“Are we on the Sahara yet?” Laura whispered to Jack. Leaving the Egyptian village behind, their way was no longer lit by lamps from dwellings, the only light now was provided by Mac, their young host’s iPhone, operating as an improvised torch.
“Not quite” replied Jack, gripping her hand because she always managed to find a piece of rock or plant that stuck its foot out to send her flying.
But she continued straining to catch the first hints of the desert. Just as she had peered into the distance, her eyes opened like camera apertures, in the hire car that met them from the airport, whilst the driver navigated the caucus race of traffic that fluctuated from anything between three to ten lanes in width.
Her husband kept up a running commentary on the free for all driving whilst she peered into the distance, rewarded eventually by a first sight of the pyramids that hoved into view, uncanny as alien ships above the chaos of Cario’s slums. She had burst into tears, a reaction that had surprised them all, including the driver. It was the strange disconnect of suddenly seeing something in reality that she had consigned in her mind to only experiencing second hand on the TV.
Cairo, or more specifically Giza, was to be the final stage of their adventure. Jack, with a taste for the road less travelled, had found a B&B on Hotels.com that claimed to offer a fusion of western comforts in an authentic Egyptian village. Mac, the owner of the establishment, had somewhat embellished his claims for the accommodation. It was either a case of catfishing or he was genuinely proud of facilities that he believed would be to western taste and were certainly considered luxury by village standards.
He was clearly an ambitious entrepreneur with a number of different enterprises on the go. As a result, none were completely realised. The B&B, they found, had a precarious ensuite and a landscape garden. The complimentary tea and pastries that greeted their arrival were served on sofas whose deficiencies were concealed beneath multiple layers of throws.
Mac was a young man, in his 20s. His chief talent was charm, and he gave off the air of a man of a world that he aspired to join but had not yet fully tasted. The young man rejected the traditional kaftan in favour of knock off ‘Polo’ shirts and ‘Levis’. An iPhone was clamped to his palm.
Deciding it was not worth unpacking their cases for this overnight stay, Jack and Laura, used to travelling freestyle without the aid of parties or guides, stepped out to explore the village. Two weeks in Luxor had served to adjust the couple’s eyes to the rawness of ordinary Egyptian life, so the rudimentary nature of the village did not shock them. There were few detached premises, rather the houses were fused together, as if helping to hold each other up. Most dwellings were made of mud that had solidified with the glue of time and fierce heat. Some, whose owners were more affluent, boasted one storey affairs constructed with bricks.
Enterprising shop keepers had converted their front rooms into makeshift shops, others had operated out of ramshackle wooden shacks. Everything was on offer to make the village self-sufficient, from hardware to fruit and veg.
The lanes were alive with sounds of old gentlemen sipping tea and chatting in guttural Arabic, whose accent was noticeably harsh so that they always seemed to be arguing. Tuk-tuks rampaged by, music bursting from radios. Kids stopped their play to surround the couple, not with hands out but with naked curiosity. There commenced an impromptu game of a version of ‘Who’s afraid of the big bad wolf’ that had the kids squealing with fun.
On their return the couple realised that the village was devoid of streetlights. When walking back to the B&B night dropped a hood over the day like a kidnapping. When making the booking, Jack was adamant that an evening meal was included in the package. But early evening brought no smells of cooking on the premises.
Washing away the grime of their journey and putting on fresh clothes, their stomachs began to gape. “You must be starving” Jack said apologetically, knowing his wife to be a three meals a day girl. In contrast, years of working abroad in intense heat, fuelled only by sweet tea and cigarettes, had tended to surpress Jack’s appetite. But now even his stomach was beginning to complain.
Anna nodded as she brushed her wavy brown hair that had turned to frizz in the humidity. She popped it into a ballerina bun for comfort against the heat that did not dial down even at night. Peering into the mirror, she decided her brown eyes would have to fend for themselves without the embellishment of eye make-up that tended to melt here anyway.
“There was a meal included?”Jack was adamant “Well I certainly paid for one”. Each was aware that the village did not possess even the most rudimentary café. They looked at each other for ideas on their next move. “You could run to the shops and buy biscuits,” she suggested. He frowned.
“No, we’ll go downstairs. Jog Mac’s memory”. In the sitting room where, many hours ago, they had partaken of a welcome coffee and pastries, they found their host absorbed on his phone, scrolling and texting ambidextrously.
He looked up and unfurled his most beguiling smile. “Did you enjoy our village”’ ”Very much” they chorused, and sat down on the familiar sofa.”Can I get you coffee?” Jack took his cue. “We were wondering about the evening meal?” A moment’s telltale forgetfulness flickered in his eyes, but the young man brushed it away like a fly. Playing for time as his febrile mind sought to solve the problem, he looked at his watch. “Yes, in one hour we eat”. It dawned on the couple that it was, in fact, Ramadan, and the breaking of their host’s fast was strictly timed.
The couple got through the hour, listening to the young man’s plans for the future until, at 7 pm, he arose from his settee. “Now we can eat. We are going to my aunties”. Laura and Jack exchanged bemused looks. Their host led them through the labyrinthine village where lights issuing from homes were a mixture of electricity and oil. It was this domestic illumination that they borrowed to guide their way through the darkness.
It was questionable if the aunties were prepared for two extra mouths to feed. They were three generations of women labouring over four hot plates. Yet with the organisation of a WRVS outpost, these women managed to prepare, in a space that resembled a small bed sitting room, a feast.
They greeted the couple with the beaming hospitality they had met everywhere in Egypt. Their men sat in a circle on a large rug, whose vivid colour had been faded by dust and time. Laura hung back as Jack joined them, but the matriarch of the family gestured for her to join the group. She was to be an honorary man for the evening.
Dish after dish was conjured from the cooking area by these remarkable chefs and placed in the centre of the circle. The men fell upon this one meal that was to sustain them through the following day’s fast. Despite her hunger, Laura held back. ‘Here goes my stomach’ she thought, feeling that again she was playing food poisoning roulette with every meal consumed. “Eat” hissed Jack, seeing her hesitate. “It’s an insult not to”. Hunger, in fact, got the better of her and she tucked in. Her judgement may have been prejudiced by appetite but this meal, in flavour and variety, seemed to challenge the food they had left behind in the luxury hotel in Luxor.
Appetite satiated, she was frustrated by not having the words to praise or thank the women. Instead, she relied on smiles and thumbs up, the international sign of approval. The women bowed and smiled broadly in response.
“Now”, announced Mac, “ we will go to see our own pyramid”. A postprandial treat no doubt, but it was black as a coal mine outside. Jack and Laura stared at each other in alarm. This food had landed a knockout punch on them. They ached for their bed but, never able to resist an invitation on this trip, they shrugged in silent agreement to plough on with the evening.
Which was why they found themselves, at ten o’clock at night, on the main thoroughfare that led to and from the village. Devoid of tarmac it was composed instead of mud and sand compacted over time by feet and vehicles.
The light from Mac’s phone was intermittently augmented by a parade of delapidated lorries and trucks, ancient cycles, and asthmatic motorbikes. Pedestrians fought off the dark with torches and mobiles. A full moon had also obligingly switched itself on.
Like an English village in the 1950s, these were villagers with families whose roots were intertwined. Mac seemed to be regarded as a local ‘Jack the lad’. Their progress out was punctuated with nods, hands raised in greeting, even slowing down to exchange a few words with friends. “Bet they’re saying, see you’ve got another pair of suckers” Jack whispered, as heads nodded in their direction.
In reality, Jack was not concerned, more bemused by this turn of events. During his experience of working all over the world, often in hazardous places, he had developed an instinct for who to trust and a sixth sense for events that might turn tricky. Travelling for work had bankrolled travelling for pleasure. Opening a can of beer on the flight out of Bierut or Riad, he and his mate had heaved a sigh of relief. Arriving at Schiphol, their bank accounts ripe with cash, they would open a map of the world on a café table and stick a pin in, allowing fate to blow them to some hidden paradise where they would live like lotus eaters until the money ran out.
It was this life of spontaneity that had kept him looking so ridiculously young. That, and a good head of black hair that was the envy of many bald contemporaries, who would often sigh at the recollection of their full heads of hair long since shed.
In contrast, Anna had only managed a few crumbs of travel, day trips to Paris,and a weekend in Venice. When fate blew Jack into her life, as both were entering middle age, she soon learned that his was a charmed existence, so she had spent the last 8 years holding onto the coattails of his good fortune.
Mac suddenly veered to the left. “This way” he instructed. The track was replaced now by sand which invaded Anna’s sandals. Their guide’s itinerary had not allowed her time to change into trainers that would have been more appropriate for this change in terrain. “Now you’re on the Sahara,” Jack murmured.
Anna found the reality both thrilling but also an anticlimax. The idea of walking on the desert made her grin but the fine grains were interrupted by stubborn weeds that managed to subsist here. Whilst it was not the sweeping dunes of Lawrence of Arabia, it was enough. In fact, these tough weeds were a blessing. They offered a foothold as they began to ascend a steep incline. “We go up now” Mac issued one of his belated instructions, as his long young legs covered the familiar path with ease. Jack tightened his grip on Anna‘s hand and pulled her up the worst of the incline where the sand had a tendency to collapse underfoot.
Now their way was lit only by a ripe moon and Mac’s iPhone. As the party continued to move up the incline, passersby had fallen away. Only a breeze accompanied them on the climb. Although on the fringes of the Sahara, the wind still had free reign, with no natural features to temper its course. Laura, pausing for breath, could make out a makeshift structure on top of the slope. It seemed to be made of large plastic sheeting that slapped and clapped wildly like a demented ghost.
In the UK this might have been the crude shelter of a homeless person. Mac followed her gaze “That is the home of the guard”, he explained. “You will meet him”. He began storming up the slope once more whilst the couple puffed behind him. “I thought we were going to see their pyramid,” Laura gasped at Jack. “So did I,” he muttered. “My back’s had enough”.
Reaching the apex of the hill the couple came to a standstill, hands on hips, slightly bent over. “I’ve got a stitch," Laura whispered. They both regarded the young man who waited courteously for them to recover. He was completely composed. His shirt still looked freshly laundered. When the couple had ceased panting and had become upright, he pointed. “That is our pyramid”, angling his phone to faintly illuminate the structure that loomed out of the darkness.
The couple looked at the squat, stepped construction that, even in the half-light, clearly lacked the glamour of the great pyramids at Giza. Now each privately thought that this rough and ready structure was hardly worth the climb. Mac seemed to sense their disappointment, and sought to sell it to them further. “It is much older than the others. Over 4,000 years old.” In the course of their trip to Egypt, Laura had become quite blasé about time. Ancient Egyptian history was tallied in thousands of years that were beyond her comprehension. So this new figure fell flat. However the couple, with an innate British desire not to offend their host, mustered a “Remarkable” and “very unusual" that seemed to satisfy their guide.
The couple had no idea what to expect from the ‘guard’ of this unimposing structure that hardly seemed worthy of protection. They vaguely envisaged a youngish man in uniform, ambling about with an AK 47 casually slung over his shoulder, checking his emails and messaging mates. Instead, they were introduced to an elderly gentleman, his face scoured by the sun, wearing the traditional kaftan and turban favoured by the older generation. He looked more hermit than guard. They crossed the language barrier with smiles, nods, and Mac’s translations. Laura demurred a little with English reticence, feeling that they were again gate crashing someone’s life uninvited. However, it seemed like a country where everyone was glad to receive visitors.
The old man seemed concerned about their comfort. Whereas they were happy to perch on the ground, he gestured to a large dusty rug. The couple obligingly sat. The man, whose name had been given but immediately forgotten in the strangeness of the encounter, set about pouring water from a battered plastic billy can into a large kettle that was then suspended above a small naked fire. “We are having tea,” Mac explained. Laura inwardly sighed. A further roll of the dice for her digestive system.
Waiting for the kettle, a three-way conversation bounced between the men. Mac suddenly addressed Laura: ‘’Look up at the stars’’ as if he had personally turned them on for her. She remembered reading somewhere that for many city bound westerners, one of the highlights of the desert experience was this unadulterated view of the universe. However, she and Jack lived in rural England, away from light pollution, so were accustomed to stargazing on frosty nights. Now they politely threw their gaze upwards, uttering appropriate ‘Oos’ and ‘Ahs’.
Mac then directed their eyes downwards. “And that is the city”. From their elevated position, Cairo became a man-made constellation that impressed them more. Lights from buildings and cars packing the highways gave off a golden glow.
Tea was served in the customary shot sized glasses. It was a rich mahogany colour, sweet and delicious. As they sat sipping, Mac gave them a potted history of the stepped Sakkara pyramids. Behind them, the couple became aware of further activity by the guard. His prayer mat, stashed in the plastic hide presumably to keep it clean, was now laid upon the ground. This was not a demonstration for his guests’ entertainment. They had become used to seeing men snatching time to pray al fresco, when work made it impossible to reach a mosque. Laura had come to admire the power of these mats that helped to transport the supplicant from this world into the spiritual.
The man was oblivious of them now as he went through his devotions, chanting softly and kneeling in abeyance. Mac made no comment about this practice that was an intrinsic part of life here. However Jack and Laura, although fascinated by this elegant ritual they had previously witnessed from a discreet distance, found that being in such close proximity to such an intimate observance now made them feel intrusive, so snatched their attention away.
Finishing his devotions, a glass of tea in hand,he rejoined his guests. “Who employs you to guard the pyramid?” Jack asked curiously. Mac explained that the government paid him a stipend to deter visitors from the monument, not from fear of looters, since the treasure had disappeared long ago, but because they were structurally unsound. The elderly man elected to take the night shift whilst his counterpart took the daytime stint. Laura thought of him alone up here with not even a radio for company. “Don’t you get lonely?” she asked, directly addressing him. The man rummaged in a canvas bag and brought out something wrapped in layers of rags, which he carefully unpeeled to reveal a semi-automatic pistol.
His audience stared at this unexpected response to her question. Mac came to himself and issued the man’s instructions to Laura. “He says hold out your hands”. She obeyed, cupping them as if about to receive a communion host. The guard gently laid the gun into her upturned palms.
Laura had never been this intimate with a firearm before. In truth, her heart raced with excitement at this bucket list moment. Studying it with interest, she saw it had clearly had a past. The green topcoat had chipped in places to reveal the dull metallic grey of the original casting. The weight surprised her, always imagining a handgun to be much lighter, the way they were so easily brandished in films.
All three men regarded her. If they expected a squeamish response, they were disappointed. Instead, she burst out laughing at the absurdity of the situation. Here was another example of the playful humour she had experienced throughout Egypt. It had begun on the main highway from the airport, with a truckload of young soldiers, AK 47’s slung over shoulders as casually as backpacks. These boy soldiers looked to her as if they should be taking their GCSEs. Catching her evident amusement, they grinned broadly back at her. Then the sentry, at the opening to the deepest tomb in the valley of the kings, who observed her labouring up the ramp, had thrown her an imaginary rope and began to mime pulling her up the incline.
Now the three men caught and ran with her laughter until Jack calmy instructed “It’s loaded, hand it back carefully”. Laura obediently proffered her cupped hands. She was a little reluctant since she was still savouring the novelty of the moment. The old man returned the gun to its swaddling. “It was”, Mac explained, “standard government issue for all the guards”.
Laura saw there was clearly a muddle in meaning here. The elderly man had taken her question to mean that his solitary state on top of the hill might render him physically vulnerable. Hence the gun. But she knew, too, that there was no point trying to make herself understood, when Mac himself seemed to misunderstand her meaning and believed the appearance of the gun resolved her question.
Tea over, the shot glasses were handed back with a thumbs up. The couple struggled to their feet, not accustomed to sitting unsupported on a rug. Jack shook hands with the elderly man, slipping him a financial tribute that experience had taught him was expected however charming their host.
Making their way back down the hill they followed Mac’s torch like a tractor beam. A soft thud of hooves announced an elderly man in traditional robes making his way up the incline on a donkey, which tripped up the hill with ease, quite literally knowing its well-trodden way in the dark. Mac and the man hailed each other and exchanged a few words as they passed. “That is the guard’s friend”. The two men were certainly of an age. “They have known each other since they were children,” Mac went on. “They spend the evening together”.
Laura envisaged the two drinking tea, indulging in a little gossip, falling into comfortable silence that is the trait of mature friendship. She understood now that the muddle in the interpretation of loneliness was existential. Here it meant physical solitude rather than the western sense of feeling alone. Of course, for all she knew, there may be a word or expression closer to her connotation in Egyptian Arabic. But, in this instance, her version of ‘loneliness’ was lost in translation.
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