at the thought that they might be smiling at a photo of some of my female friends. I feel quite humiliated and scared that they might find a photo they don’t like and begin to question me. As the ‘policeman’ methodically scans the photos on my camera, I panic and slide my hands into my shorts pockets and begin to delete the photos I have on my phone. I also delete notes I have compiled about Rwanda since I arrived, in case the overzealous policeman decides to view my phone and sees the notes on Rwanda and Paul Kagame. I am being paranoid, but I have never trusted policemen, especially as a black man. I do not want to be caught with anything that might be deemed anything but legal, including the contents and notes on my phone.

I count five people now, each having a turn to go through my passport. The man in charge calls me to him, outside the hut.

How did you find out about this place?

I found it on the internet, on Google, I reply, with some trepidation. I am surprised by how shaken I am.

What do you want here? he barks.

I came to see the refugee camp before I volunteer.

Wait here, he says and walks away with my passport.

Please may I have my passport back? I plead.

How did you find out about this place? he repeats in a stern voice, ignoring my plea.

I found it on the internet; I Googled this place, I tell him.

This place! He points to the campsite. This place; the internet? What do you want here? He stares at me through his glasses.

Please, may I go? All I wanted was to see this place before I volunteer.

I am visibly panicked; my hands are clammy. This has only ever happened once; the day I took my first HIV test when I was a teenager. The nurse who took the blood sample asked the questions in such a judgemental manner and made me feel as if I was HIV positive and doomed to death. At that moment, my hands were cold and clammy in fear of being HIV positive, even though I knew I was not.

I stand there as the man walks away towards some cars in the distance. I walk about on the same spot, kicking up the red, damp soil that was blessed earlier with moisture. I am panicking while I think of multiple scenarios why they would want to hold onto my passport and question me like this. All the other people who were seated on the bench with me have left. As I stand there, the short man with glasses comes to me with my passport in hand.

Hello, my friend, he says.

Please, may I have my passport? I would like to leave now, I say, my voice shaky.

No, my friend, relax. Do you have a contact here? he asks.

No, I respond.

Do you know anyone in the camp?

No.

And you say you are from where? he asks.

I explain that I am travelling and where I have come from and that I want to see the camp before I volunteer. Eventually, one of the men, dressed in a nylon red and white tracksuit top and jeans, walks up to me where I am now seated sit on the bench in the dilapidated mud hut.

Good afternoon, he says as he nonchalantly waves my passport.

I return the pleasantries, waiting for the outcome.

Feel free, my friend; don’t be scared, he says.

How can I feel free when I feel that you are treating me as if I have committed a crime? I ask.

I just have to check this out; come with me this side. He beckons me towards a metal shed.

I motion to the ‘policeman’ whether I can take my satchel and its contents, and head to the metal shed. There is nothing of significance; just a desk and two chairs. The shed seems to serve as an office and a storeroom, as there are multiple bags on one side. I am motioned to sit and I oblige. At this moment, I question whether I have made the right decision. Was my coming to this refugee camp truly out of a notion to volunteer or was it to get a story to tell of the tales of Africa and how we treat each other in refugee camps?

So who is your contact in Rwanda?

I don’t have one; I just arrived. It is my first time in Rwanda.

Do you know anyone in the UN or WHO? he asks as he points towards the cars with the signage on them.

No, no. It dawns on me how dodgy I sound and look. No contacts; no affiliation; a random guy coming all the way to the border to volunteer. For a second, an imaginary scene of me being accused of being a spy plays out in my head and the panic begins to build up. The fact that I am not holding onto my passport makes me even more wary.

Why didn’t you apply to the UNHCR office in Kigali?

That is the moment I feel dumb. Of course, being UN, I can’t just arrive and offer to help or even see anything.

I didn’t know who to go to, so I came here first to see before volunteering.

How did you find out about this place? He repeats the same question.

Google. When they ask this, I wonder if the location of refugee camps is meant to be secret.

What do you want here?

This is the fifth time I have had to answer this question in the last forty-five minutes and it reaffirms my fears - I made the wrong decision in being impetuous and coming to this refugee camp. It does not seem that I will be allowed in. The man in the red and white tracksuit top keeps perusing my passport and staring at the details page.

I wanted to find out if I can volunteer. I wanted to see the place before I volunteered, I say.

The man exits the shed and I wait for ten minutes before he comes back and asks the same questions before proceeding to record my details in a book. The questioning begins to go downhill.

Who do you know in the camp? he asks.

No one, I respond.

Do you have a contact at UN or UNICEF? he asks. The same questions are repeated again. Who is your contact in Rwanda?

No one, I reply.

What is your phone number in Rwanda?

I don’t have one, I retort.

By now, I am in a cold sweat and my palms are sticky. I can begin to see how my presence here looks suspicious; a man from Zimbabwe with no contacts or credentials to speak of, coming to volunteer at a refugee camp housing people fleeing Burundi that is situated some way out in the middle of nowhere in Rwanda. As I listen to myself, I realise how odd this situation is and begin to wonder if I will be let go, since the man is holding onto my passport.

Please may I go? I ask as I squirm in the chair, my heart beating rapidly as I think of the worst-case scenario. My mind races. They might think I am a spy. I should have asked around in Kigali first before impulsively getting on a bus and coming here. The man ignores me as he continues to write in a book. I am feeling defeated and wondering why he is taking down my details. All I want to do now is leave. I look at my phone and realise that it has been an hour and a half since I arrived at the campsite. Given that it took nearly four hours to get here, I am wary of the return trip, since this is not a place for me to spend the night. I am anxious to leave now. The man stands up and goes outside with my passport. I wait and wait. Time drags on as I wait for him to return. After more anxious minutes, the short man in the tracksuit returns.

My friend, you can’t come into the camp. You need to go back to Kigali to the UNHCR and get permission before coming here, he says and waves my passport in his hand. You can’t just come here; we don’t know you or what you could do.

I feel dumb... of course, being UN, I can’t just arrive and offer to help or even see anything. It is a moment of clarity of my stupidity and impetuousness.

I wait and wait. It’s now approaching two hours since I arrived and was detained and questioned. As I sit in the shed, the man stands up, hands over my passport and tells me I am free to leave, without entering the camp. I am more than relieved and quickly walk out of the shed and head back, retracing the steps I took to this place since being dropped off by the driver of the boda boda – the local name for the motorbikes used as taxis in East Africa.

The village, the market, the dirty schoolchildren, mud huts and NGO cars driving past are a blur in my haze of embarrassment. I feel so humiliated and angry with myself, because my logic and common sense deserted me. I manage to get a boda boda back to the main road and onto a bus. I sit in disappointment on a four-hour bus ride back to Kigali and honestly want to catch the first flight out tomorrow morning, such is my embarrassment. The little towns that we passed through on the way to Kirehe add to the length of the trip and I don’t enjoy the scenes while I beat myself up for being so silly.

2

The Distractions of the Giza Governorate

Some weeks before my unsuccessful visit to the Bugesera refugee camp, I set out to explore and see other African countries with my own eyes. As an African, I figure I owed it to myself to see how the rest of my homeland and continent is. If the stereotypes hold true: are we the dark continent? As a black man travelling, would I be treated differently to a Western, fair-skinned traveller? After a fourteen-hour sleep-deprived flight, seated in the last seat before the toilet – the aisle – I arrived at Cairo Airport. There is no greater torture on a long-haul flight than sitting by the aisle next to the toilet. I was sleep-deprived and in a foul mood despite the excitement of having landed in Cairo, the City of Pharaohs and Gods.

Stepping off Emirates airline, with the cool morning breeze blowing by, I feel a sense of excitement. Walking into the immigration hall, I cannot help but notice that I am one of a handful of dark-skinned – black – people there. There is a group of what I guess to be Sudanese men in the line next to me and a horde of Japanese and Chinese tourists, some dressed in multiple colours – colour blocking; pink tights, green socks and yellow jacket - a cacophony of colours to the senses. The lines move slowly and my eyes wander up and down each line that is being served by the immigration officials as children run around and mothers try to keep them in check. Arabic; Arabic; Arabic; the language of choice – conversations go back and forth amongst the Egyptians in front of and behind me in the line. I am excited; the Nile beckons. I have made it to Egypt.

My turn eventually comes to check in with the immigration official and this is when the fun begins. The Egyptian immigration officer takes my passport and flips through the pages until he finds the visa and then looks at me, comparing the passport photo with the long-haired man in front of him. After five minutes of typing away and checking my passport, he calls another official to look at my passport, and they talk animatedly in Arabic before he stamps it and lets me through.

Excuse me, sir, please let me check your bag, an immigration official says when I pick up my blue rucksack at the carousel.

I oblige and another official beckons for my passport as they rifle through my rucksack. Part of me wonders why I am the only one selected, as other people leave with bigger luggage than mine. Another immigration official proceeds to motion me for a pat-down! Somehow, I am not surprised; with my Zimbabwean passport, my looks and the current immigration issues surrounding the North African countries, I sure do look like a candidate trying to make my way to Europe via the Egyptian coast. After the formalities of the pat-down and the search, I walk through the exit hall, to be greeted by the usual taxi signs. A man wearing a suit with an eagle emblem on his jacket approaches me to offer a taxi service.

Good morning, sir; I work with the government and we offer government-approved taxi services, the man says.

I am fine; I am waiting for a friend, I say, wary of accepting offers first time around.

We offer government-approved taxis; we are safer than the other taxis. They are dangerous. He tries to convince me to take his taxi service.

I politely decline and wait near the exit for ten minutes, looking anxiously for anyone else with a friendly face. I eventually cave in and look for the ‘government official’. We walk outside together into the parking lot while he writes up a receipt and talks to an old man with an incessant cough who turns out to be the taxi driver. We agree on a price as I realise that an old, beaten-up rusted Peugeot is the carrier of choice and I am beyond surprise. I figure that this cannot be right; I have been duped – that was no government official; just a man acting as a front for his friends and soliciting passengers for them. I set off in the taxi, trying to explain to the old man that I want to be dropped off in downtown Cairo, as Arabic music blares intermittently from the car radio. He cannot speak English and I cannot speak Arabic, so we cannot understand each other at all. By now, that initial breeze is not cool, but rather cold, and it dawns on me that I have not packed any warm clothing, as I forgot that it is winter in Egypt despite the clear day and brightly shining sun.

I console myself with viewing Cairo, deemed the epitome of African civilisation with its world-famous pyramids and Library of Alexandria. Nicely paved roads appear as we wind our way out of the airport towards the city. Then the madness begins as we are stuck in traffic and it seems no one uses their indicator. The cars are weaving left, right, left, right and the constant hooting makes my legs curl involuntarily as the old Peugeot lurches forward and constantly stops inches from denting the cars in front of us. The hooting is incessant, as is his coughing, but somehow the old man seems to understand what the hooting means - some form of code between Egyptian drivers. By now, my motion sickness and slight fear of being in the passenger seat of unknown drivers is creeping up on me. The traffic clears up and the old man lurches the car into gear quickly when we enter a tunnel that seems to go on for a while. My stomach is turning and I am fearful that I might not survive my first day in Cairo.

Old English-style buildings come into view as well as Arabic street signs; I have truly arrived in Cairo. After what seems like an eternity of going down back alleys and wrong streets, I am eventually dropped off at a modern-looking building overlooking the Egyptian Museum of Antiquities, as well as the local bus station - the ideal location. I exit the taxi and proceed to give the old man a hundred and seventy Egyptian pounds as stated by the ‘government official’ and agreed upon at the airport. He scowls at me, demanding more money, saying ‘tip, tip’, which seems to be the only English word he knows. I have some extra pounds to give him and then pick up my bags and head into the building to find my lodgings where I will be for the next couple of days. I am not impressed by the taxi driver’s behaviour but am too relieved to be here to dwell on this misunderstanding.

From the tenth floor of the building, I can see the Nile, the river of my dreams, the lover of the Egyptian people, life to the desert. The Ramses Hotel and the Nile Hotel; magnificent opulence for the man with a deep wallet. The Cairo Tower is across the Nile; a lone beauty, it stands. On the other side, in dire contrast, satellite dishes litter every building in sight. Dirt and rubble… dilapidation might be closer to an accurate description. I am exhausted from the lack of sleep and the early morning hustle to get from the airport and I crawl into bed and pass out, even though it is midday.

I awake later in the day as the sun is setting and the noise in the streets seems to be reaching its zenith as the traffic has increased with people making their way home from work. I take a walk down the dirt-lined streets, observing old men having tea in glasses on the streets and shisha being smoked to warm the lungs. The streets are abuzz with old cars in their final throes being patched up. Hammers, panel-beaten rusted Peugeots and engine parts are strewn across the road. After locating a nondescript grocery store to purchase some water and bread rolls, I head back to the hostel to try to get more sleep and prepare for the next day, as I want to attain my Sudan visa. The night is peppered with the sounds of cars honking and children screaming joyfully as they run in the streets. I go to sleep comforted by the excitement of being in a new country.

The next morning, I ask the lady at the front desk to translate the words ‘Sudan Embassy’ into Arabic for me before I set out. Waala is her name and long, flowing jet-black hair flows past her round face just over her shoulders. She is still dressed in the same red hoodie and jeans from yesterday as she sleepily yawns while writing in Arabic for me. I figured this would make my life easier, given the previous day’s experience with the taxi driver. It is chilly when I step outside the building and I rue not having brought a jacket with me. Hooting and dangerous overtaking manoeuvres are the order of day on the taxi ride through the Giza Governorate, with men and women hustling and bustling about. I cannot help but feel like a stranger - there are no black people anywhere and I am sure that, once I am on the streets, I will stand out like a flaw on a perfect white painting. The taxi driver seems friendly enough, even though he keeps saying ‘no English’ to me each time I try to engage in conversation. After being lost in the city for a while, we arrive at the Sudan Embassy in an area as dirty and indifferent as the other parts of Cairo we drove through. The red, white, black and green flag is as still as the four security guards outside the building. The lack of activity around the building alarms me, and I decide to stay in the taxi and ask the guards questions while in the taxi.

Good morning, I am here to apply for a visa, I say.

The guards shake their heads, point to the gates and speak in Arabic to the taxi driver. They motion that today the embassy is closed and I should come back two days from now! This conversation is carried out using hand signals, pointing and some extremely bad English on the part of the security guards and the taxi driver. I am confused, since this is my first time in a Muslim country and I did not know that the work week is different and Sudan also abides by that. Friday and Saturday are a weekend, and I can only come back to the embassy on Sunday to apply for my visa.

I don’t know if there is a feeling as bad as feeling helpless and lost while in another country, when you don’t understand the language at all. I am a bit frustrated, as that means a day lost and nothing gained. Back at the hostel, after another incoherent shouting match with another taxi driver about the price, I decide to visit the National Antiquities Museum, since it is around the corner. The traffic is beyond daunting, with honking, screeching and men on motorbikes with wives and kids. I stand at the corner trying to find a gap in the traffic so I can make it safely across the road. However, I lack the courageous skill of the locals to walk across the roads and stare down the traffic like a matador daunting an enraged bull. An old man with beige pants and shirt to match and silver hair with a receding highlights approaches me.

Good afternoon; are you trying to go see the museum?

Yes, I respond, excited that he speaks English. The little joys and comfort of finding someone who speaks the same language as you in a foreign country.

They are about to close soon and there won’t be enough time for you to see the nicer of the monuments. I suggest that you visit town and see curios.

I am hesitant, but at his advanced age I do not suspect ulterior motives.

My wife has a curio shop just around the corner that you can visit and see for yourself. It is a government-controlled shop and, thus, the prices are regulated by the government.

The words ‘government-controlled’ give me comfort and I decide to follow him to the curio shop. We walk past menacing, rusting metal structures with barbed wire and I wonder if these are remnants of the protests that happened in Tahrir Square. We cross into an empty street, towards a shop with all manner of curios, pyramids, eyes of Horus, miniatures of pharaohs and papyrus paintings on display at the entrance. The shop smells delightful and very foreign. I am soon to find out that it is Egyptian non-alcoholic perfumes and oils. A young man named Yousuf introduces himself as the old man excuses himself to leave on urgent business. Yousuf claims this is his gift shop and he manages it with his cousin.

Where are you from, my friend? he asks. He sports a gleaming set of gnashers with unmissable stains, most likely from smoking.

Zimbabwe. Do you know where that is? I respond.

Yes, you are from Africa. We are cousins; you look like us - Nubian. He points to his darker skin complexion.

I am not sure if this is some form of flattery that should entice me to buy some curios or just excitement at seeing a foreigner with the same skin shade. What’s a trip to Egypt without bargaining for some curios? My eyes light up at the colours and scents, while Yousuf offers me tea and pampers me as he bargains for the curios. I have no intention of buying anything, but, after a while, Yousuf’s persistence pays off and I purchase some mini pyramids for my loved ones. Yousuf claims to have no change, as he tries to get me to purchase some of the non-alcoholic perfumes. As I walk around the shop, I note a picture on the wall showing Yousuf and the old man who accompanied me to the shop; his father, I figure. He hands me a business card and a brochure with a list of all the perfumes on offer, while he brings out a tray with samples.

Try this, my friend, he says, placing some drops of Lotus Flower on my wrists; made from the juice of the lotus, it is light and sweet smelling, and not overpowering. Despite the scent-infused atmosphere, the Lotus Flower pierces its way from my wrists into my nostrils and tickles them into a slight euphoria. I am tempted, but I have a long journey ahead of me and cannot afford to carry breakables in my backpack for that long. I regretfully decline, promising myself I will find a reason to come back to Egypt so I can purchase these scents. Two hundred Egyptian pounds the poorer, but none the wiser, I exit the shop with curios and head to the hostel.

I sit in the TV room at the hostel with my bowl of locally sourced koshary, a Cairo delicacy, I am led to believe. I opted for a vegetarian option of rice, lentils, pasta and a hot sauce to top it off; a cheap meal to complement the low-budget lifestyle I am living. The stationary cruise ships on the Nile bob silently, white elephants drawn stationary by the economy. The red streaks of traffic across the bridges over the Nile give some colour to the descending darkness.

****

It’s another cold morning in the land of pharaohs as I am awoken by the first prayers of the morning. The mosque next to the hostel has a generous public announcement system and the muezzin’s voice can be heard loudly and clear, even in my deepest dreams. The hostel is very quiet and I don’t see or note any other guests besides a trio of Japanese backpackers. A sense of loneliness begins to creep into my mind. I was expecting to be a lone traveller, but, as a social creature, I expected to find fellow travellers in this bustling tourist capital of North Africa. The day is spent walking around and going down streets, trying to orient myself in downtown Cairo. I walk past Tahrir Square; magnificent, the hub of activity, with The Carlton Hotel in the background and policemen dressed in black pants and matching jerseys to keep out the cold. I walk down one of many streets that lead from Tahrir Square, into human traffic. I end up at a patisserie that has a line of people stretching outside the shop and I am intrigued as to what would cause such a fuss. Much to my surprise, in this cold weather – cold for me, anyway – the long line and fuss is for ice cream. Mums and dads are with little children, who are running around and screaming in delight as they hold cones with various colours of flavoured ice cream. On the way back to the hostel, while I wait to cross the street, I stand and try to enjoy the bright sunshine despite the chill in the air. My dark skin cannot absorb the warmth of the sun fast enough for me.

An Egyptian man with curly hair and a black leather jacket walks beside me and greets me. Good afternoon, my friend.

Hi, I reply.

My name is Mohammed and I can show you a place to get nice things. My friend has a shop that is government-controlled and has nice perfumes, oils and curios.

I see no harm or foul, as I am near the hostel; however, I am wary and I am not going to be fooled twice into buying curios.

Come, come, my friend. He beckons me into a shop, similar to the one I visited yesterday, and introduces me to his ‘friend’.

The shop faces the National Antiquities Museum, with plenty of human traffic - an ideal location for business. The same aromatic and beautiful oil perfume scents fill the room, and I am taken from item to item, with the shop owner trying as best as he can to get a sale. By now, Mohammed has left and gone his merry way. I was to see Mohammed every day afterwards as I walked past this shop, seated outside. I figured he was the owner and it had been a ruse to get me into the shop and buy curios. He never greeted or acknowledged my presence post that day.

Later in the afternoon, I meet up with Moody, a local Egyptian guide whom I befriended on a couch-surfing website. A thirty-two-year-old, balding, stocky Egyptian man built like a rugby prop, he was born in Egypt, but grew up and was educated in the UK and is fluent in English and Arabic. He was going to show me around Nasr City and give me a guided tour of the National Antiquities Museum on another day. The drive to Nasr City is long and I still cannot orient myself; roads over roads and old buildings. When I ask Moody why there are so many old buildings, he explains that buildings that are more than a hundred years old can be granted monument status by the government and, therefore, cannot be broken down for rebuilding or modification.

By now, the sun has set and the visit to Nasr City is carried out in the bright lights of Cairo.

There is a thriving community of Asians who serve the most delectable food, Moody says, performing the Egyptian driving manoeuvres that I cannot get used to.

I clench the door handle tightly and tense my stomach at the stomach-turning turns and hooting and screeching. Nasr City was established in the 1960s, but now has an increasing population of Asians. This place serves a combination of Far Eastern cultures – Thai, Chinese and Indonesian. This is supported by the number of dining establishments that we drive past with their specialities on display outside.

We stop at one of these restaurants that Moody seems to frequent and I randomly pick what looks appetising from the menu, given that I don’t understand Thai – I think it was Thai. I randomly select a meal based on the pictures and it turns out well for me. It is a delectable meal of stir-fried rice and chicken with hot soup. Despite the lack of grand décor, seated on plastic chairs and with a cheap chequered cover over the table, with a view into what is possibly an unsanitary kitchen, the cook clearly has talent.

Moody and I head out to purchase some duty-free alcohol at the City Stars Mall, which feels like any other mall except for the security, which includes sniffer dogs and metal-detecting machines! We want to purchase forbidden alcohol such as Absolut vodka and Jack Daniels at the duty-free shop. There is strong control on imported alcohol and one cannot buy it outside a duty-free shop. As a foreigner, I can purchase a certain amount of the legally imported alcohol within forty-eight hours of my arrival in the country at any of the duty-free shops, and one is conveniently located in the City Stars Mall. It is either that or experimenting with the local wine and beer. A law was established in 1979 that prevents the sale of alcohol to Egyptians as well as the local Christian population during the Ramadan and Islamic holy days.

It is because the faith of the country is Islam mainly and also to protect the local industries, Moody responds when I inquire about why there are be strict regulations.

The City Stars Mall is no different to any other mall one visits in a tourist city. Grandiose, elegant and mostly overpriced to cater for the tourist population. Plenty of families abound and there is the usual chaos of children running around and ladies in jibabs and hijabs, while some ladies dress in a more Western way, in jeans, but still with the hijab.

What happened with the revolution; were you part of it? I decide to engage Moody on this topic, as Tahrir Square was the focal point of the protests that gripped Egypt in 2011. In a couple of days, it would mark five years since the protests and its effects were still being felt up to today, especially with the tourism numbers not having reached the same levels since pre-2011.

Yes, I was involved; a lot of people were, he says as we drive back to the hostel.

Why? I probe further for a better understanding.

As a Zimbabwean, a protest of this nature is only seen on news relating to other countries. We would not have the courage to protest at such a level, fearing what could happen.

We want a better future for our children; we are a great nation with resources: Suez Canal, Red Seas, tourism, gold, diamonds and monuments.

He sounds like a frustrated youth as he speaks. I would later learn that Egypt’s youth make up twenty-three point six percent of the population and around twenty-six point three percent of those suffer from unemployment - factors that can lead to frustration boiling over.

The revolution worked, but we didn’t remove the body; just the head of the snake. I was there at Tahrir Square in the last days.

And how is tourism now? I read in the newspapers and online that, ever since the bombing of an airplane that departed from Sharm el-Sheikh three months before my arrival, tourism had ground to a halt.

Tourism has gone down by fifty percent. I should be getting paid, but it’s not good. Moody works in Sharm el-Sheik, but, since the bombing incident, he has very little work to attend to there and, thus, spends more time in Cairo, taking tourists around and meeting people through the couch-surfing website. At the hostel, as I take the lift to my floor, a man enters the lift and brazenly asks me if I am from Nigeria!

No, I am from Zimbabwe, I say in as calm a voice as I can, hiding my surprise while I wonder if it is my hair or dark skin that prompted that.

Robert Mugabe, yes, yes, Zimbabwe is mine, he says.

I nod. This would be the first of many incidents where I meet locals or travellers who immediately say ‘Robert Mugabe’ when I mention I am from Zimbabwe. A notorious president he certainly is.

****

The early morning chill wins the race to wake me up, beating the muezzin at the mosque next door blessing the dawn with his morning prayer. In the hostel’s TV room, I meet a dark-skinned, middle-aged Ghanaian man named Sonza, wearing a bright yellow shirt and a cap to cover his advancing years. He has come to Egypt to see his doctor. I don’t inquire further as to why he does not visit a doctor in his own country, Ghana. I mention the incidents with the taxi drivers to him and he laughs, to my bewilderment.

They are rooks, rooks, I tell you! he shouts, his eyes bulging from their sockets.

I translate that as ‘crooks’. How much am I supposed to pay to get to the Giza Governorate? I inquire.

No more than five Egyptian pounds if you are using a taxi, and it is one Egyptian pound if you use the metro train.

I am beside myself with anger and astonishment. I walk out of the building with him, since he is more versed in the streets of Cairo than I am and he said he would show me how to get a proper taxi. He waves down a taxi, opens the door and shouts, Switch on the meter!

The taxi driver shrugs and begins to drive off as Sonza slams the passenger door.

Don’t get in the taxi unless the meter is working; that is how they cheat you, these rooks.

Sonza proceeds to walk away, his job done, as I flag a taxi and, despite my insistence, the driver motions that his meter does not work. I cannot wait and hurriedly give him the address to head to the Sudanese Embassy. It is Sunday and I would like to get my visa processed today. Arriving at the embassy, there is more activity today, with men dressed in their garb and soldiers actively searching and letting people go through into the embassy. I present my fare to the taxi driver and, surprisingly and infuriating, we proceed to argue about the price. I am not budging when he insists that the fact that he got lost means I must pay the extra fare. After five minutes of heated exchanges in Arabic and English, I drop the fare on the car seat and head into embassy.

The embassy does not enhance or placate my mood, with its cold atmosphere, rows of stainless steel benches and Sudanese men and women sitting gloomily. I proceed to join the queue for visas; a very short queue. When my turn arrives, the Sudanese official dressed in a cheap looking brown suit does not look too impressed with me as I greet him in English and ask for a form for a visa to Sudan. He motions with his hands for my passport, which I hand over. I have read about how difficult it is to get a visa into Sudan and how long and tedious the process can be.

Where is your letter from your embassy? he asks as he stares at me.

Letter? Letter for what?

We need a letter from your embassy stating that you are a citizen.

Why? I have given you my passport that shows I am from Zimbabwe.

We need a letter from your embassy with those details, so that we can process the visa, he says as he slides back my passport and motions for the next person to come forward.

I am dejected and annoyed. My passport is not proof enough that I am who I say I am!. My country’s embassy is closed on Sunday, as we are a Christian country and observe a Monday to Friday week. This means I have to wait until Monday and look for the Zimbabwean Embassy before coming to the Sudan Embassy. More delays and bureaucratic red tape. I don’t understand how my passport is not proof enough that I am a citizen of Zimbabwe. This man did not give me the light of day at all.

Annoyed after arguing with the taxi driver, I walk back to the hostel. I have memorised the route, but the walk is longer than I anticipated, dodging traffic, jaywalking, as Americans would refer to it, to a cacophony of noise while the traffic police try to regulate the traffic. Walking across the bridge from the Giza Governorate towards Tahrir Square allows me to see the vastness of the Nile and density of Cairo. Boats, ferries, feluccas and cruise ships are all steadily bobbing silently on the Nile. I would have expected the Nile to be teeming with traffic going up and down, but there is a solitary motor boat with three fishermen representing how I feel - lonely. There are men dismantling the railing as part of some maintenance and machines grinding as they are stripping the railing of its faded green outer layer, to be replaced with a fresh coat of paint. One and a half hours later, drenched in sweat despite the cold air and fuming with rage, I am back at the hostel. The lift in the hostel building is old, grey and dusty and can only hold four people at a time. As I walk into the lift, there are a group of Egyptian women and they all begin to giggle while looking at me. They are most likely going to the business college that is on the seventh floor for lessons. I wonder if they are fascinated by the dark man with long hair whom they have seen randomly in the building. At a different time, I would have taken this to be overtures. However, I am too tense and tired, so I ignore them.

Sitting in my room, staring at the brown walls and the air conditioner whirring silently, I realise I am angry with Cairo, angry with myself for being duped by the taxi drivers, and angry with diplomacy and bureaucracy that I have to beg for a visa to travel in Africa - I am an African, yet I have more trouble trying to enter other African countries than I do European or Asian countries. I spend the afternoon budgeting and contemplating going back to South Africa to resume the trip from there. So convoluted in doubt and angered are my thoughts that I am not thinking straight. I am fearful of failure. I really wanted this and now I am spinning rudderless in doubt, not even one week into the trip.

Another early morning to try to sort out the visa issues. I head out to the Zimbabwean Embassy. This time, I summon an Uber taxi to take me to there. I managed to obtain a SIM card at an electronics shop after some walking and getting lost again in Cairo. I am pleased when the Uber arrives outside the building and the driver speaks English. I don’t have to worry about giving the driver directions. Part of me wonders about the reception that Uber has received in Egypt and if it is widely used.

The embassy is also located in the Giza area, but it seems to be in a less impressive area. However, I am not surprised when the Uber taxi drops me off in an area with bad roads, drab-coloured buildings and a solitary motionless Zimbabwean flag, outside what looks like an apartment building. The presence of the two idle security guards outside as well as the lack of people assures me I am at the right place. I wave my passport at the security guards and they motion for me to go to the intercom. After a brief exchange explaining why I am here, I enter the embassy grounds. This is my first time visiting a Zimbabwean Embassy and I am partly excited at the prospect of speaking to Zimbabweans in Shona or Ndebele and to see some faces from home. It is going to be a relief. I am not surprised by the choice of car that is parked in the driveway; a black Mercedes Benz, the choice of many