The sun acquiesced and slowly descended behind the outcropping of late Miocene rock, blanketing the sea of ripe date palms surrounding the saltwater lake, a late afternoon shade. It was merely one of the many eternal cyclical gestures of hospitality given by the celestial god day in and day out to the rock, the plate, the earth god whose eyes first saw the light of day as the god of the sea and chaos receded in the Egyptian sands of the Western Desert. The priests of antiquity considered this to be a modest toll for the passage through the underworld, a necessary arrangement so that the earth and sky may couple and re-couple until their hearts are content, brilliant and fertile. On many nights in the outer reaches of the desert, near the Qattara Depression, the drop in temperature has been known to carry bitter blowing breezes creating a thick dry dust, forestalling the necessary procreation of the earth and sky. Be that as it may, this act of defiance was in turn an act of reciprocity that afforded the sun god a safe journey and speedy rebirth. The following day
[Page Two]
Rashid paid no attention to the whistling baboon-like howl of the wind in the driver’s window as he handled the vehicle over the sand-crusted road. It was a full day’s journey from Alexandria to Siwa and he had not seen his family for three weeks. His reputation as a cautious and restrained driver preceded him among other tour companies, so much so that Caravan Tours paid him handsomely for his service. He greeted his passengers with respect and courtesy at the airport, handling their baggage with care and ensuring their total comfort as they waited in the cabin of his van until the other tourists arrived. And if for some reason one of the local porters had already seized upon his guests, green with desire for a couple dead American Presidents or gold-rimmed Euros, he quickly tipped the man in blue rags away with a crisp five pound note. The entire transaction went unseen by the visitors.
The morning arrivals were always a pleasant experience for Rashid. He was well rested and his passengers, who were often filled with endorphins as their senses took in his country. He offered them a meager breakfast and they euphorically consumed the small pita sandwiches stuffed with cumin dusted fava beans, fresh tomatoes, black olives and domestic feta. For beverages, he offered a blend of rose water and mango juice, Ceylon tea and cardamom infused coffee. He is well aware that was a central part of their first impression and this little moment was tantamount to the sum of their “Egyptian” experience as he will rarely gets to speak to his passengers. In passing they will see him and note his presence as they get on and off at rest stops, temples, markets, tombs and museums. It is an agreement that they accept for his service. When their trip comes to an end and the travelers make their final steps out of his van and onto the airport unloading zone, the cumulative account of their experience will hit them like a failed relationship that they must leave behind. They’ll thank him with commensurate baksheesh and most likely never see him again.
They do not know his world, the extremities of the average Egyptian. The average tourist, foreigner will distill their experience and memories from the glossy screen of their laptop, recalling him only by sight, an arm here, a leg there, a portion of him that accidentally stepped into their slideshow. If they did manage to capture his face, in one of those awkward tour group photos taken after the fact, he will appear out of place, an artifact. His only defining characteristic will be the prayer bump, his zebiba, his eye of piety or one’s head in the sand. In written form, the eye is the alef that begins the Muslim’s shahadah, “I believe in no god but Allah.” The eye witnesses God, like the third enlightened inner eye of Buddha that mystically stems out from his forehead. It is all-seeing, the Eye of Providence that rests on top of the masonic pyramid behind George Washington’s shoulders. The One that, In God We Trust, will retain its value. The green eyes of the money changer. His pyramid is only worth five Egyptian pounds. Five fingers of the hand is all it takes, like the khamsa, to protect you from evil. The eye that suffered at the sight of the unseen world between the alleys and the trash heaps. They eye that knows why the seemingly healthy, child-like woman, adorned with the shreds of a false marriage to a man forty years her elder, begs in the streets. Eremitic, the eye sits alone in a monastery high in the mountains, in solitary confinement, abstaining from worldly pleasures. A rare crystalline rock sitting in a cave. It did not emerge from deep within the earth until it cooled and became dark, grey and dioritic. The eye of Ra and Horus. It soars over the black land like a peregrine spirit, a vital essential Ka, the two hands rising. It sat on the shoulders of the Pharaohs with outstretched sheltering wings and it sits within every living being. And when the time comes, when the physical journey comes to an end and the boat reaches the shore, the Ka will leave in search of another vessel and the eye will cease to see.
Rashid was pleased that his passengers were content with their meals and that they were already poking their heads out of the windows of his van trying to get a glimpse of the coastal city.
started the engine and began the
he immediately, stopping very briefly at the World War II memorials of El Alamein and the rock of Cleopatra in Marsa Matrouh and always ensuring that his passengers were well fed. His mini-van was his life and he decorated it accordingly. With loving care, he wiped off the dust on the rear window adorned with pharaonic stick figure decals of his family and their camel. With a clean window and a load of falafel stuffed tourists, he began the four hour journey south toward therapeutic gates of the Siwa Oasis. This leg of the trip was the most mentally challenging. On the North Coast, his mind was pleasantly occupied. The blue heavenly waters of the Mediterranean to his right reassured him that the demoniacal taxi horns screaming to his left were just a reminder of the life all around him. His ears had adapted to the car horns, but he could see that the ears of the passengers had not. They were still wet, still throbbing from the overstimulation, completely foreign to the Western womb. He could smell the amniotic fluid as it slowly evaporated off of their skin, an aroma of a world beyond Egypt, a cheap perfume. Nevertheless, he knew the routine. Entertain them with song and they’ll soon relax. His “North Coast” playlist, was packed with the songs from the greats, Mohamed Abdel Wahab’s “Traveling Alone”, Farid El-Atrache’s “Imaginary Flower”, Abdel Halim Hafez’s “Wherever My Heart Takes Me” and Umm Kulthoum’s “You Are the Love of My Life”.
Once the road turned south, however, everything changed. He was no longer in the mood for the current sound of Umm Kulthoum’s “A Thousand and One Nights” and her romantic winds in the eyes of the night. The road ahead required discipline and patience. Its bleak nothingness and wave-less sand dunes were no indication of life and consequently the jinn thrived and thrashed in the sea that was buried within the grains. The true road across the desert stretched in a straight line, but this often went unseen, for the unwieldy sand encroached on either side giving it curves, bends the appearance of a snake. And in some cases the sand swallowed the asphalt completely, fooling the naive driver, teasing him to find it for himself. Rashid knew those drivers. They were untrustworthy sorts, horrible guides, men who cheated on their wives with a different woman in each town leaving passengers waiting in the heat and dust. He kept his distance from those men. He skipped the rest of the album on the playlist. The tiny digital lights on the van’s stereo began spinning, searching for a track to play. After a few seconds of silence, the soothing high and clear voice of the Sheikh permeated throughout the cabin reciting verses from The Holy Quran. Rashid uttered the tasmiyya with sigh of relief, “In the name of God, the Beneficent, the Merciful.” The Sheikh’s voice was calm and reassuring as if it were closer than the grill of the speaker, his makeshift confessional. It was the Passage of The Cave, a retelling of the story of the Seven Sleepers of Ephesus, saints in Byzantine Chritianity, imprisoned in a cave for over three hundred years because they chose the altered state of darkness over renouncing their faith. The voice of the Sheikh continued to emerge out of the silent underground pauses between verses, with articulate breath control accenting the intonations of the holy words.
After what felt like an eternity, the desert road finally started to show signs of life. It began with the camels. A camel here, a camel there. Pretty soon the littered the sides of the road until he had to stop the van as one of the more brazen ones decided it was his time to pass. Rashid patiently avoided these hazards and navigated the van into the lush fertile palm grove on the outskirts of Siwa, the green-eyed alley children emerged out of dark rows of mud brick buildings, some on the backs of donkeys, while others, too small to run were carried by older siblings ready to besiege the wide-eyed foreigners inside the van for a moment of their financially endless time. Just as quickly as they emerged, the unforgiving dust rushed out from the rear of the vehicle and blew them back into their holes. But it could not prevent their curious eyes from tracking the vehicle as it continued down the road heading toward the lake, the heart and soul of the oasis. Rashid steered the van around the lake and when it looked as if the fertile palm groves were behind them, he took a sharp turn on a deserted side road that led to a mountainous outcrop of rock. The side road followed the perimeter of the mountain and slowly descended into the sand and settled onto a clearing of the desert lined with young palm trees. A lane outlined with oil lamps guided the eyes of the onlooker to the subdued entrance of the mud-brick building situated at the foot of the rock facing the lake. From this vantage point, the rock seemed to transform, its irregular angles and rough surfaces gained geometry giving the illusion that it was somehow a monument of an ancient era. The lane of lamps not only provided light in the evening, but were also a necessary indicator of the building’s entrance, literally lost upon the monochromatic walls
Sibyl, a salubrious and trendy eco-lodge catering to the green minded well-to-do.
As the passengers disembarked, they were greeted by staff members adorned in white linen silent, ready and willing to carry their luggage into the lobby. entered the mud-brick walled lobby, the weary-eyed travelers were greeted by disciplined nomads in white robes bearing a baskets of warm moist towels brushed with the scent of roses and trays of wild mint tea and dates. After settling in and spending a first few hours in these ancient spiritual surroundings, without electricity, television or doors, the traveler would emphatically agree that the place was undoubtedly living up to its name.
One man, however was not receiving this royal treatment. He remained on the bus in a deep sleep. The bewildered Rasheed stepped off the bus and informed one of the nomads that they left one of their guests behind.
meaning prophetess or oracle in Greek. However, a visit to the oracle never comes without its riddles or high price. The oracle will reveal that words have an end and beginning of their own, like the chrysalis into a winged butterfly, the written form of sibyl will transform into sabeel when spoken, the Arabic word for path. It is up to each traveler to give it the breath of life and create their own path. Their personal journey home.
Aaron slept for most of the long drive through the desert. He was awoken after the others had exited the bus, the driver desperate to get home to his wife and kids in Marsa Matrouh. The concierge awkwardly apologized that the welcome ceremony was over and asked him if he wouldn’t mind waiting by the saltwater pool until he could arrange for a bellhop to show him to his room. It was getting dark and the night sky was beginning to appear on the mirrored surface of the pool. The lack of sleep and delayed check-in seemed lost on Aaron as he stared into the heavenly waters below his feet.
"Mr. Soliman. Your quarters are ready." The calm voice came from behind Aaron. He got up, still sleepy from the bus ride and clumsily made his way toward the bellhop.
The bellhop gave him a courteous bow. "I'm Rasheed. I'm at your sevice during your stay here. Before I show you to your room, is there anything you need?"
Aaron just shook his head and said, "Lead he way."
Rasheed led Aaron down a narrow passage at the end of which was a semi-spiral staircase.
The loss of our personal belongings is inevitable at some point in our lives. Some of these items are easily forgotten while others will not disappear no matter what effort . Perhaps you may not even recall that hectic morning when you arrived thirty nine minutes late to the mid-term because you we’re held up waiting in line at the campus store with that blue-book and cheap replacement pen in hand. Or perhaps you’re reminded of the mismatched socks on your feet, the sole remains from that singles drawer you keep in off chance of finding their peers one day. In fact, most people are likely to recollect the more big ticket items, such as the suitcase containing all the clothes and toiletries they packed for that seven day cruise. You know the one. By “clothes” you meant latex gloves and surgeon’s masks. By “toiletries” you meant lots of echinacea and that three week supply of hand sanitizer. It was supposed to save your marriage.
Or maybe you’ve lost more than I can imagine. The images of houses ruined after by natural disaster, war-torn one-legged soldiers and children in coffins are simply taken after the fact. They are horrific moments in your time and yet momentary for those watching on the other side of the screen. It’s personal, the terror of watching your loved ones being taken from from this world to the next. Your body grows empty, like a cavern deep within the earth. You search for the best frame in the store to hold their memory. You hold on to that sock. You buy a pack of pens and you separate your clothes in two diversified bags on your next vacation. You try to make amends, but each effort feels like a drop of water on the floor of that cavern. Your spirit grows stalagmitic with the false hope that you will one day close that hollow gap.
I, myself, have never lost anything. I know this sounds strange, but it is true. I have a full head of hair and saved all my baby teeth as they came out. My mother helped me initially, but I caught on very quickly. She had the foresight to help me organize my toys and my emotions. She also had the foresight to save my foreskin after the circumcision. I have to thank her for that because I clearly wouldn’t have been able to do it myself. She taught me that cleanliness is the pillar of honor. My ledger is also clean. I’ve saved all my receipts and have recorded them in journals since I was a child. I have to thank my father for this. He started one for me when I was born and taught me how to maintain it when I was five years old. After cleaning my room one day, he gave me a dollar and took me to the candy store where I quickly chose a small bag of chocolate coins wrapped in gold aluminum. I watched as my father requested the receipt from the merchant. He handed it to me and said, “Keep this with you. It is just as important as money.” That night my father gave me a journal and taught me how to keep my own books, so to speak. I loved recording transactions in my journal. And I still do it today. Just give me any date and I’ll tell you what I purchased and for how much. This peculiar habit of mine paid off quite nicely for me. I attended a good University and received my Bachelor’s degree in accounting, a field that has allowed me to work in many diverse environments. I’ve worked for the Egyptian government, various local and foreign firms and corporations, but in the end, I’ve found that independent consulting suits me the best. It has given me the chance to see almost every inch of Egypt, the country that I call home.
Before I lose you, let me get right to the point. Last summer, I was vacationing at the Red Sea town of Sharm El-Sheikh and came across a book that I had not seen in twenty years. I was resting on a chez lounge, exhausted from a long day of scuba diving when I heard the creaking of the lounger next to me. I immediately thought that someone had settled in next to me, but the sun was setting and it was merely the hotel staff cleaning up for the day. Grumpily, I got up and started to gather my things. That’s when I noticed the book resting on the lounger next to mine. I looked around and could only find one other tourist at the beach. “You forgot your book,” I called out, but they continued walking up the steps to the pool and restaurant level of the resort. I sat back down in the lounger and picked up the book. It was bound in green polished calfskin atop marbled paper covered boards rolling in hues of antique bronze, English green, chestnut and ebony. The corner pieces, those curious eyes of the child, a continuation of the calfskin, peeked over the edge of the book, over the raised bands of the spine trying to make out the gilt lettered Burgundy labels of the second compartments. The remaining compartments, blocked in gilt, landscaped the spine with floral rolls top and tail. Not knowing what to expect, I opened the first page and there it was, that mark of carelessness, the accidental ink-stain from my hand on March 20, 1992. Line fifteen of my journal on that date read, “Purchased one 30ml bottle of black Pelikan ink.”
I was immediately taken aback when I found this artifact from my past sitting before me. when I saw the accidental fingerprint I made almost twenty years ago. The book was, once again, in my possession and I was dumbfounded by this strange happenstance.
I first discovered the book in transit. I was taking Cairo Metro to Ain Shams University, a route that always took me away from Tahrir square. The subway car had emerged from the darkness of the underground tunnel , gently bathed in the remaining sunlight of the day, I discovered a book lying on the seat next to me. I was sitting next to the window and, for the life of me, could not recall, who was sitting beside me, man or woman, young or old. Even that little bit of information would’ve helped. The passengers fanned out of the car like the receding waves on the shore and I watched them exit with the nonchalance of a sunbather lethargic from his own idleness. A new group was flowing in and finding their seats as I began inspecting the book. It was leather bound, with a few worn edges, by no means worse for wear. The embossed facade appeared decorative and merely ornamental on first examination, but as I held it up to the light I could make out the word “Egyptians.” Well this naturally piqued my curiosity, so I opened it up and immediately discovered a pair of lifelike eyes staring right back at me. I closed the book immediately and looked around the car to make sure that no one was watching me. The eyes were too lifelike, like the crystal eyes of the statues found in Meidum and I, the archaeologist was running scared to death that I just trespassed on someones home. My heart was racing out of embarrassment more than anything else.
I wish I could say that I wrote these words, but they were not born from my pen. I’m simply the messenger.