In Al Qaeda's cross hairs. Or, a night in Sharm El Sheikh.

Not having a tourist visa for Egypt has finally caught up with me.

I was told when I came across the border at Taba, 3 days ago, that I would be able to obtain the correct tourist visa at the airport before boarding my flight to Hurghada. This is true. But on checking in I find out, in addition to a ticket and a valid passport, I must also present a hand-delivered document with a signed guarantee from my travel agent. No faxes, no print-outs, forgeries, emails, Tripit itineraries or screenshots allowed. A hand-delivered original, please. Don't ask me what it guarantees. Mohammed, a young, handsome, helpful, earnest, Egypt Air representative has a long conversation with the chief customs officer, who in turn has a long phone conversation with Mostafa, my travel agent in Cairo. But to no avail. No hand-delivered guarantee, no visa. I want to say, "Look at me for Allah's sake, I'm a benign being, a tourist, a New Zealander. And we aren't terrorists!" But the chief customs officer, who has been smoking all the while, has so far refused to even look at me and the T-word must not be uttered at an airport. So I wait, trying to look as though I have all the time in the world, meanwhile dozens of Russians clutching their red passports get their stamp and go through. Russians! . . . Kleptomaniacs!

It's now past the time when my flight has departed and Mohammed, my young, handsome, etc. Egypt Air representative tells me to wait in the cafe while he goes off to figure out a solution. I just know I'm not getting across the Red Sea to Hurghada today and resign myself to spending a night in Sharm El Shiekh. 'Sharm', as it's referred to on all the travel sites, is the very place in Egypt I wanted to avoid. Does anything sound worse than a glitzy, all-inclusive resort filled with 100s if not 1000s of Brits, Russians and Saudis drinking, dancing, shopping and gambling? Infidels by the thousand and Muslims committing haram! Hello Al Qada!

45 more minutes pass. The check-in agent walks over and returns my ticket, and confirms what I already know, but kindly assures me, "I'll check you in again tomorrow! Don't worry!" Sorry, but I just don't have a "Salaam Alaikum!" in me right now. I try my best to relax as a wash of Egyptian trance music starts to bathe the terminal building, I close my eyes and imagine I'm lying on the beach with my book and a drink, at my little boutique 5-star hotel in Hurghada, across the Red Sea . . .

. . . but it's not really working.

5 more hours go by interspersed with conversations with Mohammed, my young, etc., and now also Menno, Mostafa's local travel agent, and after two attempts at the correct wording, I finally get the required hand-delivered guarantee, worded, stamped and signed exactly as the chief requires it and—my long-awaited visa. See how pretty it is!

I take a taxi into 'Sharm' change my ticket for a flight leaving tomorrow morning and check into the Sol Sharm Resort, a glitzy property the size of a small town back out near the airport. I'm now sitting in the bar with a fifth-rate singer killing 'I did it my way', in Russian and I'm wearing my all-inclusive blue plastic bracelet—I'm not making any of this up. There are lots of Brits and Russians, but no Saudis—wait, have they all been tipped off by Al Qaeda operatives to avoid the Sol Sharm Resort tonight? I wish I were back in the desert at Wadi Rum eating Bedouin food and sleeping in an old tent.
. . .

(Apologies to the Russians for my cheap slander in the above.)