El Andalous - More Boat Trips

 

Busy Sea During Eid

It’s the summer, so it’s getting very hot here and that means… boat trips. They are a relatively safe activity (touch wood) during pandemic times since it’s usually windy and it’s hard to breathe the same air twice.

One boat trip took place on Theresa’s return from Miami, which also marked the end of me having to cat sit. Quite a few people are back in Europe now, so it wasn’t so easy to drum up the numbers; also big Eid (which was this past week) was coming up, meaning that boats were getting booked up.

In the end, I think about eight of us went. As usual, it was a fab day, especially since Theresa had bought some KFC. I couldn’t have wanted for more. There was a slight hiccup at the beginning, because Theresa overslept and we also got a little lost getting there. But all’s well that ends well. I managed to do some swimming as well as snorkeling, although I’m always wary when I swim out in the open sea in case a boat doesn’t see me, so I never swim that far away. And there’s the fact that I’ve been left behind on at least two occasions!

We also had a rooftop buffet for Theresa when she returned – each of us made a separate dish. I cooked some chicken drumsticks, but I forgot that my oven isn’t particularly good (it’s just a small portable thing), so they took ages. And I had to shut Cleo in the bathroom in order to be able to get out of the flat without the drumsticks being attacked by her. At the end of the evening, they weren’t all eaten, so I put the rest in the freezer.

These, I took on another boat trip. This one was with a few friends, and a friend’s family members. We had a glass-bottomed boat to ourselves and stopped off at one deep (well, it really wasn’t that deep, but to the non-swimmers it was deep) place and one shallow place where you could stand.

On both boat trips, we have music with us, so we have a bit of a dance while sailing the waves (and downing the alcohol – although I tend not to drink much these days).

To be sociable, I went afterwards onto our rooftop where people gather most days at around sunset to have a drink and a chat among friends. It’s just a casual thing. Anyway, I hadn’t been for a while and thought it was time to show my face. I brought my drumsticks from the previous group meal we’d had, and that I’d just taken on the trip with me, and they all seemed completely horrified. I did explain that they’d been frozen, but I got the distinct feeling I’d made a faux pas. Oh well, I usually have a strong constitution….

El Andalous - Considerations

 

Sahl Hasheesh at Night

I’m writing a blog on my thoughts on the pandemic this week, because I’ve been spending a lot of time brooding about it and researching as I try to determine what it is that I believe (I’m not sure I’ve got there yet!). I don’t want to prescribe to people what they should do, but I would be more comfortable if I thought people chose their actions (by the way, Idette, this is not pointed at you - I've been brooding for ages, and I know you thought long and hard, so I'm happy that you made a choice).

I’m going to do my best to keep this as objective as I can and then add some personal thoughts at the end.

On the UK Yellow Card reporting site, it states what is pretty much repeated worldwide:

Vaccination is the single most effective way to reduce deaths and severe illness from COVID-19.

A lot of money has been thrown at the vaccination program.

However, the evidence in favour of the use of ivermectin is persuasive. There are, of course, many ways to cook the data, but just looking at the 30 randomized clinical trials of ivermectin use for covid-19 gives a combined 67% improvement when used as early treatment, 29% improvement in late treatment, and meta-analyses on mortality have shown 62-81% reduced risk of mortality. Ivermectin is generic, cheap, and comes in tablet form. Its long-term safety profile is well understood. Hurrah. Yet WHO will permit its use only in clinical trials. This decision causes loss of life. Incidentally, if WHO had approved ivermectin, they would not have been allowed to approve the vaccines for emergency use.

Why are there no early treatment guidelines / suggestions to reduce the number of hospitalisations and deaths? Early treatment options do exist. Again, vitamin D or ivermectin could be suggested here. Yet the overriding message is simply to isolate, which does not help the infected person to heal. WHO's clinical trial is focused on those who are already hospitalised rather than on treating early when it would be easier to prevent hospitalisation and death.

When assessing your personal risk profile for a vaccine, remember to compare like with like. It does not make sense, for example, to balance a 95% relative reduction for death (ie, relative to the risk for death without the intervention) with a 0.01% increased risk of blood clots by taking a vaccine (figures are fictional and for illustration only). If your risk of death from covid is 2%, a 95% relative risk reduction translates to an absolute risk reduction of 1.9% and a remaining risk of 0.1%, so that's what you need to balance again the risk of various vaccine side effects along with the unknown possibility of side effects that may only become apparent after several years (eg, cancer). Your answer will depend on your own risk profile (do you have underlying conditions making your initial risk of death from covid higher than average, for example), your faith in the information provided about the vaccine safety profile, and your personal stick-a-finger-in-the-air estimate of likelihood of future side effects (which can range from nil risk to certain death, according to who you are! At this stage, it’s entirely subjective).

If you want actual figures for absolute risk reduction of the various vaccines (and a less simplistic explanation of absolute risk reduction), read this article.

Bear in mind that authorisation of emergency use is not an experiment (in the sense of formal clinical trial). In a clinical trial, all adverse events would have to be reported regardless of presumed etiology (since adverse events can be surprising, such as suicide, which was originally not consistently monitored in clinical trials until it was revealed to be an actual possible adverse event). Adverse events are notoriously underreported in real life use. From the UK Yellow Card reporting site, page 10 of the report of July 7^th:

The overall reporting rate is in the order of 3 to 7 Yellow Cards per 1,000 doses administered for the Pfizer/BioNTech vaccine, COVID-19 Vaccine AstraZeneca and COVID-19 Vaccine Moderna. It is known from the clinical trials that the more common side effects for both vaccines can occur at a rate of more than one in 10 doses (for example, local reactions or symptoms resembling transient flu-like symptoms).

That is, the reporting rate is 0.7 reports per 100 doses vs known common side effects occurring in more than 10 per 100 doses. My point is that without trial data, it’s difficult to assess a vaccine’s safety profile. Nevertheless, the Yellow Card figures are thought to vindicate the use of vaccines, despite numerous claims that the Yellow Card (or other database) data cannot be used for analysis (and thus conclusions, presumably).

It’s unclear to me at what point a reported event becomes a safety signal (ie, a danger signal). For instance, there were over 1000 deaths reported as suspected associated with the drug but were deemed, after analysis, to be not related as many were in aged patients or people with underlying illness. However, thromboembolic events were a safety signal with 405 cases (presumably due to the excess in the young, which may have just been more frequently reported) and they are investigating 22,981 menstrual disorders but are downplaying it by saying that these are common in general practice. Remember, these numbers are likely under reported. As above, it ends up being a personal assessment about whether the adverse events are likely or not.

My concern is the trend towards making vaccines mandatory and the rising number of people who are vaccinating because they want to be able to travel, or go to events. To me, this latter is close to coercion. This is not how health practice is meant to be. And my personal view is that the vaccines were pushed forward without any emphasis on implementing, trying out, or assessing early treatment options to resolve disease before hospitalisation and death enter the equation.

I am happy to live in Egypt where President Sisi stated outright he did not want to create fear in the population regarding the coronavirus. I switched off the news fairly early on in the pandemic, so I’m coming from a perspective where I haven’t been exposed to a lot of the messaging. I am not necessarily anti-corona vax, but I am pro-choice. I also don’t think using new vaccines whose long-term safety profile (or long-term efficacy) is not yet known with the aim of obtaining herd immunity is an achievable or ethical goal. The lack of interest in cheap options where there’s no profit to be made smells to me like a society that’s corrupt. Maybe I shouldn’t be so surprised. And maybe I’m wrong. But that’s where my view is tending.

If there’s no blog next week, you’ll know I’ve been banned!

El Andalous - Cleo Update

 

Cleo Chilling

I promise I won’t make this into a cat blog. I’ll just do this one and then give it a rest, at least for a while.

At first, I didn’t let Cleo into my bedroom. I was thinking of getting a second cat to keep Cleo company, so wanted to keep it Cleo-free for the second cat to have a safe haven. However, Joke thought that, as an only cat, Cleo may be jealous. After that, I gave up on the second cat idea and let Cleo into my bedroom in the mornings. It was still off-limits at night as I like to have the door closed (meaning she can’t access the litter tray and she always poops at night).

She loves to sleep in the storage area under my bed. It’s a bit of a squeeze, but she gets under the bed and then wriggles in through the slats to get into the storage compartment beneath my mattress. I don’t really like it when she goes there as she sleeps for hours and I can’t see her. But she likes it.

When I wake up in the morning, she’s very talkative. She winds herself round my legs and talks away. I interpreted this as her being pleased to see me. However, one day, she shot past me and straight into the bedroom. So maybe she was just glad I’d come out of the bedroom so she could have her turn. I felt used.

She knows my bedtime routine now, so as soon as I clean my teeth, she positions herself in front of my bedroom door so that it’s very difficult for me to get in without her also entering. More stress!

Last night, I tried letting her in the bedroom at night. I thought if she slept in the storage area under the mattress, it should be easy. Instead, she started off by trying to tear the mosquito net to get outside, so I had to shut my balcony door (I don’t want rats coming in). Then she bounded about, onto my bed, off my bed, onto my bed, off my bed. Silence. Then I’d worry where she was. She came onto my bed and slept for maybe an hour, then she wanted to play; her paw nudged my shoulder. She’s twelve years old; I’d never seen her so playful.

At four o’ clock on the morning, I ushered her out. The next hour she sat on the other side of the door making a load of noise, leaping up at the door and trying to reach the handle. I’m not letting her in again at night! Lesson learned.

The main stress has been over food. Every time I eat, but particularly when I eat chicken (which is often), she’ll climb on my chair. Over and over. Or she’ll pretend she’s not interested and then sneak up from the sofa where she can jump from there onto the table. I had to erect a whole load of stuff on the dining table so she couldn’t do that.

It's ruining my enjoyment of my meals.

And when she didn’t win, she went on hunger strike. She didn’t eat for two days. Then I panicked because I read if cats don’t eat for two days, they can die of kidney disease. I gave her some canned food, and she wolfed it down. Phew.

I tried to get her back to the dried food (which she’d been eating without complaint before), but she didn’t eat anything. I tried mixing it in with the canned food. She spat out all the dried food onto the floor.

I gave in, and now I feed her canned food. No big deal, really, but I do feel she’s calling the shots and not me. I hope at some point, she’ll accept that she’s not getting any of my chicken and will stop.

Funnily, at first, she’d always want cuddles after our supper arguments – almost as if making sure we were still on good terms despite our fights over the food. And, of course, I do still love her despite this.

She now sits on my lap, so that’s more progress. Today, she literally sprung from the other couch directly onto my lap (claws out for the landing – ouch!). No warning. She’s interrupted this blog three times by barging onto my lap and then getting too hot and going off elsewhere. I don’t like to say no, as I like having her on my lap and it’s a bonding experience. I’m pleased to have gained her trust and her love and don’t want to be turning that away.

El Andalous - Dolphin House

Close Encounter with Dolphin

This was also going to be another cat blog, but since I’m late this week, I thought I’d better write about why (nothing dramatic!).

Yesterday, I went on a trip to Dolphin House. It’s an area of sea, just north of Hurghada, which is known for its many dolphins. Boat trips go there, but they have to have a special license and pay a fee for each passenger they take so that the area can be sufficiently well protected (or at least better protected).

We tried to go once before and I can’t remember if I wrote about it. The trip failed because we didn’t see any dolphins and it turned out that actually we didn’t even go to Dolphin House. The failed trip was still fun, because boat trips always are, but it wasn’t what we’d paid to do.

Anyway, Tina found a company that was running a trip for German-speakers and asked me if I wanted to join (I did). The downside was that the trip started at 6.30am and we had to leave El Andalous at 5.30am to get to where the boat sailed from. Ugh. So, I went to bed early the night before (which is when I would normally write my blog) and was too tired when I got home to write it then. Hence why I am writing it today!

Anyway, I did manage to wake up on time. The trip started from the north of Hurghada which cut down some of the sailing time, but it still took around two hours before we reached the dolphin area.

It doesn’t matter how often I’m on the Red Sea, I’m stunned over and over again at how beautiful it is. The Dolphin House was no exception. So many different blues shading into each other, the blue sky, the corals underneath, it’s all amazing.

The day started off quite windy, so a few people on board got seasick (they offered seasickness tablets beforehand for those who wanted them). We were provided with a buffet breakfast (it was a large boat and only around 10-12 passengers) of sliced meats, bread, jams, pastries etc.

For quite a while, the men scanned the sea for dolphins but although some were visible, they were staying under water for quite long periods, which indicates (apparently) that they don’t really want visitors.

But finally, in a fairly calm area of sea, we found a group of five dolphins willing to play. Apparently one pair was a mother and child, but I didn’t really get a good look at that. It was quite good exercise swimming around as we followed them. Two men would swim and locate them and tell us where to go, then they’d shout “Unterwasser schauen!” (“Look underwater!”) and we’d all duck our heads down (we had snorkels and flippers).

It was quite strange because often I’d not see anything and the next second they’d be right under me. You could even hear them. Unfortunately, the water wasn’t so clear (not sure why), so sometimes they were only shadowy, and if they were close enough for me to see them in detail, my camera couldn’t fit them in!

We stopped for a snorkel while they prepared lunch (a great buffet of chicken, spag bog, salads, kofta in peas, rice, etc), then we looked for dolphins again (we found three, I think, but they were faster and more timid, so I didn’t get up close, although others did).

We got back at around 5pm, so it was 11 hours on the boat – quite a long day for them as well as for us. And then poor Tina had to drive us home, although she said it wasn’t a problem.

It was a great day out, but I was exhausted on my return and my face also got a little red from the sun (even though I’m already pretty brown). I can recommend going! 

El Andalous - More About Cat Sitting

 

Milo Wanting Attention

This is rapidly becoming a cat blog. Sorry about that.

Anyway, six weeks on, and Theresa’s flat was quite dirty. Cat hair was everywhere because the cats are molting (or at least Milo is) and they have the run of the place. It’s a bit of a thankless task, but Theresa decided she wanted the flat cleaned (it’s thankless because Milo will simply molt all over again). Anyway, it’s not my place to argue. And maybe she had a flat viewing or a potential renter.

Even though we have cleaning staff here at El Andalous, it’s pretty busy at the moment and the staff was largely already fully occupied cleaning for rental handovers each day. Eventually, it was Theresa’s turn. I wanted to explain about keeping Gino shut inside and not to let Isa get at Gino, so I asked when the cleaners would start. Ugh, eight thirty in the morning. I asked Ahmed to tell them.

I got there for nine o’ clock and the flat was full of cleaning staff. There must have been at least five of them. Their trolley was in the flat, cushions were all over the place, rubbish bags were everywhere. And Ginos’s door was open. Uh oh.

In my panic, I had a rant at the cleaners, but I don’t think they understood a word I was saying. I eventually got them to understand that there should be three cats (the other two go outside, so they can always escape for a while. I wasn’t so worried about them). I thought I’d got them to understand about keeping Gino inside, but later events demonstrated that they had no idea.

I returned later to see if Gino had reappeared. He was located hiding under the cupboard in his bathroom, so all was okay. I asked them to keep the door shut, and demonstrated. They nodded. I hung around and three minutes later, they’d opened the door. I shut it and asked them if they could keep the door shut. They nodded. Yes, you’ve guessed it. Three minutes later, the door was open again. On the final attempt, I thought they’d finally understood.

I went up again and the door was open. Ugh. Fortunately, Gino was still hiding and I think Isa was too upset by all the men to cause a fight. I shut the door. This time, it remained shut. Hurrah.

Evening came, and I thought I’d better check that the cats were okay. They’d kept Gino’s door closed, but the men had opened the door from his bedroom onto the patio instead – an invitation to Isa to terrorise and an escape route for Gino to get lost. Panic! However, Gino had been too scared to move, so he’d now hidden himself inside the cupboard. He came out when I called and I shut the patio door.

And another thing was wrong. The cleaners had shut the patio door from the lounge. This meant that the two outdoor cats couldn’t get outside. I think Isa was already elsewhere, but poor Milo had been trapped inside and was bursting for the toilet (his and Isa's litter box is on the patio). As soon as I opened the door, he rushed out.

I don’t know how cleaning can take so long. The cleaners resumed the next day (they were supposed to wash the floors and vacuum the sofas, but they did everything).

I went up a few times, but it seemed that Gino was safe because he spent the day in hiding and Isa wasn’t venturing in while the cleaners were there. Finally, evening came, and the cleaners had finished.

I went up to check. Gino’s door was open. I heard a miaow. He’d got himself stuck behind the fridge (which is in the lounge area, where he normally shouldn’t be). I rescued him and he dived back into his own quarters. I filled up the food and water for all of the cats, but not much had gone from any of their bowls and hardly anything to clear in the litterboxes. The cats had obviously been too stressed to eat while the cleaners invaded (the men had left all their stuff in the flat overnight, so it probably felt unsettling). Milo turned up and started eating like there was no tomorrow.

I returned the flat to normality and breathed a sigh of relief.

El Andalous - Cleo's Arrival

Cleo Settling In

 

I’ve already written about Maria’s death (RIP). She left behind her cat, Cleo. Maria doted on Cleo. When we were on holiday, she’d always save any cheese that I didn’t eat so that she could give it to Cleo on her return. Cleo was her pride and joy.

Somehow, a home had to be found for Cleo or she would be put down. I agreed to take her in if no one else would, explaining that it would not be my preference, but if there was no other solution, I’d do it. Apparently, two others had said the same thing, but their homes were less suitable due to both of them already having too many waifs and strays in their care. It didn’t seem right for Cleo to be put down, and also disrespectful of Maria’s love for Cleo.

This meant that Cleo ended up with me. Joke reported that Cleo was a very shy cat and spent all her time hidden in the wardrobe since Maria’s death. A shy cat is good for me. I don’t want an aggressive, boisterous pet.

We’re not really allowed pets in El Andalous, but there are quite a few owners who have them. Since I’m now one of the longest residents, I felt no one would complain if I took Cleo in. However, I didn’t particularly want to advertise that I was taking on a cat, just in case.

I had to wait until Joke could get a vet to transport Cleo as Joke believed Cleo would need to be sedated first. As it turned out, apparently, the vet only had to throw a towel over her and shuffle her into the cat carrier, and all was good (relatively speaking).

To my extreme embarrassment, when Joke arrived and picked up the carrier, Cleo wouldn’t stop yowling. I’d thought we’d shuffle quietly past reception without them realizing what was happening. Instead, Cleo made sure that everyone knew just what was going on. But nobody stopped me from bringing her into my flat.

When released, she immediately hid behind the television cabinet (where it’s not particularly clean). Joke warned me that even though she’d fed Cleo every day since Maria’s death, Cleo still wouldn’t let her stroke her back; she’d only accept Joke stroking her head.

After Joke left, Cleo had a little walkabout and decided that it was even safer if she hid behind the shower (where it was even dirtier). I was a little worried that she’d yank out the electric wires connecting to the shower (it’s a fancy thing that does steam and all sort of other things if only I had the instructions). Fortunately, she’s quite gentle.

I talked to her every now and then as she lay behind the shower, but otherwise I let her be. I moved her food and water to the bathroom. By the time I got up the next day, she’d eaten her food and pooped in the litter, so it wasn’t as bad as I thought it might be.

At 5pm, it was like a lightbulb. She suddenly strode out and decided to make friends with me. She let me stroke her, showed me her belly, sat next to me on the sofa, then curled up in a ball and seemed very content.

I went to bed and she hid behind the shower again.

The next day, she yowled by the front door. I couldn’t let her out, of course, but I cringed at the amount of noise she was making. She returned to hide back behind the television (progress) until 5pm when she followed me about and sat next to me wanting cuddles.

The following day, she allowed me to stroke her back. I felt privileged. But now she stared and meowed by the balcony door. Poor Cleo. She misses Maria and her old home, no doubt.

Today, for the first time, she played with a pom pom ball that I’d made for her. It was nice to see her play. She’s twelve years old and her lack of interest to that point made me wonder if she was beyond play, but obviously not.

I’m surprised at how much affection I feel for Cleo and it’s so lovely to earn the affection from her. I can see myself turning into one of those awful pet owners that insists on showing pictures every day of their furrbaby. Long live Cleo!

El Andalous - Haircut

 

The Haircut

I’d been deliberating for a while about getting my hair cut. It’s a trip into Hurghada, which always feels like a huge effort. On top of that, I have to decide what I want done with it. It’s easier to have it short for swimming, so I was thinking of a new short style or perhaps returning to how it was for my passport photo.

Another thing holding me back was my eczema, which I still have at the side of my head. It just won’t go away. I keep on thinking I’ll wait for it to go before having my hair done, but that day never arrives.

And there was yet another problem. I’d done something to my shoulder. I’m not sure what, but it hurt. Maybe I slept on it wrong? I was still able to swim (so I didn’t think it was the swimming), but I couldn’t lean my head back. And you need to lean your head back if you want your hair washed at the hairdressers. However, looking online, it seemed that it would take around six weeks for an aching shoulder to recover. And I only think about getting my hair done when it’s already pretty desperate. I wasn’t sure I could wait six weeks.

In the mean time, a hairdresser opened up in El Andalous! That was one hurdle out of the way (the trip to Hurghada). Stephen told me he’d been and recommended it. But he’s a guy. Women’s hairdressing is something else. I’d heard some people saying it was a European hairdresser and she was very good. The prices were also reasonable – the same as in Hurghada and not inflated due to being in Sahl Hasheesh. In a moment of enthusiasm, I asked for an appointment the next day.

The man serving spoke good English (he turned out to be the owner) and I explained to him what I wanted. He then explained it to an Egyptian lady (the hairdresser) in Arabic. This wasn’t the European lady I was expecting, but never mind.

She took me to the mirror and I showed her my passport photograph. She started cutting. I asked her if wanted to wash my hair first as it’s easier to cut hair when it’s wet (so I believe). The man translated and she showed me her water spray and indicated everything was fine. Okay. Maybe they’d decided not to wash it after I’d explained that I couldn’t rest my neck back. If I’d have thought about it, I’d have washed it under the shower before coming in.

Many hairdressers are scared to cut hair too short. Not this lady. Snip, snip, snip. I’m usually told it gets shorter after it’s dry, but this was already shorter than I wanted. However, the man had exited and the woman didn’t speak any English. I was scared that if I said anything, she’d just make it shorter. But my fringe needed correcting. I pointed to it with a heavy heart and explained that I wanted it feathered, thinner. No way was she going to understand that. I was right. She translated it as me wanting my hair yet shorter, so she grabbed a whole chunk of it and lobbed off a good further inch. I tried not to scream when I said “No!” but I fear my voice was a little high pitched.

I repeated again, pointing to the fringe (as I had done before). Somehow, this time she understood, gave a big smile, and showed me the right implement. Phew. It thinned out nicely, just as I wanted. I felt it was a little slanted to one side, but I wasn’t going to ask her to correct it in case I ended up with no fringe at all.

I thought we must be finished, but then she decided to wash my hair. Bizarre. I had to lean forward over the basin, so it was a bit awkward, but that wasn’t her fault. Then back to the mirror. She dried it and then trimmed some more. She didn’t appear to check that both sides were the same length (which hairdressers usually make a point of doing). As it was, one side was slanted and the other side was straight. But asking for corrections was too risky.

Anyway, finally I could leave. The man came back in and enthused about how great it looked. “Wow!” he said. I hate that self-conscious feeling after having my hair done. Being British, I smiled politely and nodded. It was too short, but it wasn’t horrendous, and it would grow back. And the lady was very nice. I even gave her a tip.

Reactions to my hair have been mixed. Some people love it, others really don’t. It’s probably better than I’m making it sound here. I will try going there again as it’s handy and I believe the European hairdresser comes in twice a week, so it’s probably a matter of making the appointment with the right person. Live and learn.