Around the World in 50 Years by Albert Podell Page B

before, we’d filled out all the forms and answered all the relevant questions. Our passports were in perfect order, but the officers were determined to continue their game.
    â€œYou, what work do you do?” they asked me.
    â€œI’m an art director for advertisements,” I answered, using the cover story we’d contrived for those countries that barred foreign journalists, to credibly explain why we had so much film and such professional cameras.
    Then they asked our religions. We each replied with a different Christian denomination, all true except for mine. I’d rehearsed this many times, even learned some Protestant prayers and religious theory, but my lip nevertheless trembled as I answered, and sweat bathed my forehead. The officer looked at me closely. Across North Africa, my prominent nose, dark eyes, and olive skin were oft mistaken for Arabic, whereupon I usually nodded modestly, congratulated the interlocutor on his perceptiveness, and pretended that my dear old dad had been born in such-and-such Arab country, usually picking one that was on a friendly footing with the one we were in. But it wasn’t going to be so easy this time.
    Egypt drew no distinction between Israelis and Jews, and we’d been warned that it required visitors to carry letters from their home churches attesting that they were members in good standing. I’d assumed I’d easily obtain such a letter from some priest or minister who wanted to strike a mild blow against religious discrimination, but they had all refused.
    When the soldier asked me if I possessed such a letter, Steve, to distract him, started edging toward the door, purposely acting suspiciously.
    â€œYou!” the soldier shouted at Steve. “Come here. Show me your letter.”
    Steve showed it to him.
    â€œWhere are you going?” he asked Steve.
    â€œFirst to Alexandria, then to Cairo, and across into Jordan,” he answered.
    â€œJordan? How to Jordan?”
    Steve told him we planned to drive from Cairo across the Suez Canal, then through the Sinai Peninsula.
    â€œIt is forbidden to go into the Sinai. No one is allowed. It is a war zone. Do not forget that we are at war with your ally Israel. Next year! You come again next year and then you can drive to Jordan. Next year there will be no more Israel.”
    Finally, and begrudgingly, the officer stamped our passports, and we were free to move on—20 yards to the Customs Office.
    We’d been warned that Egyptian Customs was tough, but we were not prepared for what awaited us. In a blazingly bright room, four clerks behind a wide counter were assiduously searching the luggage and persons of a dozen Arab travelers and workers. They dumped the contents of trunks and suitcases on the floor, untied knots, opened boxes, poked through tins of tea and cookies, pulled off nailed covers, probed for false bottoms, checked all labels, searched through pockets and trouser legs and shoes.
    In a small room to the right, a teller was exchanging foreign currencies for Egyptian pounds at the highly inflated official rate. Although ten American dollars fetched eight or nine Egyptian pounds on the free market in New York and Beirut, and close to that on the black market inside Egypt, the government was offering only four and a half pounds, and imposing severe penalties, including imprisonment, on anyone caught entering or leaving with more money than they’d declared. We’d planned to double our Egyptian money by exchanging our concealed dollars on the black market, but we also risked more than doubling our stay in Egypt—behind bars.
    In front of the customs house, in the driveway where we’d parked our vehicles and trailers, two officers with flashlights were searching through the car ahead of us. They checked the undersides, looked beneath the floor mats, felt behind the seats, emptied the trunk, probed in the gas tank with a rod, and searched under the hood. In a