Hold on to your privates

Assiut, Egypt

Somehow I do not think I am a talented self-marketeer. I know I write a lot, talk a lot and travel the world like crazy. But I have missed out on the one item that others seem to proffer at any opportunity - the business card. Big ones, small ones, muticoloured and traditional monochrome. Egypt is full of them. “Here is my card”, “Can I have your card?”, “Can I send you an email?” or even “Can I visit you in England?”. I have lost count of the number of times such things have been said to me since my arrival in this most wonderful of cities, Assiut, in Upper Egypt.

How I remember a marketing evening for Middle East embassies and consulates put on by my then London hospital in one of the UK capital’s grander hotels. The aim was to increase referrals from the Arab world. My well-honed surgical colleagues each turned up with perfectly manicured business cards, English on one side, Arabic the other. And me? Typically, I attended without any business cards at all as I genuinely thought the purpose of the evening was to have a good time, talk a lot, drink a little, and disappear contented. Within moments I realised my error, as one ambassador and attaché after another asked me for my business card so that they could refer their nation’s patients and on each occasion I looked the fool by saying I had nothing to share. The hospital never asked me to attend one of their functions again and I am certain that behind my back the episode is used in management circles as an example of how not to do it.

Well in Assiut, the same applies. I have no business cards, at least the one I do carry shows the wrong address and a very out-of-date telephone number, so I do not appear to be very friendly when a colleague corners me for an in-confidence chit-chat. Meanwhile I have amassed a suitcase filled with the cards given to me by the many dozens of fellow surgeons who have attended the event I am here to assist. If the number of cards I have collected is anything to go by, my email Inbox will soon be filled to the brim with another cohort of unanswered messages.

I have also had my photograph taken more times than I could imagine was possible. Photograph this, photograph that, video the other, me with a permafix grin as part of someone else’s selfie. I have no idea where any of the images will be displayed although I doubt any will go viral. Thanks to the touch-screen mobile and its fireside companion, the tablet, anything that moves can be photographed by anyone, at any place, at any time and in Assiut for the last few days, that includes me. I never know what to do with my hands in group photos. Do I let them hang limply by my side, giving me the appearance of a resident wimp? Or, maybe I should fold my arms? Perhaps I should clasp my hands together at belly-button level and give the impression of praying, or maybe lower my intertwined fingers to cover my manhood? Heaven knows. They may lie naturally in that position but definitely give the impression I have something to hide. Hands are a problem in photos.

The hub of Assiut appears to be its university, which occupies a huge area in the centre of town. The university is where I have come and it is where I am staying the nights. The place gives plenty of student-spotting time for foreign visitors like me and it is clear that even in Egypt there are Type A and Type B students. I see the two varieties walk past each early morning as I sit in my minibus waiting to be taken to my duties. There is the Type A student, properly and tidily dressed, a bright look to their expression, who bounces up the steps before me two at a time and keen to start their day. Behind the Type A is the Type B, boy or girl does not matter, but the Type B shuffles by, scuffing shoes or sandals loudly on the concrete surface while on their face is etched confusion as to why they have been obliged to attend so early at all. Bed is a preferable option to a Type B. Certainly, morning lectures are a non-starter. There is a Type C student, too, who occupies a middle ground between A and B, sometimes bouncy, sometimes scuffy, what they want they cannot decide.

Student-spotting apart, Assiut is a seriously impressive city. Home to almost 400,00 people it is a holy place and filled to the gunwales with Coptic Christians. Assiut was one of the stopovers of the Holy Family when Jesus was a young’un. Herod was after doing the child harm so off to Egypt they fled and ended up in Assiut. Plenty of pilgrims visit the place each year as a consequence. In fact, the Virgin Mary is meant to have appeared yet again in Assiut, but less than 20 years ago, as one of many so-called apparitions that have taken place over the centuries. Christians from throughout the world flocked to Assiut at the time and plenty took to camping outside the church of St Mark, where the apparition happened. That is the good, holy side of Assiut. And I do feel holy in Assiut, despite my utter failure to blow a smoke ring from a shisha pipe the other evening, much to the hilarity of my Arab colleagues.

There is a not-so-holy side to Assiut, too. The place was supposed to be a centre for slavery and where such sad, stolen individuals were prepared for the harem. Prepared? You know what I mean. Where those vital bits and pieces that we men treasure end up in the bin, your vocal pitch rises and all male aggression vanishes. As a male, you do spend much time looking over your shoulder in Assiut, in case the locals wish to rekindle their old skills and your manhood becomes their focus. Should I come again I will be sure to put a cricket box and jockstrap in my luggage, although I have yet to work out my story if challenged by Assiut Customs and Excise.

Hold on to your privates in Assiut.