 |
Al-Ahram Weekly 20 - 26 July 2000 Issue No. 491 
|
||
Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
| ||
|
Al-Ahram Weekly 20 - 26 July 2000 Issue No. 491
|
||
| Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
| ||
Egypt Region International Economy Opinion Culture Features Travel Living Sports Profile People Time Out Chronicles Cartoons Letters A week in the life of
By Fayza Hassan
Between 1962, when we married, and 1967, when we finally left for Australia, my husband and I gradually forfeited all our foreign friends as well as our lifestyle. As he battled with Egyptian bureaucracy to get our documents together for emigration, my husband took refuge in dreams of faraway lands. We would first tour Europe, he would say, poring over maps; we could stay in Paris, and maybe London for a while. One of his best friends and associates had settled recently in Milan. We could surprise him with a call and also go to Rome for a couple of days. The week did not start well despite the positive prospects heralded by my horoscope, which encouraged me to venture forth with confidence. On the strength of its predictions, I called my travel agent on Monday to book tickets to Sarasota, Florida. Mr Emad pointed out that this was the peak season, which I knew already, since I have presented him with the same request every year at around this time for the past five years. I had had to complain about his services on previous occasions, but, lacking the energy to try something new, I always ended up accepting the most inconvenient arrangements. Secure in the belief that I would not shop elsewhere, he eventually quoted a fare twice as high as I had anticipated. Before I could object, he informed me that I would be lucky if I actually had the reservation confirmed. All of Egypt, it seemed, was moving to Sarasota and back on my chosen dates, but as I well knew, he was at my service and would do his best.
"Why do you keep going to him?" demanded my daughter impatiently. "Haven't you understood yet that he's a loser?" She suggested we call my niece, just back from her honeymoon in Florida. An hour later, at a travel agency downtown, we had our trip organised to fit our requirements for less than half the price. I was rather miffed at Mr Emad, but more so at myself for having omitted to do any comparative shopping before trusting him blindly all these years. With the assurance that our tickets were secure, I concentrated on ways of exacting revenge from my former supplier, but found none that would assuage my feeling of resentment satisfactorily.
On Tuesday, I attended a press conference where film director Asma El-Bakri took the Ministry of Culture and other ministries to task. Historical monuments throughout the country were in a shameful condition, she said, and, to prove her point, presented a short video where the neglect, destruction and the incredible amounts of garbage surrounding our most precious buildings featured supreme. I was seething as I watched, although I am more than familiar with the state of the remains of our past. When the turn of the ministry official came, his rebuttal was so weak and inane that I was overcome with despair. Filled with self-importance, he tried to list the ministry's recent achievements, but was quickly booed off the dais by irate journalists fed up with so much laissez-aller and incompetence. Still, even if our side had won a victory of words, would anything change?
Wednesday evening Mr George came to deliver my new computer. As he displayed the various items, he vaunted the excellence of his merchandise while at the same time softly suggesting more hardware that I could acquire and which would improve the performance of my initial purchase... not to mention his profits. He deftly unhooked my old computer with what I could only take as utter contempt and fiddled with the connections of the new one with confidence. He did that for the best part of three hours, but, when the state-of-the-art modem still refused to work, his boisterous tone changed to a pitiful mumbling. Having re-installed my trustworthy antique, he left with the promise to come back next week -- with a functional piece.
Thursday morning, I remembered that the new desk, befitting the new computer, which I had bought from a reputable office furniture dealer, had not been delivered. When no office furniture had materialised by noon, and feeling antagonistic after the previous night's debacle, I called the shop. "We are very sorry, we were unable to reach you yesterday, but we do not have the model that you chose in store," a voice told me. "You had my mobile number," I pointed out coldly, "and what were you planning to do, anyway? I have already paid for the desk."
The man, obviously not used to being ticked off by dissatisfied customers, lamely offered to send me a different item, more expensive of course, which I could have tonight or tomorrow at the latest. "Do you think I have nothing better to do than wait for your merchandise all day?" I hollered, beside myself. "We do have a grey desk similar to the one you ordered, but it is in Madinet Nasr," said the man nervously. "I want my money back," I hissed down the receiver. There was silence at the other end. "We do not have the money right now," he finally admitted, "but I can assure you that the grey desk is quite attractive and I can guarantee that it will be delivered in less than a week," he added quickly. I slammed the receiver down.
My daughter stood at the door silently, watching as I jumped up and down and foamed at the mouth. "Why not call the manager?" she asked reasonably. "This man is powerless, he is just following orders." Ignoring her, and with trembling fingers, I dialed once more. "What did you decide?" I whispered menacingly. "Will I have the desk I selected, or the money back at once?" The money, he said, could be ready tonight after 5.00pm; as for the desk, the more expensive one was exactly the same, only with wrought-iron decorations that accounted for the price difference; would I not come over to look at it? This time I threw the receiver across the room. My daughter called the manager, who promptly promised that we could pick up the money any time. Tomorrow, we will go desk hunting.
