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.
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