My ticket found its way into my hands fifteen minutes earlier.
Five minutes before that a new friend, a stranger only an hour before, paid for
our beers and offered to help me negotiate the rate for a taxi after I
collected my train ticket from the hotel I was staying at.
In the taxi the driver spoke to me with rudimentary English, but enough for me to understand he used to be a music teacher.
“Sing with me,” my driver commanded cheerfully. I pushed down all time related worries and hesitantly mimicked my driver’s tones, melody, and words. As a testament to his past as an educator, his careful encouragement as I picked up the simple Arabic song made the moment enjoyable even with the latent worries about catching my train.
When we arrived at the station, I took a moment to prepare myself as I left the safe cocoon of my taxi and into the chaos of the Ramses Train Station. I paid my driver the agreed upon fare and as he pointed into his hand to ask for a tip, I decided not to heed the advice of my friend and conceded in adding a few more Egyptian Pounds into his hands.
“Masalama,” I said goodbye to my driver, slung my backpack onto my shoulders and hoisted the strap of my other bag onto my right shoulder. Weighed down by my luggage, I walked straight hoping that I would be able to navigate my way to my train. I taught myself Arabic numbers the night before in preparation for finding the right train and my assigned seat, but a quick glance showed me nothing that resembled a train platform. With only thirty minutes before departure I suppressed my natural tendency to not ask for help and walked up to a group of men.
Of the men who I addressed, one of them, an older man with a port wine stain birthmark covering the right side of his face and the air of a man who has lived a life harder than even his counterparts around him, took a look at my ticket and replied in Arabic. I shrugged my shoulders in response. He thought for a moment and replied, “Ramses,” as he gestured around us, “Giza,” he pointed to my ticket and my heart sank even lower. I was at the wrong train station. In my rush to catch the train, I had not considered that I was given a Giza departure ticket and not the less common Ramses departure I assumed was bought for me. Just as quickly as realization became clear to me internally, my external reflected my feelings of hopelessness. My lips started to tremble, my face fell, and my eyes shown with tears that my ego struggled to keep from falling. That same instant, the man with the birthmark made up his mind, spoke a few words with his companions, and beckoned me to follow.
Outside he stopped to talk to a young man. Gesturing to the overpass clogged with the common Cairo sight of immobile traffic, the young man spoke words I strained to recognize and pointed down. More words were exchanged before the younger man smiled at me and said in English, “Don’t worry, he’ll take care of you,” and walked away. My guide smiled at me nervously and beckoned me to follow him down. With limited time, I didn’t stop to think about other options and followed.
As we rushed along the underground corridors my bag slipped from
my shoulder, sensing my struggle, my guide offered to help. I refused, partly
out of security and partly out of my own belief in the first rule of travel,
“if you pack it, you carry it,” but he insisted until I gave in. As my
struggles fell burden on him, I kept a closer eye on how far I let him walk
ahead of me. I quickly made a mental inventory of possible irreplaceable items
in that bag, but a quick assessment reminded me that my passport, camera, cash,
and debit card were all in my purse. I know some will argue in favor of
spreading out valuables, but I would rather keep my attention guarding one bag
versus many. Though it embarrassed me to not be able to give this man my full
trust, my lack of attachment to objects eased any discomfort that came with an
imagined prospect of losing the bag now in the hands of this stranger. At the
sight of a metro station turnstile, I breathed a little easier finally
understanding the earlier exchange between my guide and the younger man. As we
approached the ticket counter, I pulled out my wallet to buy a metro ticket,
but instead my guide waved my arm away and pulled out enough money for two
tickets. My sense of urgency won out against any confusion, so I just went with
it.
For an Egyptian winter the night temperatures still found a way to heat my unaccustomed body. Though I wanted to dress coolly for the desert, my sense of cultural propriety drove me to wear a long sleeve technical running shirt and jeans to keep from overexposing my body. Though the fabric of my shirt let my body breath, when we finally rested from our rushed walk to the metro platform, small rivers of sweat flowed out of my pores and visibly marked me as a tourist who couldn’t stand the heat. My guide watched me dap at my face with the left sleeve of my shirt before he pulled out a small pouch of rose scented tissue. Immediately I recognized the unmistakable pink roses that make up the logo of my personal choice of tissues while I lived in Shanghai. It’s been years since I've seen these tissues and between feeling embarrassed at the sweat melting my face and worrying about making it to my train in time, I found a second to appreciate the lovely surprise of seeing a reminder from a past life living in Shanghai.
I politely refused the tissues, but my guide once again, with persistence that would put a seasoned salesman to shame, would not retract his extended arm until I took one. As I dapped at my face the rose scent made its way into my memory and I was glad for his insistence.
Our ears both perked up at the sound of an approaching train and as I peered at the headlights my guide signaled that this was our train to the Giza station.
Cramped was the first word that came to mind as my guide found a space for the three of us, by this time I started to think of my bag as a third person since it took up the same space as a stout child. Though I was proud of myself for keeping it under nine kilograms, moments of tight squeezes made me curse myself at the uneasy feeling that I still over packed. At that moment I vowed all future trips abroad would consist of one carryon bag packed with only the essentials.
Hot was the second word that came to mind as the train jolted to a start and once again I dapped at my damp face. Words were exchanged between my guide and two men in their twenties. I stood up straight and willed my body to stop sweating as I became all too aware of the eyes that followed my movements. Smiling and pointing, my guide caught my attention and moved aside far enough to give me an unobstructed view of the two men he had been speaking to. He cooed quietly to the doves one of the men was carrying inside a tiny wired cage. I smiled a smile tinged with worry. Stopping his cooing, my guide pointed at the route map plastered above the train's automatic doors.
"Sadat, Gezira, Dokki, Bohooth," he named a seemingly endless list of stations before he finally reached Giza and gave me a smile of reassurance. We waited together as stop after stop ticked themselves off, occasionally he would look over at me to smile, and without having any other words, I pushed all my feelings of gratitude into one of the few words I knew how to say, "shukron." Mercifully we arrived at the Giza station stop and into the slightly cooled suburban air with time to spare. I breathed in deeply, both to replace the stale air of an over cramped metro train, and in relief.
For an Egyptian winter the night temperatures still found a way to heat my unaccustomed body. Though I wanted to dress coolly for the desert, my sense of cultural propriety drove me to wear a long sleeve technical running shirt and jeans to keep from overexposing my body. Though the fabric of my shirt let my body breath, when we finally rested from our rushed walk to the metro platform, small rivers of sweat flowed out of my pores and visibly marked me as a tourist who couldn’t stand the heat. My guide watched me dap at my face with the left sleeve of my shirt before he pulled out a small pouch of rose scented tissue. Immediately I recognized the unmistakable pink roses that make up the logo of my personal choice of tissues while I lived in Shanghai. It’s been years since I've seen these tissues and between feeling embarrassed at the sweat melting my face and worrying about making it to my train in time, I found a second to appreciate the lovely surprise of seeing a reminder from a past life living in Shanghai.
I politely refused the tissues, but my guide once again, with persistence that would put a seasoned salesman to shame, would not retract his extended arm until I took one. As I dapped at my face the rose scent made its way into my memory and I was glad for his insistence.
Our ears both perked up at the sound of an approaching train and as I peered at the headlights my guide signaled that this was our train to the Giza station.
Cramped was the first word that came to mind as my guide found a space for the three of us, by this time I started to think of my bag as a third person since it took up the same space as a stout child. Though I was proud of myself for keeping it under nine kilograms, moments of tight squeezes made me curse myself at the uneasy feeling that I still over packed. At that moment I vowed all future trips abroad would consist of one carryon bag packed with only the essentials.
Hot was the second word that came to mind as the train jolted to a start and once again I dapped at my damp face. Words were exchanged between my guide and two men in their twenties. I stood up straight and willed my body to stop sweating as I became all too aware of the eyes that followed my movements. Smiling and pointing, my guide caught my attention and moved aside far enough to give me an unobstructed view of the two men he had been speaking to. He cooed quietly to the doves one of the men was carrying inside a tiny wired cage. I smiled a smile tinged with worry. Stopping his cooing, my guide pointed at the route map plastered above the train's automatic doors.
"Sadat, Gezira, Dokki, Bohooth," he named a seemingly endless list of stations before he finally reached Giza and gave me a smile of reassurance. We waited together as stop after stop ticked themselves off, occasionally he would look over at me to smile, and without having any other words, I pushed all my feelings of gratitude into one of the few words I knew how to say, "shukron." Mercifully we arrived at the Giza station stop and into the slightly cooled suburban air with time to spare. I breathed in deeply, both to replace the stale air of an over cramped metro train, and in relief.
Walking onto a platform washed in gray concrete, he motioned for
me to show him my ticket once again. We walked in the direction of where he
guessed my berth would stop and along the way we stopped at a news stand,
bright in color from a selection of periodicals, snacks, and a branded drink
fridge filled with soda. I chose a mandarin orange flavored soda after a quick
visual sweep picked out the lack of hibiscus soda I recently was introduced to.
He made a motion bringing his fingers to his lips to ask me if I wanted any
food, I shook my head. He picked up another mandarin orange soda and I pulled
out my wallet to pay, but just as swiftly, his hand went up to stop me and out
of his mouth I recognized the word for, no, "la."
After my guide paid
for our drinks the man at the news stand carefully dropped the cans into a thin
red bag, the kind that if the contents were too heavy, it would break apart
with little resistance. Instead of sitting to have a drink with me like I
thought was his plan, he placed the bag into my hands to take on the train
with me. I was touched by his consideration. Not long after, I tried once again
to pull out my wallet. I figured at this point he would finally allow me
to repay his kindness with a couple hundred Egyptian pounds. After a day of
touring the Pyramids of Giza and being asked for money in return for the
slightest courtesy, I was caught off guard when once again he looked mocking
stern at me, held his open palm up and refused firmly with another,
"la." He then dropped his hand lightly to tap his chest outside of
his heart and smiled at me. I tried one more time to place the money in his
hands, but his final refusal let me know that it would be insulting him if I
tried again. With my wallet tucked back into my purse, my backpack over my
shoulders, a bag of two sodas hanging from my right hand, and my heavier bag
over his right shoulder, we walked towards two empty seats and waited.
When the train pulled into the station, we found
my berth at the opposite end of where my guide assumed it would be. Rushing
once again, we made it onto the train. He sat me in my seat and fiddled around
with a few levers to make my seat swivel around and face the window. After a
short struggle to lift my bag onto the baggage rack, we turned to face each
other and once again I repeated my thanks. We said our goodbyes, and as he
turned his stooped unassuming back to leave, I had no idea just how much more
kindness was about to greet me during the rest of my trip in Egypt.
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