On the first full day of our visit to Cairo in April 2002, we hired a taxi to take us to and from the Khan el-Khalili bazaar, which Alison had been itching to wander through. The taxi driver’s name was Abdul. We liked him so much that he became our personal driver for the duration of our visit, waiting outside the hotel for us in the morning and bringing us back later in the day. Abdul was a quiet, dignified, silver-haired chap with a dry sense of humour. Much more than a driver, he was our guide, our minder and our companion in that vast metropolis of eight million people. Alison snapped this brilliant photo of him waiting patiently behind a string of camels in downtown Cairo. On the morning that he took us out to Giza to see the Sphinx and the Pyramids, a camel, its driver clad in full Arab headdress and robes, came thundering towards us on the long, dusty approach road through the desert. “Wotcha, Abdul!” the driver shouted in a thick Mancunian accent as the camel galloped past the taxi. Alison was incredulous. “Do you know him, Abdul?” she asked. “Who is he?” Abdul gave a wry smile. “Just a Bedouin,” he replied.