Sunday, July 06, 2008

Day 7 Of 7 - Wasting Away Again

Like I said, the plan was to spend all day doing nothing on the beach, and as soon as I woke up, I put that plan into action. The one definite thing on the schedule was to stop by Sinai Divers and fill out the final paperwork for our dive cards. We ate breakfast first (lots of orange juice and cats) and then headed in. Your real dive card is something that you send in for by mail, and that takes a while, so you get a temporary dive card on the day of your dive (or the one after, apparently). It tells any PADI outfit what level diver you are, and to what depth you can dive. Bob helped us fill out our dive books as well. That's a small pamphlet that you write down your adventures in. Things like how long each dive was, how deep you went, where it happened... all the things I had forgotten already, even though it was the two days before. There's even a place for listing the fish you saw. Lebowski kept coming up with all kinds of fish I had not seen, and I theorized that I had been too busy trying to keep water out of my lungs to observe aquatic fauna in a clinical manner. That makes me eager to go diving again so I can see some fishes. Then Bob handed over our dive cards, and we were again officially divers.
The drinking began. I remember falling asleep in one of those conversation pit things, drifting between the smell of apple shisha and the sounds of the surf.
Later we discovered a bar with a name so foul I cannot bring myself to type it. Of course we went in. At the bar were a set of swings instead of bar stools and an Egyptian barkeep named Kal. In a British accent, he engaged us on every subject (Windsurfing: "It's the only thing you should ever do." The war: "A good try, but well, you did make a mess." The pyramids: "We didn't build those things. The ancient Egyptians did. We just found 'em."). He also had some amusing opinions about Dahab. "If you're here for more than one night, you're... you're going to get a shag. If you don't, you're just... you're just dumb." Lebowski and I waited till he turned around to pour something to hang our heads. We talked to Kal for a while, and it became clear that living on a beach just makes you a cool guy. If you're ever in Dahab, go talk to Kal.
The sun went down. We said our goodbyes to Darrin and Freeman and took a cab back to the bus station. I thought that the ride back would be easier because it was a night ride, and thus we'd be able to get some sleep. I was wrong in this assumption. First, before we even got started, a lady threw a fit because of where she was sitting. "I am NOT sitting next to a man!" she screamed. "I am NOT!" I am inclined to side with her, though, because I met a lot of Egyptian men that I would not have wanted to sit next to if I were a gal. And then about an hour into the trip, the driver put on a movie. I use this term loosely. This one made Morgan Ahmed Morgan look like Amadeus. Near as I could tell, this screeching horror was a vehicle for this Egyptian clown to scream loudly and bang things with his shoes for three hours. That's all this idiot did. And I don't mean Jim Carrey scream. I mean bray continuously, with no inflection and very little inhaling. That kind of screaming you do when you're nauseous and just want it to go away. He sounded like a sick cow. And he'd blunder across objects and look like he was going to use them, and then take off his shoes and start spanking them:

MORON reaches for the phone, and then begins to bang it with his shoes instead.

It only took minutes of this atrocity to get most of the bus petitioning for relief. "Turn it off! Hey, turn that down! Turn it off!" And either the bus driver didn't speak English, or he did and just liked the movie, or he did and didn't like us, because he continued to motor along happily while we suffered this howling and shoe-banging bastard for most of the trip along the Suez.
Somewhere in there, I nodded off. And when I woke up, I was in Cairo again, with only hours left in Egypt.


Anonymous Anonymous said...

For the record, the bar is called "The Furry Cup." It's British slang. You don't want to know.

I went back to Dahab a couple of weeks after we left and the Furry Cup was closed! It was a bummer, man.


9:36 PM  
Blogger AkuTyger said...

Haha, a shoe banger. Some day you should see if you can see the movie "One day, a cat." I think it's Ukrainian.

4:22 PM  

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