El Andalous - Off to the Dermatologist

Eczema Patch

I lead a quiet life and these days, I don’t even go into Hurghada that much. I’m happy to sit and write, have a swim and a read of my book, watch a bit of TV/learn Arabic/write/read (select one). This means that going to Hurghada becomes a major event in my week (or even month).

I’d recently started to have an itchy area on the left of my scalp, above my ear. At first I thought it was a mosquito bite. Then I thought the mosquito had bitten me yet again. Then I came to realize that it must be something else.

You can self-prescribe over here in Egypt, so I went to the pharmacist next door to ask his advice. He suggested a cream as a temporary measure but stressed I should see the doctor. Ugh, really?

Fortunately, I know a wonderful doctor in our block who is a really charming man. He’s always commenting on my swimming and we usually exchange a few jokes when we see each other. I decided to ask him and sent him a message along with a photo.

Taking the photo wasn’t so easy because at first I forgot which side of the phone was the viewer. As a result, I took a few photos and was a bit puzzled at how my perspective was always completely out. But I got there in the end.

Unfortunately, my doctor friend said it was beyond his expertise and recommended a dermatologist, asking me to let him know how it went. Pressure. I couldn’t really ignore his advice if he was asking for feedback.

The first trauma is having to phone a stranger. I hate phoning, but I hate phoning strangers even more, and even more than that, I hate phoning Egyptian strangers who I might not understand and they might not understand me.

It probably took me a week to pluck up the courage to phone. Fortunately, the dermatologist was very pleasant and clear. I asked him where his practice was and I could hear him hesitating. This is Egypt. They don’t have proper addresses. He explained it was in El Nasr Street, on the opposite side from Spinneys above somewhere that I couldn’t catch, and on the third floor. He rephrased it as another supermarket that was opposite Spinneys. OK, fine. I knew roughly where that Spinneys was and I’d have to work it out from there.

I got a taxi – I’m also not fond of getting taxis either although it’s far less stress than it was when I first came here. Taxis are now legally obliged to use their meters and I order it via WhatsApp anyway. The stressful (but also good) bit is that it means lots of contact – a message to say what the car will be, then one to say when it will come, then a call to say it’s there early, and then sometimes a call afterwards with a short survey on whether the driver was good and the fare reasonable.

I asked to be dropped opposite Spinneys, but he dropped me outside. No worries. I’ m a big girl now. I can cross the street. It’s still horrible dashing across the road with cars racing in your direction, and although I don’t act cool (I still run), I’m fairly okay these days about stepping out in the traffic. I went up to Abu Ashara (another supermarket on the other side), although I would have thought I’d have understood Abu Ashara on the phone as I’m familiar with it. But who knows? I’m not confident about my ability to understand anything on the phone.

But then I noticed that nowhere had three floors. I got to wondering whether opposite Spinneys meant opposite Spinneys to the left, as there was a medical centre there. Maybe something had got a bit lost in translation. I crossed the road again, went up to the building and the medical centre was on the third floor. This was promising! Alas, it wasn’t right.

After wandering around a bit more, I eventually saw a building on the opposite side with several floors and lots of notice boards plastered across it. Beneath it was a large shop of some kind. I read the notices from the other side of the road. I’m very proud to say that I was able to read the Arabic and locate a notice among them that gave the name of my doctor. There was no European lettering, only Arabic. Gold star for me.

I crossed the road yet again and wandered round the building, trying to find the entrance. Eventually I got there, walked up to the third floor, and my doctor finally found me as I was wandering down the corridor, trying to locate the correct door.

The appointment was short and my diagnosis was a simple form of eczema, so nothing at all really. The consultation cost 200 LE.

My taxi had waited since he didn’t have change so it would be easier to pay for the return journey rather than the single. He didn’t charge me for waiting, so I was happy with that. But that lack of change is also typical. Why do taxi drivers never have small money? Venturing into town is always such an Egyptian experience.