After some trouble with a money-changer at the Togo/Ghana border, Larissa, a husband and wife combo from PC/Niger, and I rented a private car from Aflao to Accra, a three hour drive. The beginning of the road was similar to Togo. Potholes and dirt, the flora along the edge of the asphalt painted burnt ochre by dust. But as the road became smoother, the painted lines whiter and crisper, the mud huts and the tin roofs gave way to massive fenced-in factories, signs for local farms, and finally subdivisions and duplexes. I felt like I was in a suburb of Ft. Lauderdale.
In Accra itself there were overpasses, exit ramps, readable signs, working traffic lights. Larissa and I got out along the highway, and crossed the road to the mall, to spare the driver a time-consuming turn through the highway's cloverleaf. In the mall we ate fast food, played Wii in a bookstore, checked out the movies playing in the theater, and shopped in a real grocery store. When we were done, we took a taxi to Champs, a sports bar, and feasted on Nachos con carne, washed down by draft beers and a whiskey on the rocks. Except for the occasional piles of trash, and the ever-present little black market sacks, it was hard to believe we were in Africa.
The airport seemed slick and shiny, with clean plastic check-in counters. The attendants were polite and helpful, and we got our tickets and checked our bags with no trouble. The only "African" experience I had during those hours in Ghana was at passport control, when the attendant asked me to give him one of the books I was reading. I told him no, so he gave me his phone number and told me to call him when I got back, so that we could be friends.
At 11:15 pm, our flight to Cairo was announced. We all walked outside into the little bus that carried us across the tarmac to where the plane was waiting. We boarded, met a Yale business student who knows a former volunteer we know, and then fell asleep in the cold recycled air of the plane, the lights flickering into dimness, the hum of the engines steady and true.
We landed in Cairo at 7 am, with thirteen hours to kill before our flight that evening to Casablanca. The Egyptian sun rose later than in West Africa, and the air was so cold our breath escaped in clouds. When we finally made it to the transfer passengers waiting area, we were told our complimentary hotel room would be ready within an hour, and if we could just sit inside the waiting area to the left, they'd call us when it was ready.
While I was in the bathroom, trying to jump out the door over the mop of the tip-hungry bathroom attendant, Larissa was approached by a representative from EgyptAir in charge of QuickTours, who offered her a pamphlet with possible tour options during our layover. When I got back, Larissa brought me up to date as the man came over.
"Hello, Hi, my name is Ahmad." He told us the options we had in lieu of a hotel room. For only $70 each, for example, we could visit the Giza pyramids and the Sphinx. If we threw in an extra $30 each, he'd throw in a tour to the Egyptian Museum as well.
"Hmm..." we said. "We'll have to think about it."
"Okay, I'll tell you what I'll do." Ahmad sat down and straightened his tie. "I'll go talk to my people and see if, since you are Americans, I can bring ze price of ze pyramid trip down to just $55 each. " People think it's just the French who say 'the' with a z, but apparently it's the Egyptians, too.
And then he rushed off. He came back fifteen minutes later with our other options:
"Okay, so, you can take ze hotel room and just rest. Or you can take ze tour, for only 55 US Dollars each, for both ze pyramids and ze Sphinx."
"Well..."
"Or, you can forgo ze hotel room for free visas, so zat you can walk around ze city yourselves."
This option made me a little curious.
"So, I have a question. If we just take the hotel, does that mean we have to stay inside the hotel, since we won't have these visas? Or are we allowed to leave and walk around?"
"Oh, yes, you can walk around, zat is no problem."
"Then why would we give that up for the free visas?"
"Tell you what," he said, "I have another choice. If you want to leave right now, you can skip ze hotel room, we go to ze pyramids and ze Sphinx for 55 dollars each, and I will cook you breakfast here."
"What? At the airport?"
"Yes, yes."
"Tell you what," we said. "We'll do the pyramids and the Sphinx for 55. We'll just need to exchange a little money first."
"Okay, zat is no problem, I will make ze arrangements."
What we didn't know, though, was that none of the exchange banks in the airport, and really, throughout most of Africa, accept traveler's cheques these days. And they also wouldn't exchange Ghanaian Cedis, or West African Francs. Between us, we only had about 40 USD. So when Ahmad came back, with a sign-up list (or maybe his breakfast menu?), we had to tell him that, really sorry, we just wouldn't be able to do the trip, so could we just get that hotel room please?
Ahmad disguised his disappointment well, and said that, yes, no problem, he would take care of zat right away for us.
Thirty minutes later, however, Ahmad came back to sit down in front of us. "Okay," he said, "I have one final option. You see zese people over zere?" He nodded behind him. Yes, we saw them. "They have signed up for ze tour, but zey are only three, and the tour needs at least five. If you would like to go with zem, immediately, you pay only 25 American dollars each, and you leave right now."
"Sorry, Ahmad," we said, "But it's the same problem as before, we just don't have the money." He nodded and said okay. As he was getting up to leave, we asked again about that hotel room. "Oh yes," he said, "I will take care of zat right away."
Two hours later, we are sitting in the same seats in the waiting area. Other EgyptAir employees have been calling people by their destinations, taking them to their complimentary hotel rooms. We have heard nothing about us, about anyone going to Casablanca. We have not seen Ahmad since his last promise to us two hours ago.
Around 12:15 Ahmad walks into the waiting area. He's not wearing his suit jacket, however, and he doesn't make eye contact with anybody in the room. He's carrying a sandwich. He proceeds to eat it. He finishes at 12:45. He gets up and leaves.
A few minutes after he leaves, I find Ahmad and ask him about that hotel room he said he was going to work out for us.
"Oh yes," he says, his shoulders slack in their disinterest. "Well, you see, zat is not my department. You must go over to zat desk right zere."
No comments:
Post a Comment