For your reading pleasure, here is the latest in a series of recent misanthropic posts where I have documented why someone my age should never rent a flat in Abu Tig.
Since that is now an established fact, my goal during the coming hellish week is to find out if it is possible to rent out a villa in a quieter section of town at a reasonable price, and get my fucking money back from the rental agent for this benighted place.
If this is not possible, then I shall move to Alexandria, live in a charmingly dilapidated flat by the Old Port, and write exquisitely rendered memoirs over plates of feseekh, during the upcoming cold, winter rain months.
But there are quieter places than Abu Tig in El Gouna. However, one problem of living in places like West Golf or South Golf in El Gouna is their remoteness.
Without a car, you will be isolated, and hard-pressed to buy essential goods for your home or participate in life in Gouna, unless you have everything delivered and are prepared to find some mode of transport that you will get you around cheaply and conveniently.
Plus which, you could get hassled by marauding Bedouins, who sometimes wander about the area looking for free golden piasters.
There could be a sense of ambient loneliness, being stuck out there in the middle of nowhere, with seaweed-filled ditches that pass for Venetian canals.
That said, here is my latest and final “miserabilist” report documenting what it is actually like to rent a flat in Abu Tig marina.
Think of this as being written down in blood by some Nilotic Samel Becket character.
* * *
The nightclub which I will call Club Doodoo sits directly across the street from my rental, kept it going till 2:30AM last night. So much, then, for the claim by the real estate agent who rented me this shithole that they only play music on Thursdays. I wonder how the owner of Club Doodoo would like it if I piped in heavy metal groovevibes in his bedroom all weekend, or if the patrons who come here would like it if this place was right next to where they live. But they’re here on vacation, so I assume the mindset is toz (which means who the fuck cares, in Egyptian slang) if the club bothers anyone who lives nearby. All least I had an ungenerous portion of Spaghetti Bolognese for dinner for the absurd sum of 120LE at 7 Stars before returning home. I watched the piddling fireworks display that marked the end of the Gouna Film Festival as I walked around the Marina, and I thought to myself this festival is unlikely to survive or ever be taken seriously outside of Egypt unless they make DRASTIC changes. I then caught a couple of hours shuteye before the nightmare started up. After Doodoo, the nightclub from Hell, finally called it a night past 2AM, there was a brief lull, and then it was time for the cars. First there was this strange guy who seems to live in the building who parked right in front and sat in his sedan with the engine running for an hour. I looked out the window and saw he was texting on his smart phone. 3:30AM and this guy texting for an hour in a car with the engine running. After that, the motor vehicle crap started up for real. It was now 4am. Time to bring in all the latest guests to the hotel that’s a two-minute walk away from here, since some airlines seem to favor landing in Hurghada from Europe around bloody 3 o’clock in the morning. Cars and mini vans whooshed by for at least an hour and a half, and I am talking full pedal to the metal, and then it got quiet, at which point I drifted off to sleep. I slept through the noise from the garbage trucks but woke up at 8:30 from the sound of guys talking loudly in Arabic in the street as well as the sound of buses going to the Three Amigos hotel nearby. So, 5 hours sleep in total last night, first two hours or so, then awoken to Doodoo hell, and then three hours of fitful “rest.” The suitcases under my eyes are getting heavier. After another 8 hours of 35 degree daytime temps today — did I mention the security guy who sits on a cane chair on a sliver of shade all day directly outside the apartment building, talking loudly on his cell or to all his buddies who walk by — the sun will start dipping down over the mountains, but not before hundreds of tuc-tucs and vans and cars and delivery trucks will have whizzed by outside; and then it’ll all start over again, like a nightime scene from I am Legend, which happens to be one of the oldtime movies playing on the Saudi TV channel I get in the apartment. This is what it’s like to live at the Marina. Instead of the beautiful getaway I envisioned, it’s like being quarantined is some open air holding pen, where everyone’s infected with Tourism Disease, and you’re only a legend in your own mind. Oh how my thoughts are turning toward living in some rustic shack on Deep River in CT. You know, beautiful trees, flowing water, rich mulch, seasons, clouds, rain, snow, and, yes, native English. Only 19th Century CT, it would have to be, Thoreau-era CT, not what the Nutmeg State as it was when I lived there for 5 years at the turn of the century, when I actually had money to indulge my pretensions.