Cycling on my racing bicycle on the Safaga road, oblivious of all around me; being aware that a car slows down beside me and thinking what the driver might want. When the pick-up is right beside me, the front-seat passenger holds out a lollipop towards me. ^-^
Hurghada is crawling with police. Since the regime’s comeback, there are checkpoints in every street. I’m wondering where they hid during the last three years – there are so many! Yet, they leave me alone when I’m on my bike. ^-^
Reluctantly, I go to the police to file a charge. The building is in a deplorable condition; apparently the restrooms are being renovated, because cement bags, toilet bowls and workmen can be seen everywhere. The Brigadier-General greets me politely and listens attentively to my translator. Later on he tells me about his journeys to Europe – in his best English. I can’t spot a computer anywhere; the records of the delinquents consist of thousands of yellow file cards with a photo and are situated in an old wooden box. The police officer, who phrases my file in Arabic manually written, offers me – even before I can have a seat – a chocolate biscuit. ^-^
When you can’t understand it anymore… it’s Egypt.