The kitchen drawer: Travel

The charming conmen of Corralejo

Fri, 16 Mar 2007 17:28:16 GMT

I've been in one or two remote places in my time, so I thought nothing of travelling to Fuerteventura in the Canary Islands in February. After all, it's an outpost of Spain, a member of the European Union, and thus a decadent Western country, depending on your point of view.

In fact, Fuerteventura is almost the 'least developed' of the Canary Islands. As a result, the scenery is a lot more restful and natural. I'm sure developers are itching to get their hands on land to build oodles of mass tourism properties, but one of the advantages of having remained undeveloped for so long is that a host of distinct species of plants and animals has been discovered on the island. Large swathes have been designated conservation areas.

I wonder if one of the reasons for not developing the island would have been a shortage of water. Annual average rainfall is almost nil. The topography is more subdued than on the neighbouring islands of Lanzarote and Tenerife, so there aren't the mountains to lift the moist air from the Atlantic and precipitate rain. It has the oldest geological basement amongst the islands.

But that's not my main concern here. The conmen of the Canary Islands thrive still in a backwater where regulation is little known and unexercised.

Len and I stayed in Corrajelo at the northern end of the island. One evening, sauntering back from our evening meal, I espied a Sony HD handycam in a shop called Photo World, offered for sale at £200. My eyes widened. Greed leapt into my soul. Ricky, or Nicky, the attractive-looking sales assistants of apparently sub-continental origin, had an air of suave, assured gravitas. As if customers could take it or leave it when it came to buying their goods.

I went back two days later to check on that price and to ask to buy one. They told me that they would have to telephone out and asked me to sit down. A conversation appeared to transpire over the telephone, ostensibly to acquire a model from stock. Nicky, or Ricky, put the phone down and started to work on me. Would I look at this other slimline camcorder which had much better quality than the Sony, was more compact, was Hitachi, etc etc etc

I was really, really stupid. I trusted him. I was tired and I wanted to get out of the shop. I wasn't wearing my glasses, so just before the sale was concluded, I suddenly realised that this was not a branded Hitachi camera at all. Hi Tech was the name printed on the box. Ricky, or Nicky, was adamant that it was Hitachi, or the same as Hitachi, a subtle and untrue difference.

AND it only took a 2Gb SD card. I'd wanted a HD video with gigabytes of capacity. I left the shop with a massive credit card bill as well as the camera. Nicky and Ricky must have thought that it was Christmas and their joint birthdays combined. And the Sony HD camcorder never appeared.

I decided that I had been well and truly had, and planned reprisal.

Happily for me, the management of the hotel where we were staying was outstandingly helpful, and explained how I should go back to the shop to get paperwork to reclaim my money. They also gave me the telephone number for the local police and said that they would help with translation.

Thus armed, I marched down Avenida General Franco and into the shop. I have a loud voice when I choose, and stated my position very forcibly. I also shooed customers out of the shop by claiming that they would be dealing with cheats and liars if they bought anything.

Ricky, or Nicky, had been very careful to point out at the time of sale that there was no refund on my purchase, which is phooey if you only know how to get the regulations working. The problem is that, as a tourist in town for only a week or so, you don't have the luxury of time to wait for the law to take its course.

Aware of this, and after I had vented my anger, I concurred with the suggestion that they get me what I actually wanted, an HD camcorder. A JVC Everio would arrive from Las Palmas, Gran Canaria, on Friday afternoon, two days later.

I returned on Friday. A box branded JVC Everio GZ-MG37E was brought forth. This was more like it. I had taken my laptop with me to demonstrate the poor quality of the video clips recorded by the so-called Hitachi and I had managed to find an Internet page showing various models of the Everio. Unfortunately, it was impossible to get an Internet connection at the shop, or else I could have done even more research on the spot. I realised that the salesmen weren't altogether up to date with web content, and knew nothing of file formats. Their sole purpose was to charm and cheat you out of as much money as they could.

We loaded the software. I took videos of Nicky, or Ricky, or both, and of the shop from the street outside. They even had the cheek to sell me additionally a lens cover, which was probably a good idea, but failed to get me to buy a new battery. What part of NO don't you recognise? I asked. For all I knew, they were trying to sell me the original battery which they had substituted with a fake. I shall buy a new battery in UK.

And then, do you know what they did? They deleted all the videos that I had taken with the Everio from both my camera and my laptop. I was uneasy about this. And as I was leaving the shop, I passed another salesman concluding a transaction with another tourist for that dubious Hi Tech camcorder.

Back in UK, I have confirmed that there is such a thing as a JVC Everio GZ-MG37E camcorder, although I remain uncertain about my model in hand. I was able to download the instruction manual from the website. There had been no English language manual in the box. I can tell you that I was over-charged.

But there is a warning notice on the JVC website about a model of camcorder being sold under the brand of MXJVC in Spain, the Canary Islands and on the Internet. These products are not genuine JVCs, have no connection with JVC, and thus will get no technical support.

In addition, a very frustrated gentleman called Erwin Hainzinger has published a denunciation of this very same shop:

"I go to you with the intention to formally express my reclamation against CANARY establishment SIYA IMPORT CIF B35775451 or PHOTO WORLD; street Admiral White Carrero, 2, CORRALEJO, FUERTEVENTURA."

or here for the English translation.

You'd like to think that a holiday in the sun should be a happy experience, not one where you can be ripped off by conmen such as Ricky and Nicky. And I don't think the Spanish authorities should be satisfied with their lack of enagement in consumer woes. Much stronger action is required to enforce regulation and to get these people to trade honestly.

Incidentally, the receipts didn't show the telephone number of Photo World. I tried looking up telephone directories on the Internet, but was supremely unsuccessful at finding anything for the Canary Islands. In desperation, I rang the hotel where I had stayed. The receptionist apologised but said it was very difficult to find telephone numbers. Why? I wanted to know. Because people don't register their telephones.

Spain? A developed country?

Impressions of Sharm el Sheikh

Mon, 13 Feb 2006 12:52:42 GMT

At the airport, surprisingly uncrowded. It could have been any airport, anywhere, but for the shrill meowing of a scratty tabby kitten. An Egyptian of unidentifiable role, chases it around the counter, not to kick it but to smile at it. The hangers-on in the car park with their hands out, scowling when you don't honour the tradition of baksheesh. Long, straight, neon-illuminated roads plough through the desert, disorienting you, especially when the bus driver takes a U-turn, the only way to travel in the opposite direction.

At last, the Hyatt, driving up a long, palm-lined drive, penetrating the first security screen, then halting at the sandstone fountain, and dismounting from the bus. A porter loads the cases on the hotel trolley and we walk towards the doors. Black sky and piercing bright stars. Intensely, immensely black, reminding me of Dylan Thomas' Under Milk Wood - slow black, sloe black... Despite the lights of tourism, it doesn't compare with the light pollution of British skies.

Next morning, I watch the sun come up, but it's overcast. Not really so warm. We breakfast on the terrace and are astonished by the hordes of sparrows that swoop on any table bereft of guests but before one of the army of waiters has had time to clear it. We meet the rep, and book two tours. The boat trip to Ras Mohamed and the jeep ride to the Blue Hole and Dahab.

After a collapse back into bed, we explore the beach off which the naval gunboat lies. I paddle. The water seems cold and I jump out, but I acclimatise rapidly to the temperature. We waddle along the pontoon across the reef towards the diving platform. The water is incredibly clear and shallow, and we can see the fish nosing at the rocks. A small swarm of Indian Lion fish lie off the platform. The guide on the Ras Mohamed trip tells us that to be stung by a Lion fish means instant evacuation by helicopter, so dangerous is their sting.

Dinner at the Souk restaurant in the open courtyard, warmed by patio heaters, and I perk up at the very professional entertainment. The belly dancer must be cold, but smiles gamely. The four-piece orchestra gravitate between Cafe Fresco and the Souk. They accompany a wild-haired man with a face tinged livid green, who is a Dervish. The waiter whispers to me, "Do you know what they are singing? They are singing that all things come from Allah." I enquire, "He is Sufi?" The waiter nods. "Yes, he is professional."

On the second day, I allow myself to be swept round the Lazy River on the first level of the water world. The water is pleasantly warm. In the afternoon, we aim to catch the 3pm bus to Na'ama Bay only to see it depart five minutes early, crowded with guests, standing room only. The concierge and security assure us that the bus will return to collect us. It does, twenty minutes later. Buses and cars can no longer enter the heart of Na'ama Bay without clearance at a security cordon following the bombings in and around the town in July 2005

I learn later that the Egyptian government has decided to erect a 12 mile long security fence around Sharm, including the airport, with only four access points to be manned by security forces . No wonder I felt hemmed in while I was there. But that was probably psychological. We only crossed 3 security posts on the road north to Dahab and I saw no sign of a fence.

In Na'ama Bay, we launch directly into bargaining. The first shopkeeper, who sells perfume, has the nickname of Tyson, and you can see why. He laughs at my efforts and lets me have a bottle of frankincense oil for LE175. The second shopkeeper, Walid, is altogether more wily and displaces his Somalian assistant as soon as he knows he has a white, western tourist in his shop who is seriously interested in buying a belly dance costume. The costume in the window is fringed with iridescent peacock colour beads, but I'm not sure about the bra design and phone Rosie. She says that if I'm not sure, I mustn't buy. The skirt is poor. I ask for baladiya dresses. Two lovely, long-sleeve dresses are brought. I am sure that I can fit into them.

More tops and skirts are brought, but the decoration is too tawdry and the sewing is slipshod. They're not worth the asking price. The price for the baldah dress is too high. I tell Walid, who has by this time crouched down by me, so that I can feel the essence of him as well as his thigh against mine, and his hand on my knee, that I will think about it, and get up to leave. He turns ugly, like the goblins in Goblin Market, and swears at me. How did I think I had the f***ing right to come into his shop and bargain. I wouldn't do it in UK. Outside, where all the shopkeepers are watching, I tell him that the dance costumes are poor quality, and that although the baldah dress has superb decoration, the price is too high when I will wear it only once, perhaps twice a year. "How much would you pay?" he asks. LE750 I reply - which is 60% of his asking price.

He stuffs the baldah dress into a carrier bag and says, "OK, yours for LE750!" He escorts me to an ATM where I withdraw money in fresh LE100 notes. Satisfied at last, he asks my husband. "How many camels would you say she is worth? A million?". I don't know whether to feel admired or insulted.

The day of the Ras al Mohamed boat trip is beautifully clear, warm and sunny. Ahmed, who is nicknamed Smiley because of his constant, beautiful smile, is the guide. The marina is crowded with other tourists and divers boarding for similar trips, but there is no waiting, and our small contingent of British and Czekh tourists depart quickly. I take Len round to the front where I know we can lie on a platform rather than trying to ascend the stairs. At Ras al Mohamed, there is a swell on the sea, and I am scared to get into the sea, particularly as the Egyptians have all hired wet suits for the day, but someone clipped my snorkel to my mask and fitted it properly, and I'm in the water, and it's fine. No worse than the temperature of the swimming pool. And despite the swell, I manage to swim to the reef for my first view of the corals and fish, but then I

see who I think is everyone swimming back to the boat and I return too. Half an hour later, the snorkelling guide, Islam, comes back with the two other snorkelers who stayed with him. Later, he asks me why I didn't stay with him as well.

All the guides on our journeys are graduates, and most come from Cairo. They speak pretty good English and they are working in Sharm to earn enough money to get married. They call the local inhabitants of the Sinai, bedouin, whether settled or not.

The boat turns north again and anchors twice more in calmer waters. I follow Islam along the reef. Only two of us stayed with him at The Temple, a notable diving site. We swim through narrow clefts in the reef, fish so near that you wonder if you will actually brush against them. So many varieties of fish. I buy a visual guide at the hotel shop, but can never remember which fish I've seen.

The beach bordering The Temple is full of tourists, Italians by the sound of it, who are having a very loud party with music and excited speech blaring out. Underwater, it is quiet. Only the sound of your own breathing.

It is cloudy again on Thursday. A wind is whipping up and the sea becomes steadily rougher. While swimming in the hotel pool on the second level at around 11.50 am, I hear a loud boom. My mind races to the bombings but at the same time I think it might be an earthquake. Since I am in water, I feel nothing, but Len is in the hotel lobby and he tells me that everything rattles, including the doors. No tiles or loose objects fall that I know of. That puts the earthquake at between 3 and 4 on the Richter Scale. Researching after I come back from Egypt shows me that the earthquake has an epicentre near Taba, north of Sharm on the Red Sea coast where the transform fault defining the Dead Sea rift valley has moved. The earthquake is actually strength 4.4.

We lie in the jacuzzi for a while and decide to return to Na'ama Bay that afternoon for some serious belly dance costume purchase. Amir looks after the ISIS shop at the hotel, and he has some tempting pieces, but I want more choice. He and I confer on where to find ISIS in town. I ask the prices, but don't bargain. A little discount is given. The turquoise costume in the window 'talks' to me and I buy it along with two arm bracelets. The scarf is extra, but there are gauntlets. See both the turquoise cabaret costume and the baldah dress being modelled by Rosie.

I use the video facility on my new Nikon camera to film excerpts of a new whirling Dervish and the belly dancing at the Souk in the evening, and exhaust the memory, until I discover that I had been filming table inadvertently and delete two movies.

On Friday morning, we learn that a ferry has gone down in the Red Sea with over a thousand passengers aboard. A diesel van picks Len and me and Jim and Karen up from the hotel for our trip to the Blue Hole and Dahab. We cram into the back and drive around most of Sharm to find Darren and Daphne at the Oriental Resort. Darren has been married 3 times and has no regrets. He says you can love many people in your life. He wears necklaces, has a rhinestone earring and has tattoos. Rosie would find him cool, since he must be in his 60s. Jim sounds right out of East Enders. He and Karen have teenage children. I can hardly believe it since they look so young.

Another Ahmed is our guide today, but this Ahmed, though very courteous, has a guardedness about him which I associate with militancy. When we reach the dive sites, we are given camels to ride along the beach, which is great fun. I take a photo of Len, who rides much of the way alongside Jim's camel, until the camel decides it has had enough, and lags behind. Daphne doesn't feel comfortable on hers though, so she gets off and follows in the jeep. The wind is still keen.

At the edge of the bay where the Blue Hole is, we dismount and walk to one of the several 'bedouin' restaurants where we drink mint tea, change and leave our bags. Then we walk around the promontory, passing the memorials to divers who have lost their lives here. That makes it daunting. Only Len, Jim and I join Ahmed in the water. A group of divers makes way for us on the thin rock ledge, I ensure that my mask is fitting properly and I plunge into the sea. The ledge drops straight down into an unfathomable depth, but the reef and the corals are there on my right. I start swimming. About halfway along, Ahmed instructs Jim and me not to swim so fast and just let the current carry us. The Blue Hole is near the pontoon where we are to get out. You swim over the reef, and suddenly there is this huge depth below you, grading down

into blue blackness. Len is fascinated and swims around the edge of the hole for a while.

At lunch, the bedouin girls who had looked after our shoes, come to ply their wares. They sell beadwork and coloured woollen bracelets at LE10 each. I know that Rosie wants the woollen bracelets and so I buy five, and then another five, and then another ten, buying bead necklaces and hand, feet and wrist bracelets as well to make up the money. One makes a wool bracelet for me there and then. I don't much like the bead items until I get back to the hotel and put them on. They are fantastic. The workmanship is good. I wear them most days now.

The teeth of the girls is discoloured. Len says it might be due to high fluoride in the water. Their teeth must be strong. One girl reproaches me for not buying from her, but I have spent enough money. An older girl wearing hijab has clear English and tells me that she is on holiday from school. I ask her what she wants to learn at school. "I want to learn the Qu'ran," she answers. "You mean, to learn to recite the Qu'ran from memory?" I ask. She nods.

We drive on to Dahab, which I like because it seems to be a more authentic Egyptian town than Sharm. Jim finds it depressingly poor. The shops still sell the same products as in Sharm. I have asked Ahmed if there is somewhere where I can buy Bedouin silver for Rosie. He takes me to a smart jewellers in a back street where a salesman gives a short display of the semi-precious stones to be found on sale in Egypt and how to recognise a precious or semi-precious stone through its hardness and resistance to heat. The salesman insists that his prices are cheaper than in Sharm because he does not have to pay the same high rate of tax. He mentions LE45,000 a month per shopkeeper.

Rosie has asked me for a turquoise necklace. I find one and phone her on the mobile yet again to check specifications. I have no idea whether I am paying a fair price, but I am given some discount. I also buy two antique silver bracelets, two amulets and 20 small ceramic scarabs - all for Rosie. In the jeep outside, the shopkeeper approaches and hands me a scarab in what he says is amber. I must have over-paid. There is hardly any time to sit at a seafront cafe and drink coffee and water before we have to get back in the jeep.

I phone Karim on the Saturday. He has been appointed to the commission enquiring into the ferry accident. He tells me that they have picked up 35 crew members. "They will tell us what happened," he says. Although I have spoken to Amr earlier in the week and he has asked me to call him at his office so that he can call me back at the hotel, I never hear from him. Too busy, I suppose.

The holiday trails out into a quiet ending. We stay at the hotel and snorkel in The Gardens which form the offshore frontage. On Sunday, the swell on the sea is just too much for me to walk confidently to the end of the pontoon, and so I don't snorkel that day. Even the water in the jacuzzi is colder.

The guides do not come to fetch us from the lobby on the evening of our flight home. The bus has broken down. They tell us to take a hotel limousine to the airport where a rep pays the driver off. A smooth, dreamy ride in a purring BMW. The airport is overcrowded, which is why they are building a new one. Looking at the queues, we decide to get in line to make for the departure gate, even though it's half an hour before our flight is called. We are just in time, but before we step out to the bus, Len manages to buy four Mountain Dew cans for George, at a crazy £1.50 each. We can't buy Mountain Dew in Britain, and it's a treat that George recalls from Oman. Jim and Karen fly through the departure hall as the final call comes for passengers to Gatwick. We don't think they realised that it would be good to queue in time. We wave a passing Goodbye, as they rush out on to the tarmac.