How Long the Lonely Road

I hear a voice you cannot hear, __ Which says, I must not stay; I see a hand you cannot see, __ Which beckons me away. —Tickell Abdullah drove a fifty-year old-Peugeot 504, a smurf blue station wagon, with a Qur'an on the dash and a luggage rack and seats for eight. He was a jolly, grinning man in a moustache and a robe, who picked us up at the Tourist Rest House in Al-Qasr just after breakfast. He drove us through a desolation of crags and dust and powerlines, towards the Kharga Oasis and Luxor. In Kharga Town we picked up a police escort, on account of the American in the vehicle, and Abdullah told us in his pidgin English not to pay them any backsheesh when they asked. We picked up food and drove it 15 minutes out of town, to a little tea house with a television. Our driver wanted Amelia to dance like the women on television, but she said No and pointed to her anguished stomach—“Baby?” As it got dark we entered a smoggy world of rubble and canals and palm trees. They still c...

I'm on the pursuit of happiness and I know Everything that shine ain't always gonna be gold. I'll be fine once I get it. I'll be good. —KiD CuDi We had to stand on the bus , since we had no tickets. The 7 a.m. was full to bursting with Cairenes and their belongings, and we waited with Yashar, who had just returned from Aswan, for the 8 a.m. departure to Bahariyya in the Western Desert. Three of our gang got seats on the bus, and we alternated between these and the aisle for the five hour trip. We were six, including myself: Jean of Paris, Amelia of Melbourne, Sven the East German, Denniz from Copenhagen, and Yashar of Vancouver, B.C. This diversity confused the Egyptians when they asked, “Where are you from?” They called us a cocktail or the United Nations. A mob of them met us when we stepped off the bus in dusty Bawiti, chief township of the Bahariyya Oasis. They shouted at us in a pack, then picked us out individually as we moved to get our baggage—touts for desert ...

You tell yourself: ‘I’ll be gone To some other land, some other sea, To a city lovelier far than this Could ever have been or hoped to be— Where every step now tightens the noose: A heart in a body, buried and out of use…’ —Constantin Cavafy (trans. Lawrence Durrell) We waited morbidly in the Seven Heaven lounge, morbid because we were finally about to leave after a three week stay, and because the road to Cairo put us one step closer to inevitable separation. My arm still hurt from Richie of New Zealand's Tae Kwon Do twist. The lanky second-degree blackbelt, third in the world in the senior division before he discovered alcohol, had been drunk when he showed me some holds. He taught English in Leipzig and regularly patroned the English pub there for rugby matches up until a few months ago, when he came to Dahab and got a job in the Seven Heaven dive shop. “Glory?” scoffed the Kiwi, swinging his leg around in the air to show a power move. “There's no such thing as glory. It...

Time wasted is existence, used is life. —Edward Young Jean pulled his bike up in front of Ali's Shop and took a seat at a table. “You're back,” said Ali. “Yeah,” said Jean. “How are you? Can I have some lunch?” Ali served a large plate of mincemeat balls in a thick tomato sauce, and when Jean had finished, he asked, “So what are you doing?” “Well,” said Jean, “I wanted to get into Egypt, to take the ferry from Aqaba to Nuweiba, to meet my friends. I knew it would be a big hassle. I got to Aqaba but the man told me, 'It's very expensive to take your motorbike. I wouldn't do it.' I need a report filed back in France, and a deposit in a bank account. I said, 'Don't worry, I'll pay.' But he told me, 'I'm not letting your bike on my boat.' So now I need to find a place to store my bike.” Ali did not have to think. “Not a problem,” he said easily. “You can store your bike at my house. Some French climbers are keeping their gear there as we...