Thanksgiving in Egypt

Luxor (formally Karnak): This must be where cheap souvenirs go when they die.

I had just come back with a tour group from the Valley of the Kings. My childhood dream of standing in the tomb of King Tut had been realized. As the other tourists went to a buffet, I needed to go to the post office. I couldn’t find it.

A boy with a horse drawn carriage could tell I was lost and followed me, demanding to give me a ride. I only had big bills and was not willing to pay for a ride to a place which I could find on my own. I offered one American dollar, and he said “yes.”

I got on and it was clear he didn’t know where the post office was either. Another guy with a horse drawn carriage saw us haggling and told me to get in with him so I did. For “one American dollar” he said, he drove me to the post office.

I needed a box to take back to the hotel to pack all kinds of crap I had bought; a pantheon of little Egyptian Gods figurines, a King Tut thing, an alabaster hand-made Egyptian bowl, my mother wanted a bowl, and an alabaster cup, an obelisk for my father the architect, a cat, perfume, books, bookmarks, an alabaster rock given to me by my camel driver at the base of the great pyramid, an Anubis canopic jar to put my brains in when they get sucked out, a genie lamp, probably something else, and a bunch of my dirty clothes to pack them with.

The post office was closing. I was referred to the manager who said he would work with me. He says he remembers me from the day before, when I came in at closing time looking for a box and was told to come back in the morning. He told me, “I work for you now,” and I thought to myself, that sounds expensive.

He asked if I had a car.

“No.”

Said he would drive me on his motorbike.

I sat on the back with the empty box as we zipped through Luxor traffic. The only rules of the road seem to be to never stop and honk at everything.

I ran to my room at the Shady Hotel and packed the box quickly, it was about two feet wide and ten inches deep. I held it in my lap as we zipped back to the post office. We drank hot tea and packed the box together. By now I fully realized and accepted that I would miss the van to Karnak temple which I wanted to see very badly. I hoped the other tourists would not have to wait, but I didn’t think about how upset my guide would be.

I thought for sure I would make my 7:00 train to Cairo, with enough time to walk around and take pictures of the mud brick houses and amazing street life of Luxor. I wrote a detailed list of what was in the box and filled out the necessary paperwork. The cheapest rate to ship was almost $100 dollars. Of course, by this time, after taking both a horse and a motorcycle and this man’s amazing hospitality to ship this tourist trap garbage, I was committed to the endeavor at any price. It took almost every Egyptian Pound of my back up money to pay.

Abdul, the post office manager, liked my Egyptian figurines and told me he had a collection at his home, and asked if I would like to see it.

“Yes. Very much.” What else could I say?

We jumped back on to his motorcycle and zipped down dirty back alleys to his flat. We stopped along the way at a street vendor he knew to pick up chicken and rice, after he asked if I would eat with him. We pulled up outside his home. Children swirled around us and hung out a window waving and saying “hello,” which is apparently the one English word all children in Egypt can speak. The waving was getting old, so I switched it up and waved under my leg like a hot-shot basketball pass. The kids tried to imitate me, and jumped around on one leg trying to wave, shouting “hello, hello.” We went inside his very humble home, decorated with picture wall paper of a fountain and two white children hugging. There were two sofas and a small TV. One of his sons was home, about 8 or 9 years old. He had a wife and a daughter at a home he is building in Karnak, overlooking the temple. As the post office manager, he explained he was a relatively wealthy man in town. He seemed old, around 60, to have such a young child. He showed me the restroom, with a “real toilet” which I used, and washed up.

When I came out he had set a beautiful table of a whole chicken, three bowls of rice, a bowl of salad, pita bread, and dip. He would break the pita and grab a bite of salad and dip it. We ate the chicken with our fingers. His son brought two bottles of Sprite. I explained to him that “in my country today is Thanksgiving, an American tradition where we feast together and give thanks for what we have.”

I said a quiet prayer, thankful for the food and hospitality I have found in this foreign land. I thanked Abdul for his food, his hospitality, and for making a memorable Thanksgiving. He knew of Thanksgiving, and was flattered. His son then took his father’s place at the table and ate with me.

I said, “how are you?”

He asked his father in Arabic what I had said, his father told him to tell me, “fine.”

We ate for a moment in silence, I wanted to talk to him, I looked around the room, there was a small Mickey Mouse toy by the TV. I pointed and said “Mickey Mouse?”

We both laughed. Common ground.

He then gave me a sip of his cola, an Islamic soft drink I didn’t recognize. It was “very good” I said, “like candy.”

I asked his father if I could give him my sun glasses. I wanted to give him something. I felt I needed to tip him for all of his help at the post office, but I knew it would be inappropriate after all of this kindness to give him money. I had left my bag at the hotel when I packed my box, it had my camera, notebook, and whatever else. I didn’t want any encumbrances, so all I had on me were my sunglasses which I had bought for $20 (the most I’ve ever paid for sunglasses) just for this trip. The boy put on the glasses, made a big smile and gave me a thumbs up.

I gave him a thumbs up and said “cool.”

The father told the boy he would buy the glasses from him, and a minute later he was wearing them in his Islamic robe with a big smile on his face, “for riding my motorcycle” he said, and explained that sunglasses like these are “very hard to get in Egypt.”

I was glad I had them to give, it only seemed right to return his hospitality in some way. We still needed to make a photocopy of my passport to complete the paperwork for my package. I gave it to the boy as his father explained to what he was to do with it. I felt like saying ‘don’t lose it,’ but I knew I didn’t need to.

While the boy was gone, Abdul showed me his figurine collection, from a beautiful chest on his shelf. His pieces were beautiful, authentic, stone-carved, and very old (to my eyes). He explained he had a business collecting pieces around Karnak that he would ship to his brother in New York to sell, and I could buy something. I felt a hustle coming on, at a “very good price” he said. What is it about Egyptians and money? I thought to myself for the hundredth time.

I felt inclined to buy, and they were beautiful. I picked a few of my favorites; an Egyptian eye, a figure of Horus on a throne, a tiny bust of Ramses 2 (I explained my middle name is Ramsey, he smiled), a rough porcelain sarcophagus, and three ancient Roman coins. He also had an ancient roman fertility goddess with the head broken off. He told me “art price, not tourist price,” whatever that means. I asked how much as we shared our second cigarette, not that I smoke, and he told me “300.” That is only 60 dollars American, and I thought ‘what a deal.’ I handed him 300 Egyptian pounds.

He smiled and told me I was mistaken, “dollars” he said.

Oh no, I thought, ‘how do I get out of this?’ “I don’t have,” I said, apologetically.

We spoke, sat in silence, spoke, sat in silence. We arrived at 1000 pounds, which I thought was about 100 dollars. Still way too much, but I was in a tricky spot, being half-guest/half-tourist, very respectful but very American. I realize now, as I write this, that it was actually, ouch, 200 dollars, but the pieces are beautiful, very old, and how often am I in Egypt?

As we finished our cigarettes and a second cup of hot tea, he asked if I smoked hashish. Again, I am in his home and do not wish to be rude. “Yes” I said.

“Would you like to smoke ‘bango’ with me?” he asks.

“Very much,” I say.

To do this we must go to his home in Karnak, he explains I must meet my train at 7:00, I tell him, and need to be at the hotel by 6 to pack my bag and meet my van. It is almost 5:00.

“We have time.”

We leave, and the kids in the street are still hopping on one foot, waving “hello” to me as we ride off. We stop at the Shady Hotel to drop off my two-hundred-dollar rocks. I walk through the metal detector which always beeps but no one ever stops me. The desk clerk, an Islamic woman in headdress, is upset at me. She says I have stayed too long, that I owe her 100 Egyptian Pounds, and that I have a message. In broken English, the note from my guide tells me how he waited until 4:00 for me for the trip to Karnak Temple before he left. The clerk asks when I will check out, “at 7:00 when I leave for the train” I say.

She glares at me.

I say, “thank you,” and run up to my room, drop off my ‘artifacts’ I’ll call them, and took a quick dump. The combination of drinking water from the Nile in the Nubian village the night before, and eating chicken from the street with my fingers in Luxor had my fragile American stomach a bit perplexed to say the least. I ran back downstairs, jumped on the back of the motorcycle and off to bango in Karnak we flew.

We met up with two men at a dark intersection outside the beautifully lit Karnak Temple. Abdul introduced me to his cousin and nephew. An exchange of money, a small block of hashish. Abdul said he wanted to give me hashish to take to Cairo, “to relax” on my last day in Egypt.

“Cool. Thank you.”

The nephew, a good-looking man in his mid-twenties with a very nice motorcycle, took off to secure this ‘gift’ for me.

Yes, dark corner entrepreneurialism is alive and well in the Islamic world.

We ride to his cousin’s house, a mud brick home he built for himself and his family, three sons and a wife. He opens the small wooden door, like a two-panel closet door, into an open area about 12-by-20 feet. Three young boys bring sticks and hay. “Build a fire for you,” he says.

Abdul breaks up the hash and rolls it into the shape and size of a toothpick. He sticks it sideways into a cigarette which he breaks to the size to balance inside a glass cup. He lights the hashish and lets it burn, putting a small piece of cardboard over the top so smoke collects in the glass. He shows me then to push the cardboard back a bit and sip smoke from the cup. The wife, who never leaves the kitchen, is told to make tea. We pass around the cup of smoke, mix mint leaves with our hot tea, and talk about my trip. As Abdul translates for his cousin, there is a knock at the door, and Abdul quickly hides the smoking cup. Suddenly this atrium in a mud brick Islamic home in Egypt reminds me of a college dorm where kids are smoking pot and there is an unexpected knock on the door.

Another young boy comes in and goes inside.

“I was afraid it was my brother” Abdul says.

“Why?” I ask.

Both men say together, “he is a good Muslim.”

I look at them both in their Islamic robes, one man in a turban, gesture, and say with a smile “you’re not?”

“Yes, we are good Muslims, but my brother is… different.”

“I think I understand.”

“Tablet?” he asked me if I wanted a tablet.

“For headache?” I asked

“No, like hashish, is good.”

“Yeah” I said.

Wide eyed, pill-popping Muslims. We have more in common than I ever thought. Maybe pharmaceuticals will bring our cultures together.

I ask about the home, and the man of the house gives me a tour. First, the living room. Then, pulling a curtain to reveal his wife in a long black robe and headdress stirring something in a big pot on the stove, “kitchen” he says, but does not introduce her, as if she were just another appliance.

I say “hello.”

She glares through the slit in her burka.

He closes the curtain.

The bathroom was a hole in the ground, with an oval piece of blue plastic over it with two spots for placing your feet. The bedroom looked like they all shared it. Then he showed me a large box covered with a sheet. He shakes it. Nothing. Shakes it again. Nothing. Looks at me.

“Egg” he says.

“Chicken?” I ask.

“Yes, chicken” he says with a smile.

I tell him, “Beautiful. Thank you.” Realizing he introduced me to his chicken rather than his wife.

He leads me back to the courtyard where Abdul is now smoking the resonated cigarette from the cup. Now the brother comes in, without knocking. He knows we are smoking, but seems okay with it.

I stand and shake his hand and say “nice to meet you.” There is some confusion over what I have said that takes a couple of minutes to straighten out, after which he says “nice to meet you” with a smile. The cousin asks what I do and Abdul explains that I am a college professor. There is some talk in Arabic about this, and I hear the words ‘professor’ and ‘hashish’ a couple of times, smiles, laughter, and the cousin shakes his head.

I can only imagine what they said, all three of them are wearing these Islamic robes that I am so fascinated by. I ask Abdul “Please, tell me, I mean no disrespect, what are these robes that you wear?”

He tells me the name, ‘gallabiyah,’ “would you like one?”

“Yes,” I say. “Very much, if that is okay.”

Abdul explains to his cousin, who smiles.

“White?” he asks.

“No.” I touch Abdul’s robe, a beige color “like this?”

“Yes” he says and goes inside.

Wow, I think to myself, he will give me one of his own robes, give? Right.

“He will give you good price” Abdul says.

Great, I think, knowing I have very little money left in my wallet, my ‘back-up money’ completely gone.

“A scarf too?” the cousin asks.

“Yes, please” I say.

He returns with a robe, “dark blue?”

“Yes, that is good” I say.

He asks me to touch the fabric. “Very nice,” high quality Abdul assures me.

I ask to try it on.

“Yes.”

I struggle to get it on, but it fits perfectly. The cousin adjusts my collar, and begins to wrap the ‘scarf’ around my head. I was not expecting a turban.

I lift my head. The men are all smiles.

“It’s okay for an American to wear this?”

“Yes” Abdul says, “I have seen Americans like this.”

“No disrespect?” I ask, “do I look silly?”

“You look great!”

I know he means it. With the beard I grew for this trip, and now the robe, I must look like Obi Wan Kenobi. “I love it, how much?”

Abdul and the cousin speak. Sit in silence. Speak. Sit in silence,.

“What would he like?” I ask.

“300 Pound Egyptian” Abdul says.

I reach under the robe, into my pocket, take out my wallet, close my eyes, and shake my head. I count the money in my wallet, once, twice, three times. I have only 260 Egyptian Pounds and the phone number of a guide I should have called hours ago.

I take out all of my money so they can see that I am not trying to bargain, but to be realistic. I hand Abdul 250 pounds, that will leave me with 10 pounds to pay my 100 pound hotel fee. He counts it once, twice, and hands it over to his cousin. Bill by bill, he counts it once, twice. This robe is worth more than the 50 equivalent dollars I have offered.

“Okay” he says with a nod of his chin.

We shake. “Thank you. I love it.”

I am a Jedi, and that’s okay with them.

The brother speaks with Abdul who turns to me with a smile, “What do you think of the war in Iraq?” he asks.

I look down, shake my head, and sigh. “I do not like it, I think it is wrong.”

“All Americans tell me this” Abdul says.

I tell him that “I did not vote for George W. Bush” and that I do not approve of his presidency. Abdul translates for his brother, the good Muslim, who smiles and gestures at me in my turban in astonishment. I then explain to Abdul the 2000 election, American democracy, the state of Florida, and George Bush’s father. Abdul nods. He knows about American politics. I explain the Supreme Court and their decision not to count the votes. I express very clearly that I do not think the war in Iraq is legitimate and that the entire Bush presidency is illegitimate. I am not being unpatriotic; I am being honest.

Abdul translates. He tells me “Bill Clinton is the best president, he was very good to the Middle East.” I tell him how I met Bill Clinton, as his waiter in New York City one night. I gave him bread and served him water. “He was very nice to me” I tell him. “He is nice to everyone” Abdul says. I am really no fan of Clinton either, but that is too complicated to explain at the moment, and at the moment I need to go.

“I need to go to the hotel to get to the train” I explain.

“Five minutes” Abdul says.

We are still waiting for the hipster nephew to return with more bango, not that I really need any. “It is okay. I have had a wonderful time.”

We get up to leave. I drag my robe across the fire. The cousin jumps up and pats it to make sure I don’t burst into flames. We all laugh.

“First I buy it, then I set it on fire.”

I thank the cousin for the robe and for sharing his home. We shake hands and I hug him. He kisses my cheeks. I hug the brother who still seems torn between approval and disapproval of my bango-smoking turban-wearing visit, but his smile reveals more fascination than anything. I wait for Abdul to open the door and follow him outside. We’re both pretty high and neither of us can remember where we parked the bike.

“How long? What time?” he asks.

I look at my phone, which only serves as a clock in Egypt so long as I can keep it charged. It says 20 minutes ‘til 7:00. “Fifteen minutes” I say.

“We will have to hurry, we go a different way” and we fly down some back roads from Karnak to Luxor.

I wish my fellow tourists from the morning, who complained of the Disney-like scripted nature of the tours could see me in my Islamic robes on the back of this man’s motorcycle. No camera. The picture of the two of us in our robes on that motorcycle would have been priceless. I guess there was a camera on my phone, but it never occurred to me to use it.

He drops me at the hotel. We hug and thank each other for a wonderful time.

“You must stay in one of my flats when you come back” he says.

“Will you remember me?”

“Of course.”

I rush inside the hotel. The clerk asks, “where have you been?”

My guide is sitting in the lobby with a disgusted look on his face, palms turned up. “I have waited and waited. You have almost missed your train.”

I try to explain, “I had to go to the post office, it was complicated.”

“You should have called.”

“I am sorry. The man at the post office made me tea. He offered me dinner. I couldn’t turn him down. He took me to his home.”

The guide cracks a smile, but it doesn’t last long. My eyes must be blazed and bloodshot under my turban.

“Pack your bag. Pay your bill, and let’s go.”

I sit down across from him. “Look,” I say plainly and humbly, perhaps hopelessly, “I only have 10 pounds. I need to find a bank. I know you are upset with me.”

The whole time I’m thinking; Fuck this. I’m a grown man. I go where I want to go, and I do what I want to do. I don’t need a babysitter. I’ve had one of the best nights of my life, and I will not let you or that bitch at the counter kill my buzz.

I know that tourism is an important industry in Egypt, that guides are responsible to the government for the safety of the foreigners in their charge, and that I am completely in the wrong for not calling, “I do not want to make trouble or hold anyone up any longer. If it would be easier, then I will stay another night and take a train tomorrow. I will pay whatever it costs” I say with arms outstretched.

He does not want me to stay another night. He does not want me to stay another minute. “Go to the bank. Get your money. Pack your bag. And get on the train.”

“Okay” I say, “yes.”

I get up “where is the nearest bank?”

He glares, “on the corner” he says. “It says ‘banko,’” like I am the biggest, dumbest asshole American he has ever met.

I head for the door, “Which way?”

He points.

“Which side of the street?”

“On the corner. It says ‘banko.’”

I run. Unfortunately, the streets are as curvy as the Arabic alphabet and it is by no means clear where the corner is, and I see no sign that says ‘banko.’ I ask a man who speaks no English where the bank is. We try to figure each other out as we walk. Finally, he points to an ATM.

“Thank you.” It was nowhere near the corner, and the largest amount it will give me is only 200 pounds.

I run back to the hotel. Hany, the guide, is at the counter with his head in his hands, and says firmly, “Pack your bags, now.”

I run up four flights of stairs in my robe and turban. The key, which always sticks, is especially sticky now. I summon my jedi patience, and it opens. I pack quickly but carefully, having already lost my friend’s book she gave me to read on the train between Cairo and Aswan. I look around the room. To my knowledge, I only left my toothbrush, oops, toothpaste and shampoo, because they were in the bathroom and I didn’t check there (no, toothbrush and toothpaste got thrown in the bottom of the bag, where, I found out a few days later - spoiler alert- my train ticket was hiding,).

I run downstairs, trying to pull my money from my wallet without tripping down the stairs in my robe. I put a 100 Egyptian pound bill on the counter and follow my guide to the door.

“Wait!” yells the clerk.

“Key?”

It is still in my hand. I put it on the counter. Finally, a fraction of a smile.

I follow a few paces behind Hani, who has nothing to say to me, and doesn’t want to hear anymore from me. He seems to be looking for a particular van that is nowhere to be seen. He grabs the door of a moving van, and opens it. I jump in. He slams the door behind me. Goodbye Hani. I would have given him a tip, but his real tip was getting rid of me. The guy in the passenger seat, who I have never seen, turns and says “Where have you been? We have been looking for you for hours.”

I tell him my story, minus the hashish.

“I’m sorry. I know you are angry with me.”

“No, not angry. Worried about you.”

Finally, I feel legitimately guilty. “I am sorry. I did not mean to worry you.”

He begins to grin, “You have good time in Luxor?”

I smile. “Oh, yes. Very much so. A wonderful time. I love Luxor.”

I realize I must give this dude a huge tip to compensate for the trouble, worry, and hassle I have caused so many people. His English is hard to understand and I believe I heard him say we have missed the train. The drive to the station is longer than I remembered and suddenly they don’t seem to be in much of a hurry. We get to the station and jump out.

“You have your ticket?”

“Yes,” I say as we run up the steps. “I’m not that much of a screw up.”

We get to the track just as the train is pulling up. There is a slick looking guy in a nice leather coat, and I hear for the hundredth time, “Where have you been?”

It is suddenly clear that this guy is the supervisor of all these guides. It never occurred to me that there was a hierarchy in this industry, though it seems obvious now, and this islamo-yuppie is never supposed to leave his air-conditioned office and came to the filthy, commoner, train station.

“I am so sorry” I say yet again, though my empathy for my babysitters gets more genuine each time I say it.

He gestures to my latest guide, “we were going to kill him if he couldn’t find you.”

We all laugh, I think. I put my arm around the guide. “Don’t kill him. It was my fault. He is a good man. He waited for me,” and I tell my story again, realizing that I am using Abdul’s hospitality as an excuse for my own carelessness.

“You had a good time in Luxor?” he asks with a smile.

“The best,” I say and shake his hand.

He leaves to get back to his sports car or Jacuzzi.

“What seat are you in?”

I go to grab my ticket, which I thought was in my wallet, but it was only an ATM receipt. I searched everywhere. “I can’t find it.”

I gave him my wallet to search through, as I dug through my bag with no luck. It suddenly occurred to me that I probably put it in the box that Abdul mailed to the United States.

“Can I buy a ticket on the train?”  

“Yes.”

“For how much?”

“About 100 pounds,” which was exactly what I had.

So, being the unthinking, clueless American I so clearly and convincingly demonstrated that I am, I felt compelled to give him something, and gave him a bill from my wallet. Postponing my money problems for another few minutes, in favor of buying favor for a few seconds. Instead of giving him the $20 I felt I owed him, I gave him $4 which did nothing for him and only made trouble for me, but I don’t want bad blood on my travels and was trying to patch the wound I had made.

Another hug. Another goodbye.

I took a seat, knowing it must belong to someone other than me. Figuring again that I would let someone else bring to my attention what a rude and stupid American I must be. Eventually, the conductor came around.

“I have lost my ticket” I explained to this man who speaks no English.

The passenger across from me, who spoke a little English, tried to translate and intercede on my behalf. They spoke and he told me that I could buy a ticket for 100 Egyptian pounds.

Okay, here is part two of my problem. I took out my money. “I only have 90 pounds Egyptian and 30 American dollars,” holding each in different hands with the best look of humility on my face that I could muster.

By this time a group of five or six Egyptians were arguing in Arabic with the conductor over my situation. I could not tell if they were advocating or persecuting. The conductor flipped through the pages of his book, I guess looking at ticket prices and options of disposing of a difficult American. With a smile, he took my 90 pounds, said “okay,” and hand wrote me a ticket.

Around this time, a couple from Barcelona who I have seen off and on since Aswan walked by. Glad to see each other, we slapped good solid handshakes. The boyfriend spoke no English, so I did all of my talking to the girl, Eva Torres. Which made me feel very guilty, because of all the treasures it has been my pleasure to see in Egypt, she was the most beautiful.

When we first met, I told her my story of running out of money in Barcelona and having to sleep on the street. Now, here I am again with no money. They were also down to their last few pounds, and we discussed options for our survival until our flights two nights later. She smokes a cigarette every chance she can get.

Now I sit on the train to Cairo, with another guide I have not called awaiting me, or not, trying to make sense of it all, and loving every minute of it.

I have been to Bumfuck, Egypt, and reunited with my Ka.