Having finished setting the exams, I was able to have a slightly extended weekend, so my plan to visit Egypt (or Masr in the vernacular) finally took flight.
My first way point was Derna which I reached in a comfortable 3.5 hours. From here, I was into uncharted territory, never having driven this far east before. Next stop: Tobruk. The roads were remarkably good, apart from when they were being rebuilt as happens all over the place in Libya:
The land was flat - this was an extension of the Jebel Akhtar plateau which stretches into Egypt. There was very little vegetation, and very few villages. As I got closer to Tobruk, signposts started to appear in English - doubly unusual, a) signposts, and b) English, so when I finally got there after about 5 hours it was more in expectation than hope - a very pleasant change.
Tobruk itself is quite a modern city, and a fair size, so it took a little while to find the road to the frontier, but a couple of chaps I asked for directions jumped in the car and personally guided me to the outskirts of town, pointing towards Alexandria.
A couple of hours later, I arrived in Imsaad, the last town on the Libyan side of the border. Following advice from my students, I left my car here in the hands of a hotel receptionist who promised, for a small fee, to look after it as though it was his own. Hmmm.
I took a taxi to the border, about five kilometres away. There I was met by the usual friendly faces of the border guards, but emigration didn't happen very fast. I hadn't bothered to get an Egyptian visa before leaving because I knew I could deal with that once I got into Egypt, but this plan didn't gel too well with my Libyan hosts. They seemed to be concerned that the plan wouldn't work. At this particular crossing, people normally turn up with visas already in place, with their own transport, in a party of more than one, and not British, so they had a lot to think about.
In the end, following various phone calls and walkie talkie conversations with the other side, I was driven to the edge of Egypt, and directed to the appropriate office across the border.
After a cursory flick through my passport, and a brief exchange of pleasantries, I walked the few yards into Egypt, and the next set of officials, one of whom was carrying a big stick, greeted me. I introduced myself in my best Arabic, impressed them, and was promoted to doctor after I told them I was a teacher. One of the party appointed himself my security detail, and he took me to the immigration hall. It was teeming with people, but with a few sharp slaps from my bodyguard's hand, people melted away to give me a clear path to the desk. The official there told me that I'd need a visa, so we then went off to buy one, returned, again with much slapping, had it stuck in my passport, stamped, and that was that. My minder then took me out into the yard, pointed at some gates, and said: "There, Egypt. Welcome" in English.
Once through the gates, I was adopted by an Egyptian who could see I looked rather fazed by my arrival, and he said he'd sort me out whatever I wanted. So, a number of us piled into a taxi, we went down a long winding road into Saloum (the first town on the Egyptian side of the border), and all decanted there. The town looked very attractive as we glided down the mountainside - a long sweeping bay lit by street lights and a bustling town looking out onto a calm sea lapping against a sandy foreshore. It looked very different close up.
My agent booked me into a hotel just beside the bus station so it would be convenient for my early morning bus to Alexandria, and he bade me farewell. I asked him if he'd like to stay for a coffee, but no, he had to get home. And off he went.
The hotel was out of this world - I didn't know places like this existed. It was disgusting from the front steps to the back offices. It's at the back right below:
I suppose for £2.50 I shouldn't have expected a palace, but a towel and some sheets would have been pleasant. I made a quick journey into town to get some beer - the town was dry, so no luck there; I looked for somewhere to eat, but felt sick at the thought of sharing my plate with the wildlife; so I read for a while, and then, unable to put off sleep any longer, I gritted my teeth, and went to bed. More accurately, I lay on the bed, fully clothed, waiting for morning, and the bus out of this dump.
Come 5 o'clock, I was ready to go, so I went for a quick stride around town, and then back to catch the 6 o'clock bus - except Egypt is an hour ahead of Libya, and it was actually 6.45 already, so the bus had gone. The next bus was at 9.00.
Great, I thought, I've got time to have a proper look around. I didn't think that really, as I'm sure you can guess. But I did make good use of my time. I walked all around the town, and spent time in the war cemetery thinking how lucky I was that I only had a bus timetable to worry about:
I spent an hour or so wandering around the graves - British, Australian, Indian, Kiwi, and many others. So sad. Most of the dead were younger than my own children. Really very upsetting.
Come 9 o'clock, I boarded the bus for Alex, a seven hour drive away. I thought we'd probably make good time and do it in less. Fat chance. Despite it being a Friday and there being little traffic, we kept stopping for extended breaks at service stations along the road:
We passed through el Alamein and the cemeteries of the German, Italian and British war dead, but I'll have to visit another time. After nine hours, we reached Alex, or more accurately, the centre. It actually starts about 50 kms before then with tourist villages, business parks, and retail outlets. Very different from Libya - most of these developments are finished or are being actively worked on. Perhaps The Leader and The President should get together to discuss project management styles.
I wasn't expecting to hear hits from the Sixties on the sound system of the bus, but I didn't feel very comfortable listening to someone ranting about jihad, Afghanistan, and Iraq. These diatribes were interspersed with prayers, and occasional light music, but every hour or so, the rant came back. I had visions of Daniel Pearl going through my head, and started imagining if I would still be alive after my throat was cut, and for how long. Since you're reading this, obviously I arrived in Alex in one piece.
As was to be expected, I got ripped off by a taxi driver taking me to the hotel, but I was past caring and just wanted a wash and some food - I hadn't eaten since breakfast the previous day through fear of what might be served up. The doorman at the hotel helped me sort out the contretemps with the taxi, and he then plied me with a beer - ice cold in Alex:
I'm sure it's changed a lot since John Mills and Sylvia Syms fought their way there from the desert. I don't think I'd fight my way there again - it's crowded, smelly, noisy, expensive, and just not very pleasant. Pretty much as I'd expected, but then I didn't spend much time there, so perhaps I'm being unfair. With a bit more time to spare, I'd have a chance to look around. However, my return bus was due to leave early the following morning, so I drank my beer, ate some food, and went to bed - in sheets, in air conditioned comfort.
The return journey was uneventful until I got to the border at 6.00 pm. My passport was checked eight times: twice in Egypt, and the remainder in Libya. On four occasions, my passport was taken away for 'further investigation'. I don't know what it was all about, but the final check was cut short when I pulled my Libyan driving licence out, and showed that to them. We all had a laugh about my car - a hamburger - and I showed them photographs on my camera which went down well. When I said I thought Libya was meea meea (100%), it was handshakes all round, and back into the country.
All the delays at the border meant that it was dusk when I started driving home:
The hotel receptionist had been true to his word, and my car was ready and waiting for me. I eventually got into my flat at 3.00 am on Sunday morning, and was up again at 6.30, with exams starting at 9.00. I don't really like travelling in the dark because of the risks from other drivers, wildlife, and the state of the roads, but there wasn't really any alternative. I kept myself awake by singing - well, it would keep anyone awake, wouldn't it? Tonight, Matthew, I was Bob Dylan, singing Hey Mr Tambourine Man.
It was an interesting weekend, and distances here are certainly very different from in the UK - a four hour trip to Harrogate is an afternoon jaunt in Libya, but a planned journey in Britain. Tunisia next weekend - 1600 kms each way? I'll have to have a think.
