Never get into a stranger's car

The wind catches the cigarette butt as the driver flicks it from the cabin, and seeing it land precariously close to a barrel of fuel at the stern, he leaps from the wheel to kick it into the water along with the scraps of his packed lunch, like a responsible dockworker. In the absence of a driver we nearly capsize, but he manages to regain control and it's only another hour until we reach land.

Just as the boat pulls up, a battered car speeds along the water edge and the doors and the boot are flung open. A couple of young lads leap from the pier and grab hold of our luggage. Before we have time to protest, it's locked in the boot and the driver is demanding we get in.

“Not a bloody chance!” I say, in Arabic.

“I am port agent! Give me passport!”

“No you're not! Give us our luggage.”

Perhaps under the impression that my elementary Arabic could get us out of even a kidnap situation, Markus and I gingerly get in the car. We are driven without explanation through the port, and after a few minutes, the booming voice of an official who has opened the boot asks us if we are carrying cigarettes or whiskey.

“No,” we say truthfully (unless you count what's in our bloodstream), and the official seems satisfied with that. But as the boot is closed, we notice the driver slip a neatly folded bank-note into the man's hand, and we panic. What was it for? Is he paying not to be asked questions? So he can take us, his new hostages, where we wants?

We peer from the windows in an attempt to keep track of our general direction and if possible, street names. The call for prayer rings out from a few narrow streets away, and the long, dark robes of men and women going about their evening chores swirl around the vehicle. Before long we are well disorientated and Markus and I silently exchange glances.

The car pulls up outside a police station are we're told to sit in the waiting room as the driver disappears to talk with the officer. Half an hour passes until the officer calls us in. He looks happier than he should; some bank-notes must have exchanged hands behind closed doors. Markus, who doesn't have a visa, is panicking.

I'm not entirely sure what happens after that. We find ourselves back outside, removing our luggage from the car. Markus has been given a visa by the officer – for free – and the driver wants nothing more from us, even offering us a lift to a hotel. We are overcome by a whirlwind of relief. We conclude that our 'kidnapper' was intent on nothing but the hospitality that Egyptians are famous for, and was bribing probably our way through the port to safety.

We're left confused but humbled.