Number 9: Egypt 1981

Trouble in Hughada 

In 1981 the peace talks between Egypt and Israel had had some results. Israel had retreated from the Suez Canal Zone and the demilitarized area now divided the Sinai peninsula in an Egyptian and Israeli part. The demarcation line went right behind the famous monastery of St. Cathrin. My friend Herbert and myself went on a memorable trip, which in about 6 weeks would provide enough material for at least 6 of these stories. The best thing about that is that I still have a detailed travel diary of the trip, so everything told here is authentic and I try to translate as precise as possible even though it might not always shed an entirely positive light on the author.

For the time being, here is the first one. Most people have heard of the Egyptian red sea resort of Hughada. If you have been there, you will not believe what you see. The diary even contains a hand-drawn map of the old Hughada of the time, which indicates the most important sites, including the only shop where we were able to get alcohol.

After 3 weeks of traveling along the Nile valley, we were ready for a break. Even Herbert, who had been in quite a big part of Africa by then, had never seen such a dirty country before. Diarrhea was our constant companion. So we were looking forward to a relaxed stay on a beach before starting out for new adventures. We took a shared taxi and arrived in a ramshackle desert settlement, where even the few solid buildings looked poor. There were few places to stay, and finally we found an empty room in a new apartment building, where we could spread out our sleeping bags.

The beaches around Hughada proper were mostly covered in oil slick from careless offshore drilling or as a remainder of the war. A couple of times we went on one of the tourist boats which went to some clean offshore sandbanks. To go there you needed a permit from the military police, since most of the area around Hughada was military no go zone. On the mainland coast, there was only one clean beach about 10 km south of Hughada. The beach was clean there because it was the site of a Sheraton hotel, at that time the only luxury hotel on the entire west coast of the red sea. We had been there before and, after some bargaining, had paid one Egyptian pound per head. The monthly salary for a worker at that time was 3 pound. Bargaining was a must and expected… and Herbert was very good in that.

On Easter Monday, 20.4.1981, we wanted to got there again. We flag down a collective taxi and haggled down the price from 7 to 1 pound. Against better knowledge we hand over the money to the guy beforehand because he pretends that he has to get gas first. But already after a short distance, still Hughada and the port, the guy stops and tells us to get off. We refuse. After some discussions he continues, but on some dirt tracks and not the main road. We are afraid he will drop us somewhere in the middle of the desert, but eventually he continues in the right direction. Then he stops again in the middle of nowhere and tells us we should change to a truck, which would bring us to our destination for another half a pound. After excited discussions and cursing in German (which usually nobody understand and has proved to be uttermost helpful in comparable situations) the guy returns to his cabin, which is separated from our compartment by a wall with window, and waits. He probably thinks that we will loose patience and leave so that he can continue without us. We don’t and make such a lot of noise that we hoop he thinks we will demolish the back part of his vehicle. Eventually he continues, but not in our direction, but on the main road.

Suddenly another stop. Two officers of the Egyptian navy join us. We start talking to them and try to explain our predicament. This is not so easy. Their English is less than basic and we do not try another language. So we think our attempt of getting help is useless.

Eventually our driver has to stop at the military post on the main road south. One of the officers gets out and starts to discuss with the driver. Then he goes to the military police manning the post. After some commands, a soldier graps his MP, gets on the passenger seat, first points the gun in the direction of the sheraton hotel and then at the head of the driver and off we go. After arriving we throw a warm thank you at the military men and a “bloody fucker”at the driver and get out of there.

Fortunately we do find another driver for the way back.

This story happened 39 years ago. Even after the oil spills, the coral reefs around Hughada had bright colors and beautiful fish. Everything could be enjoyed just from a glass bottom boat or by snorkeling. Since that time I have been to coral reefs in Indonesia, Sri Lanka, different places in the Caribbean and the Maledives. All were a disappointment. In the last ten years, I have never seen healthy coral any more. The famous Maledives were an underwater graveyard of toppled over, brown coral. The impact of tourism at that time was minimal, but I think we were the scouts and prepared the way for the invasion of barbarians who came after….

The map of Hughada in 1981. It indicates a place for breakfast and dinner, the bottle shop, the post box (which did not have a bottom), the mosqe annex tourist information and a guy who served freshly pressed ornage juice. Outside the port, the military polic post mentioned in the text and the beach at the sheraton hotel. That's about all there was

 Main Street, Hughada 1981. The roads were still unpaved but they were starting some improvements

Garage and repair shop for trucks

Fashion Boutique

The best restaurant

Bottle shop. Note the goat begging for beer next to it

The juice man

Boats in the port of Hughada

The beach at the Sheraton hotel 10 km outside the town

We did not dare to enter the hotel

Tourists boats at a swimming and snorkeling stop at an offshore beach

Lunch was prepared for a tourist group which eventually did not come

Freshly caught fish for lunch

One of the dhows of the local fishermen

The desert hinterland of Hughada

Breakdown of the bus leaving Hughada for Suez

Number 8: Mali 2011

On the Bami River from Mopti to Djenné

Our boat at a lunch break

In 2011 a friend of mine visited a development project close to Mopti in Mali (http://www.rondombaba.nl/). This was a country a wanted to visit for a long time, and so I took off to Bamako…. with a total of 58 kg of luggage, mainly spare parts for the aching 4x4 of the project.

The great mosque in Djenné is the world's biggest Adobe building. The actual building is not much older than 100 years. 

Access is not permitted for non-believers, but as always, capitalism is more successful than  fundamentalism

One of the prime sights in Mali are the adobe (dried mud brick) buildings. The great mosque in Djenné is the biggest adobe building in the world. In Mopti we got the chance to take a boat to Djenné. The boat had no engine. The boatmen had to pole the boat most of the time, against the current and sometimes against strong wind. Only the last day the wind is from behind and the boatmen are able to hoist an old tent as a sail.

Poling against the current of the river

Sailing is easier

It took three days. On the first evening we traveled until a quarter past eleven, on the second even until midnight. In addition to this drudgery, the boatmen also cooked our food and served hot sweet tea regularly. Cooking is done on a charcoal stove in the back of the boat. This boat trip through a quiet, unspoiled landscape is like a journey through time. It's one of the most impressive travel experiences I've ever had.

Lunch ist almost ready

While we usually lay lazily in the boat, life on the river passes by. Wealthier villages, dominated by their clay mosques. but also others, especially of the Bozo fishermen, which consisted only of simple thatched huts where women do their business washing clothes or dishes in the river or fetch water. Fishers use primitive casting nets, fish traps or large trawls that men spread in the shallow water. Every now and then a fish jumps into our boat. This should bring good luck, but not for the fish that go into the soup.

Village women washing the dishes

Keeping fish fresh

Trying to ferry a cart across the river

Sometimes a path runs along the river on the dike. Except for a few mopeds, there is no motorized traffic. Every now and then a lucky man has a bike. We observe groups of carts, pulled by donkeys or oxen, lazily chasing their way. Lone hikers carry a bundle on their head.

Fisherman on the Bami

The fishermen are a from a separate tribe

At every stop our boat becomes the target of all children in the village. They are satisfied with the gift of an empty water bottle. However, it is difficult to share water bottles. When someone has captured a bottle, the others are disappointed and want something too. But they are not really intrusive.

Bottles are very coveted and sometimes whole crowds of children come and fight for one

Village boy herding cattle

Another fashionable cattle herder

We sleep on a mattress under a mosquito net in the boat. The nightly calm and darkness is fascinating. No car headlights, no street lights even when we pass a village. Not even a glow in the distance. The light comes only from the stars and every now and then from a flashlight that our boatmen use to find the shipping channel in the dark. The sound of the piles or oars, a jumping fish and now and then the beeping of a water bird or the annoyed sounds of cattle disturbed in its night's sleep is accompanied by the constant chirping of the crickets. There is no electricity anywhere, so all activity ends at nightfall.

Quietness starts after sunset

Fetching water in the first morning light

In the heat of the afternoon on the third day, after 34 hours of hard work, we reach the ferry that forms the road link to Djenné. A couple of motorbikes waiting takes us to the city. A bit more than a year later Mali drowned in the chaos of civil war caused by intruding fundamentalists. The peace of those times did not yet return….

One of the big merchant's mansions in Djennë

Only the electricity poles are a modern addition. Mali does not have an electricity network. Little power stations produce the electricity locally. Without them there is darkness

Donkey or horse carts are still the main means of transport in the countryside

Only few of the streets of Djennë are paved

Number 7: Burma 1982

Trip into the colonial part

In 1982 Burma was a remote place. Tourists could get a visa for 7 days. For a student, the disadvantage of a the short trip was compensated by the advantage of the low costs. For a bottle of whiskey and a box of cigarettes you get enough Burmese money enough for all the expenses of the 7 days. In addition, by taking advantage of the IATA regulations of the time, we managed to get the tickets from Bangkok to Rangoon and back for free from the Lufthansa office in Bangkok.

Shwedagon pagoda

Typical street in the town center of Rangoon

We arrived in a country, where little had changed in the years since the second world war. Rangoon was a decrepit, sleepy capital, where only its most famous attraction, the Shwedagon pagoda, the biggest in the world, had received some attention. Most of the buildings were broken down and moss covered. The streets were covered in dirt. At night in the hotel, where the sleeping quarters were only separated by low cardboard walls, somebody threw a dead rat over the wall from his into our room.

The morning after - night train ride from Rangoon to Mandalay

Intermediate stop of the train from Rangoon to Mandalay

From Rangoon we took a crowded, dirty night train to Mandalay. The town had been ravaged by war and big fires. The royal palace was reduced to ashes and only the freshly painted outer wall remained. Water basins at the street corners served as public bathrooms for the local population. Food was available from stalls in the street. Ancient English built buses, sometimes with wooden bodies, were the main means of transport. Besides some modern cars, like at least 25 year old beetles and mercedes´s, most of the rare private vehicles were from before WWII.

Train from Mandalay to Mamyo

For the British colonists, the valley of the Irrawaddy River, were most of the economic activity took place, was much too hot. Therefore they preferred to stay in much cooler hill stations in the mountains. In Burma, that was Maymyo. In the meantime they have changed all the colonial names of the towns in Burma and Maymyo now has the memorable name Pyin Oo Lwin. Like other comparable places in India or Sri Lanka, the town is a odd mixture of English countryside architecture and local additions like ox carts with Zebu oxens, colourful open markets and the omnipresent pagodas.

The (formerly British) government hostel in Mamyo has the atmosphere of the novels of Somerset Maugham, Orwell or Kipling

The main place to stay still was the former British government guest house, where we got a huge room and a splendid dinner. After dinner, we found that somebody had lit the huge fireplace in our room which was light after dinner.

In the streets of Mamyo

Preparing truck convoys into the mountains of the golden triangle

From Maymyo, we took a jeep back to Mandalay, where we boarded the boat, which ploughs the shallow waters of the Irrawaddy, down to the famous temple city of Pagan. On the boat, we had the luxury of a one of the few cabins, which we shared with a couple of monks. They offered us half of their water melon. After arrival in Pagan the next, my stomach went ballistic. I got so sick that for many years, I could not stand even the smell of water melon any more. To keep it fresh, the locals throw the water melon into water. Probably some bacteria survived in the melon and found their way into my belly.

Sunset on the Irrawaddy river

Pagan is one of the greatest historic sites on the planet. At that time, nobody took care where you went. You could climb the pagodas to watch the sunset, and the village was just an assembly of huts in the middle of the ruins. However, because of my bowels, my pleasure of the visit to Pagan was greatly limited. Walking around on the long dusty tracks between the ruins when you have to vomit or retreat into the bushes regularly is a bit inconvenient. Unfortunately I never had the chance to go back.

The plane from Mamyo to Rangoon

When I travel now, I already get nervous a week in advance that I might miss my flight back. We stayed in Pagan until the last day of our permit of seven days. There was a flight from Pagan to Rangoon but we did not have a ticket. So we went to the airport and requested a seat on the hint that we would have to overstay our permit if we could not get a ticket. And we got it.

View from the plane's window over the Irrawaddy plain

The quality of the scans is not great, but I hope it is sufficient to give an impression how things were almost 40 years ago.

Only a few buildings which survived the great fire in Mandalay. At the corner one of the public baths

Many street blocks of Mandaly are empty of buildings

One of the means of transport

Street cafe Burmese style

Street cafe serving juice of sugar cane

Two of the typical buses. Note the quality of the tyres

Bus driver in the typical skirt. Note the wooden body of the bus

Historic cars in the streets of Mandalay

In Burma I met Jonathan, who now is professor in Leiden. Even without internet we were able to stay in contact all that time

Cars were few, but an ox cart is better than nothing

Mandalay not only had a royal palace but also plenty of temples and pagodas. Most of the latter survived war and fires

Google shows that their atmosphere did not survive the impact of modernisation. Today these places look like a Bhuddist disneyland

Sunset view from a pagoda in Pagan