Democracy is a pretty special sort of thing. We take it very much for granted in Australia, but around the world people have lost their lives and endured unimaginable hardship in the fight to secure for themselves a democratic voice. On Wednesday, I did my democracy at the Australia embassy in Cairo, and while my life and wellbeing were not in any way at risk, it was no visit to a primary school to buy a sausage in bread, let me tell you.
It’s hot in Egypt at the moment. Real hot. Like, over 40-degrees hot. There’s a reason only idiots come to Egypt in August and that’s because it’s hot. Regardless, I set out from my hotel in the general direction of the Australian embassy feeling democracy swelling inside me. I knew it was going to be a bit of a walk, and it was going to be a hot walk, but after fifteen minutes in the direct midday sun, shirt sopping wet with sweat, and still a very decent distance away from the embassy, I started to wonder whether democracy matted that much. “Get a taxi!” screamed the comfort-seeking half of my brain. “And waste a perfectly good dollar when you can walk?” screamed the tightarse half of my brain.
Another half hour later I decided to ask a friendly looking man if I was close.
“The Australian embassy,” he said, leading me over to the street so he could point, “is just down here, next to the Italian embassy.”
“Um, are you sure?” I asked. “I’m fairly certain it is north from here but you say it is south.”
“Yes, yes. Very sure.”
“The Australian embassy?” I articulated clearly, in case he thought I meant the country next to Italy.
“Yes, Australia … kangaroo,” he added, helpfully.
So, I backtracked in the direction indicated by my friend, found the Italian embassy, and sure enough there was precisely nothing next to it where he said the Australian one would be. I took off north again.
Finally, an hour-and-a-half after I left the hotel I found the building which houses the Australian embassy on its 10th and 11th floors. I shoved my bag through the x-ray machine and waited for an elevator, developing a nasty chill due to the Arctic air-conditioning’s effect on my dripping wet t-shirt. Up at the embassy’s reception area I surrendered my camera, gave my water bottle and guidebook another dose of x-rays, marvelled at the terrible framed photographs of Quentin Bryce and Stephen Smith on the wall (wondering if there had been until recently a piccie of Kev, too), and got lead by a man through a labyrinthine series of doors and corridors secured by code-lock keypads and CCTV cameras.
Completely disorientated, we emerged into a simple room filled with bright sunlight from floor-to-ceiling windows, and decorated with a large stuffed koala and Australian flag. A young man in business attire, lounging casually behind a large desk, said, “Howyagoin?” which was only about the fifth time in six weeks I’d heard an Australian accent. I told him I was, “Prettygoodhey,” and filled out a postal vote envelope. He handed me a small green slip and a giant white tablecloth and pointed me towards a makeshift booth with “VOTE HERE” plastered on the side. I walked over to the booth, folded the unmarked pieces of paper, walked back over to the young man, sealed them in the postal vote envelope, and shoved it into the locked ballot box.*
Tempted to ask if I could hang around and chat or something – anything to spend a bit longer in the air-conditioning – I said, “Seeyalater,” retrieved my camera from Quentin Bryce’s protective gaze, and headed back out into Cairo’s ridiculous heat just to get totally lost once more and spend an hour walking around like an idiot instead of spending a dollar on a taxi fare.
(* Of course I didn’t vote informally – I’m not that stupid. I made sure I put a tick in every box.)