photo courtesy of Bernadette Simpson
I’m done with this place. I don’t care if I never see the station again.
It’s mid-afternoon when I finally step outside, and back into Midan Ramses. The sky feels like they heated it up in a goddamned pizza oven. I’ve managed to spend the better part of my first day in Cairo standing in lines to nowhere. I’m pissed, and determined to go somewhere now. I step defiantly into the street and hail a cab like the New Yorker I always wished I was.
A small black and white Fiat with a roof rack screeches to a stop in front of me, and I climb into the back seat slouching. “Hello, my friend.” The driver, a thin guy who looks to be in his forties with short, thinning hair and a thick, black moustache, smiles.
“Hello, merhaba,” I barely have the heart to try to speak Arabic.
“Where are you going?” It’s a fair question, but one for which I don’t have answer. I just want to get the hell away from the train station, and I don’t want to go back to the hotel.
“Giza,” I answer. The pyramids are just what I need: instant validation that I am a successful traveler in an exotic land. They are tourist crack.
“Giza? You go to see the pyramids?”
“Yes, definitely, the pyramids.”
“O.K., good. It is beautiful my friend.”
I nod unable to fully believe that anything in this ridiculous country is truly beautiful, and lay my head back against the head rest, happy to have nothing to do but sit for a while.
“So, my friend, how is your day?” the driver inquires as he makes a suicidal turn across four lanes of traffic.
“Crap.” I respond rather impolitely.
“What is the problem?”
“The train. I can’t get a ticket. I spent all day trying.”
“Where are you trying to go?”
“Luxor. But it’s impossible.”
“Impossible?”
“Yeah, at least by train. Everything is full.”
“I see.” This seems to surprise him. “I can help you.”
“How?”
“I can get you a ticket.”
“How?”
“I have a friend, my friend, a friend who works for the railroad.” I do not find this very convincing. “I can take you to him right now, and get you your ticket.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. I am Egyptian, this is how it works here.”
“Your friend works in the station?”
“No, he works in an office away from the station, but he can get you a ticket. It is not far.”
“How far?” I don’t entirely trust this.
“Not far.”
“How much?”
“Not much.”
There was absolutely no reason to believe this guy, but for some reason I agree. The cab driver is visibly pleased, and takes another lunatic turn, completely changing our direction.
“What is your name?”
“Patrick.”
“Patrick?”
“Yes.”
“Ah, Patrick. Good name. My name is Gamal.” He reaches back over the seat to shake my hand.
“Nice to meet you, Gamal. I like your name too.”
“It means ‘camel’,” he laughs.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Is it a common name in Egypt?”
“Oh, yes. It’s like – it’s like Patrick.”
“O.K.” Gamal smiles, and I smile back. We have established a tiny piece of camaraderie over the relative lack of uniqueness of both our names. Perhaps this is why I am allowing him to take me god knows where to see his friend about a train ticket. I’m really not sure, nor am I sure how much “free” will end up costing. For now, I sit back and actually enjoy the scenery of Cairo, largely because I am being propelled through it by the power of an internal combustion engine, rather than my sweaty feet.
After a few more tire-squealing, horn-blaring feats by Gamal, we are mostly out of the hubbub of downtown, and careen instead down almost leafy neighborhood streets of some sort of garden district. We may in fact be driving through “Garden City” which I remember seeing mentioned in my guidebook, but I have no way of being sure. Gamal’s answer to my query, though positive, gives me the impression that he has no idea what I am talking about. I decide to assume it is, in order to cross it off my lists of sights seen for the day. I don’t remember exactly why one is supposed to see Garden City, though its very “garden-ness” seems pleasant enough. Some sort of long-leafed tree lines the street separating it from the sidewalk. Individual buildings gradually take a step back from one another, and now stand alone amid their gardens, rather than shouldering against each other downtown.
Gamal pulls to a quick stop in front of a brown stone building that looks like it should be a courthouse or a bank in 1930s Los Angeles – the kind of place you would take your “dame” or “doll” to in order to get a blood test and get hitched before you went on a bank robbing spree. Inside, men and women shuffle nearly noiselessly along the cool stone floors of a large lobby style room. Along the perimeter are large, old metal desks, and the far wall has a row of windows like bank tellers’.
Gamal tells me to wait for him, “one moment,” while he tracks down his friend and explains the situation. He walks over to the waist-high wall separating us from the desks, waves and yells quietly – a uniquely Egyptian skill – toward a man sitting talking on the phone. The man looks up and waves back in recognition, smiling at Gamal. Gamal walks back over to me and asks, “you have Egyptian pounds?”
“Yeah, sure, how much do I need?”
“I don’t know yet, not much. Something for the ticket and a little bit more for the service – a gift.”
“How much of a gift?”
“Not much, just something to thank him.”
I am beginning to worry, and think about walking out before this goes any further. But the man from the desk is off the phone, lets himself through the swinging gate in the waist-high wall, and is approaching us. He greets Gamal in Arabic, smiling. Gamal wheels around kissing his own right hand before extending it to his friend. This, I gather, is a show of respect, and assume is tenuously connected to the fact that there is no toilet paper in this country. The handshake flows seamlessly into hug and kisses on both cheeks. It is all more impressive than a “hey dude, what’s up?” Gamal turns and sweeps his arm back presenting me to his friend. Not wanting to offend, I also kiss my hand and offer it to the man who remains a step out of reach. He nods and smiles at me, while I stand there feeling like an idiot, having just thrown a kiss to a strange man who works for the Egyptian railroad.
Gamal explains my situation in Arabic for what seems like an awfully long time. How long does it take to ask if he can get a ticket to Luxor? His friend considers me for a few beats before nodding gravely to Gamal and shrugging. Gamal continues talking, and finally there is some hand shaking between the two of them. Too much really, I think. Gamal comes back over to where I am standing.
“So?”
“It is no problem, Patrick. My friend, he can get the ticket for you.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really, of course. It is no problem.” I must have sounded as shocked as I felt, because I think I might have annoyed him.
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean it like I didn’t think you could do it, I just meant I was surprised . . . forget it. What day?”
“Any day you like.”
“Really?” I guess I can’t help it, it’s sort of a reflex.
“Yes of course, any day. What day do you like?”
“How about tomorrow?” This would allow me to keep up with my ridiculously cramped schedule.
“OK.” Gamal stepped over to his friend for a quick caucus on my request, which involves a hand put to a forehead and a lot of grave nodding. Back to me, Gamal looksd serious, “tomorrow is difficult, it is a very popular day for traveling. But he says ‘OK,’ he can do it.”
“Really? I mean, really, that’s really great, Gamal.”
“Since it is such a popular day, the price is a little more.”
Of course is it is. “How much?”
“Not much.” Gamal is fidgeting, and it is worrying me. “You must pay twenty-nine Egyptian pounds for this ticket.”
“Really?” Jesus, I need to stop doing that.
“Yes.” Now Gamal looks worried. “Is it O.K.?”
“Yes, that’s fine, twenty-eight pounds is fine.”
“Plus, the gift for my friend.” Apparently I was a little too eager in my acceptance of the price.
“Oh, yeah. How much?”
“Not much.” He is becoming as annoying as me.
“Really?” I can’t resist.
“Maybe ten Egyptian pounds. Maybe more if you are generous, and you are grateful for this favor.”
“How much?”
“Not much. Maybe just a few more.”
“How about twelve pounds?”
“Maybe fourteen.”
“O.K.” I try to sound a little hard done by, but the truth is I am just short of ecstatic at being able to get a ticket. Besides, I don’t know what the price is supposed to be, but I think twenty-nine pounds comes to about eleven bucks. That’s less than I planned on spending for the ticket in the first place. I stuff a fistful of crumpled pound notes into Gamal’s hand.
“You are a generous man, Patrick – a good man.” That’s nice to hear, but I feel like a sucker. Upon receiving the money, Gamal’s friend gives me an appreciative nod and walks back to his desk. “He is making the ticket,” Gamal assures me. I’m not crazy about using the verb “making” for the ticket. It smacks of counterfeiting, but I chalk it up to translation. After a few minutes at his desk, making phone calls and flipping through a very thick book, Gamal’s friend is back with a small piece of paper that is supposed to be my ticket. He hands it to Gamal who nods approvingly and then hands it on to me.
The two of them seem to watch me expectantly as I examine the piece of paper. Calling it a piece of paper is generous. It is square and maybe three inches on a side, and as soft and worn as the pound notes I had handed over to get it. It feels like it went through the wash in Gamal’s friend’s pocket. On it is printed a sort of form in Arabic who’s previous generations of photocopies look to date back to “phaoronic” time. The letters are faded, fragmented and blotchy and bring to mind “mimeographs” of the early grades of primary school. There are four blanks on the form designated with a black line which have been filled in with thick blue pen. The ink bleeds into the spongy paper. Laid over top of all of this is some sort of official railroad stamp that, rather than lending it any air of legitimacy, just makes it harder to read.
I can’t decipher any of it, and Gamal seems to sense my confusion. He points to one of the blue scrawls. “This is the number of the train, this is the number of the car, and this is your seat. You must sit in this seat. You understand?”
“Yeah, I think so. Is there a date?” Given everything else that worries me about this “ticket,” I’m not sure why I care if it has a date, but I do.
“Oh, yes, yes,” Gamal assures me, pointing to more unintelligible writing across the top, “this is tomorrow’s date.” He confirms this with his friend who nods solemnly. I don’t really have any way of verifying, other than teaching myself Arabic quickly, and finding a calendar. Next they’ll take me to a flea market and sell me Jesus’ autograph.
I turn the paper over in my hand carefully, sort of afraid to handle it too much. Now I know why there is no toilet paper on Egypt; they are using it to print train tickets. I don’t recall seeing tickets like this at the station, but then again I didn’t really get the opportunity to look at a ticket at the station. I raise my eyes from the scrap of paper in my hands and look at the two men looking at me. “Is this a real ticket?”
“What?” Gamal looks confused.
“This – is this really a ticket?”
“What do you mean?”
“Does this ticket actually entitle me to a seat on a train? It looks fake.”
“Fake?” Perhaps I shouldn’t have used that word. “Of course it is good for the train, it is a ticket!”
“Look, I’m sorry,” I truly am – I don’t want to offend Gamal or Gamal’s friend, “it’s just that this doesn’t really look like a ticket to me. It looks like . . . Do you promise this is a real ticket?”
“Do I promise?” I think I have annoyed Gamal, but you should see this thing.
“Yeah, please, I’m a little nervous. Give me your word that this ticket is real.”
Gamal sighs, and his look of irritation softens. “Yes, I promise to you that it is a real ticket. He speaks to his friend who nods back. “He promises also that it is real.” I would have felt better if they would have somehow intoned Allah, but think it might be pushing it to ask.
“O.K., thank you, sukran,” I nod to Gamal and his friend.
“Afwan,” they both reply and smile. They shake hands one final time as we depart, and I carefully fold the paper and slip it into my pocket.
At the car, Gamal opens the front passenger door and tells me I can ride up with him if I like. “Are you happy now?” he asks turning the key and bringing the tiny fiat engine to coughing life. It strikes me that this question is usually posed somewhat insincerely. But Gamal seems genuinely interested.
“Yes, thank you. Sukran.”
“Afwan. Now you have your ticket, you want to go to the harem?”
“The what?”
“Hareem. That means pyramids.”
“Oh, I see. Yes, please I would like to see the pyramids or hareem now please.”
“I have a friend at the pyramids.” This is entirely unsurprising. “He is a very good man, with a stable.”
“Ah,” I nod trying to work out in m head why I need to meet a very good man with a stable, and still trying to decide whether I should be glad that I managed to score the seemingly impossible to get ticket, or irate that I just spent twenty bucks on a square of toilet paper.