The paved road that leads from Cairo to the southwest is empty, evidently because it runs through the desert. Maybe it’s not too late to run back to Cairo, heed all the warnings about the oases being far off and hard to reach? I sit down on my backpack by the side of the road. The road is empty ahead and behind me. To the left and right lies empty desert.
“If the road is paved, there have to be cars on it. And if there are cars, then you’ll get picked up,” Anton instructed me. Having been in complicated countries like Afghanistan and Sudan he really knows what he’s talking about.
The two astonished Egyptian drivers exchange glances. They have seen lots of different kinds of tourists, of course, but probably none of them has ever tried to stop their big old truck.
No, they fail to understand the point of my words shvaye-shvaye mashi, seiyara — “a little bit by foot, car.” When it’s time for me to get out I have to take a few pieces of dry bread from them which they push on me against my will. They pour the remains of their water into my bottle mixing my bought drinking water with their tap-water which is dangerous for untrained foreign stomachs. One of the drivers goes for his wallet.
“Lya-lya! — No, no!” I almost screamed.
They exchange glances but once again there’s no arguing with them. I’m forced to take fifty pounds, around two hundred fifty rubles (about nine dollars) and in Egypt you can buy a lot more with that money than in Russia.
By midday I am in the oasis of Bahariya. The simple clay huts alternate with palms whose dull branches barely give off any green. Apparently there isn’t enough water in the oases for them.
I look for the next clump of palm trees in the mist of yellow desert on the map — Farafra. Found it… then drive right past it in the evening darkness.
The next day, just past Farafra, a pick-up truck driven by a sturdy young Arab comes to a screaming halt. It turns out he’s driving to Kharga, the penultimate oasis, where his uncle’s family lives. I’ll get to cover a significant distance! But my joy can’t compare to Muhammad’s, the name of my new friend. He immediately invites me to meet his relatives. And it seems he’s hurrying to get us there faster so that he can provide me with all the necessary hospitality in the proper fashion.
I’m met by their entire enormous family. The only one missing is the father. But the mother, around sixty-five, is there with her numerous adult married and unmarried children, grandchildren of all ages, all the way up to near-adults. The oldest, thirty-year-old Mahmud, speaks a little English. The impossibility of communicating through words is compensated for by our irrepressible desire to make friends.
We sit for a long time in the living room. They bring in supper especially for me — the others have already eaten. A few of them join me in eating, slightly embarrassed. Then tea is served. Despite the fact that it’s after midnight and I’m tired from the journey, despite the fact that we don’t even have a common language, we simply can’t get enough of this communication and our laughter won’t quiet for even a second.
Even if I remembered the law forbidding Egyptians to invite foreigners into their homes I’d probably not believe in its existence and that anyone could possibly observe it.
Chapter 5. The Valley of the Nile
Sugarcane
I’m sitting by the fireside — red coals smoldering in a metal tank — surrounded by a big Arab family. The mother sits opposite, watching me, and crinkles of joy run across her tired dark face.
Her thirty-year-old daughter brings two sticks. She hands one to me and starts gnawing on the other one. I wonder in horror whether I have to do the same.
The whole family responds with gleeful laughter at my perplexed and frightened expression. With her teeth, the woman peels the bark off part of the stick, breaks off a piece and hands it to me. It’s sugarcane, of course. My mouth fills with sweet juice. Now they look worried and signal to me that I have to spit out the pulp.
The mother can’t hold back her feelings, she comes up to me and places her work-rough hand on mine looking at me with her clear eyes. She doesn’t say anything. But does she really need to?
She has a little tattoo on her forehead: a tiny cross. The whole family, indeed the whole area around here is Christian. This time they’re Orthodox.
At the exit post from Baris, the last village in the ring of oases, the poor policemen are quite perplexed not knowing what to do with me. But happily, a big new van soon appears that is driving to Luxor. The driver is amazed to find a white tourist with no money, but to the sincere joy of the policemen he agrees to take me.
“Muslim?” he asked, pointing to my headscarf.
“Lya, masykhi. — No, Christian.”
“Ana masykhi. — I’m a Christian too,” says the driver, pointing to a small copy of the Gospels in its familiar blue cover, sitting on the dashboard. He asks whether I might like to come for a visit — maybe joking, maybe serious. It’s not hard to guess my answer.
The final 120 kilometers run through unchanging yellow desert. Finally the desert parts before us and we approach the Nile. As if waiting for us the sun starts leaning down over the horizon which opens out into a blue full-flowing river. Meanwhile, the palms flanking it and spreading their luxurious juicy-green branches against the transparent blue sky, sing a silent hymn to the celebration taking place: the closing of yet another day on Earth.
The driver takes me to see his sister. The wooden door of the apartment shows an image of Christ walking inside. In a glass cabinet are porcelain statues of the Virgin Mary and saints. The sister starts bustling about animatedly.
After supper we go to the local church. At least twenty women have gathered for an evening meeting with the priest whom I don’t notice at first behind the podium.
On the way to see their mother, the sister introduces me to her friends and I greet them all politely, carefully pronouncing the unfamiliar markhaba — hello. I’ve already screwed up a few times with the greeting as-salaam aleikum — who would have known that it’s only for Muslims, that Christians don’t use it?
Europeans in Africa
The next morning, my hostess takes me to see the famous Luxor church. We take a bus with a closed cab that does not seem intended to carry people. This church has a whole gallery of small sphinxes and large statues of pharaohs traditionally depicted in ceremonial step and clutching their seals, sometimes with little statues of their wives at their feet.
Luxor is bursting with tourists of all possible nationalities other than Russians. Hurghada is not far away, but why would they want to take any time away from the sea, the beaches and hotels?
Ignoring all the inviting calls I walk along the embankment and look at the even blue canvas of the river. My eye is accidentally caught by some interesting knick-knacks in a souvenir kiosk and the young Arab vendor is there right away. He starts a conversation in decent English, invites me inside.
“But I’m not going to buy anything,” I warn him right away.
“Of course, of course. Where are you from?”
“Russia.”
The guy looks me over with greater attention.
“Would you like some tea?” He suggests once I’m inside and looking at the funny little drums and unusual one-stringed instruments.
The vendor brings out a chair and some hot sweet hibiscus tea. When we’re already making friendly conversation, Ahmed — that’s the vendor’s name — suddenly asks: