Tower of the Sun: Stories From the Middle East and North Africa by Michael J. Totten Page A

like a boozer.
    “This man will guide you to the Sphinx,” Mohammad said.
    Oh, for God’s sake, I thought. The Sphinx was right there. Only a blind man would need a guide. Mohammad didn’t want to pay this jerk off, so now I had to do it? I suddenly liked him less, but it was hard to say how much pressure he was actually under. I had witnessed some of that pressure earlier, and it was a lot. There is no legal recourse at all when you’re abused by policemen in Egypt.
    The menacing officer stared at me, whip in hand, with undisguised hatred as I dismounted my horse. I smiled at him as though I were the perfect American idiot, utterly clueless about what was happening and incapable of reading body language or hostile intent. What I really wanted to do was break his face with my fist. I’d be in deep shit if I didn’t pay him. That came across. He was mugging me, basically, and hardly even bothered to pretend otherwise.
    “Do you speak English?” I said in the most genial voice I could muster as we walked together toward the Sphinx.
    He actually smiled at me and shrugged his shoulders. Playing nice was paying off. What else could I do? I seethed inside even after he decided to cool it. He didn’t care at all about making a civilized impression on foreigners. I despised him for that on Egypt’s behalf as well as my own. The code of Arab hospitality was completely lost on this man.
    It only took two minutes or so to reach the Sphinx. Other tourists were there, snapping the shutters on their digital cameras. I took several pictures and ignored the policeman completely, refusing to look at him or acknowledge that he even existed.
    I walked around to look at the Sphinx from several different vantage points and stayed much longer than I would have if the bastard weren’t on my case. You want baksheesh? I thought. Then you’re gonna wait for it, pal.
    I kept the policeman waiting for as long as I could stand, then started walking back toward Mohammad and our horses without looking back at him. Clandestinely I pulled one Egyptian pound (less than 20 cents) out of my pocket for the baksheesh he “earned” in no way whatsoever. I didn’t want him to ask for money and see me pull a big wad of cash out of my pocket and demand I give him one of my larger bills.
    “Hello again, Mohammad,” I said as I approached.
    “Hello, Mr. Michael,” he said. “How was the Sphinx?”
    “Grand,” I said.
    The policeman walked just behind me and to my right as I fantasized about cracking him in the nose with the back of my elbow. I mounted my horse and let the man wonder if I was actually going to give him baksheesh or not. Then, not wanting to start yet another furious incident, I handed him the Egyptian equivalent of 17 cents.
    “ Shukran ,” I said—thank you—in the iciest tone I could manage.
    No, fuck you , you son of a bitch, is what I was thinking. Would you treat my mother this way if she were here instead of me? Even tourists at the pyramids, of all places, get a taste of the petty humiliations people have to put up with every day in Third World police states. Imagine living in a country so messed up that it could be your job to roam around all day with a whip and a gun angrily extorting money from everybody you come across. No wonder Mohammad was fed up with this man and had the nerve to scream at him earlier.
    This is what you have to put up with thanks to your pal Mubarak, I wanted to say to Mohammad as we rode away, but I didn’t. He was a nice enough man, and he knew that already. He was shaken down by the cops every day when he went to work.
     
    *  *  *
     
    I went to a cozy restaurant and pub back in Zamalek and ordered a bowl of pasta. A 20-something Western woman sat alone at the next table reading an English-language newspaper. We smiled hello to each other.
    “Are you a student here?” she asked in an Australian accent.
    “No,” I said. “I’m a writer. You?”
    “Just traveling,” she said.
    “By