A lot has changed since my last visit to Egypt. My favourite hotel now has handcuffs. At reception, our hands are decorated with a red plastic band. At just under 30°, this ribbon is unconcealable. White skin alone is not enough. Is this revenge for our grandfathers’ yellow stars?
“So what?” thinks one person. For me, it’s a disaster. I am now branded as a travelling goat – not organic. And from the Grand Resort. Where you once had a good chance of bargaining without a Depperlband, every taxi driver now has the ultimate knock-out argument: 5-star roosters are there to be plucked. No matter how cheap the hotel is.
They rip us off properly. If they were rude last time, this time they are turning the much worse living conditions under Mursi into real robber barons. When you get on, you say 20 pounds, and if you don’t pay double when you get off, they mob you or try ancient counterfeit money tricks. It leaves a nasty aftertaste. We immediately hire the first non-fraudster for a fortnight.
Back to the banderole: I’m not part of anything, I’m not into floor or cage farming, and even in the open air the banderole is only good as a wind gauge at best! The wild change of restaurants and hotels depending on our mood in the evening was our last piece of sanctified anarchist fun in the well-organised all-inclusives on our previous visit. That’s over now. Yesterday, two wearers of the red wristband disappeared while attempting to steal from the neighbouring Grün-Banderl Hotel’s restaurant. Today there’s a conspicuous amount of meat for breakfast, but that’s probably a coincidence.
The Magawish Hotel is located in front of our kite station. Last time they had banderoles for all kiters travelling through. The yellow banderoles were still acceptable, as they somehow identified us as modern kite slayers, i.e. something potentially chivalrous. That could be interpreted as an honour. After all, in the Middle Ages, nobody would shout “Oh, look at that knight’s lance there! How pathetic!”. So we always ordered our beer by raising our crowned right hand and then waited until the screeching in our heads died down again.
I lie on the beach and raise my two banderoles in the sun. Nobody screeched. Thanks to the banderoles, the sun has turned me into a chipmunk while kiting. Tonight there’s another glittery banderole at the disco, tomorrow a blue one for diving and the day after tomorrow I’ll put on a black one for my first triple berm at a height of eight metres. From Wednesday I’ll have a moustache and when I get home my friends will call me Wolfgang Petry.
Frank Woelky, born in 1973. Kitesurfer since 1998. Since 2006, I have been combining kitesurfing and web design on trips lasting several months off the beaten track.