Aswan—The cheapest way to get around Aswan is by carriage (30 pounds—$5—for practically as long as you like) so I opt for a ride with Ali. I don't know yet that his horse will expect baksheesh too, but he is a very good horse and seems to like Ali fine. Each of them gets too generous a tip. I will learn in time to cut this out.
But I'm told that there are protests on the road to the site and there will be no tourist trips there today, which doesn't bother me at all because I've got some people watching to do. Breakfast at my modest hostel is a hard-boiled egg, some flat Egyptian bread, two small pots of coffee, and then I'm off.
I'm not two steps out of the hotel before the touts descend. These people who rely on tourists for their living are desperate since the revolution, and my increasingly irritated "la, La, LA!" (no) to offers for everything from souvenirs to felucca rides doesn't stop them from stepping right in my path. I have not been left alone just to walk around in the hour or so since breakfast, so I give up trying and nod to Ali when he comes trotting along abreast of me.
Climbing aboard his carriage is like putting on a mosquito net: Suddenly the buzzing stops. As I relax and look around, Ali takes me back in time to the Nubian neighborhood behind the Nile riverfront commercial district. I'm glad I've chosen his carriage. There's a whole old world back here.
Several times he tries to get me to agree to stop at a shop (he doesn't say so but his homing instinct suggests "cousin" to me). And he wants to take me to his family's house for tea. "La, shukran," I say. I will say this a lot while I'm in Egypt, sometimes loudly and with the meanest face I can make.
After our ride I am still kind of at loose ends. I have been harassed by felucca captains all day—dozens of these sailboats sit empty along the corniche—but one captain has this million-dollar smile and a special warmth about him. I try to put him off but he gives me a piece of paper with his name and a phone number and tells me to give him a call if I change my mind.
After lunch (falafel sandwich: 5 pounds, or less than a dollar), I call Abdullah and tell him that if he can snare some other passengers, I'd love to go for a sail. Moments later he calls to tell me that he has two other passengers and he'll meet me on the river in front of my hotel and direct me to the boat.
Captain Abdullah is a charmer. He loves Bob Marley (everybody in Egypt seems to) and he frequently breaks into song. He can dance impressively while managing the tiller, singing "No woman, no cry," a song that especially speaks to him. He had a wife, then a girlfriend. Both are gone and he likes it that way. In a country where Muslims can have up to four wives, he prefers none. "Two wives, two knives," he says, drawing a finger across his throat.
I've had a long day when I get back to my hotel. I try to read myself to sleep but there's a narrow market right under my window that turns into a children's playland at night. Why a handful of very small children are playing (loudly) in an alley at 11 p.m. is a mystery to me. But it's brightly lit and there's no traffic there, so it's probably considered pretty safe.
Just as I turn my light out there's a knock on the door: A man from the reception desk has a package for me. The small red velvet bag he hands me has a note inside: "Happy birthday, Terry, from Essam, Warda and Lobna," my new friends in Cairo. It's a bracelet with a cartouche bearing the initials of my name in hieroglyphs. I had forgotten it was my birthday.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
But I'm told that there are protests on the road to the site and there will be no tourist trips there today, which doesn't bother me at all because I've got some people watching to do. Breakfast at my modest hostel is a hard-boiled egg, some flat Egyptian bread, two small pots of coffee, and then I'm off.
I'm not two steps out of the hotel before the touts descend. These people who rely on tourists for their living are desperate since the revolution, and my increasingly irritated "la, La, LA!" (no) to offers for everything from souvenirs to felucca rides doesn't stop them from stepping right in my path. I have not been left alone just to walk around in the hour or so since breakfast, so I give up trying and nod to Ali when he comes trotting along abreast of me.
Climbing aboard his carriage is like putting on a mosquito net: Suddenly the buzzing stops. As I relax and look around, Ali takes me back in time to the Nubian neighborhood behind the Nile riverfront commercial district. I'm glad I've chosen his carriage. There's a whole old world back here.
Several times he tries to get me to agree to stop at a shop (he doesn't say so but his homing instinct suggests "cousin" to me). And he wants to take me to his family's house for tea. "La, shukran," I say. I will say this a lot while I'm in Egypt, sometimes loudly and with the meanest face I can make.
After our ride I am still kind of at loose ends. I have been harassed by felucca captains all day—dozens of these sailboats sit empty along the corniche—but one captain has this million-dollar smile and a special warmth about him. I try to put him off but he gives me a piece of paper with his name and a phone number and tells me to give him a call if I change my mind.
After lunch (falafel sandwich: 5 pounds, or less than a dollar), I call Abdullah and tell him that if he can snare some other passengers, I'd love to go for a sail. Moments later he calls to tell me that he has two other passengers and he'll meet me on the river in front of my hotel and direct me to the boat.
Captain Abdullah is a charmer. He loves Bob Marley (everybody in Egypt seems to) and he frequently breaks into song. He can dance impressively while managing the tiller, singing "No woman, no cry," a song that especially speaks to him. He had a wife, then a girlfriend. Both are gone and he likes it that way. In a country where Muslims can have up to four wives, he prefers none. "Two wives, two knives," he says, drawing a finger across his throat.
I've had a long day when I get back to my hotel. I try to read myself to sleep but there's a narrow market right under my window that turns into a children's playland at night. Why a handful of very small children are playing (loudly) in an alley at 11 p.m. is a mystery to me. But it's brightly lit and there's no traffic there, so it's probably considered pretty safe.
Just as I turn my light out there's a knock on the door: A man from the reception desk has a package for me. The small red velvet bag he hands me has a note inside: "Happy birthday, Terry, from Essam, Warda and Lobna," my new friends in Cairo. It's a bracelet with a cartouche bearing the initials of my name in hieroglyphs. I had forgotten it was my birthday.
- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad
I LOVE the story of this day. The ending is perfect! An unforgettable birthday! xo -Suzanne
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