February 4

Today, it is a trip to the Egyptian Museum followed by a trip to the market.  The Museum is impressive; if I am going to find Agatha anywhere, it's here. It is a beautiful building and I can imagine enthusiastic archaeologists and explorers running in and out, excited at some new find.

At the gate, a guide offers to take me round and I flatly refuse.

'There are over 100 000 artifacts,' he says with a smirk.  'I hope you will be able to identify each one by yourself.'

I hope not.  I am not someone to look at every single thing in a museum or read every single piece of information.  The last thing I want is someone else choosing what is interesting and expounding on it when I want to look at something else.

It really is quite fascinating inside and there is so much to see.  Admittedly, there is not a lot of information offered (perhaps so the guides are not put out of business?) and what is, looks a bit tatty.  I wonder if death bothers you more if you are a powerful, important person like a Pharoah.  Knowing that no one escapes death must be quite a burden.  Much better to be a slave and know and accept that that is where you are destined.

The taxi driver drops me at the market and almost immediately I am pounced upon by a man who wants to take me to see the genuine Egyptian market, not the tourist market on the opposite side of the road.

'I don't want money,' he assures me.  'I just want to practise my English.'

He takes me off down winding, narrow passages.  In tiny rooms, men work at making boxes inlaid with mother of pearl, or sell copies of the Koran, or sell pita bread or freshly squeezed orange juice.  In one place, a printing press is going full steam and in another, bakers are hard at work.  It is fascinating that so much can happen in such a small space.  The roads remind me of Stonetown in Zanzibar: they are filthy, muddy and stray cats and dogs abound.  I begin to get worried as we have turned corners so often I don't think I would be able to find my way back.  Have I been completely naive?  Who will notice if I am missing?  I don't have any identification document on me. Finally, I demand to be taken back to where the taxi dropped me and receive a hurt look from my guide.

He is not the last person I have to deal with though.  In the market, I am hassled to the point where I just want to scream.  It is really unpleasant.

'Where you from?  Australia?' says one man.

'No. Zimbabwe.'

'Zimbabwe?'  He sidles close.  'But in Zimbabwe, people are black,' he tells me conspiratorially, as though I were unaware of the fact.

'Not everyone,' I say, trying to dismiss him.

'Ah, South Africa!' declares another man.  'Where are you from?  Cape Town?  Durban?'

I give up.  'Durban,' I say.  'Closer than Cape Town, anyway.'

'Ah, Durban!  I love Durban!'

'Have you been?'

'No, but I want to go one day.  One day I take my whole family to Durban.'

He takes me down a side alley to see a spice stall.  I find the market a little like the wardrobe in The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe.'  Sometimes these little side alleys appear, but I can't seem to find them on my own.  The stall holders want extravagant amounts of money.  Sorry, your stuff might be nice, I think, but I can buy this all at Alasco in Bulawayo.

I hate to admit it, but I had to run away from this man in the end.  He took me to buy perfumes which I didn't want and then jewellery which I didn't want.  All the time I was aware of time running out and me not finding a few presents for the girls.  In the end, I ran away down an alleyway.  I managed to find a spice stall which was not extravagantly priced, bought some spices, hibiscus tea and frankincense because - well, because I could! - and packets of dates.  I finally got what I wanted and headed back to where I had agreed to meet the taxi driver.

As I was starving, I had an Egyptian pancake at a shop and some anise tea.  I then went to the police lookout point - they are everywhere - and asked them to phone the taxi driver.  The policeman then stopped a very busy road full of traffic so that I could jump in the car.

'Tip, tip.' said the taxi driver.  'You must give him tip.'

Then it was back to the hotel for a bath, dinner and a long wait before my lift came to the airport.  Cairo, I think, has been fun, incredibly interesting, but slightly overwhelming considering the short time I had.  I'd love to come back for a longer visit, but for the time being, I am very happy that Bryony Rheam, lately of Durban via Cairo, is going home.

February 3

I have arranged a taxi to take me to the Pyramids.  It doesn't take too long to get there and there is so much to see along the way.  The rich villas of New Cairo give way to a mass of grey high rise blocks of flats.  Some look as though they are in a state of being demolished, but still carpets hang from the windows and washing is strung out across balconies.

At the Pyramids, I am offered a variety of tours that I can take and so opt for the longest one which includes a camel ride. Quite fun at first, I regret my decision not to have taken some other form of transport before we are even halfway there.  It is not the most comfortable of animals to ride and I certainly cannot imagine a journey across the desert on one!

The city has encroached on the Pyramids so considerably that they are a stone's throw from houses and shops, but the way my guide, Kamal, takes me makes me feel that I am approaching them from the desert.  He stops numerous times and offers to take photos of me, something which I dread.  I am not photogenic and tend to shy away from the camera, but this is obviously all part of the tour.  At various points, I have to put my arm out in such way that it makes it look as though I am holding the Pyramids in the palm of my hand or dangling them from my fingertips.

I am shocked by the amount of litter that is lying everywhere, even right next to the Pyramids.  Some people have carved their names and initials into the bottom stones of the Pyramids and this surprises me greatly.  I would have thought they would have someone collecting rubbish and also someone on guard preventing the monuments from being defaced. I find it ironic that people who come to see these great edifices that have lasted for thousands of years, leave their rubbish behind, as if to say, 'Hey, look what our civilisation has produced!  Plastic, junk and rubbish!'

Kamal talks about the Ancient Egyptians as though he is one: 'We put our servants into these tombs so that no one could tell the secrets of the Pyramids.' 'We killed them when they had finished their job.'  Communication is difficult:

Me: 'I have heard that the Pyramids at Luxor are bigger than these.'

Kamal: 'No!  This is not Luxor.  This is Giza.'

'Who is buried at Luxor?'

'No, I tell you.  This is Giza.  Only King buried here is Giza King.'

If anything, I am surprised at how small the Pyramids seem in comparison to what I expected.  Even The Sphinx is smaller than I thought it would be.

If it is one thing I do not like about Egypt, it is the system of tipping - or at least expecting to be tipped.  Before I left for the trip around the Pyramids, the taxi driver gave me very strict instructions not to tip Kamal until we came back.  When we get back, Kamal says: 'Now you give me tip.'  I don't know how much a tip should be and give him the equivalent of a few dollars.  'From the heart,' he adds, suggesting this is not very generous.  I give him a couple of more dollars and then close my purse.  I am not a rich Western tourist.  It is hard to explain what my Zimbabwean salary equates to in US dollars as no one would believe me.

Another thing that irritates me is being taken to shops where I am hassled to the point of committing murder.  One lady tries to sell me perfumes at such a rate that there is no way I can possibly keep up with her tirade of words.  Rose, Jasmine, Nefertiti of the Nile, Cleopatra's Dream, Lotus . . . it's all too much.  She smothers me in something she claims is an aphrodisiac and will drive my husband wild with desire.  Great, except that John is hundreds of miles away and I am in Cairo, alone, drenched in an aphrodisiac.  This could be an interesting day.  When I say I don't want any of it, she gets mean and tells me she has something for wrinkles and points at my face.  Well, that's it.  I'm back on my camel and out of there.

The taxi driver takes me to a papyrus factory which sells pictures for hundreds of dollars.  I try and escape, but have this man glued to my side.  'What's your budget?  What's your budget?' In another shop, a woman immediately attaches herself to me, following my every step.  I feel like taking two steps to the left, to the right to see if she will do the same.  I am looking for two things: a pair of white trousers for Sian (to stop her borrowing mine) and a pair of Aladdin trousers for Ellie.  The shop has neither, but I am offered blue trousers, orange trousers, trousers with green stripes and red triangles and black dots.  'But I don't want them,' I cry as I head for the door.  'I don't want them!'

This may sound strange, but I did not associate Egypt with Christianity although, of course, I know all the references made to it in the Bible.  In Old Cairo, I visit the chapel of St. George who appears to have been quite a hit here.  Many people, Christian or otherwise, kiss their hands and place it on the picture of St. George.  A good way to spread a virus, I think, rather cynically.  I find the mosaic picture of St.  George almost comical.  He has this funny little moustache and one cannot help but think he would look more comfortable in a suit and tie, seated at a desk selling insurance rather than slaying a dragon.

I try very hard throughout the whole day to connect to the past.  I am surrounded by monuments hundreds - thousands - of years old, yet I do not get the vibe.  Cairo is too busy; there are too many tourists; too many clicking cameras and tour groups. There are these beautiful cobbled lanes in Old Cairo connecting some of the oldest churches in the world.  I want to hear quiet; that beautiful quiet that speaks of the timelessness of God.  I am not a churchgoer. I find sermons boring and often aimless and rambling.  But I love churches - empty churches where peace settles gently like a butterfly on a favourite flower. I want to pass nuns, silently going on their way to worship and Coptic priests with their long black robes.  I don't want this to be a tourist destination.  I want it to be real.  I imagine myself as Agatha Christie, walking through the narrow streets, catching glimpses of figures that glance quickly around and then dive back in the shadows.  But that's me all over.  Born in the wrong era. A lost soul, looking not for a country to go to, but a time.

February 2

When we arrive at the hotel, a security guard brings a rather fat, dopey looking labrador out to sniff the boot.  At the door of the hotel, my baggage is put through an x-ray machine.  The Egyptians are obviously very keen on security, but it makes me feel more unsafe than safe.

Inside my room, I run a bath ( a very exciting event for someone from Bulawayo) and make a cup of tea.  The screen on the television says: Welcome, Bryony Rheam.  Probably because I am tired, I find this a bit unsettling.  It resonates too closely with Orwell's '1984'.

I am so tired, I struggle to sleep, especially as I know I have to be up early for the Book Fair.  With my eyes propped open with matchsticks, I enjoy a wonderful breakfast of yogurt, figs, dates, pomegranates, walnuts and almonds.  The fruit juice is lovely and fresh.

After realising I have missed the early bus to the Book Fair, I go back to my room and sleep for an hour.  I feel so much better and more alive.  A taxi arrives to fetch me and a couple of other authors.  The man in the passenger seat is a Syrian playwright who I, unfortunately, do not get to speak to.  The man in the back of the car with me is a scientist who specialises in mapping disease.  He is from Kuwait and is very chatty.  I ask him about the coronavirus. but he does not appear to be too interested in it and says he feels it will burn itself out as winter progresses in China.  He is much more interested in the fact that I have had malaria and asks me what it was like.

T

he Book Fair is huge.  I have never seen so many people buying books in my life.  There is hall upon hall of booksellers and people walk around with an average of five bags each, containing the books they have bought.

As soon as I meet my Arab publishers, I am whisked away to a different hall where the discussion of This September Sun is to take place.  I am surprised at how many people come to listen and enjoy being asked different questions about the book.  I must admit, I do not particularly like the Arab version of the title which is September Letters.  A number of people have asked me over the years where I got the title, This September Sun, without realising that the answer is actually in the book. The main character tries to write a poem about September, her favourite time of year, and finds she cannot get beyond the first line, This September sun . . .  The idea is that some things cannot be expressed.  September Letters, on the other hand, suggests that things can be expressed, that communication is effective.

The funny thing about being an author is that in many ways you are bottom of the food chain when it comes to your book.  A good example of this is the choice of cover over which I have no control whatsoever.

At lunchtime, I try some of the bread, which is very much like a very light pita bread with a hummus filling.  It is very filling!  Throughout the afternoon, I meet other writers and people who have read my book and people who would like to read it.  It seems funny signing what feels like the back page of the book, but I soon get used to it.

In the evening, I meet an American author who now lives in Auckland.  Previously, she lived in Milan for ten years and learnt to speak Italian.  When she wrote her first book, she felt something was wrong and the ideas just weren't working.  A friend of hers claimed to have seen into the future and told her that she had seen her book in Italian.  At first, she didn't think she could write a whole book in Italian, but then found the ideas were flowing much more smoothly and it worked.

We go out for dinner in what I think is central Cairo.  It's Sunday night, but incredibly busy.  It does not occur to me that Sunday is just a normal day in Egypt. It is a mad mixture of cars, kombis, tuk tuks, horses and carts, coaches and motorbikes.  No one wears a helmet, there does not seem to be any limit as to how many people can get in a vehicle and there do not appear to be any rules of the road. If you want to go, you go.

We eat in the middle of the road.  Literally.  The tables are put out into the road and the traffic goes round them.  The food is wonderful, although, because I don't eat meat, I don't try all of it.  I love the aubergines and the cheese and olives.  On an island in the middle of the road, wait all those hoping to get a table.  This is not a place to linger over your food.  As soon as a group gets up to leave, waiters descend and clear the dirty dishes, give the table a very light clean and put down paper menus which also act as mats.

On the way back to my hotel, we talk of belly dancers, traffic and happiness.  Sherif tells me that he usually only begins to go out at eleven o'clock at night.  My life feels very boring in comparison.  Years ago, I worked as a cashier at Buffalo Bill's restaurant in Bulawayo.  We closed at nine and often had complaints from people who arrived at ten to, only to be told that we were about to shut.  I remember one man shouting, 'But anywhere else in the world, nine o'clock is early!'  Well, yes. Except in Bulawayo.

February 1

I wake up early and find it is strange to think that tomorrow I will wake up in Cairo.  

John messages and says that the aid worker has asked if he and his band of merry men can stay until Monday.

We leave for Harare at about midday and go to the airport.  Once again, I am feeling nervous as I check-in.

In the departure lounge, I try to connect to the wi-fi, but it won't work so I ask a lady in one of the shops how I do it and she says that I need to ask the lady who works for Tel-One, who isn't there at the moment!  You would think that with so few flights leaving Harare every day, that when people were actually there someone would be on duty.  

The toilets at the airport are in a rather sad state of affairs with broken door handles, empty soap dispensers and hand dryers that don't work.  I am sure it would not take much to get them working again.  Things like door handles are very easily fixed; it is just laziness or lack of interest that prevents them from being mended.

My plane comes in from Addis and literally twenty minutes after the passengers have disembarked, we are asked to board.  It is really a glorified bus service for I cannot believe that they would have cleaned the plane in that amount of time.  I am right: in the seat pocket in front of me is a plastic bottle.

However, the flight is fine and passes quickly.  I watch episodes of Friends and read. When the plane lands in Addis Ababa, I have a very short time to get my connecting flight and find that everyone is walking very slowly.  All the people with masks on due to the coronavirus look very creepy.  Bole Airport appears to be in a state of being built.  Some bits of it are OK, but others are a bit of a building site.  We are all ushered into a small space in which we have to put all our things through an x-ray machine and it is taking a very long time.  I ask an assistant which way I should go for the Cairo flight and he immediately looks alarmed and ushers me through a short cut. 'Hurry up!  Hurry up!  Hurry up!' he urges me and so I grab my things and run.

When I get to the gate, passengers are boarding, but I am not the last in the queue.  However, they are asking everyone for their yellow fever card and I didn't know anything about it.  My heart sinks as I am asked to stand aside and I am afraid I am going to be put on the next plane back to Harare.  However, after asking us to stand aside, they then ask us again if we have a yellow fever card, we all say no and so they tell us to get on the bus and we are taken to the plane.

I had a funny turn while waiting as I was convinced I shouldn't get on the flight.  Perhaps not having a yellow fever card is a good thing and I shouldn't be on the plane as it is about to be shot down by Iran.  I panic a bit, especially as the plane is so old that the air hostess actually puts a video on for everyone to watch. It reminds me of the flights I used to get to the UK in the early 1990s - when people would ask what the movie had been. I am convinced Brad Pitt looks about twenty years younger than he should. I say all sorts of prayers, begging God to get me back home in one piece, affirmations - I am safe, this aeroplane is completely dependable, I reach Cairo safe and well - and try all the yogic breathing techniques I know.  The man sitting next to me is completely unphased by what I feel is imminent danger as he watches dubbed American movies on his phone.

Just before landing, the air hostess gives out landing cards - in Arabic.  I ask her if she has any English ones but she shrugs and says I should ask the man sitting next to me to help.  He is not too forthcoming though and struggles to translate some of the information needed like expiry date of passport.  When I am finished filling in my card, the man across from me, who is from Malawi, asks if he can borrow my card and he then passes it to a woman in the seat behind who is from Togo.  I really hope all the information is correct!

I often wonder at people who get out of their seats before the plane has stopped.  They are always impatient and seem to think that they will get off first, even though we will all end up in the baggage claim, waiting for suitcases and bags.  However, I have never seen impatience like this in my life. As soon as the wheels touch the tarmac, at least a third of the passengers spring up and take their bags down, even though the plane is still going quite fast along the runway.  They rush to the door and I wouldn't be surprised if they did not try to open it and jump out.  All attempts of the air hostess to get the passengers to return to their seats are in vain.

I am again asked about a yellow fever card and once again say that I was not aware I needed and so am waved through.  It is a relief to see someone waiting for me with my name on a sign.  He introduces himself as Abdul and takes me to buy a visa and go through customs.  We then go to fetch my suitcase.  It takes so long I begin to doubt it made the change over in Addis, but it does eventually appear.  Abdul ushers me into a taxi and we head for the hotel.  It is two o'cock in the morning.  I am cold and tired but glad to be on terra firma. I am finally in Egypt.

January 31

I leave for Harare on the bus at 7.30 am.  I feel I am going away for months when I will actually be back on Wednesday!  Over the last few years, I have become increasingly claustrophobic and dread going on buses and planes.  I try the techniques my yoga teacher has taught me and do actually feel better.  

At the risk of sounding smug, I notice that I am the only person, as far as I can see, reading a book.  Everyone is on their phones.  The lady next to me has two phones which she juggles with a toddler.  The little girl hardly makes a sound the whole way to Harare.  She is either asleep, eating or playing on one of the phones.  It really does make me very angry to see parents give their children phones to keep them quiet.  I don't think quiet is always a good thing either.  Children should be inquisitive, not semi-comatose.

Another thing that bothers me - I'm in that sort of mood - is the meal of greasy chicken and chips that is served half way to Harare.  I really feel that we are descending into some sort of technological, take away neanderthal state as human beings. I choose to have the vegetarian option which is a fried egg roll - with chutney!

In Harare, there are riot police chasing people down the road near where the bus stops.  According to a man I speak to, it is because the police are trying to stop kombi drivers from just stopping anywhere.  It sounds like they have good intentions, but why are they chasing pedestrians?

My brother-in-law is about an hour late to fetch me as a number of traffic lights are not working and the intersections are chaotic.  It's every man for himself without thinking about whether they are blocking the road or not.  As a result, we take the scenic route out of Harare which means we are in Marondera by half past four.  I cannot believe how Harare has spread so that Ruwa is no longer a separate town.  It seems like everyone is building a house and I fear the lovely countryside will have vanished in a few years. A lot of the land is owned by corrupt land barons who have bought the land with US$ loans from the reserve bank which they will pay back in bond notes at the bank rate.  

It is great to see my sister again after almost a year.  We spend the next few hours catching up and sharing news. 

January 30

A couple turns up in the evening and asks if we have any accommodation for the night.  When we say that we are booked, the man turns to his wife and says: 'So, booking.com was right.'

More raucous laughter from the cottage tonight.  Although, there are only four people staying now, instead of five, no one, it appears, has been murdered.  

I am in a tizz as I am leaving for Cairo tomorrow.  I hate travelling on my own and, even more, I hate leaving everyone behind.  I am fine once the journey has started but needless to say I will be checking that my passport is in my bag every five minutes.

January 29

The aid worker is pleading poverty and wants to make a deal with us.  He doesn't have a lot of money to spend on accommodation, he is trying to get food aid to starving people and he doesn't have the time to look for somewhere else to stay.  Because he is trying to do some good and because some income is better than no income, we give him the cottage for a much reduced rate.

It turns out that my feeling about the other man was right.  The aid worker has discovered he is trying to put obstacles in the way - obstacles that can be removed through the payment of bribes.  He has made moving the food very difficult.  

In the evening, I get back home from work and hear loud shouting coming from the cottage.  I am a bit nervous as the aid worker sounds extremely angry and I wouldn't be surprised if I heard gunshots or the squealing of wheels as someone left the scene of the crime in a hurry.  However, about half an hour later, there is raucous laughter.  Maybe this is the Brazilian way of dealing with people who get in your way.

January 28

We have just finished eating dinner when the two dogs shoot off towards the gate - a sure sign that someone has arrived.  There are two vehicles at the gate with some very fierce-looking men inside.  It turns out that they recently made a booking, but we did not see the message as we were eating.

The man who appears to be in charge introduces himself as a Brazilian who now lives in Edinburgh.  He is an aid worker who has been working in Mozambique and is now in Zimbabwe, trying to get food aid into one of the worst drought-hit areas in Matabeleland.  

John and I bring down an extra bed and, as we are carrying it inside, one of the men comes out and says he refuses to share a room with two other men.  He says the room is too small and appears to be claustrophobic.  The aid worker then says that this man can have the queen-sized bed.  I take an instant dislike to the second man - nothing to do with the fact that he made a fuss about the sleeping arrangements.  I just get a very bad feeling about him.

It soon becomes apparent that the aid worker thinks the price he saw on booking.com is for the whole room, not per person.  he is quite crestfallen, especially as he has driven a long way today and obviously wants to rest. We agree to discuss it tomorrow.