6:52 AM Cairo Standard Time My Self-prescribed Pilgrimage to Giza

He continued, “I’ve heard too many stories. It can be a pretty crazy place. Nope, that’s not at all for me, especially when you consider the paradise we have right here at our feet.” He made a circle in the sand with his toe. Next to us, I noticed a street cat sitting in the shadows on a group of colorful floor pillows, staring at me.

After a few Stella beers, his logic started to make a little too much sense. I had found my own strange slice of Shangri-La, sitting here by the Red Sea. Was this trip to the Pyramids really the right decision? I realized how sometimes, at the final hour before departure, the idea of backing out or all the things that could go wrong pop up in my head. All the irrational fears swirl. Then the thought of having another beer starts to seem like a much better idea than an overnight minivan trip through the desert.

Dahab was talked about like it was a mystical place by many of the backpackers I had met throughout my trip through Cyprus, Jordan and Israel. It seemed like a tranquil spot to relax before tackling the rest of Egypt. Many I spoke to didn’t consider the Sinai at all like the rest of the country, the real Egypt, as they referred to everything on the other side of the Suez. Dahab was easy Egypt. I heard too many stories about how rough the road can get once you cross into mainland Africa, and despite my guidebook research, I didn’t really know what to expect. My friends thought I was crazy to even be anywhere near the region so soon after the terror attack in Luxor only six months earlier. Even the US travel warnings said I shouldn’t be here. My mom simply said I was insane and pleaded with me not to go. But I had the chance to make a childhood dream come true, and I was trying my best not to let anything get in the way of that. And after a few weeks of scuba diving in the Red Sea, and staring out into the beautiful Saudi coastline across the bay of Aqaba, I felt that I was ready to undertake my self-prescribed pilgrimage to Giza.

The owner of my bungalow told me that I should be here at the office at 10 pm, the trip would cost 40 Egyptian pounds, and that I would arrive in Cairo around 6:00 in the morning, Inshallah. There was that tricky Arabic word again. It literally translated to mean “God willing, or that everything is in God’s hands.” My personal definition was slowly evolving into, “anything could happen,” a new, more severe rendition of Murphy’s law, or Murphy’s Egyptian uncle. Whatever the case, it still made me a bit wary whenever I heard it mentioned, which happened all too often here.

Leaving Dahab behind in a cloud of dust and diesel

I abandoned my beer, said some quick goodbyes to my new acquaintances and set off for the bungalow office, arriving a few minutes late. That still allowed plenty of time to sit and wait. I was still getting accustomed to the concept of “the Egyptian minute”, which would last anywhere from five minutes to a few hours. Thirty-five minutes later, a red minivan pulled up in a cloud of dust and diesel. My guitar and backpack were taken from me and tied onto the roof as I was pointed towards the back seat. We circled around the small beach town’s side streets, while the driver searched for more potential riders for another forty-five minutes. The driver then stopped in a parking lot and shuffled us all into a different van, determined to pack us in as tightly as possible. He finally gave up with what amounted to only one slightly vacant spot next to lucky me. I was the only “Khawaga” (naïve tourist) on board.

Maybe I could even get some sleep after all, I thought as I leaned further into the extra space, my dry lips cracking into a slight grin.

Less than ten minutes later, my extra space fantasy was abruptly slashed when we picked up two more passengers on the outskirts of town. Now, wide awake, I was tightly wedged against the cool back-seat side window—at least I had that going for me.

“Hello, I’m Mohammed, what country are you?”, said one of my newly acquired neighbors with a big smile leaning over the man he boarded with.

I slowly began to stutter. “Ah, ah, Ahhhm…Ahhhhmerica”.

Oh, you USA! Marhaba, welcome. Welcome in Egypt. He shook my hand graciously then turned and pointed to the guy seated directly next to me. This man next to you. His name Awad. He Iraq.”

My sudden twinge was like a reflex. I fought back hard against my expression, trying for a neutral, but friendly look while our shoulders rubbed against each other as we bounced over a pot hole.

“He had to leave Baghdad during the Gulf war. He don’t speak English. Now he lives in Cairo.”

I exhaled deeply, and shifted my legs against the sweaty plastic seat. Mohammed then decided to betray our newly formed friendship, eagerly telling my new seat mate something in Arabic. Amreeki was the only word I could make out, and they said it way too many times for such a short discussion.

I slowly turned to look at Awad, attempting my friendliest smile. He didn’t seem upset, but he didn’t smile or look overly pleased with the news either. It was hard to tell in the dim glow of the van’s back seat. At least, because of the language barrier, I didn’t have to make any small talk with him, I thought, as we sped down the bumpy road into the first security checkpoint of the night. A few soldiers cautiously approached while yelling something in Arabic. The driver turned the interior lights on as some of them peered into the windows while clutching their machine guns close.

I slowly turned away from the window and glanced over at Awad, turning the thoughts in my head. Looking at both him and Mohammed, I start to say something but lost my words for a moment. “Ah, Mohammed, can you please tell Awad that I’m sorry,” I said, as the soldiers opened the gate. Awad just bowed his head and looked away.

Into the desert night looking for sleep in the silence

Staring out the window, watching shadows of rugged hills stream by outside, finally put me to sleep. I was jerked awake by our sudden stop on the sand-packed shoulder. The driver jumped out of his seat and walked off into the desert, almost disappearing in the darkness. On a whim, I quickly followed the lead of Mohammed, Awad, and the rest of the passengers. There on the side of the road, in the middle of the desert night, we all shared a communal sand toilet in peaceful harmony. Without even a single word exchanged, everyone quickly shuffled back into the van. The sliding side door slammed closed and the driver hopped back in. He took off as quickly as he had stopped, without even a quick glance into the rearview mirror to see if we were all still there.

Sometime in the depths of the night, a loud tire screech exploded through me as we skidded into a sharp turn sliding off the road. We came to a hard stop on the sand-covered shoulder as a stream of desert dust floated past the headlights revealing shadowed hills and mountains in the distance. I turned to look at Awad. He seemed unfazed, but still not particularly friendly. The driver took a quick slug from his plastic water bottle and let out a brief sigh. He then restarted the ignition, and pulled back onto the road quickly resuming his Indy-level pace.

“Inshallah, you’ll arrive in Cairo around six in the morning,” the Bungalow owner’s words from earlier that evening echoed through my head.

After clearing our third army checkpoint, we crossed under the Suez Canal through the Ahmed Hamdi Tunnel as the faint morning light slowly crept above the horizon behind us. I drifted back into a daze, while memories of history lessons, textbook photos of Nasser, and the 1956 crisis, soothed my anxiety.

Cairo at dawn dropped off into the Unknown

I must have fallen back asleep, only to be jostled awake in time to catch the desert landscape disappearing into the disarray of Cairo at dawn.

The minivan stopped, and Mohammed translated for the driver. “America, this your stop. Your hotel is over there,” as he pointed down the street. The driver passed me my things and quickly pulled away. I pulled out my Lonely Planet that I had concealed with a brown book cover, quickly realizing the irony, as I stood there next to my backpack and guitar case in jean shorts and a plain white t-shirt. There was no getting around the fact that I was the spitting image of what a Khawaga probably looks like.

Laughing at myself, I then realized that the taxi hadn’t dropped me off anywhere close to my hotel. I had no clue where I was. Hopefully, I was at least somewhere in Cairo.

Stranded and delirious, I felt the traffic roar past down the wide dusty streets. Shaking off my dizzy head, I started looking for a cab amongst the horn-blowing ensemble. Swirls of cars moved endlessly past, whizzing too close to the curb as I clutched my guitar case closer just in time to avoid a passing bus. I quickly learned that crossing a road was more of an adventurous art form here than anywhere I had previously been. Ducking and dodging my way, I wove through the cars and trucks to the relative safety of the nearest sidewalk. I again followed the lead of locals who were waving to the passing taxis, and got one to stop for me. He rolled down his window and I handed him a piece of paper, happy that I had the forethought to ask the bungalow owner in Dahab to write out my hotel details in Arabic for me. He just nodded with a deep-voiced “La-ah” (no) and pushed the paper back at me. After three more attempts, I got lucky and was finally on my way, now part of the hustle and chaotic traffic that I was just dodging only minutes before. We quickly made our way in no particular lane as the driver did his best to disobey almost all lights and traffic signs. He then, without saying anything, pointed to a building, and nodded his head towards it, as if to say, we’re here. Following the advice I had learned, to avoid haggling and arguments about price, I silently got out of the cab, collected my luggage, and handed him three Egyptian pounds, walking away before giving him a chance to complain. Just like a pro, I thought to myself as I headed towards the building he had pointed to. He sped off and I realized once again that this wasn’t the correct address.

Asking for Directions in the Wrong Side of Town

Giving up on a taxi, I started hiking Cairo’s sidewalks with my heavy load, trying to follow my small guidebook map and decipher the Arabic street signs. I couldn’t even figure out where I was on the map as I questioned my decision to go it alone here. I decided to ask one of the soldiers armed with black rifles and white uniforms. There were two posted on almost every main corner, so I figured asking was worth a shot. My few words of Arabic didn’t help much, and the only thing I could determine was that they definitely didn’t speak any English. As I turned to walk away, a man approached.

“Do you need some help with directions?” he asked in English. I was so relieved. “Aiwa, Shukran! Yes, please” I said, showing him the crumbled up address. “Ah, yes, it’s close by, follow me. I can show you. It’s on my way.”

Feeling safe standing next to two soldiers, I agreed to his generous help. As we walked, he made some friendly chat, and asked me where I was from. After having learned my lesson with Awad the night before, I told him Barcelona, Spain. It seemed logical considering my Spanish was decent. Just in case, I rattled off a few practiced phrases in my head, yo vivo en Barcelona, hoping he wouldn’t test me on any Spanish fútbol. We made our way around the corner, and he steered me right into his perfume shop, which he claimed just happened to be on the way. Feeling somewhat obligated, and still needing him to help me find my hotel, I agreed to let him show me his shop.

I turned down his offer of a cup of chai numerous times, both fearing the worst and not wanting to be even more indebted to this stranger. He finally gave up about the drink and changed his plan of attack, now offering me what he claimed to be a “totally free gift”. It was a small stick of incense, which I tried my best to decline. After telling him, no thank you and that I couldn’t accept it at least ten times, he forcefully stuffed it into the side pocket of my day-pack.

„This is for you my friend, Marhaba. Welcome in Egypt,“ he said, patting me on my shoulder like a long lost, dear friend.

After showing me his collection of perfume and ornate perfume bottles, he then began pouring on the pressure.

”Here, this one. Very great one, I give you for only five-hundred pounds.”

“Oh, no thank you. It smells very nice, but I don’t use perfume,” I deflected.

“Oh, then this one, great present for your mother,” he continued.

”My mom is allergic to perfume.”

”How about this, for your wife?”

“I’m not married.”

What about your girlfriend? Don’t you have a sister? What about for your aunt? How about your cousin?

For each new potential relative, he decreased the price, and each time I made excuses and protested about how little money I had.

I was rattled having had little sleep and spending the morning discovering random side streets of Cairo. I even started to consider that it might be easier to just give him a bit of money so he would finally show me the way to my hotel.

My sleepy, New York City instincts finally started to wake. Why am I continuing to be somewhat polite with this scammer?

He had taken advantage of me being lost in a foreign place. He lied to me to get me into his shop. He tried to make me feel bad about not accepting his hospitality and staying for tea, or coffee, or a coke, or water…

”I don’t want any perfume!”

I always kept my wallet close to empty and hid my money in a few different spots, like a hidden money belt to avoid getting robbed. I figured, if I showed him how little money I actually had, he might finally just give up. Pulling out my wallet, I revealed a solitary ten Egyptian pound note sitting in my wallet. “You see, this ten pounds is all the money I have!”

Without even a blink, he snatched the bill right from my wallet like a tree frog tongue on a fly. I ripped the bill back out of his hands with equal stealthy speed, sticking it, along with my wallet back, into my front shorts pocket with a single fluid motion.

I stuck out my chest and pushed past him, making my way to the door.

As I got towards the door he maneuvered himself in front of me blocking the exit, and then reached his hand into my daypack, grabbing my free welcome gift with a furious snarl. Without pausing for even a second to admire the level of crazy that this scene had unfolded into, I stuck my hand out like a running back, pushing him hard with my palm against his chest, clearing the way as I barreled past him, landing back out onto the bright, busy street. Free at last but still lost. I again studied my small guidebook map, determined to finally make it to the hotel. I can do this. I will find this hotel, I thought to myself. Inshallah. I pulled myself together, despite the feeling that I was incredibly alone. “Home” seemed like a distant recollection, a faded memory.

After an hour of wandering the streets, I finally got my bearings on the map and found the right street. As I stood in front of the entrance to the hotel, a man approached me.

”Hello my friend. Please come have a look in my Papyrus shop. What country are you from?” he beamed. Ana mish Khawaga. Ma Salama, I sneered. (I’m not a naïve tourist. Goodbye) pushing the hotel door open and heading up the stairs to the lobby.