Disco River

BY JILL WORRALL

The Nile .. river of pharaohs, life blood of Egypt, a waterway entwined with legend. Well, that's what the guide books say.

The Nile .... river of disco boats, girls of doubtful virtue, rapacious felucca skippers and scene of one of the most entertaining stand-up arguments I have ever witnessed. Now that's more like it.

One of the world's great rivers, the Nile still does draw one to its banks because of the awe-inspiring connections with millennia of history, the intrigue and romance of its birth in the heart of Africa and its more than 6500km journey to the Mediterranean. But, you know all that; what you might not be so familiar with are the alternative forms of encountering the Nile.

Cairo on a winter's evening and the roads that flank the banks of the Nile are choked with traffic. The river itself is devoid of waterborne traffic, the lights of the office blocks, the circular Cairo Tower and plush hotels reflected almost unbroken on its surface. That is about to change.

I have met up with a Jordanian, Arabic-speaking friend. Harbi is a guide in Petra and the constant contact with tourists seems to have rubbed off on him. He has just a few days to "do" Egypt and he plans to do and photograph everything, there is no scheduled time for relaxing. Hence his decision on this first night in Cairo that there will be no sipping tea in a riverside teahouse (my idea) but instead we'll be setting sail.

Sadly, there are no feluccas (traditional Egyptian vessels with vast triangular sails) for hire on this night, and no scheduled cruises that we can find. But there's no shortage of touts along the Corniche beside the river. As they and Harbi are in full flow in Arabic, I have no idea what he's agreed to as we climb over rickety steps and then down the rock-strewn riverbank. Instead of a graceful sailing vessel there is a squat wide-bellied launch before us, its canopy festooned with multicoloured lights and a pulsating neon star light suspended above the prow. The sound system is pumping out Egyptian pop at a decibel level that is making my teeth vibrate.

Other things on the vessel are vibrating too – namely the hips and other jiggly bits of three young Egyptian girls. Their dancing leaves nothing to the imagination, although rather incongruously they are clad in long winter skirts, polo neck sweaters and headscarves.

Harbi studies them briefly and raises his eyebrows at me. "I know what you are going to say," he says. "There is a saying `Pleasing God and pleasing men at the same time'."

We find a space on the benches that run along both sides of the boat and wait. While the girls gyrate and giggle, the boat tout is up on the Corniche trying to entice other unsuspecting tourists aboard. I am the only true foreigner. Everyone else looks to be either Egyptian out-of-towners or visitors but we all share a look of bemusement – the music is now making my temples ache.

Eventually, just before my eardrums explode, the skipper, who looks to be about 12, leaps on board, revs up the engine and we're off. We glide upstream, a floating disco, possibly of ill repute. I look over the side to see if fish are floating to the surface, stunned by the pulsating beat. There are none, but if they don't turn the sound down soon I might consider leaping in to join them.

We putter past the Nile Hilton and the Semiramis ... two of the most luxurious hotels in the city. I doubt whether any of their guests take to the water in disco boats. Moored against the banks are retired Nile cruisers, now serving out their declining years as floating restaurants. Waiters are tweaking the linen tablecloths, arranging flowers and lighting candles as we throb alongside. We make a U-turn and head back, past the 185m-high Cairo Tower.

"We are going there next," says Harbi, after we are back on dry land, while he flags down a hantour, a horse-drawn carriage, Cairo's ultimate tourist trap. I wonder if we can stop for tea at the top.

And we do. But that's another story. Fast forward about 700km upstream to Luxor, home of the fabled Luxor and Karnak temples and the Valley of the Kings, burial place of the pharaohs, including Tutankhamun.

It is also the place where I want to sail the Nile at sunset on a felucca. Harbi is not so keen, but I nag until he enters serious negotiations with a felucca tout. His Cairo equivalent was a pussycat by comparison but eventually a deal is struck.

"I've asked him if there is enough wind, because it looks very still to me," Harbi relays to me. "But he says there is enough." We walk out along a pontoon and are waved aboard a white-painted felucca named the African Queen. Bearing in mind the disasters that befell Hepburn and Bogart afloat on its namesake, I should have been forewarned but I was just thrilled to be poised to do a sunset Nile cruise.

The captain ordered his helper to untie us and we were manoeuvred away from the other feluccas towards the open river. Where we stopped. Dead in the water. Harbi asked what was happening and grimaced as he translated for me.

"Now he says there is no wind so he is getting a tourist motorboat to tow us," he said. The thought of being ignominiously hauled upstream behind a full boat of tourists was too ghastly to consider.

"Uh huh," I said, "That was not the deal. Let's call it off."

Harbi began a long spiel of Arabic, interrupted repeatedly by the skipper who was gesticulating at a large launch in the distance that was purposefully heading towards us. "He says it is too late. But don't worry," Harbi said, taking several strides towards the skipper.

My Arabic is sketchy to say the least but I could follow the gist of what followed. "Let us off the boat." "No, you have made a deal" "But the deal was we sail, we are not sailing. If you don't let us off we will jump". Harbi is now pointing at the pontoon which I estimated now about three metres away. Keen as I was to leave I was not going to risk bilharzia – euphemistically known as swimmer's itch, but not a pleasant parasite to catch.

By now the tourist boat had arrived. I tried to hide behind the mast (not entirely successfully) as the crowd aboard moved to the port side to watch the fun. By now Harbi and the skipper were only a nose apart, both shouting. Arabic can be mellifluous and poetic but when the speakers are engaged in a heated argument it sounds lethal.

"I told him I will yell until the tourist police hear me," Harbi relayed. I didn't think he needed to bother as by now everyone in Luxor must be listening in. "It is even worse that he does this to a fellow Arab," he added.

Matters took a turn for the worse when the skipper of the launch pointed out that he now wanted money from us for the inconvenience we had caused. Harbi was by now almost incandescent. Suddenly the skipper threw up his arms in surrender, spat contemptuously over the side, and bid his helper to pull us into the pontoon.

We had to walk the gauntlet of other felucca owners standing on the pontoon, who clearly had taken their mate's side. Harbi, who was leaving later that evening, now had a few orders for me.

"You must not decide tomorrow night to go out on a felucca on your own. They will all recognise you now and I am worried they will push you in the river."

The following evening I stood, cunningly disguised in a shawl, beside the Nile and watched as feluccas glided past in full sail. Inshallah – maybe next time.

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