Journal 04.01.2026.
Sawa Camp, Nuweibaa, Sinai Peninsula,
Egypt.
‘No one works hard here.’ Salama,
CEO and owner of Sawa Camp to me on arrival.
Oooh. Angie dear sidled up late afternoon yesterday,
just as a huge full moon eyed its beady eye on me from behind the mountains an
hour away. Ah, how do I know it is merely an hour away to the other side of the
expanse of the Gulf of Aqaba of the Red Sea? By boat? A plane? A flying boat?
Swim it? Submarine? American aircraft carrier? Well, you never know hey. They
seem to be popping up in all strange places recently.
Actuuuuallly, It is about 25clicks as the
non-existence crows fly, but maybe the flies do, and as it is Saudi Arabia…they
are an hour ahead of us…tra la la.
Anyway, Angie wants to know if I am
planning any trips as she has been here before a few times. And has a few
contacts. Turns out she paid only 50 euros for her taxi transfer. Mine was 70.
Blah, blah blah, more paradoxes – ‘I thought I wouldn’t come here again because
of the Egyptian guests always have loud music on…’
And
After I asked her to arrange a taxi to the
supermarket since that might be easier than using her contact to take me into
the desert either by a motorised vehicle (think of breakdown and die of thirst
scenario) or…a…CAMEL! The only camel I want is a dead one carved up for biltong
as I brought a mix with me.
‘I must check with Salama as I deleted all
my contacts when I decided not to come again.’
She is well organised, but I sent her off
with the quest and I will be going to the shop WITH Angie at 11.00am - she thus
informed me this very morning after returning from a bit of the old Gyppo
Guts, wot wot, arf arf, with nicely washed face and no teeth in, music
playing…dah, da da dah… (Supertramp.)
Last of the Rhodesians: Chronicles of an
African anarchist
The Gokwe Kid – Searching for
Rhodesia 1980- 202?
That title is the one I am going to work with.
There are zillions of thought processes that decided on that.
***
Well, that was a heavy shopping trip. At
the check point we were asked if we happen to have a spare box of cigarettes
and asked where I came from. Yet again I had to change nationality to the one
on the front of my passport - Mud Island, and I am sure I will purchase
you a carton of smokes to give to you on the way back. NOT.
I was half out my kipper and in 15 minutes
we are in the centre of town. It was far better than I had thought. There was
everything I had hoped and desired. The only thing missing were black people
and Indian shop keepers and I was back where I belonged.
Load up on cola and few munchies stuff.
But not before an agonising walk to an ATM. There are only two and one was
‘BROKIN.’ I am not sure if the kind gentleman telling us was referring to the
fact it had been broken into, it was flat broke, or broken down.
A long painful schlepp down the drag and…tra,
the fucking la - her card doesn’t work and can I lend her some lollies. Like
two fucking grand! She promises to pay when we get back to camp.
Yeah whatever. We went into a very, rather
chaotic, tiny pharmacy. The walking had kicked the ischia into pain mode, so I
got some Ibuprofen and when her back was turned, whilst she was looking for
herbal toothpaste, I went ‘Tss’, to the bloke. I made the internationally known
dumb language for putting a pole in a hole, which I had a bad feeling that would
be beyond the comprehension of the Geshupsta. But you never know - hey.
Back at home after paying Euro 5.50 to see
death approaching, whilst overtaking at a restricted 90 at 120 over a solid
white line.
As she takes her purchases, which I
noticed had a bag with about twenty limes in it (Eeek – some strange voodoo ritual,) ‘Would you prefer cash or a bank
transfer?’
‘Cash please.’
She returns eventually and starts babbling
a load of shite about having to change her account to Egypt or some uninteresting
crap. I give her five euro change for two twenties.
I had a gorgeous fat dooby lit up and
placed into the end of a swanky black and silver fag holder the type faggots
use, in my lips and eyeing her because I knew something was going to happen
between us -
Actually, she is about 5 foot 2, dark
hazel eyes and constant ruddy cheaks which was exactly what I thought when she
starts a ruddy cheek to moan about the music on. WHICH it is like, on very
quiet…
‘You don’t wear earphones then?’
And as I deeply exhaled a cloud nine of
curling, magic smoke, looked at her and spoke in a long drawl (I was feeling so
laid back just as Blue Oyster Cult - Don’t fear the reaper played) …
‘Nooooooooooooooooo.’
She turns away, and mutters ‘It is a camp
you know.’
That was my day trip. She babbled to the
driver about eventually going to spend a night in the desert. I don’t think I
will be invited…hah hah hah.
***
Enough of that nonsense. With a bit of
peace and quite I concentrate on the Prologue. And the Terms and Conditions for
the website. But….
‘Don’t cry for me, Rhodesia’, the journal
is the constant LIVE memoir of the Gokwe Kid. If anything exciting should
befall me, such as – no fucking idea! It is not my fault I am a magnet for all
the lunatics that wander this godforsaken planet - including the one I see in a
mirror.
I will let you know.
(I will paint my finger nails black after
the posting. I did have them bright orange once, but idiots kept asking me if I
worked for Easy Jet.)
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