Read Online Around the World in 50 Years by Albert Podell - Free Book Online Page A

side of the mountain now, well along on its nightly journey into the Sahara. The wind picked up the somber lament of Taps as we headed east toward Alexandria. He gave the greatest gift of all, his own unfinished life .
    By the next morning, the road had turned into a jagged torture track of loose white rocks against the whiteness of the desert. At one particularly treacherous spot, a crew of some 60 fellaheen wearing white robes and turbans, their faces covered with dust, appeared like apparitions—bent to their labors, kneeling on the harsh, hot roadbed. They struggled without aid of tractor, grader, or drill, attacking the reluctant rock with hand and muscle and primitive tools, chopping it with chisels, hitting it with hammers, carting boulders away on their backs, straining and sweating in the heat, descendants of the pyramid builders, still slaving after four thousand years.
    Nine miles east of El Alamein the road swung close to the sea. We stopped and plunged into the beckoning pale water, washing off the hot dust of the deserts of Egypt and the cold dust of the cemeteries of the world. Then it was on to Alexandria, the Pearl of the Mediterranean.
    There is no other city in the world like Alex, and the world can be thankful for that. It’s a Coney Island full of fun-loving crooks, a carnival of affable criminals, a rowdy reunion of ex-cons. No metaphor can totally capture the carefree carnality and casual criminal spirit of the city, but here is what happened when we met the picaresque denizens of Alex and learned, the hard way, that the Pearl was only paste.
    As we drove in through its outskirts, Alex was smoky and congested, with steel mills and cement plants in the midst of residential sections. Collapsing tenements stood beside caves dug into the hills, and people lived in both. It was a mess of overhead wires, trolley tracks, pushcart vendors, drying wash, muddy streets, belching smokestacks, blowing sand, littered alleys, unrelenting noise, and thousands of street urchins.
    The kids swooped upon us as soon as we reached the edge of town. In seconds they jumped on the flat top of the camper, climbed onto the canvas roofs of the cars, hopped on the running boards, crawled across the hoods, and tried to wriggle their skinny arms into any opening, begging for baksheesh, or taking what they could. As soon as we chased them off, they came charging back, heaving pieces of sheep dung, shouting and laughing when we flinched.
    As we neared the center of Alex, our assailants were older, their weapons were verbal, and their interests went beyond bouncing up and down on the camper.
    â€œPssst, you want nice girl? Virgin girl?” asked one strabismic pimp as he trotted alongside the Cruiser.
    â€œPssst, you want bad girl? Experienced girl?” asked his twin, who was trotting along the other side of the car. I drove faster, but not before a man wearing a galabeya leaped onto the running board and breathed a blast of garlic in my face: “You want change money? Good rate: Five pounds for ten dollar. Best price in Alex. How much you change?”
    When I slowed down to push off the money changer, two of his competitors leaped onto the running board and clung to the door as I shifted into second, screaming their prices into my ear, trying to outbid one another, but offering no bargains. Meanwhile two rogues elbowed each other for possession of the other running board, one of them offering to sell us whatever we might want, and the other offering to buy whatever we might want to sell. Willy introduced them to each other and shoved them off.
    When we stopped at a corner for cross traffic, a score of shouting Alexandrians besieged us, waving bottles of whiskey, photos of naked women, cigarette cartons, nylon stockings, Egyptian money, packets of hashish, all screaming their prices. Everybody knew that five foreigners had just arrived in two red 4 × 4s pulling two loaded trailers, and everybody was eager to sink