Sharm el-Sheikh, Egypt’s sprawling resort town on the Red Sea, attracts a year-round stream of scuba divers, Russian holidaymakers and footballers’ wives.
It is fringed by powerfully rugged mountains and a gorgeous crystalline sea. But otherwise, try to imagine the road-centric sprawl of a desertified Canberra, its buildings either aping the postmodern excesses of Las Vegas or else wallowing in the Middle East’s typical architectural style: battered, boxy, dusty Lego-brick.
After three hours of driving around a couple of darkened city blocks, dropping people off at random intervals – and passing the front door of my own hotel at least three times – I finally stumbled into reception at 6.30am.There was no record of my reservation, I was told. I was invited to wait by the pool and the reservation manager would come to see me. About 20 minutes later, I began to wonder. I went back to reception and asked when he might be ready.
“It is working,” was the first suggestion. “It will be working again in 10 minutes,” was the next try. “It works if you sit next to the pool.” was another constructive offer.