The All Inclusive
It's the job of the staff to make us feel like royalty here. They do it with polished warmth, efficiency and style from the moment you arrive at reception. Any attempt to manoeuvre your own suitcase is a non-starter, even though it’s on castors and could be pulled along by a four year old with breathless ease. Try draping a beach towel over your sunbed and watch the attendant come sprinting over the hot sand to take over the job, followed by an eager waiter taking your drinks order. Nothing is too much for the people who work at the Cleopatra. Accidentally mention you’re going to the coffee machine for a cappuccino and Ahmed has raced off to fetch one before you’ve even got up from the table. The young waiters fuss and fawn over Ali, who in many cases is just about old enough to be their grandmother, with a fondness that finds me asking myself searching questions. The almost exclusively male workforce don’t quite understand your average western relationship though. Why are they calling me “boss” when it’s clear to anyone that she's in charge? Some British men correct their Egyptian hosts, pointing at their wives and explaining who really pulls the strings. “She says jump, and I ask “how high” mate,” they guffaw at our bemused hosts.
Then there’s Ibrahim the towel origami king, who services our room and rubs his stomach in genuine concern as each morning he asks us whether we’re feeling better after that unfortunate spell with the pharaoh’s revenge that's dogged the last few days. During our stay the creations he’s left in the apartment for us to discover after an afternoon down at the beach or by the pool have become ever more ambitious. Courting swans, a dog (or was it a pig?), a perfectly formed elephant, a cat with a long tail and an octopus. Although Ali said it looked like something else. Best not to dwell on that. To finish off, we’ve been treated to a monkey suspended from a coat hanger in the doorway, and finally a crocodile, six feet long, with a banana wedged between its wide open jaws. For each of these he’s used two plastic bottle tops to animate his fluffy white menagerie and given them eyes to see with. Ibrahim has earned a generous tip.
We aren't used to service like this and in truth we're not entirely comfortable with it. Wealthy ninety year old widows carrying tiny poodles in their arms at the Negresco in Nice are treated like this. Russian oligarchs richer than Croesus on their superyachts at Puerto Banus are treated like this. It's a big culture shift for a pair of country bumpkins like us. Normally we pick up a small economical car at the airport, drive to the resort and quietly assimilate into the background with as little fuss as possible. We go to the local supermarkets for supplies, just like at home. We take lunch at unfussy restaurants and cafes and sit anonymously at the edges looking in. Independence is our thing, and you can’t watch glowing sunsets on the beach if you’re supposed to be queuing up in the dining hall and filling up on the all inclusive buffet while Ahmed fetches you a glass of red wine.
Getting used to the all inclusive formula is a bit strange too. Neither of us have ever done this before. You could spend the entire day eating if you wanted to. In fact some of the clientele seem to be doing exactly that. People keep bringing us drinks, and apparently we’ve paid for them already. In other resorts we’ve seen the coloured wristbands worn by almost everyone else except for ourselves. The trouble is you risk becoming a slave to the place, tied to mealtimes, not daring to go out for fear of missing what you’ve paid for. Here in Egypt it seems the obvious thing to do, and it's a big success. Perfect for holidaymakers who want to lounge by the pool. The food is far better than we had expected it to be. But I’m not sure we’d do it again.
It’s a regular melting pot here, in a place where even the continents are blurred. I assumed we were in Africa, so it came as a bit of a surprise to be told that this part of Egypt is in Asia. Guests from seemingly every corner of the world, all rubbing along happily together, despite the differences the people who lead the countries they’ve come here from may have with one another. Maybe everyone should move to Sharm el-Sheikh in a bid for world peace. Well, everyone apart from the overly loud and drunken Bristolian who’ll happily tell anybody who happens to be within audible range about his errant brother, currently a guest elsewhere in the world, courtesy of His Majesty’s Prison Service. I suppose at least he’s drowning out the evening entertainment on the stage by the bar, which at this particular moment happens to be the Birdie Song, for which someone has devised lyrics. In French. Just because somebody tells you something’s fun, it doesn’t mean it’s fun. We ask the waiter for four lumps of cheese to insert into our ears. I suppose in this place of relentless luxuries you can’t have it all, can you?
This is the final image from the Egypt series. Many thanks for taking the time to view and comment. And if you're still reading, that especially means you.
The All Inclusive
It's the job of the staff to make us feel like royalty here. They do it with polished warmth, efficiency and style from the moment you arrive at reception. Any attempt to manoeuvre your own suitcase is a non-starter, even though it’s on castors and could be pulled along by a four year old with breathless ease. Try draping a beach towel over your sunbed and watch the attendant come sprinting over the hot sand to take over the job, followed by an eager waiter taking your drinks order. Nothing is too much for the people who work at the Cleopatra. Accidentally mention you’re going to the coffee machine for a cappuccino and Ahmed has raced off to fetch one before you’ve even got up from the table. The young waiters fuss and fawn over Ali, who in many cases is just about old enough to be their grandmother, with a fondness that finds me asking myself searching questions. The almost exclusively male workforce don’t quite understand your average western relationship though. Why are they calling me “boss” when it’s clear to anyone that she's in charge? Some British men correct their Egyptian hosts, pointing at their wives and explaining who really pulls the strings. “She says jump, and I ask “how high” mate,” they guffaw at our bemused hosts.
Then there’s Ibrahim the towel origami king, who services our room and rubs his stomach in genuine concern as each morning he asks us whether we’re feeling better after that unfortunate spell with the pharaoh’s revenge that's dogged the last few days. During our stay the creations he’s left in the apartment for us to discover after an afternoon down at the beach or by the pool have become ever more ambitious. Courting swans, a dog (or was it a pig?), a perfectly formed elephant, a cat with a long tail and an octopus. Although Ali said it looked like something else. Best not to dwell on that. To finish off, we’ve been treated to a monkey suspended from a coat hanger in the doorway, and finally a crocodile, six feet long, with a banana wedged between its wide open jaws. For each of these he’s used two plastic bottle tops to animate his fluffy white menagerie and given them eyes to see with. Ibrahim has earned a generous tip.
We aren't used to service like this and in truth we're not entirely comfortable with it. Wealthy ninety year old widows carrying tiny poodles in their arms at the Negresco in Nice are treated like this. Russian oligarchs richer than Croesus on their superyachts at Puerto Banus are treated like this. It's a big culture shift for a pair of country bumpkins like us. Normally we pick up a small economical car at the airport, drive to the resort and quietly assimilate into the background with as little fuss as possible. We go to the local supermarkets for supplies, just like at home. We take lunch at unfussy restaurants and cafes and sit anonymously at the edges looking in. Independence is our thing, and you can’t watch glowing sunsets on the beach if you’re supposed to be queuing up in the dining hall and filling up on the all inclusive buffet while Ahmed fetches you a glass of red wine.
Getting used to the all inclusive formula is a bit strange too. Neither of us have ever done this before. You could spend the entire day eating if you wanted to. In fact some of the clientele seem to be doing exactly that. People keep bringing us drinks, and apparently we’ve paid for them already. In other resorts we’ve seen the coloured wristbands worn by almost everyone else except for ourselves. The trouble is you risk becoming a slave to the place, tied to mealtimes, not daring to go out for fear of missing what you’ve paid for. Here in Egypt it seems the obvious thing to do, and it's a big success. Perfect for holidaymakers who want to lounge by the pool. The food is far better than we had expected it to be. But I’m not sure we’d do it again.
It’s a regular melting pot here, in a place where even the continents are blurred. I assumed we were in Africa, so it came as a bit of a surprise to be told that this part of Egypt is in Asia. Guests from seemingly every corner of the world, all rubbing along happily together, despite the differences the people who lead the countries they’ve come here from may have with one another. Maybe everyone should move to Sharm el-Sheikh in a bid for world peace. Well, everyone apart from the overly loud and drunken Bristolian who’ll happily tell anybody who happens to be within audible range about his errant brother, currently a guest elsewhere in the world, courtesy of His Majesty’s Prison Service. I suppose at least he’s drowning out the evening entertainment on the stage by the bar, which at this particular moment happens to be the Birdie Song, for which someone has devised lyrics. In French. Just because somebody tells you something’s fun, it doesn’t mean it’s fun. We ask the waiter for four lumps of cheese to insert into our ears. I suppose in this place of relentless luxuries you can’t have it all, can you?
This is the final image from the Egypt series. Many thanks for taking the time to view and comment. And if you're still reading, that especially means you.