The beginnings of my Egyptian Advenutres. Will be part of my book!

There’s a profoundness in being sad. Not a profoundness as in a phenomenal event, or an earth shattering thought. A profoundness that leaves you aching, tired and sour all over. Your head aches, your eyes can’t focus and your belly churns. Inside there is nothing but war; outside there is only a calmness that comes from the dead. It’s like being put under but still cognescient of all your surroundings and pain. The fight against it is an almost impossible battle because you are weak from the start.
At this moment in my life, I am at the limit of sadness. Limit of human pain and suffering. My life is not full of pain, it’s the pain I bring in from other’s lives and my filter, the filter that protects my soul, is over flowing. Only there is no changing that filter. Only a dialysis like procedure. Like kidneys, I need to give my soul a rest, let my blood be filtered by other, mechanical means. But the drugs, the toxins keep coming in. My kidneys are shutting down.
I’ll back up here. Three weeks ago today, I was at the high of my life. I was sitting comfortably in economy class, Alatalia flight AZ645, on my way to Cairo via Rome. The chrysalis in my heart had burst into a butterfly with wings larger than my chest. During my layover in Rome, I sat in the airport, beyond exhausted but fluttering at the whole prospect of what lay ahead. Egypt. The land of my dreams. Exotic, hot and dirty. Like sex with a national border. I sat in the airport, booted feet propped up on my carryon bag. My white, cotton dress splayed out around me, my hair a mess from sleeping on the flight. I was listening to my iPod, writing in my journal. My first entry beyond my own national borders. My thoughts were of the people coming and going. Airports always seemed to me to be either one of two things: very lonely, large places or a gathering of the world. At that moment, I was witness to the gathering. Although, my opinion of Italians (well at least Italians at the airport) was more than slightly diminished. Rude flight attendants, pushy people and I’m not even sure the words “excuse me” can be translated into Italian. I’ll have to come back to Italy to make sure. Note to self. Verify rudeness of Italians personally.
But my smile still spread like the wings in my heart. Nothing could bring me down. I wrote about the woman I shared my first flying experience with in almost ten years. An old Iranian woman. She was tiny but for her protruding gut. Wrinkled hands that still held the feminine grace which must have once enveloped her entire form. She had a small face, but large, black eyes. And she smiled at me, a lot. I liked her. She spoke no English. She looked out the window a lot. She was curious. When the plane started accelerating along the runway, that feeling of being shoved back into your seat and the following adrenaline rush, I looked at my Iranian comrade. The wrinkled hands were grasping her arm rests with a force that would have knocked the toughest German on his ass. Her eyes were smashed so tight and she was chanting Allah, Allah, Allah. She must have said his name more than one hundred times until we were at least ten thousand feet in the air.
I stared at her, mouth gaping, as she unsmooshed her lovely eyes, looked at me and gave me a sheepish grin.
“Allah,” she said and pointed to the sky.
“Allah,” I repeated.
We both laughed. Who needs language anyways.
My flight from Rome to Cairo was filled with less colourful people. My excitement more than made up for that. I sat, scrunched up in my seat, neck straining to see out the window, for all three hours and fifty-five minutes of the flight.
As I looked out the window, down at all the tiny islands off the coast of Italy and scattered throughout the Mediterranean, I waited for glimpses of African land. Egypt, the desert. When finally, the land lost its deep green colours, trading in for raw sienna, I could hardly contain myself. Then it arrived, the land, the continent of Africa and my beloved Egypt.
And boy was it ugly. Really, Egypt is not breathtaking from the air. At least not from my perspective. It’s brown and dull. It’s also quite evident who is the boss in Egypt: the desert. It takes over everything. It covers the roads, the trees, blasts your skin and makes war with your hair.
Upon my decent into Cairo, the lovely patronizing Italian captain announced the current temperature to be 36C. I could handle that.
Exhausted, shaking, not knowing up from down (could have something to do with being so close to the Southern hemisphere), I grabbed my carryon and stumbled my way into Egypt. Immediately, I was chucked into culture shock. Signs were in Arabic, people wore masks, and I tired very hard to keep my eyes averted from any stranger so as to avoid attracting the attention of the unwanted. This proved difficult when trying to find my way so I decided to slow down my steps and fall in behind a few other travelers. My next major revelation was how dirty everything was. Even in the airport. The floors were old and dirty, the walls were dirty, the smell was unusual to say the least. The giant butterfly in my heart sort of did this wing skip beat thingie before it remembered where it was. Then it continued it’s mayhem in my chest. Other people seemed to know what they were doing, so could I.
It was at this precise moment that I remembered I had failed to bring one major thing: a travel companion. Somehow I had managed to convince myself that traveling alone, to a third world country, was a good idea. I was starting to second guess that. What solidified it was, when trying to get through customs, I couldn’t remember the name of the hotel I was staying at in Cairo, nor the names of any of the hotels I was staying at throughout Egypt, nor did I have a contact number for the tour company I was with. My travel documents were conveniently located in the bag I had checked back in Toronto, and was still waiting for me to collect, after customs.
I was up shit creek without a paddle. Or maybe more appropriate, lost in the desert without a camel.
Thankfully, this event didn’t become a future My-Time-in-Egyptian-Customs story. I quickly blurted out “The Tropitel! The Tropitel! Cairo! On the Go Tours!” and gave the customs officer a fabulous smile. He looked at me like I had personally ousted him, slammed the stamp on my passport and jerked his head.
I was through, I was in Egypt.
Upon my entry to the airport proper, finding my tour guide was much easier than my over-worrisome self had thought. Literally, there was a red carpet rolled out and a red rope strung up along one side. I walked on the side with the red carpet, while a line up of various people, skin coloured from olive to molasses, held up signs. I quickly found mine, smiled at the gentleman, who provided me with the warmest grin possible.
“Kelly?” He asked. I almost sighed with relief.
“Yes! I’m Kelly!” Like I was reassuring myself. I held out my hand and he grasped it firmly. He had an honest face and introduced himself to me as Mustafa. I liked this Mustafa already.
“Come this way, through here. Quickly.” I realized very soon why he wanted quickly out of me. His accent was delicious.
Once through the throng of people and after collecting my luggage, Mustafa firmly grasped my elbow and confidently lead me through the large double doors. Beyond those doors was his need for haste. Immediately, the sound overwhelmed me, the volumes of people trying to get my attention, “Taxi? Taxi?” was drowning and little more than a blur to me. All the while, Mustafa was cheerily and professionally chattering away to me. For the life of me, I can’t remember a thing the man said. Something about the hotel tonight. Pyramids, sound and light show. It would have been right at this moment my father would have stopped and said “Kelly! Are you paying attention?! Common, focus here. I’m not repeating this.”
Through a large set of sliding doors we went and I was blasted by a strong gust of the hottest, driest air I’d ever felt. The sun beat down hard and I looked at Mustafa, done up to the nines in his suit, polyester or wool I didn’t know, but either I would have felt sorry for him. The heat didn’t seem to affect him, I realized as I felt a bead of sweat trickle down my spine.
He was hasty in his movements. I quickly realized that Mustafa was urgent about everything; the way he spoke, his gestures, his walk. He lead me to a small van with orange curtains and helped me in. Inside, it was cool, the curtains drawn. Immediately, I whipped the curtains back. I wanted to see everything. Mustafa continued his twittering. He reminded me of a bird. He had a long thin face, kind dark eyes and brown teeth. He kept a goatee which I thought he would have looked better without. He was balding. I could not determine his age; one of those people who seem to be trans-generational. Actions belied eyes which belied that soft tissue that enfolds the eyes. His hands were young but he had deep lines on his forehead. He was painfully thin and his suit looked like he had bought it, three sizes too large, right off the rack.
He was telling me about his little girl back at home, in Luxor, which is where he was from. And his wife. He was so proud because his little girl had just turned one last week. His smile emphasized his pride. That little girl will be well loved.
Mustafa continued to explain to me the process of my two weeks here in Egypt, all the while in his rapid, luxiurous accent and all the while my eyes were out of the window, looking at the beautiful, dirty city of Cairo. Really, it was absolutely filthy. And the roads, the drivers, were absolutely maniac. There are white lines on the road which are consistently ignored. A series of honks and flashing of lights communicated the rules of the road. I have yet to crack the Rosetta Stone of Egyptian driving. It really, truly, is a maniac adventure, not for the faint of heart, and if it weren’t for my absolute euphoria, I’m about ninety seven percent sure I would have gone into cardiac arrest. The streets are filled with people, donkeys, carts, beaten down cars and filth. I was mezmorized. You must realize, I come from one of the most pristine, clean and proper cities in the world, Toronto. Throwing one’s trash out the window is as offensive as walking into a complete stranger’s house and demanding they vacate. There is just no stopping on the streets to take in the scenery. No leaning up against buildings, watching the world go by unless you have a hat out for change. Being proper is a highly prized attribute. Being busy is a highly prized attribute. I see Toronto now as it truly is: beautiful, welcoming but somehow cold and sterile. Somehow missing the point.
We were racing along the highway now, overlooking what looked to me to be a war zone. Unfinished buildings, empty windows, and piles of bricks, rubbish and donkey crap. Amongst that mess, people walked, no, strolled. Everyone in Cairo, outside of an automobile, seemed to be in no rush for anything. This, I quickly learned, is a very Egyptian trait. Maybe you’re late, maybe you have a train to catch, maybe your wife is giving birth to your first born, you still have time for Sheesha and tea. There is no rushing, not in this heat. I asked Mustafa why all the buildings are unfinished.
“Taxes,” he replied and smiled. I gave him a dumb look. “If your building is finished, the government will tax you. So no one finishes their buildings.”
Again, not a Toronto thing. An unfinished building is a large eyesore and complained about until completion. And paying your taxes is an upstanding sort of thing to do.
While my mind raced and my eyeballs tried desperately to absorb everything rushing by, Mustafa was continuing his chatter. I nodded. “Oh, that’s nice. I’m looking forward to that” I continued to reply. He could have told me a bomb was dropping in T-minus three minutes and I would have replied “oh, that’s nice.”
“Kelly. Kelly!” I whipped my head to him, goofy smile on my face. “You want to see the pyramids? Look to your right.”
I looked. Through the haze of pollution, over top of the unfinished buildings, I could see them. The large one, and the medium one with the finished, smooth top. They looked hazy and distant, but their largess and magnificence could reach across distance and time to inspire the dead to wake. Perhaps that’s why they were built. To inspire the dead to wake. They dominated Cairo’s horizon; silent sentinels of history, keeping secrets only the Gods for whom they were built, know.
I was filled with awe. No, awe can’t even describe it. It was like I had said to God “God, I’d like to see the gates to heaven. I know I’m not allowed in yet, and maybe ‘cuz of all the crap I put my parents through, may never be allowed, but I’d like to see these mythical gates. The ones everyone always talks about, that have been written about for thousands and thousands of years and have inspired wars among millions. Yeah, those ones. Please and thank you.”
I’m glad I had my sunglasses on because I had started to cry. In all my dreams, all my imaginings, I never once thought I, me, Kelly would actually see the pyramids. The Pyramids. And yet, I was here. Racing through Cairo, dodging pick-up trucks full of people, cars, motorbikes and donkey carts, staring at the pyramids.
I looked at Mustafa, who had twisted himself right around and I’m sure was watching me through my entire, almost out of body experience. He was grinning from ear to ear.
“You are so excited!”
I nodded. My face hurt from smiling. “This is the best!” was all I could manage to say.
“I really like Canadians.” He said and turned back around in his seat. He then proceeded to ramble on, in his one hundred mile an hour fashion, about how much he liked Canada, how he’d been there and that Canadians were his favorite. I lost myself again, staring out the window, enthralled.
My Egypt.