I am at once apprehended by a man claiming to be ‘tourist police’ in Cairo airport. What on earth? The gruff official drags me to a large government booth, where a colleague of his calmly asks to see my travel itinerary. I jolt as he rips up my Airbnb booking, with the peculiar justification that “this in dangerous part of town.” He proceeds to write me a whole new schedule, including a revised hotel booking and the procurement of a driver and guide for sightseeing excursions. Get me back to Jerusalem at once. What a swindle! As he calculates the overall price, I ponder a return flight. But, how many times my life will I have the chance to see possibly the most iconic structure in the world? Presently, I meet my freshly assigned driver and tour guide - they strike me as a divergent pair. The history enthusiast is a gregarious and excitable sort, flapping away and gesticulating and indeed almost taking to flight, while the driver exudes calm, grounded and barely visible through a swirl of cigarette smoke. Neither man baulks at the heat. If the sun isn’t making me sweat enough, my circumstances are. At my hotel check-in, the guide informs me about a recent upsurge in violence across the nation, hence the airport rigmarole and the crack-down on entries. I suppose I’m lucky I got in at all. The next morning, the driver arrives punctually. Baqir does not speak much English, but the intense theatre of Cairo traffic is enough to keep my eardrums humming. This man is the ultimate multitasker: he bobs and swerves through the incredibly congested arteries of Cairo, smokes a cigarette in his free hand while pursuing a heated argument on his hands-free headset. “It’s one of my wife.” I grin. Does he mean ‘it’s my wife’ or ‘it’s one of my wives’? The Giza Pyramid is stunning. Yet it lies adjacent to a flat complex reputed to be one of the poorest neighbourhoods in the entire Middle East. We liaise with a different local guide, and his slightly high-pitched, nasally voice is a bit of a letdown compared to the gravelly, curt magnificence of my travel chaperone. “You will be just with Baqir tomorrow. Alexandria is on your itinerary, his home town,” the guide informs me in passable English. A whole day alone with Baqir? The following morning, Baqir enters reception on time. “We go… drive, town, Alexandria,” he says. To say that Baqir smokes a lot is akin to saying rain is wet, and though not normally a smoker, I accept his offer of a thin menthol. After a whirlwind overview of the main city, we stop outside a house in a guarded neighbourhood. I meet his brother and nephew, neither of whom speak English any better than he, but words are hardly needed as I am provided with a deckchair and a plate of freshly cooked 'kofta' and pita bread. We emerge onto a beach, a private enclave. “You go swim, they know us.” Many things would stick with me that day, but the image of a young woman, of indiscriminate age, bobbing up and down in the Mediterranean waves, completely covered in her black burka, is one I will hold onto. And with ferocity. “Sir, your driver has hit some bad traffic. We are looking for a replacement.” I am not mulling over missing my flight. Rather, that I might not get to thank Baqir for the past few days. Moments later, I hear machine-gun Arabic at the desk and distinctive coughing. He made it! I almost run to hug him, but that might translate as awkward. The ten-minute speedy journey to the airport is a double-edged sword; Baqir assures me that I will not miss my flight, but we have so little occasion to converse. I remain unclear as to his wife situation, but maybe I’ll make up my own mind on that. I give him my business card, and he shakes my hand. I doubt he can even read Roman script, and is unlikely to ever visit Europe, but maybe he’ll hold onto it as a keepsake of sorts. I certainly have those in abundance.