Cairo

Dear Friends,

The journey from Sharm El Sheikh to Cairo takes about seven hours. Warily, after a couple hours of sleep, Ali and I boarded the tour bus in front of our hotel shortly after midnight. Boxed breakfasts in hand and bags in tow, our excitement about the travel ahead was all but flattened in the hours it took to round up the other travelers (all Russians) from their respective hotels. Our forebears might have envisioned Jetsonesque speed-of-light travel in independent space pods, and while the idea of a large, air-conditioned bus is far less sexy, I wonder if they had any idea just how reliant we would someday be on The Bus. Everything from the ubiquitous stagnant fragrance upon entry to the cascading florescent pinks and greens of the seat cushions provides a sense of security in terms of creature comforts yet often comes at nauseating costs. Like it or not, travelers today are bound to the moving monsters, and at times this year I have felt like I could pen a darn good comparative essay entitled, "On the Road Again: Tall Tales from a Tall Guy on a Bus."

I had been warned of the high security caravan that channels tourists from the Sinai Peninsula to Cairo on a nightly basis. As we traveled along, I didn't sense the magnitude of police coverage I anticipated, but this in part could be due to my drowsiness and haphazard sleep. Our passports were checked before entering continental Egypt. To commemorate the border crossing and a maiden voyage into Africa for both of us, Ali and I shook hands -- carrying on a long-standing family tradition of greeting fellow travelers upon border crossings. I recalled the many times my family has greeted each other in this fashion while crossing the Mississippi River in Alton, Illinois, certainly the most frequently crossed border in our region. I was brought back to the pellucid present, however, when my eyes honed in on the guarded towers lining the road every ten yards or so. Picture a refrigerator box-sized container on the top of a pole, one open window facing the road and the silhouette of a man holding a large gun across his chest. Since the terrorist attack in Sharm El Shiekh in 2005, security has been beefed up considerably. And it's no wonder. Egypt's economy is shaky at best and without the commerce of tourism and constant flow of tourists, the economy would surely buckle.

As dawn broke, we made our first stop at a rest area just outside the city limits. A dirt road led us to a dirt parking lot where I paid 10 Egyptian pounds to relieve myself in a dirty bathroom. (An Egyptian pound is currently approximately equivalent to $.06. After my needlessly "expensive" potty break, I realized I should have heeded the advice of constantly carrying small bills. There are no coins in the Egyptian currency, and bathroom guardians don't make change.) While other passengers picked and pawed at their boxed breakfasts, I wondered around the facility trying to walk off an upset stomach. I'm convinced that for me the darkest side effect of too little sleep is an exhausted and cantankerous tummy.

Fortunately, the thrill of riding into Cairo -- that and the magical white powder Inga had previously given me for moments like this, "Take for diarrheas and vomits." -- calmed my system and awakened my inner Magellan. The entrance into Cairo confirmed my opinion that no city looks good on the outskirts, where suburbia building projects compete for space and attention with rundown factories. There was nothing pretty about what I saw outside of Cairo.

And there was really nothing pretty within Cairo. I read one Egyptian writer's brief take on the city known as "Mother of the World": in short, she can't wait to leave and she can't wait to return. Though my time was limited in the city, I saw the truth in her assessment. Cairo is dirty and noisy and gray. Traffic is a nightmare, fearful enough to cause even a Latvian driver to buckle his belt. Say what you will about Americans, but when it comes to rules of the road, in the eyes of the rest of the world, we Americans, all of us, must drive like your grandmother on a Sunday afternoon. Street lines in Cairo seemed to be nothing more than suggestions.

Cairo is skyscrapers and shacks, fast cars and donkey carts, exceedingly old and infantile. Cairo is the headache and Cairo, crazy enough, is the antidote, the two wound as tightly as the red and white checkered scarves covering the heads of Bedouin youths.

At 8:00 a.m. we boarded a felucca, or flatboat, on the Nile River. My head was swimming with the voluminous canon of literature pertaining to, inspired by or in some way related to the Nile. Like a star-struck fan caught up in the magic, I approached the Nile River as something sacred, something grandiose and enormous. Something biblical. Once the bus load of tourists had transformed itself into a boat load, cameras affixed in place, on lumbered our captain, a short man, dark and weathered skin, clad in a white robe. In his arms, he carried the boat's motor. This sight alone was enough to cause a semblance of careful response from the drowsy, stolid Russians who subtly exchanged glances with their spouses.

After a good six or eight hefty yanks on the chain, the motor began roaring, and the illustrious captain stood back wiping his hands proudly like a man who can now have the honor of mowing his front lawn. Moments later, we were backing out of the makeshift dock, onto the gray, opaque water of the Nile. So we'll have to contend with the loud motor, I thought. I can deal with that. As fate would have it, the motor turned out to be the second loudest noise producer on board. The gold medal would go to the boat's sprawling and cumbersome sound system, of which the captain was evidently proud. One swift click of a button and against our wills, we were at the mercy of a wanna-be D.J. and his strident music collection. There we were, floating down the Nile to the the bovine hip-hop sounds of Daddy Yankee's "Gasolina."

Friends, this was not your Sunday School teacher's Nile. This was the Nile Flavor Flav style, and I was riding dirty.

I tried to fashion my psychological stance after the tall white bird picking and poking among the polluted reeds of the river bank in the near distance: focused and untethered. Unruffled by the floating aluminum and plastic and the bombastic beats of our river ride soundtrack.

Back on dry land, the second phase of our tour led us to the Egyptian Museum. The museum's contents are undoubtedly incredible -- the Tutankhamun galleries, human and animal mummies, pharaonic wonders galore including a pharoah's condom (it looked used to me, but then again, it was BC) -- but equally intriguing is the museum itself which is anything but sleek, slick, or contemporary. Imagine, most of the placards are either typed (talking type writer here, folks) or even hand-written! With the dim lighting, you're lucky to even make out the information, most of which is written in Arabic and English. Wondering through the jammed museum gave me the feeling of having the privilege of being shown through a retired science professor's private collection, housed in aging but beautiful wooden and glass cabinets. The place smelled part college building, part basement, and in a word was utterly fascinating.

After a lunch buffet at the "Happy Dolphin" (house music, Kenny G), the final stop of the day was viewing the Pyramids of Giza, the last standing world wonder of the original seven. Contrary to what I believed, the pyramids are essentially located directly in Cairo, just across the river in Giza, not on some Hollywood-contrived vast and open stretch of desert land. The Pyramids, fascinating as they are, after four hundred years, literally and figuratively stand alone. At a glance, they separate Cairo from any number of Arab cities; only Cairo's skyline boasts the pyramids. The Pyramids are magnificent and defy expectations. (I should note that I opted not to go inside the pyramids, although I could have. Personal suggestions were in line with the printed advice of my travel guide. Indeed the splendor of the pyramids is an outward experience.)

Mark Twain visited the Pyramids in 1866 and noted that tourists at the Pyramids have "suffered torture that no pen can describe from the hungry appeals for baksheesh that gleamed from Arab eyes." Baksheesh refers to tipping but in Egypt it stands for more than just tipping as I understand it, a voluntary act for services rendered. Because salaries are so low, Egyptians rely on baksheesh to supplement their incomes. I was aware of this, but still, to my Western sensibilities, the concept and practice of baksheesh was bothersome, if not downright irritating. (Except for one grocery store, the items in stores and shops -- even in the airport -- were not priced, causing the customer to inquire with the worker. A price would be quoted and if the potential buyer so desired, a seesaw argument could ensue until a deal was reached.)

Little has changed since Twain's observation a century and a half ago. Being the only English speakers on our tour, Ali and I were turned over to Imam, an English speaking Egyptian guide. The benefit of this was greater personal attention. The downside of this was greater personal attention. We couldn't escape by blending into to the contours of a larger group. After circling the Pyramids on foot and successfully dodging the plentiful offers to ride camels, Imam walked us up to a plot of land just beside the pyramids.

"These are the better camel rides," he intoned.

Feeling quite content and ambivalent about riding camels, Ali and I respectfully declined his invitation. Looking back now, I have no idea how in the world first I, and eventually Ali, ended up between the humps of a large, sandy camel. Tourism workers must be modern-day magicians.

"Sit on camel!" This from a large, middle-aged man who took me by the shoulder. "Come sit for picture."

No sooner had I sat down on the resting camel did the camel rise on command. At this moment I realized that I was going for a camel ride, no choice about it.

Ali faithfully traipsed along my camel and me, attempting to take a picture, but the further we walked out into the desert, the more the wind blew, the more leverage the two camel drivers gathered to coax Ali onto the camel with me. "You, beautiful woman, sit!" Camel went down, Ali got on, camel stood up.

Before take-off, the older man looked at me and said, "I am in charge. You only pay me!"

"Okay, how much for the ride?"

The man looked off, thinking, as if we were the first clients he'd seen all week. "For you, twenty dollar for person."

I handed the man forty US dollars.

"Remember, you only pay me!" said the man, and with that he was gone in a sea of dust, leaving us with our camel and its driver, Mohamad.

Mohamad was jocular enough, a boy of 18. As he led us around he delivered all of the appropriate smiles and lines and questions. He made us pose for stupid pictures... made us pose? Well, yes, in that "I won't insist but you will do as I say, tourist, while I convince you that this was your idea" kind of way.

The camel had the hard work, though. The fact that the camel remained surefooted and steady on the sand is no surprise; but that the camel was able to navigate its course over and on top of the soda cans and shards of beer bottles scattered like confetti on the rocky sand was an act of sheer accomplishment.

"What's the camel's name?" I asked Mohamad.

"This camel," he turned, smiling, "is Michael Jackson."

Oh, Mohamad, you say that to all of the guys, don't you.

Our unwanted camel ride was winding to a halt when Mohamad dropped the bomb. "Hey, you know that the other guy got all the money... but I'm the one who took you on this ride, so..." whispered Mohamad.

I reached for my wallet. After a full day in Cairo, I had three Egyptian pounds, and two other bills -- $20 and $50. Doh!

Sheepishly, I pulled out the three Egyptian pounds and offered them to our driver.

Mohamad turned at my ribald offering. "Oh, come on, man! I want American dollars." He rolled his eyes.

I dismounted Michael Jackson with fifty dollars and three pounds left in my wallet.

From the baksheesh to the back alleys, Cairo is a finely-tuned ecosystem. Everything seems to be held together by a tricky glue, the compound of which is quite unfamiliar to me. Cairo is the furthest from home I've been, and I am not talking kilometers. Setting aside my proclivities as much as one possibly can, it seems the balance that is Cairo is precarious and as rickety as the wooden carts from which the toothless vendors sell fruits along the street corners, where the indefatigable traffic never ceases.

Yours,

Tim