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Any moment now I am expecting sparks and smoke to billow from the hand-dryer in the women’s loo in Cairo’s International Airport. The makeshift “clothes” dryer is working overtime to dry my linen pants and shirt – victims of an upturned cup of lukewarm coffee. The dryer cuts out every 10 seconds and I start the process over and over again and move aside for those wanting to dry their hands.

Odd looks? Yes, definitely. I have already emptied a quarter of a cup of coffee from one shoe and am standing there in undies and what was once a white shirt that is now in various shades of coffee. It is one hour before our next flight and the chances of anything drying in time are nil.



I poke my head out and wave to my husband, who has been sent on a mission to buy some sort of clothing and is now busy having breakfast. No, I don’t want to splurge on outrageously priced designer clothes, a flowing jalabiya or a tinkling coin-trimmed skirt and midriff top. Then he digs into his carry-on bag and holds up some old Qantas pyjamas, he’d forgotten about.

They were packed for a night in Wadi Rum Jordan, where we thought it would be cold – wrong, we had air-conditioning. “Really?” I think, but I’m desperate, so I change into the oversized pyjamas with a faded kangaroo emblazoned on the front, Qantas written on the back, and give my shoe one last blast of hot air. I venture out – self-conscious at first.

My husband threatens to take an Instagram shot but one look and he re.

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