ROSE:
Blissfully unaware and sinking fast into oasis life, we realised with a jolt that the measly one-month visas we'd been issued on entry were coming to an end. Just like in Libya, we had to apply for extensions. No matter, 'ma fish mooshkila', we packed a day-bag and caught the bus to Marsa Matruh.
Extending our visas for five more months was perplexingly easy - and cheap at about £1.50 each. But there was no catch. That really was us sorted. Then onto the truck paperwork - and as always that's when the real fun began.
HUW:
Just the truck's temporary import licence to arrange. Like us, it had only been issued with a "trip-tick" lasting a calender month. If it stayed in Egypt any longer we were liable to fines and possibly getting the truck impounded. A situation to avoid at all costs. It needed an extension too.
We started out with a naive expectation that it would be simple. While waiting for our visas we took a cab to the local Traffic Police station where we thought we'd be able to iron it all out. The heaving mass of jostling bodies pressed up against the three reception windows suggested it might not be so straightforward. After catching the attention of a high ranking officer strolling back from lunch and being ushered past the throng we were told that there was no way we could do anything for the truck there and that the only option was a 600km round trip back to the border. The realisation that the same chronically dysfunctional bureaucracy that had caused the problem was to be our only hope of rectification was not comforting.
ROSE:
In the midst of finding out the bad news about the need for a return trip to the border I discovered with a pounding heart that my wallet had been taken from my bag: two credit cards and most of our cash including a wodge of US dollars. I replayed the previous few minutes over and over in my mind, and managed to accept the loss as 'one of those things' and a big lesson learned. (Yes mum - use the money belt!)
But one of the sympathetic men surrounding us suddenly dragged us round a corner to where a growing crowd swarmed around the doorway to a small room. We were pushed through, and inside. An red-faced evil-eyed copper, hands on his hips, a few of his minions milling around, and two men cowering in the corner. On the table, amongst other opened wallets, watches and a necklace, were my things. I was definitely born under a lucky star. Lesson learned AND I get my stuff back? Result.
HUW:
Putting your hand on a stack of evidence and trying to take it away just because it belongs to you isn't something that coppers appreciate. Especially psychopathic ones. Rosie was screamed at by the bloke in question to stop, to leave her stuff where it was, and then it started to get nasty. His demeanor and the Baretta 9mm on his waist suggested a strong likelihood that he had some connection with the security services but in Egypt it's anyone's guess what a plain clothes thug with a gun's official capacity actually is.
Spinning away from a shaken Rosie he slammed his firearm onto the table and then lunged at the two handcuffed "suspects". He didn't just lay out a couple of slaps, he lashed out like a mad dog, pummeling and kicking both of them up against the wall, screaming as he did and with spittle flying from his mouth. It was terrifying to watch and all hell quickly broke loose in that small room. Some of the other plain clothed men present joined in to help the wild-eyed attacker beat the defenseless men, others tried to calm the situation down, rubber-neckers surged in the door to watch and we were pushed further into the corner by the mass, away from the door. Rosie was crying and the scene was getting very ugly, very quickly. I caught the eye of a policeman in uniform near the door and indicated I wanted out. He nodded and we pushed passed the flailing bullies and their cowering targets and out through the voyeuristic crowd.
The blokes might have been guilty of theft. They might not. Had they been guilty of committing a more heinous act: rape, brutal murder, a vicious attack on someone disabled, elderly or a child, then I can't honestly say I would not have thrown a punch or two myself. But they weren't proven guilty and the crime was pick-pocketing. The beating went on for ten more minutes after we managed to escape the torment-tank that room became.
Now, let's get real. Police brutality occurs in every country, our own included and more frequently than you want to believe. If you think differently, you are either a fool or a liar. But to witness it, starkly and without any attempt by the police themselves to hide what they were doing was shocking. Not just the brutality, but the bare-faced demonstration that they beat suspects and don't care who sees it. Yet, maybe that's just more honest that what our own law-enforces do in our name behind closed doors.
ROSE:
I had turned my face away pretty quickly, but those sounds will stay with me forever, as will the sight of the guys, battered and bruised, later at the police station.
We spent the day at the police station in Marsa Matruh, signing reports and making smalltalk with the Chief of Police. A polite, intelligent man who spoke excellent English that he was keen to practice, showed us pictures of his daughters and gave us tea and biscuits. A comforting contrast to that violent b**tard. He lent us his private car and chauffeur to do a few errands and hours later when everything had been signed off and my wallet was back in my bag, he personally took us to his favourite restaurant and paid for mango juices. Hard to believe we'd been in the haven of Siwa only that morning!
But we still couldn't go home as planned - the truck's paperwork still had to be sorted and that that had to be done back at the Libyan border, 300km away. We hadn't packed for a night away, but we jumped on a bus and ended up at Fawlty Towers: brown water from the taps and mozzies flying up from the open drain in the loo. We even had to ask for towels and sheets.
The next day consisted of a solid SEVEN hours with the traffic police and customs, escorted by unnecessarily armed guards from department to department, filling in endless forms and permissions, and a delicious freebie lunch with Captain Ahmed, our new found friend, and like the Chief in Matruh, another shining example of how police officers should be. He pulled all the strings (and out all the stops). Then about ten hours on buses, with a two hour stop in Matruh in the middle of the night, and finally back in Siwa at 6am in the morning.
Mission accomplished: our visas and the truck's license all extended til Christmas. Phew. We might not be here that long, but we're finding plenty to keep us busy so who knows - and it's too hot to go north or south just now anyway.
HUW:
Lessons learnt or at least underscored: Not all coppers are psychotic bastards who love a bit of violence. But some are. Search out the decent professional ones and avoid the others like the plague.
Route, photos and more at www.thelongandwinding.co.uk
Below: us with Captain Ahmed at the Salloum border.
