I’m a journalist, travel writer, editor and copywriter based in Melbourne, Australia. I write pacy travel features, edit edifying websites and fashion flamboyant copy. My articles and photographs have appeared in publications worldwide, from inflight to interior design: I’ve visited every continent, and have lived in three. Want to work together? Drop me a line… 



Stop Press!

I have an apartment *victory dance*! The trawl through Cairo’s dirty streets has been long and arduous, especially when today I got shown the same apartment, TWICE. In fact, I was shown two apartments I had already seen before!

But I had a good feeling about Hamid, one of many people I’ve spoken to on the street, perfecting the phrase, ‘Badawwar ‘ala sha’a lil igar li midduit shahrayn’ (I’m looking for a flat to rent for two months – it was spelt out in my Lonely Planet conversation guide that has become my Ko’ran.)

I don’t have photos. I don’t yet have a contract. I have put down a little deposit in the form of a crisp 100 egyptian pound note, which the owner and the bowab (like a doorman), kissed before pocketing.

The bowab, Ahmed, and I sign contracts at high noon tomorrow. Like most Downtown apartments, it’s HUGE. High ceilings, walls that haven’t seen paint since the Brits left in 1922, a washing machine that could tear you from limb to limb, two enormous bedrooms, a massive reception and a dramatic timber sideboard that was the real reason I took the apartment. There’s a crazy, browning rustic mural of an idyllic country scene on the main wall that is the first thing you see when you open the door.

The price is very good, I have no idea what I’m going to do with two bedrooms. But it has two balconies that were just made for giving speeches to the waiting masses down below on busy Sharif Street.

I will clean it, then I will photograph it for general consideration… Now I’m feeling all scared that I’m going to miss the pension, which suddenly seems so cosy and welcoming.

PS Mum, the lift is also a DISASTER.


I’m starting to think I have a camel obsession. But their lovely, long fluttering eyelashes, their sweet faces and their thick, matted hair just get me. Which is why I’m now lugging a 4kg camel blanket which I bought in Bahariya Oasis.

The Oasis comprises eight villages strung between sand dunes and dry, barren plains, four or five hours by bus from Cairo.

It took an hour to get through donkey- and pyramid-ridden Giza and out of Cairo’s outskirts, then the new cities started, new towns with such optimistic names as Green Valley, which are also part of Cairo’s 20 million-strong population. It was flat. Really flat. The skyline was obscured by dust, which could be pollution as well as desert sand, and the only buildings on this road were oil maintenance sheds, where a lone passenger would depart, to walk into…where? The empty desert?

After pausing for a split second to dump the lone passenger, the bus would then pick up speed again to 140km, sitting in the centre of the road.

At Birawati, the main town of the Bahariya Oasis, we were spat into the waiting arms of a swarm of touts till I found the driver who’d take me and three others out into the White Desert. Ashraf, in his grubby blue tracksuit, pulled up an old Landcruiser stuffed with sleeping bags, mattresses and food to barrel out into the desert. Sometimes it’s ok being able to speak only English. Of the five of us in the van, the Italian, French-Canadian, Egyptian and Spaniard all spoke at least a few words of English, definitely the linga franca.

That night, Ashraf cooked sensational rice, potatoes and tomatoes, and – mysteriously – chicken (um, from where? We were in a hot car for at least three hours) and we had even managed to prise some beer out of a ‘Bedwin’ shop en route.

The floor of the White Desert is paved with blindingly white chalk plains and eruptions of soft chalk, escarpments that have been whittled away by the wind to fantastical shapes. They are fragile and beautiful…and ideal for travellers to climb upon to get early morning shots. We pulled into a camp area, passed a large bus full of what looked suspiciously like Kiwis and Aussies playing cricket, to find a little alcove where Ashraf laid out the kitchen, we made our beds beneath the stars and that night, tried to fall asleep beneath a full moon so bright, it cast shadows across the earth.

The next morning, everyone else in the desert had gone except us. I watched the big, orange sun break like rich egg yolk over the desert, but Ashraf woke only when I whistled to him and nudged the van (he was obviously over sleeping on the ground like us, and had curled up amongst our bags in the 4WD). We waited for him to complete morning prayers then he laid out breakfast of bread, jam, cheese, tea and nescafe, which the Italian stared bleakly at, unable to bring himself to sit down.

After breakfast, Ashraf kicked over the old Landcruiser again (the starter motor is wired to play a chant from the Ko’ran when it is turned over), and we roared off road into the desert…

Horsing Around the Pyramids

I don’t gallop, I tell Mido.

Ok, he says soothingly.

We pass through the gate and into the pyramids, and it’s a full five minutes before he whacks my little Arab stallion’s backside, shrieks haaaaaa! And we’re off! Tearing up the soft sand around the back of the Pyramids.

Mido’s the owner of Desert Storm riding school, which he says has 85 horses. He started with three, 20 years ago, the story goes. Despite wearing a gelabiya that he hitches up to reveal bare legs and a little white cap, he’s glued to the saddle.

After the third gallop, I’m starting to get the hang of it. Sugar, my little stallion (I didn’t realise he WAS a stallion till I got off – imagine in Australia!), was off like the clappers at the first chance, had a little tanty when I wouldn’t let him schmooze a fancy mare, and was a great way to circle the Pyramids which we’d done earlier in the day as I did a quid pro quo deal with them for some photos.

Here’s the proof – ok, I’m a long way away but beggars etc… And here’s one of Mido checking his phone…

treading on camel toes

This morning, Juan and I went to the Birqash camel market, about 45km out of Cairo. We did a very good deal with a smooth-talking guide with car, Tarek, who was hanging around the pension.

I have to remember what the very shady Mr Ali (there are many Mr Alis in this town) said to me the other night, as he held my hand, gently stroking my palm discreetly with his index finger, “Nobody gives you anything for free in Egypt. They will give to you because they will take from you.”

Anyway, the camels were amazing. There were many, many camels. And many camel boys. And camel men, trucks, sticks and much, much camel dust. I had to take a shower when I came home, I smelt like I’d been rolling in camel dung.

The yards are always there full of camels, but sale day is Friday morning. We watched camels being paraded before a dozen arguing men, one adult going for 8500 Egyptian pounds (A$2240/E1150), four little baby camels for just over 1000 pounds each.

The whole process of buying and selling was complete theatre. Everyone was acting. And everyone knew it. The indignation. The anger. The pleading. The refusal and walking away. The disinterest. And finally, the sale.
In between, lively young camels tore away from their owners and galloped through the market, kicking up yet more dust, men trucked in bales of feed, stacking them high on the shelters’ roofs away from long-necked thieves. Naughty little boys stuck sticks up recalcitrant camels’ bottoms, which I particularly disliked.

Most camels had one leg bent at the knee and tied up so it was effectively hobbled. When they load them onto the trucks, they then tie the two back legs. The camels don’t like it, and bellyache loudly. But when they’re all tied down in their open-top trucks, they face the direction of travel and watch the road like hawks, giving their opinion like a bevy of backseat drivers.

They really are very haughty looking creatures, but for some reason I love them, and I didn’t feel unsafe around them at all. Some even came up to my camera while I was photographing them, just for a look. I think they know I wasn’t going to belt them.


Well, you can tell I’m back on form tonight if I’m thinking of food. As Egyptians often are. They breakfast last, lunch later and dinner – a light snack – can be as late as 1am, Tarek told me today. So when we were having dinner at the Citadel view restaurant in Al Azhar at 8pm, technically it could still constitute lunch.

But the real reason for this post is…mangoes. I know you shouldn’t eat them every day, but the season is about to end, and it’s the chance to try some of the 11 (or is it 15, or 18) types of mango on offer in Egypt. Hindi and Alphonse are most people’s faves, while Oasi makes the triumvirate of the best-loved. I’ve been mainlining Timor mangoes (‘oh, they’re ok, but they’re not Hindi, Alphonse or Oasi,’ say the mango-mad Egyptians) from my local fruit & veg souk.

You can buy fresh mango juice on the street for less than a dollar from bizarrely decorated juice stores (ok, I’ll get you a pic) and am I being un-Australian by suggesting that they’re better than the ones back home? Heaven is a juicy mango…

Pale and uninteresting

It was a poor food decision that’s seen me locked in my room today, feeling wan and looking disgusting. I think I’m over the worst of it, but still fragile. On the upside, I should lose weight, as I haven’t eaten anythis solid today, though the clerks here at the pension have been bringing me in lemonade, made lemon tea and offered a litany of pills, which has been gorgeous. Needless to say: there are no photos today. I think I need to lie down. Oh I already am.

Apartment grief

I saw another couple of apartments today, here in Downtown. These ones work out to about $125/week before I start haggling, which is the same as what I pay at this pension, but of course you get privacy, a kitchen etc. I’m not an industrial chemical kinda girl, but this one requires a healthy dose of Uber-Domestos.

I don’t know what to do. It’s not a rich area (obviously, by the price of the rent), but the lift is DISASTEROUS and the stairwell is filthy. The apartment is on the top floor, with lovely breezes through the doors that lead out to the two little balconies with some furniture and a cleaning lady once a week for about $5. (I know, I’m ok with that!)

It would normally be nice to say you look down on the rooftops of the city, but Cairo rooftops are full of rubbish. It’s by no means glamorous, though it looks right across the city. My rich Cairene friend would be horrified. But it’s cheap enough that I can keep it even though I’ll be away a fair bit of the next 10 weeks, and not have to worry about the cost of rent. The nice expat places are about four times the price. And I am too selfish to share…

Should I just take it? Should I wait to see a few more in a slightly quieter area? One concern is the terrible lift (like those little ones in France, tiny birdcages, but this one is pretty rugged). You have to close the doors properly to make it work. And apparently Egyptians don’t close the doors properly, so it would mean an 11-floor trek.

Belly dancing on the Nile: the ultimate cliche?

Tonight, I teamed up with John and Mohommad again to discover new ahwas (cafes) and brought along Juan, a Spaniard who’s also staying at this pension. I love the carte blanche that being with Mohommad brings. The cafes are down back alleys, through the slimmest streets and in the courtyards of apartment blocks. Most have a tv, though this one, my new favourite for its cardomon-scented coffee, has elegant timber bistro chairs with the cafe owner’s name, Abdul Karim Osman, carved on the back rest and Cleopatra on the seat. So I’m parking my backside on her face. Nice.

We walked down to Doqqi to talk to a man about apartments, but it’s still holidays, so tomorrow (Sunday) everything kicks back into life after almost a week’s break. I feel Cairo’s heading for one mother of a hangover tomorrow.

Cool things: the metro has women-only carriages until 9pm each night, though foreign men are tolerated (they don’t appear to understand the red sign with the woman’s picture on it, or perhaps they know that it will be less crowded than the carriages for the great unwashed.

We walked along the Nile this evening, promenading as Egyptians do. There were little boats that do a quick 20 minute spin up the Nile for less than a dollar – definitely a local scene as the foriegners were all going into the big ships for those corny cruise meals (of which, I might add, I did in Dubai). The outboard motor stinks, the PA plays tinny Arab pop, but a couple of kids got all excited and one little girl jumped up and gave us a surprisingly good belly dance, then a boy about the same age did a traditional men’s dance that’s normally done with swords. We all clapped along while the kids danced. It was a quite wholesome, totally charming cruise.

On another note, this pension is interesting – it is such good value and a really good vibe that a lot of people prefer to stay here instead of the faceless five-stars (well, yes). But there are two girls here who butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths (you can play guess the nationality). But every time the ice queens enter the room, like the white witch of Narnia, they freeze all conversation. So imagine my delighted surprise to find at the front desk yesterday afternoon the two biggest, roughest, nastiest looking Saudi blokes (ok, we’re conjecturing here), asking for them by room number (no names, didn’t know…) Dirty girls!
I tried to get you a nice pic of me up on the very British lions on Qasr el-Nil bridge, but Mohommad isn’t the best photographer. I have suggested a trade of Arabic for photography lessons. Here’s his effort… (God, that means I’m going to have to climb up there AGAIN while the cops aren’t watching!)

Tomorrow, I am going to a performance by the Cairo Opera Ballet at the Opera House – can’t wait!

One-legged bar hop

Continuing the saga of delving deep into the seamy side of Downtown Cairo, last night I went for a beer with my new friends John, a Londoner, and his mate Mohammad. They’ve kindly let me tag along with them as John’s apartment hunting as well. I have to say – there were some highs, there were some very, very low lows. Some places you’d be frightened to take your shoes off in, and one that had me worried the floor was going to drop out of the ancient lift.

So after cruising about six apartments, we lashed out and went to a bar. Cap D’Or is apparently (according to my guide book) used to foreigners, and you know I’m fairly intrepid in this regard. But there is no way I’d have set foot in here alone. It was like when the stranger throws open the saloon doors and the music stops and everyone shuts up.

I’ve posted up a pic of the bar snacks – sliced tomatoes with a herb salt in an old soft drink bottle with holes in the lid, foul (cooked butter beans, taste fantastic, look um, foul hahaha), and termis, more unidentified pulses. All exceptionally healthy stuff. We got the bar boy to grab some cheese from the shop across the road as well, and I fed snippets to the tiny kitten beneath my chair.

The beer we drink round here is Stella, (“Authentic Egyptian Lager Beer since 1897”) at 4.5%. Cap D’or is also one of the cheapest bars around, selling it for LE7, about A$1.50. The bar snacks are free.

Just as we left, I said to John, I wish I had the guts to take a pic, but I’m too embarassed. He said, don’t be soft. So I handed him the camera. He took a bad pic. I took the camera back, asked the barman if he minded? He preened and ran a smoothing hand over his bald head. I took the pic. The entire bar watched, then someone waved a hand. I asked the bar, ‘Mumkin?” (Do you mind?) The bar said, “La!” (No!) All assumed the pose. I took a snap. “Gameel! Shukran.” (Beautiful! Thank you). The bar all waved goodbye.

We skipped out to try another bar opposite the Swiss Embassy, more local, less used to chicks, as was obvious after I went to the loo and, as I was coming out, surprised a bloke just about to use the pissoir outside the loo. He was slightly disgusted, I think, as he had to zip himself back up and step out of the room back into the to let me pass. Everything I wore last night now stinks, absolutely stinks, of cigarettes.

Mohammad also pushed open the door on a bar full of prostitutes (VERY BIG and SCARY prostitutes) where the beer is three times the price and the girls expect seriously big tips. It was not a place for me to be drinking in.

PS Can I just mention that this is the seedy side of town? Will hit the glam side as well to prove Cairo’s not all so rugged.

PPS Can I also ask whether am I the last woman alive to know that female circumcision was de riguer in Egypt, for ALL Egyptian women, until just five years ago??? The things you learn in bars…

Omar Sharif causes riots Downtown

When I finally woke up late this morning, after slinking in at 2am, I spent the day on the balcony writing a story about a $1200/night spa in Thailand. It’s a far cry from this $10 pension in Egypt. The difference is hard to comprehend. Most of Egypt slept late, I think. The streets were quiet, but as I woke, I heard something I hadn’t heard since I’d been here – the radio. During Ramadam, it’s forbidden to play music, unless it’s religious/Arabic traditional music (as well as eat, smoke and drink in public during daylight). Now, Arab pop is well and truly back on the soundscape, blurring in with the car horns, sirens and the roar emerging from a city of 20 million people.

I also noticed when I wandered out for a late lunch, a pub – all dingy with blue neon lighting inside (interesting design concept), and also an off-licence. I must post it up on an expat website I was on today, which had a long involved discussion on offies in Cairo. Apparently foreigners can buy up to three bottles of imported spirits at the duty free shops within three days of arrival, and after that, you can by the local brands, though one contributor said the local stuff has formaldehyde in it, and advised all readers to avoid it.

But tonight, most shops were shut, even up toward Khan al-Khalili, where normally you’re shoving to walk up what passes as a footpath. Instead, the youth of Cairo, who were until 5am selling faux designer shirts on the streets, tarted themselves up and headed Downtown, near my pension, to eat ice creams and visit one of the three cinemas on the first night of their three-day holiday (apparently there’s a very good, new Omar Sharif movie out).

It sounds innocuous – watchig movies and eating ice cream – but there was a weird pack mentality, the first time I’ve felt it) but I got adopted (again!) this time by a young news journalist, Sharif, who’s just dying to make it in the States.

He just stuck his arm out and pushed everyone back so I could get through the crowd. Sort of like a modern-day feminist Moses scenario. It was a bit embarrassing, but it was good to get out of the crowd.

I had read that in previous years, there were some sort of riots down here, so there were plenty of white-clad police about (the irony of a city that turns your snot black is that their coppers are decked out in bright white, with long black boots – it’s terribly butch).

I also learned tonight that the slangy greeting I was taught last time I was here (‘saida’ sp?) is actually a Christian expression, so saying it to a Muslim is just weird. Hmmm, that’s why they were giggling. In fact, they giggle a lot when I speak Arabic.