Despite the signs in Arabic, the men in galabias and the well-padded women in hijab, the place reeks of Calcutta. It isn?t just the immigration officials at Cairo airport whose frequent chat breaks are responsible for the crawling queues, nor the mounds of garbage on the street, nor even the ramshackle public buses spilling over with standing passengers. What floods me with nostalgia for my own birthplace is the episode involving the official at the Banque du Ca?re who encashes my travellers? cheques and slips me more than half a dozen five-piastre notes as part of the local currency equivalent of my dollars. For I discover, the following morning, that although these notes are legal tender in Egypt, they?re useless in terms of cash, unacceptable even to the beggar who will accost me a week later in a Nubian village in Aswan.

Betrayals of this kind are nothing new to those who have traversed, for instance, Delhi?s Palika Bazar, Lucknow?s Ameenabad and Calcutta?s Burrabazar for the first time. And my experience with the bank official should be warning enough in Pharaohland, famous for its pyramids, papyrus, perfumes and parasites ? of the bacterial and human variety. It explains the self-congratulatory caution with which I evade the full day?s tour on offer at my hotel for sights I don?t want to see for a hefty US $46. I?ll make my own arrangements, I decide.

A show of defiance is all very well, but where do I find a trustworthy guide? The owner of the fruit shop down the street who has sold me strawberries so sour as to knock my palate numb, refers me to Hassan, the owner of The Sphinx, a souvenir shop which guarantees ?No ripe-off?. Hassan affirms that his ?good friend? is an experienced guide who will charge Egyptian ?50 (one US dollar is worth around E ?6.2) for taking me around the places I have mentioned. As for transport, his ?brother?, Hussain, drives his own cab. It will cost me another E ?175 for the taxi (including waiting charges, because of Cairo?s formidable parking problem that?s usually circumvented by paying traffic policemen to look the other way while a motorist worms his way into a No Parking zone). A bored witness to our negotiations is a chain-smoking European woman, so comfortably ensconced in the shop, I can?t help wondering whether she owns it. I tell Hassan I?ll get back to him.

I do, an hour later, because I can?t think of an alternative. A journalist from India, I explain to Hassan, has to count her piastres. Would he consider renegotiating the price? The young woman suddenly perks up. Nata?a Nicolic, she offers, extending a hand to shake mine. A freelance photojournalist from Serbia, she contributes to National Geographic, among other publications. This is her third visit to Egypt.

Nata?a has a proposal: why don?t I book Hussain?s cab and pay him for his services while she acts as my guide, gratis, because she?s planning to visit Coptic Cairo, anyway, to take some photographs for a magazine? I clinch the deal, relieved at having a woman escort me around a city about which I?ve read some really unsavoury reports on the Net.

The following day, Nata?a?s finger is eternally busy with the camera shutter as we explore the city?s charming 4th-century Christian quarter. At the citadel, whose high walls contain the imposing Mohammed Ali Mosque overlooking a dust-laden Old Cairo, she discloses that the photographs are for me ? a gift. She?ll have the prints developed and leave them behind with Hassan while I?m away in Upper Egypt. Moved by her generosity, I give her an old pair of turquoise earrings I?ve held on to since my university days. The bond between us seems indestructible as we brave the aggressive salesmen of the Khan-el-Khalili bazaar, arm-in-arm, and our parting is an emotional one.

?At last you come back!? Hassan exclaims in the hurt tones of a jilted lover, when I return to Cairo following a visit to Aswan. Nata?a?s photographs are waiting for me. And Hassan has bought me a cassette containing the love songs of Om Kalsoom, the classical singer I had expressed an interest in. It?s an original recording and I pay him the E ?10 it costs. I?ll be back, I promise, as I go off on another jaunt around Cairo with my travel partner. She?s keen on visiting the places I?d seen with Nata?a.

It takes little time to figure out that the day?s taxi fares for covering the same route amount to less than half of what I?d paid Hussain who, I realise, has taken me for the ride of my life, dimpled smile notwithstanding.

Bygones are bygones by the time I?m back at The Sphinx that evening to pick up some last-minute souvenirs. The shop next door, Hassan confides, belongs to his former employer who apparently used to pay him a salary of E ?150, the same amount, I?m told, that a local agent of the travel firm organising our tour earns. The shock of realising that I have ended up paying ?brother? Hussain a sum worth more than the average Egyptian?s monthly wages, is drowned in a tidal wave of forgiveness, as Hassan proceeds to shower me with compliments and gifts. His answer to my half-hearted protests is a series of wet kisses on my hand and the tremulous words: ?Only for you, my friend with the beautiful eyes, as nice as Nata?a, who helped me with money to set up my shop.?

Uh-oh, I think. Time to get going. I ponder over the enigma of Nata?a, who evidently has a share in this establishment and has colluded in fleecing me in a single day of ? by Ca?rene standards ? a gigantic amount.

But I have her photographs as compensation, though not quite National Geographic material. Was that a lie as well? The thought makes me pine for home and its own breed of swindlers.

Meanwhile, Hassan is becoming maudlin. His eyes well up with tears as he says, ?Remember, the words in Om Kalsoom?s love songs are meant for you. And if you ever want an Egyptian husband, I wait for you.?

I smile at him and try to free my hand, trapped in his. ?Have to go,? I tell him. ?You not forget me? Please?? he pleads, weeping copiously as he presses a minuscule silver scarab pendant into my hand ?for luck?. I wave at him from the hotel entrance.

I haven?t forgotten Hassan. How could I? I?ve played Om Kalsoom?s love songs back home in Calcutta. The recording on one side sounds tinny and wavering. The cassette is a pirated copy. Which costs five times less than what I had paid my prospective Egyptian bridegroom back in Cairo ? Hassan, with his souvenir shop that offers a written guarantee to its clients: ?No ripe-off?.