Note: I hate to try to be serious, or even relevant here, but it seems wrong to continue a ridiculous story that takes place partly in Tahrir Square, without acknowledging the struggle that is presently taking place there.
I don’t pretend to have any real insight into Egyptian society, other than that it seemed to me a country filled largely with good people toiling under a system designed to keep them toiling.
To those who’ve been in Tahrir, putting lives and livelihoods at risk – who strive to throw off the weight of corruption and strongman/dictator politics, to win what all deserve: a government of the people, by the people – my heart is with you. Godspeed my brothers.
photo courtesy of Hans Mast, hansmast.com
At the hotel, I throw my clothes into my pack furiously, like an old movie heroine packing to leave her no-good husband. The amount of shit I have, and the time it takes to collect and pack it, however, kills whatever drama there is in the action. By the end, my rage has spun out into exhaustion.
I settle my bill downstairs with the old man with giant glasses. He was nice enough to give me a late checkout today, and wishes me a good journey. Despite my irritation with all things Egyptian, I thank him. He tells me that it will be difficult to find a taxi at this time of day, but that the hotel has a “special taxi” that he could call to take me to the train station.
“Thanks, but I’m not going to the train station.”
“No? But I thought you were going to Luxor?”
“Change of plans. I’m going to the bus station.” I figure there must be a bus leaving for Israel, or somewhere that will get me closer to being out of Egypt and definitely out of Cairo tonight, and I want to be on it.
“I see. Our taxi can take you to the bus station. You will not be able to find a taxi on the street at this time.”
The certainty in his voice annoys me. I want to bet him every last Egyptian pound I have, that nothing could be easier than finding a cab in Cairo right now. I want to bet him that if I stepped off of the curb I would be run over by one. But I say nothing – I smile and nod, and pick up my things. I will not ride in any special taxis that will cost me twice as much, and include a stop at a perfume factory. I am done with all that.
Outside, the street is as busy as ever, and I pace the edge of the sidewalk like a zoo lion, holding my arm and index finger up like the New Yorker I’ve often wished I was. While holding your hand up like you have a question does not seem to be the signal for needing a cab here – it is unfortunately whistling, which I am useless at – it does increase my visual exposure. There are tons of taxis, and all of them appear to be full. I glare at the dark silhouettes of the passengers against the evening light. The taxis whiz by me with frustrating speed, tapping out a series of beeps on their horns which can only mean, “we are terribly sorry, but we already have a fare. We wish you the best of luck in securing transportation elsewhere – sucker.”
I give up, let my arm fall, and begin walking toward Midhan Tahrir. Surely there is a way to the bus station hiding somewhere in that mess, even if it will cost my calculator to find it. Ten steps down the block I hear the race of an engine and a honk behind me. I can hear all kinds of honking behind me in, in front of me, all around me, but this honk stands out. I know what it is saying – it’s Gamal.
I turn around, and see him grinning behind the wheel. Unbelievable! He actually showed up. Maybe he couldn’t find a fare, though that seems doubtful. Maybe he has an uncle with a rug factory we can hit on the way to the station, and squeeze a last idiot buck out of me.
“Patrick, my friend, where are you going?”
“I’m going to the bus station, Gamal.”
“What? I’m here to take you to the train. You have to go the train station.”
I remember now that there is a bus station next to the train station. The old man upstairs was right, getting a taxi this time of day is going to be impossible. “You’ll take me straight to the train station?”
“Yes, of course.”
“No papyrus museums, no perfume factories, no camel markets or rug shops?”
“No, we have to go to the station.”
“O.K., fine.” I throw my pack in the back seat.
Gamal looks over at me as I climb in the front. “Everything O.K. with you?”
“Yeah, Gamal, everything is fine.” I don’t want to talk about it. Suddenly I’m tired, and just want to sit back in a seat that is moving somewhere, and fall asleep.
Gamal pulls away from the curb, and somehow reinstalls himself in the moving mosaic of traffic without ever looking over his shoulder or in a mirror. “You had a good day?”
“Yeah.” I mumble.
“What did you see today?”
“I went to the Egyptian museum, and then back out to the pyramids.”
“To the pyramids again?” Gamal looks surprised. “You really like the pyramids!”
“Yeah, well I didn’t like them as much this time.”
“How did you go?”
“I took the bus.”
“Ahh, and then?”
“I walked.”
“I see, no wonder you did not like it as much.” Gamal looks over at me, and I can’t tell if he is sensing something in my voice, or just surprised that I survived without a horse.
He frantically steers the little car through the labyrinth of downtown Cairo. Sudden, multiple lane changes are answered with bleating horns that sound less and less like undifferentiated rage to me. It is beginning to sound like atonal communication.
Car horns in Cairo should be keyboards, rather than a single, blaring note. If for some reason I was stuck here for the rest of my life, and somehow prevented from killing myself, I’d open up a custom car horn shop, make millions of Egyptian pounds, and build a gaudy mansion in the shape of a pyramid, which I would fill with the finest things. When people came to gawk, I would try to sell them champagne and caviar and rides in my limousine.
I am sure Gamal is winding us further and further away from the train station, and closer to a bed linen museum or something, but I have given up, and I don’t protest. When we emerge from a narrow lane into the swirling traffic plaza in front of Ramses station, I am a little surprised.
Headlights begin to wink as the daylight gives way to a growing, colorless dusk. Gamal works his was through it tapping his horn and flicking his lights with the same, natural, unconscious movements he uses to shift gears.
photo courtesy of Hans Mast, http://hansmast.com
“O.K.,” he announces, as he jumps out of the car in front of the train station and grabs my pack while I fumble with what remains of my wad of Egyptian pound notes. He holds his palms face out and shakes his head. “No, no, no charge, Patrick.”
I don’t feel like doing this dance. “Gamal, please, I insist.” I don’t know why I insist exactly, but I don’t want to owe anyone anything. I want to pay my fares. He protests again, but I stuff the bills into the pocket of his shirt.
“OK, thank you my friend, thank you.” He picks up my pack and, bent over, begins carrying it quickly toward the doors of the station. It’s the wrong station – the bus station is at the other end of the parking area – but I should just let him take it. Instead I call out.
“Gamal, I’m not going in there.”
He stops and turns part way around still bent with the weight of the pack. “What?”
“I’m going to the bus station.”
“No, no, the train, Patrick.”
“I’m taking the bus.” I say this with a definiteness that surprises me, and Gamal turns all the way around to face me across fifteen feet or so of rose-colored concrete slab.
“Why would you take the bus when you have a ticket for the train?”
“That’s just it, Gamal, I don’t have a ticket for the train.” My speech is taking on qualities of the climactic scene of a T.V. movie mystery.
Gamal, rather than look like his gig is finally up, looks at me like I am insane. “What happened to your ticket?”
“Oh, I have it.” It feels strangely good to be dramatic. I pull the crumpled scrap of paper out of my pocket nearly tearing it. “It just isn’t a train ticket – it’s a piece of scrap paper that I paid you and your friend a ridiculous amount of money for.”
“What are you talking about?”
“You know what? I don’t even mind that you ripped me off, Gamal. It’s fine; I understand that you have to feed your family, and I know I have more than you do, and more than I need. But I refuse to keep pretending that I don’t know what is going on.”
“What is going on? I don’t understand.”
“I’m not mad that you and your friend tricked me.” I let the “ticket” fall to the ground in front of me. Gamal stares at it a moment, and then looks back up at me. “Gamal, I just don’t want to go through the hassle of finding out it’s fake in there, or on the train. I’m getting out of here, and I’m taking the goddamned bus.”
Gamal looks down again and watches the piece of paper – so soft it rolls over in the breeze instead of flipping. “You are crazy.”
I don’t respond. Fair enough.
“You think I tricked you?” He pauses a beat. “You think I took you to see my friend in his office to trick you? You think that I took you to the pyramids, to the stables, eat with you in my friend’s restaurant, all so I can trick you and take your money?” He looks insulted. “I am insulted.” That pretty much confirms it: I have insulted Gamal.
“Look, Gamal, I don’t mean to insult you, I’m just tired of insulting myself and playing the idiot. It’s nothing personal really – I think you’re a stellar guy – but I’m just not playing along anymore.”
Gamal walks toward me, and though I am pretty sure I am about to be hit, I do nothing to prepare to defend myself. He stops directly in front of me, then bends over and picks up the piece of paper. Holding it in front of my face, in a manner that is less threatening than it sounds, he says calmly, “this is your ticket to Luxor, Patrick, you do not need to take the bus, this ticket will get you there.”
“No, it isn’t. A train ticket is something you buy at a train station, or a travel agent – or, for some reason, in Italy, a tobacco stand – and it looks like, well it looks like a ticket. I don’t know what the hell this is, or where exactly I was when I bought it, but it isn’t a ticket.” I’m not yelling, I am pleading.
Gamal looks wounded. “Do you think this is easy?”
I have no idea what he is talking about, but I shake my head, “no,” I do not think whatever he is talking about is easy.
He opens his arms as if to present to me the chaos of the station that has been surrounding us the entire time. “You think I take you to see my friend, to buy a ticket because it is easy?”
I shake my head again, but at this point my participation is entirely unnecessary.
“No, I take you there because that is the only way – not at the station, not at the travel agency, not, not like in Italy . . .”
I’m not comfortable establishing Italy as a benchmark of efficiency or transparency, but I don’t interrupt.
“This is how we do business here, and it is difficult, but we do it. We do it every day.” Gamal’s arms drop to his sides producing a thud against his torso. His shoulders slump, and he again becomes part of the scene around him: a dust devil of trash swirling around his sandaled feet, and people carrying bags and bundles streaming past. At last he continues. “Believe me. I wish it was better, but that’s how it works here. I was trying to help you get what you wanted. I would never steal your money. I am not that kind of person. Why do you think I would do this?”
I feel like a complete asshole – I’m blowing a gasket because my ticket didn’t come from a travel agency. What kind of a traveler am I? Perhaps I should have taken a bus tour. “Look, Gamal, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to accuse you of stealing my money. I know you tried to help, and I appreciate it – I really do. It’s just that all the dealing and, special prices, and baksheesh – well, I’m not used to it, and it’s tiring and confusing, and I don’t want anymore hassle; I don’t want to have to pay anyone else off. I want things to go smoothly.” I trail off no longer sure where I was going with this.
“The ticket?” he asks.
“Yes. I don’t want things to turn out bad, and have to pay the conductor to ride in the toilet or get arrested or something.”
“Patrick, the ticket will work. I promise you this.” He holds the tattered paper out to me in both hands like an offering. “I have not lied to you.”
Something about him standing there sad and practically begging me to trust him makes me believe him. I can’t help myself. “OK, Gamal. I believe you.” I reach out and take the ticket from his hands.
He smiles and picks up my bag again, continuing his shuffle toward the door. We are back on. My confidence is not entirely restored, but I tell myself that he did get me free admission to the pyramids, as he promised.
Inside the door he sets my bag down and turns to me again. Some last minute instructions and pointing at the scrawled numbers and letters on my ticket are dispensed, and I assure him that I will be fine, I can find the train. For some reason I almost believe it.
Before I can stick out my hand, his arms are around me in an unembarrassed embrace. His hands clapping in unison on my back make me think of my father, and how long it’s been since I got too old to hug him. I wonder how long it’s been, and I miss it. After a period of time that I can only describe as entirely appropriate for two grown males to hug in a train station, Gamal releases me and takes a step back smiling. I am smiling too. It feels like we have come to some important point in our relationship, though I can’t say exactly what it is.
“Patrick,” he says in a deep, cinematic tone of comradeship, “if you ever need anything, remember you have a brother here in Egypt.”
Nice touch, Gamal, nice touch. I nod deeply, and thank him for everything. And my thanks is sincere. I feel like I should give him something, but more money somehow doesn’t feel appropriate. I dig into my pocket where my hand hits the hard, vinyl corner of my calculator, which I pull out and hold in front of me. Gamal looks at it then back at me. I can’t tell what he’s thinking.
“For your children, Gamal, maybe they can use it for school.”
He smiles, perhaps bemused. “OK, Patrick. Thank you.” Taking it from me he closes his hands over mine and shakes them softly, emphasizing his thanks.
He is gone, back out the doors of the station toward his cab. I hoist my pack and begin walking toward the platforms determined now to ride this “ticket” to its end. It helps that it is quickly turning to evening. For me, it is the soft ends of days, rather than their stark beginnings, when everything seems somehow possible.