Around the World in 50 Years by Albert Podell Page A

was badly disappointed about not bagging a gazelle.
    â€œI don’t think so,” he smiled. “He’s always wanted a ride in an automobile. And—oh, yes—he asked if you might have another pair of shoes. A little smaller.”
    All the next day we toiled in the scorching sun, nailing and boarding the camper floor back together, pounding the buckled aluminum sides into place, straightening the struts underneath. The following morning Steve drove the axle and one of our spare spindles to a welding shop in Tobruk. It was late afternoon before the work was finished and we were ready to roll. We’d lost two full days, and the undercarriage still had three bad cracks that we’d have to weld in Cairo, but at least we were getting back on the road.
    Just as we were leaving, Grumpy came trotting over to our camp on a camel. The chief had sent him: Did we happen to have any shoe polish? Brown?

 
    CHAPTER 4
    Weighed Down in Egypt’s Land
    As we neared the Egyptian border town of Sollum, the sun was directly behind us and setting, a large crimson wafer quickly consumed by the immense appetite of the Sahara. We figured our timing was perfect, as dusk was usually the best time to reach a border post. If we arrived any later, the border might be closed for the night; if we arrived much earlier, the guards had time to waste, and they’d often waste ours in the process; if we arrived at dusk, when the guards were eager to finish duty, they usually wouldn’t bother with a thorough search of our equipment. A thorough search was the last thing we wanted since our prohibited items included an illegal revolver, hundreds of undeclared dollars, and a half case of bourbon. I was particularly worried because Egypt required visitors to prove that they were not Jewish, and I could not do that.
    We crested a bald, round mountain, and Egypt spread out before us, four distinct strips dwindling into the dimming twilight. To the distant left, and stretching over the horizon, the darkened Mediterranean broke black and white on the beach; to its right, the coastal strip, perhaps a mile wide, containing the beach, the border town of Sollum, and the thin trail of asphalt stretching east toward Alexandria; farther right, the escarpment of rugged, barren hills, a geological arrow aiming east-southeast; last, and barely visible, was inland Egypt, mile after mile of rock-studded sand, devoid of life and hope.
    We coasted down the winding road to the base of the mountain, where a guard waved us off the road and toward the passport office. The big room was dim and filled with thick cigar smoke. It was furnished with splintered wooden desks, cracked leather armchairs, two pictures of President Gamal Abdel Nasser, two pictures of the Aswan Dam construction, and four army officers. (In most developed nations, passport control is handled by a specialized civilian department; in Egypt, as in most Arab countries, the military controlled the frontiers.) The officers were in their undershirts, their fat arms and faces sweating in the airless room. They were suspicious and arrogant. And in no hurry to get home.
    After they’d learned that three of us were Americans, they ignored us for an hour and smoked their Cuban cigars. Then the interrogation commenced: Where had we been? Why had we come to the United Arab Republic? (This was, at the time, the formal name for the nominal union of Syria and Egypt.) Where would we be staying each night? How much money did we have with us? Were we planning to take pictures of the Palestinian refugees? What kind of work did we do? Where were our parents born? Were we connected with the American government in any way? Why did we have a big trailer with us? (Why indeed?) Had we ever visited Egypt before? Had we ever been to Israel? Were we planning to go there?
    I became annoyed, but knew the officers were just waiting for one of us to lose his temper. When we’d gotten our visas weeks