Day 36
Predawn. After another late night ride, the Dog was rolling over, the Dipper spinning, the police post glow passing on the right. How far out of our way did we ride, how many extra kms in order to avoid a confrontation, and what awaits us in Aswan without proper passport formalities at the border?
Over loose flat rocks, clinking and rattling, faint sanded trails between flagstones, we caught up with the other two groups and are camped on a sand flat between the stony ground. Missed the first tea call again last night, ate hurried aseeda before turning in, managed to get my jeans off beforehand, makes for a better sleep all round, wind blowing cold this morn.
Last evening just before sunset entered a narrow pass, saw it coming even before lunch, a break in the mountain ridge ahead. As we neared the drama increased, a huge portal of entry, official arrival into Egypt, passing out of what seemed like Death Valley into the defile of Abu Simbel with loose rock mts on both sides, long shadows cast east, and the sun disappeared still fully yellow. Predusk glow lit the route for an hour but we rode on, M. the K. leading, and Masood on foot most of the long night.
Where oh where is the meat we've taken and so eagerly awaited, thinking the last days of the trip would be a gastronomic celebration. Do they plan to take it back to Um Badr with them, sell it or give it to women and children? But it's not to be had here, well the Aswan feast will be that much more sumptuous coming after the last desert leg just as the first. Skin stained and flavored water, aseeda, and long cold night rides, tired sore butts, and blowing sand.
Midday. Dawn broke and we were grouped with each Fasheri herd, bunched together then strung out this morn, passing through more sand pans and cone mt passes, lunching now beside a rocky outcrop.
Spoke with 3 of the boy drovers from Fasher, first trip for each one, paid LE 300=LS 600 when they arrive in Cairo, live west of Fasher, all in late teens looking, mixed array of clothing, corduroy yellow housecoat, tight bluejeans, yellow warm-up track pants.
Fetus and afterbirths dropping like flies, 2 breathing hawaars, one still wrapped in embryonic sack peeling dead skin membrane, 15 hour days and restricted diet sure labor inducer, but no weepy mother camels, they drop their loads and keep the pace, only the first one in the Wadi al-Milk had a distraught mare sniffing about.
Muhammad walks off stiff-legged after a swinging dismount, and stooped Khair is always stiff at the waist, a protruded rear prominent, Masood's quick small steps, often at a trot to pace a walking camel.
Murray's Erinmore Mixture, Murray and Sons, Muhammad's tobacconist. Cumin, shamaar, 1 rutl for LS 1, ran out too soon, a real milaah turn-on. At breakfast this mom surprised with a big pot of choice camel tidbits in gravy, the light oil in the pot's bottom sizzling quickly, reheated from last night's stir fry, Muhammad always at your service.
Dead tired, slept through tea, Muhammad brought over aseeda to the bedrolls, watching them chop meat longingly, finally David asking, Iahma dil waqti, meat now? Adam, bukra, tomorrow. Goodnight to all that Bar-B-Que.
As we rise, look what's strung out on a low rope slung between camel saddles, camel meat jerky, sharmuut, red socks to dry in the wind. we eat filling pot of liver and odd meat parts in gravy, 2 1/2 teas, and off we walk.
The other group has dug a pit filled with old camel dung for a slow fire, added camel hooves and shoulder blades, khuff and lauh, and smoldered all night, this morn they pass it out on the trail, hoof gelatinous like pigs knuckles, shoulder blade sinewy and charred black, good chew and reminder of better days at the open pit, Maulling our meat.
Over hard sand flats, black eroded mountain cones, sediments layered and sculpted. A grain of sand, a day in the desert. Adam inhales, sun crosses sky. Camel swallows and regurgitates 7 day cud. How many days to Abu Simbel, Aswan, how many kilometers to the titan statue? Ramses II stopped time and awed the Modems, a $36 Million job for UNESCO in 1965.
Today is February 27, the Mother of Eternity blows, petrified wood is used as cairns, fire blocks, and nose weights on a chastity ring. The morn moon's last crescent in a particularly bright orange dawn, and dusk was hurried. Heard Um Kalsoum on Radio Israel, Kawkab of the East, and tea.
Masood and Saeed ride off in the distance for water, as we pass the rise the lake appears within reach, a broad khor stabbing at the sand. Adam has muzzled a groaning camel to patch with high reprimanding squeals, Khair working quietly nearby on a passive beast.
Muhammad the Younger, can write, has one year of secondary school, age 22, working the darb now for 3 years, with camels since he was 16.
Nasir, his first drive at age 13, now aged 30-32, rides 2-3 herds each year to Cairo, lives in Um Badr.
The haashis are wandering far for dried grasses, we take turns fetching them in, ahh! with little ones the day is never done, just ask Muhammad, each night after cooking and chopping he feeds the babes. The four lie together to eat and sleep. The quads in the nursery, only the dubaisa does all the screaming.
2 riders from the Fasheris' camp approach, the blowing sand picks up, Muhammad stirs with a full-fisted grip, his 'arad (stick) is for anything, "men or wild animals".
Khair's favorite command, Kubb milaah, kubb shay, pour sauce, pour tea. Muhammad's favorite, Louees, ta'aali li shay, jeeb kubayya li shay, Louis come for tea, bring a cup for tea. Adam sang many verses this morning, said he'd let me record later.
Apparently 2 khabirs from the Fasher group. Khair walks over to M.'s camp to greet, they squat over tea. I can see the pouring ritual from across the sand, one is named Yussef. The other group stirs and loads, our grub still boils. The next landmark, an Egyptian police stop and then Wadi Kalabsha.
Now we feed the riding camels. The yellow sand crawls with ticks. count of 15 ticks. Dave notes the fat ones still sucking our mounts have come a long way from Urn Kheirwa'.
This morning we discuss the impact the darb may have on city lives, the lessons learned. 40 fifteen hour days go by fast but a 5 minute wait in line even faster. One can pace the day by the sun, or Sirius, or moon cycles, or the part of the ride (morn-afternoon-night), or the stilling and stiffening of the wind, not by the clock or the evening news or hunger pangs before mealtimes.
How better to move the day, squeeze dry the noon sun, a lemon, and drink in the dusky glow as juice from an orange. Wait out the afternoon, cross the sky, remembering the look of yesterday's sunset, eye ball the falling light, stretch the shadows.
Khair says we'll see the lake again if God has willed, beside Wadi Kalabsha.
Day 37
Midday. Camp on the other side of Black Mt. from the army camps, in loose yellow sand. Awoke early, still dark, Khair said bring the glass, the crescent moon in the last phase in the east. Soon a new i Islamic month.
We spend an hour grazing in the scrub surrounding the Sadat miracle agricultural settlement of Toshka, the beginning of pajama couture-culture, a desert civilization born by presidential decree.
Felaheen cane out to greet the herd from the model village, sell us 4 kgs of sugar at LE 1 per. Say they have no water, we ride up the newly dug canal to the bridge and draw from a standing pool, emerald green slime, with good meat for dinner and oasis coffee. No shortage of firewood, a late bedtime nursing my second glass, watching Orion, Tosca, swivel.
Adam asks if he can drink,says Khair has forbidden them our coffee. Ahlan wa Sahlan, and Masood and Muhammad scramble for their cups too. Khair has shaken himself awake for dinner, good and plenty, Dave declining the grease in the bottom, the shurba of the Kababish
Warm morning, I left off my heavy sweater, and now am hot with the brown, wrapped an 'imma out of the shawl yesterday, cool and elegant. Pass an easy morning talking on the subject of food, groceries, and donuts.
Day 38
Midday. No breeze yesterday, hot for the first time since the Wadi, but windier today. Still hot enough for all sweaters off but mu'ammim, turban-wrapped.
The camels pass over fresh camps, lower their heads without stopping to sniff, urine stains, dung and sand nests. A melancholic feeling, recently there was fire tea food rest and sleep, now the wind erases the traces. Was our morning camp already half disappeared? Will someone see it before its all gone, feeling as I do now? Or has the desert reclaimed our minimal imprint of civilization, the blackened rocks at the fire-ring and discarded tea leaves. Is a tire track more lasting?
The wheel of fatigue, ride walk drag remount rewind the body's clock. Must drink water midmorning, a strong thirst from such a meaty breakfast, and sugary tea.
Tracks converge, the Abu Simbel-Aswan barrel markers pace our progress, 2 pass in a low jeep and stop to gawk, Masood rushes over to bum a pack of Cleopatras, all four light up and Khair pockets the rest.
Muhammad has wrapped in a new white cloth thaub, Adam in a white gallabiyya. Muhammad answers Khair's call in a falsetto, Whou! Whew! We record Khair's story of Billa Ali and his interview with Masood about dates. M. sings softly, unconsciously at the fire, onions sizzle, Hanaan sings through dinner.
Kalabsha promised but the landscape refutes its existence or of any water and greenery, we're still on an enormous yellow sand beach, no cover for a needed squat I feel coming on strong.
Khair and Adam argue over a camel subject, M. says let's leave it, tries to quiet their tongues, each at work patching, nose rings cut off today.
Day 39
Predawn. Sounds of pre-light: camel cries, Khair's murmurs, sizzling onions, chopping wood, cuds chewed and rechewed.
The tremendous ring emerges from darkness, the fire as epicenter of heat light sweetness.
We advance through sand flats, black stony ridges pass, the arcing horizon laid flat and colored yellow, recedes before us up front, it surges closer behind with each jerky pace.
Saeed over for tea and a butt last night after dinner. M. the younger taught him to write his name, Saeed Faraj Abdullah. Infectious laughter, clownish smiles and teases, always welcome at our camp, his nom de camp is Abu Nuwas the Poet of Tea
Yesterday came upon kilometrage markings, 146 km to Aswan, 180 km to Halfa. Last caught sight of 137 to Aswan, glad the gauge is no longer with us, the daily time estimates from Khair et al. are more entertaining. Four days ago Nasir said 3 days to Kalabsha and 2 more to BinBan. Last night it was 1 day to Kalabsha, There is hope, said Nasir, and 3 more to BinBan.
A map drawn in the sand had east as south and west as east, the Nile running backwards, the lake downstream from the dam. My body can take just about anything anyone can dish out, it’s been toughened and hardened by the darb. But it’s the head problems that trouble, food reveries are the most therapeutic, they last forever, easy to embellish, and we're never at a loss for new edible ideas. The bananas and peanut dream the most recurrent.
Originally it was 15 days Dongola-Aswan. The absurdity of using a road map and an archeological guide for desert landmarks and correct Kabbashi pronounciation, viz. Kalaabsha or Kalaabish?
Yesterday and today are hazy, flat dull light and color, cool breeze reminiscent of a California morn before the sea fog burns off. Wish we were stopped for the day in the trees.
Masood and Saeed ride up to the abandoned stone quarry buildings looking for water, Sugar, oil, and butts- Saeed folding the LEs into his vest. Yom Abyad, white day, I shout and he beams. The rock piles and rubble have that indeterminate look, who made them, man or God? The 55 gallon barrels overturned, rubbish heaps, the tell-tale signs of an overused but temporary homesite.
The becoming of a Khabir. Khair says some ride 10-30-50 times as drovers before stepping up. Hasab al-Mokh, Accordirg to one’s brain. He rode 24 times before his first drive as boss.
Masood rides up with full waterskins from behind.
Day 40
Predawn. Happy Birthday Peter. Camped in Wadi Kalaabsha, with nitil, a tall bushy green moss ferny tree good camel eating, and sureeb, 20 foot dry grass with 8 inch seed heads, and ba'shoorn, coyote cries all night.
Entered the wadi after all day in God forsaken terrain, painful stony ground scarified by bulldozers and discarded barrels through haze then intense heat. Just as the sun set in the low haze the wadi appeared in the distance as a stretch of brownish red with barely visible green clumps. Up ahead the camels trot forward to graze, we ride through the high growth, well over camel head, grabbing snatches along the way, and settle down on the north side of the wadi clear of the dense undergrowth midst fire clearings and pits 2-3 feet across made when the water went down and the fish struggled in tight circles.
A mountain was low and hazy to our east and the sun still fought through until dark. A tiny bird's nitil tree invaded by hungry camel mouths, stripping off the soft feathery greenery one branch at a time, frantically hopping from one to the other. Check Uwe George on the doves of the desert, smaller than mourning, colored brown in flocks of up to 7, flying short distances along the ground and landing together. Also Nile River ducks, black and white markings.
How fast he landscape charged upon entering the wadi, internal and external. The desert turns the thought process inside-out, oblivious to surroundings, food and future.
The wadi's trees and dry grasses, marvelously unusual, could get lost easily, camels with mouths full. The suspense of the unseen ahead, water? people? Khair said shepherds, gazelles and many wild animals frequent the wadi. Saw what could be gazelle dung, tiny black beads, smaller than goat scat. And at night the coyote cries closed in.
The camels up feeding, last night's dinner of camel sharmoot in peppery gravy not the best except for the bread, one ragheef per person. I ate mine separately without dipping into the greasy sauce, pure taste of wheat. I thought it would have been better with well-seasoned milaah, but lately even that has been bland. Cumin ran out long ago and M. often under -salts and -peppers, yesterday lunch was awful.
I've been on a 2 day bowel movement program for the last week or so, today's came before breakfast, they previously had been at the lunch hour. Must be the meat we're eating.
M.'s camp is already out of meat, M. the Younger came by to fetch a platter last night. Adam took over the cooking pot last night for the first time since Day 20, muttering that our M. was too lazy to cut up the meat and cook. Apparently the menu depends entirely on the chef, so we have meat to spare for the other camp, they enjoyed theirs fresh 3 times a day plus on the move as a BBQ snack. Now we are eating suspicious tasting sharmoot. For breakfast today after the camels were rounded up we face last night's sharmoot leftovers, out of 8 pieces of bread this morning between the 6 of us I managed the smallest. Even the taste, a small taste goes a long way, from a nibble of the real thing I could mentally clone an entire meal. The bakery feast of Dongola came back in a hurry.
Yesterday we talked food again, every other day I have a real urge to elaborate, improvise on, and reprise the few recipes I know
Camel driving sounds: often singing in rounds, canons M. will pick up Masood's refrain, Adam has a 3/4 part series, Khair usually silent except for direction and speed commands.
The khabir has his camel fetched to him when he wants to mount in mid-march. A perquisite of the office. Khair's whip handling, elegant like a fan, Jomo Kenyatta with a fly whisk, never touches the camel, really too short to reach out, the fine brown and red braided handle with 3 rows of tassels as ornament. The other 2 whips in use, M.'s and Adam's, strictly ordinary and functional. Adam's extra whip, the long rag-wrapped handle, has the tip dragged in the dust all the way from Nahud, never used. And Masood carries only sticks.
Camp is broken without realizing, sitting here in a fish pit with the sun to my back, meat leftovers packed up- to add to our lunch milaah?
Watering now at a pond at muddy banks, some camels fall to their knees to drink, when full they turn around back to the water and urinate, saddles slip forward as they crouch to sip, another camel herd emerged from the greenery to our left.
Plenty of ducks flock and fly, looks like they have black heads and wings with white bodies. Same as on the Nile at Dal and elsewhere, putting up quite a quack.
Unloading camels and splitting wood, our breakfast delayed, underway it seems, cold sharmoot to appetize! Clean socks to celebrate day 40, my feet breathe again, but shirt and jeans so dirty they get clammy, my body tired too, the 40 day clock has run out.
An old pumping rig nearby and empty oil drums, the nitil gets dry and powdery, turns white and dusty when it falls, another low green plant, leathery bright green leaves, goes uneaten.
Khair says we stay here till afternoon to feed and water, if I understand correctly, a lot still gets by me especially regarding distances and logistics. Shoot the ducks with a shotgun (cartouche), army gun (geem), or rifle (bunduq).
At our water stop, 3 khabirs fromthe Fasheri group rode up for tea, sh-sh-sh-shed their camels to their knees and talked camel prices with the Kababish. Western camels ie, Darfuri, are 1/2 the price of Kordofani, "You don't gain in the Nahud trade" I heard one say.
A water truck with 2 Egyptians drives up, Sabah al Full, Jasmine Morning, and the boss says its 50 km to Aswan.
The sounds of the drive. In sand, swish swish dull muffles water splash like the baffled cuds. Through the grasses, crackling brittle sharp like flames are the dominant sounds of 109 on the move, punctuated by the drovers' cries, bits of half forgotten songs, repeated verses, snatches of Hanaan.
Time Immemorial, we are leaving eternity and reentering measured time, clock time or real time or the sun's time, moon months, seasons of grass, where days have names, weeks mean, months disjointed from moon phasing and seasons have their holidays. The oddest sight in Um Kheirwa', a bold black numeral Feb 1 staring from the wall of the store next to the telephone brand pineapple and LS 2 candy bags. When did they last have customers? The BBC gives Greenwich Mean Time but not the date, month, or day of the week.
Time Immemorial, Billa Ali's time piece, a crystal ball stolen? Days have orange cool dawns, warming mornings, hot noons, insufferably long afternoons, then a welcome cheering and inspiring light fall to sunset, then a color wash out, greying and darkness, and a cold wait for rest and sleep.
The Sahara once was the Sea, the Sand the Ocean floor, Wind as Waves, Dunes as Surf, Sea Shells now Grains of Sand, entire trees now felled and soon to be sand or fire rings. The Baobab's last stand, petrified hard as steel, as solid as they are tall.
Muhammad's bismillahs: before slicing onions, stirring aseeda, adding a handful of flour.
Day 41
Rode till 11 pm, approaching city lights. The Big Dipper, 'angrape, handle points earthward, our road sign for many nights no.v, rraker of the way, arrow in the sky, seven flashing blinking stars, now obscured by Aswan's glow as the night fell, our pot of gold at the rainbow's end.
Other lights to our left, police and stone quarry, we move past, cross newly laid asphalt. The camels hesitate on the blacktop, high step light foot across before we set down. Khair says tea/grub stop only. M. the K. suggests we move on a bit then camp, agreed.
I'm past the stage of knowing, caring how far we'll go, startled when VOA starts the 11 pm Arabic program on great Broadway hits, the Music Man, 101 trombones. I switch to BBC.
Before breaking our midday camp where we had settled 2 hours, made tents, ribs and old meat. A dispute ewer drinking water rights, only one skin of water from the kheima, tent, is left, sweet, stained stuff. We had filled 3 skins from Birka Kalaabsha with sulphurous awful stuff for aseeda, washing and drinking. Sweet water reserved for tea only. Dave and I ask for sweet drinking water and Adan lays down the law. Masood says he drinks camel urine in the jizu for days on end when on a grazing ride. Now it comes out he has camel milk, in his tea even. Adam says you drink blood, no water.
Dave's comment, "3 not good, one good" adds mystery. Adam smugly thinking he means the skins, I suggest alternate reading, men, and Khair laughs and repeats my Allah huwa 'aalim, Allah is the knowing one, with an understanding nod. He sees the humor, but Adam is confused and worried, thought he had gringo lingo all figured out, more complicated now than it looks.
We ride off with the Fasheris brirging up the rear, finally have a sweet water stop at dusk gratis to Khair, Masood drinking too, ain't no urine you're guzzling.
The unseen odors of the night, invisible pestilences, fresh camel carcasses. Adam thinks no more than a week old, pointing off wind doesn't help, where are they? In daylight the birds have opened them up, assholes and eye sockets, widened the slauqhtering hole at the jugular, bird shit streaked, guano marking the perches.
3 vultures dance a minuet nearby a fresh kill, then fly off midair they whirl with long lazy flaps, gliding round cruising carrion.
This morn early start, sleep facing north, the Dipper pinwheels all night, Arcturus awakens, the bad water from yesterday catches up, diarrhea party for one, pant-less and sweatered in the heavy blow, weak and shivering in the desert. If it ain't the aseeda it's the milaah.
See a discarded leopard skin shoe, Khair recalls Ahmad Abbas from Hamid Village, yaakul rishawa, he eats bribes, like the naar yaakul Muhammad, the fire eats M.
Pass at least 15 rimma, skeletons, scattered close by, the war's last battlefield at the doorstep of home, 2 drover from the Fasheri group, now ahead, drop back driving 2 slowpokes, as we stop for lunch they pass without the camels, slaughtered behind us.
A solarized mountain to our west, gun metal grey streaked with light tones, the hazy sky also grey, grey broken lizard skin ground we tread, and a low ridge of yellow sand highlighted with grey gravel patches windward, the mirror image of mountains passed before where the sand blow does the toning against black rock massifs. Egypt through the looking glass, where everything is backwards.
Here we fear the police, in Wadi al-Milk we feared the thieves. Traveled late last the asphalt road and quarry to avoid encounters with Aswan's authorities dodging our way into BinBan, so far 1000 camels have gone undetected for over a week.
Khair says midmorning, this time tomorrow we'll be sleeping in ianBan, but tonight we ride later than last, now counting down the last 24 hours to make it an even six weeks, I can take it all, food fantasies give way to restaurant planning.
Adam in a difficult argumentative mood, dispute with Khair, numbers quoted, as usual a count of something or other is involved, money camels etc. Masood says Adam is no good. M. stays out of the crossfire, rides back quiet his way is to stay aloof in a dumb looking manner, gets teased for not remembering Imbaba, but he does remember Sayyidna Hussein, his moulid, and al-Azhar.
Pass a grave marker, Khair says was M.'s uncle Manjeel, died of thirst 5-6 years ago, laid out beside his camel, man and mount eternalized under loose stones.
The other group always in song and laughter, Cairo works its magic, the joys of arriving. Our camp is matter of fact, even sullen, a long night ride ahead dampens the spirit, or simply too tired to celebrate, the 3 of them having worked twice as hard as the 6 in M.'s group.
No patching this lunch break, tea and coffee. M.'s haashi for slaughter, camel veal, tastes like lamb says Khair, must suggest to Mahdi for our anticipated arrival banquet. A skin stretched yellow carcass sun dried, 10 feet from my pen, the camels lay down beside it, just a statue, dust unto dust.
We bum some fresh water off the passing Fasheri, reserved for tea, adds M. as I ask how much he got, still jealous of their tea service. 'The sulphurous water turns the aseeda yellowish green, adds back the salt and flavor M. always forgets.
The water and grass the camels dawned in Kalaabsha catch up with us, sulphurous farting nonstop, the dried mud had the same strong odor, the leeching of ground salts, the High Dam's ill-effect in action.
Day 42
Arrival in BinBan, between Esna and Aswan on Nile’s West bank, through the electric portals, twin double-poled lines from the High Dam. The Valley appears, we put in at the stable of straw boss Ahmad Hassan abd al-Majeed.
Yesterday predusk, tea stop dung fire, prepare for the long night ride, we stop early unexpectedly, bright lights north and east. High Dam. The sun a 3rd glow. Early morning call, we see sky lighten, Venus Rising, on the move for sunrise.
Masood has stomach problems from Kalaabsha, M. puts on new araagi, Adam in washed turban, unwraps the handle on his long whip, braided like Khair's, red and black, and poses the hero, particularly difficult with one and all. Masood and M. chuckle when I say he's selfish and greedy, they agree, with water, tea, food. They say he refuses to eat with Christians, but is first with his glass from the Christian coffee pot.
'The camel traders swarm our herd still in the desert, donkey back, riding in and out, charcoal marking their first choices.
M. gets right to work with the fire and tea, Abd al-'Azeem suave English, apologetic over the Cleopatras, sorry not Marlboros, cozies up. Ahmad Hassan explains his business, shows off his straw, tibin, and the net bags shabaka. Our camels will eat LE 150 of straw, honestly.
The Egyptian traders create the familiar uproar, angry gestures, loud voices.
Last night the sky was a planetarium, in the round with stars reachable, dim city glow, simulated sunrise from another planet.
Stripping Sugarcane, sweet water from an earthen jar, they'll stay here today, then 3 days to Esna.
Our men dump straw in piles, traders choose and hobble, huddle, eager for any info on Nahudi prices, my misinformation campaign has worked, overhearing them repeating my outrageous sums. And our donkey pads in high demand, Khair's three are snatched, Egyptian variety are red cheap plastic.
We grouped up with the Fasheris yesterday afternoon for the procession into the Valley, distant fires as we camp nearby, visiting between camps, sweet water in the milaah, morning tea before first light.
Abu Jaib's selling agent is Ahmad al-Bayoumi. M. got LE 420 for 2 of his haashis, didn't look happy during the negotiations, Khair and Hassan did the shouting, a circle of onlookers shouting Iftah! Iftah! Open! Open!, like Let's Make a Deal, Curtain! Box!, I join in.
Ahmad Hassan provides a meal of thick bread, tomatoes, onions and fuul, many traders join in, Adam ostentatiously abstains, M. boils the pot for the Egyptians, desert hospitality reaches this far, but not the reciprocal genuine thanks and obligations.
BinBan arrival is a mirror of Khileawa 20 days ago, with green line, electric wires, entry delayed. A ship captain having crossed the stormy seas cruising the coast for a safe harbor, knowing the most dangerous part of the voyage is navigating the shoals, the sailors grumble impatiently, only the captain knows the risk of an untimely anchorage, the sailors see only plates of fresh foods and sweet drinks in their fantasy.
Masood's abandoned sidri is on a junk heap, the men still cutting camels from the herd and hobbling, the fat traders chew their cuds and beat their donkeys.
Masood and M. get our tarps and cotton pads, I say wait for the party in Imbaba, he smiles, the frenzy subsides, the good buys are sold, Al-Bayoumi has gotten his prices.
Adam struts with his whip, Masood offers us two hobbles as souvenirs, Ahmad Hassan offers and reoffers his home's hospitality for the night, wishes to host us grandly, word passes in whispers we've arrived from Nahud, Khair and M. coordinate the next haashi sale. M. truly needs help at this business, making profits from a simple trade, he's used to working hard for his pay, the import/ export game confounds an honest man, where LS 2=LE 1, where prices double, 2000 kms add surplus value, where a word and a handshake are not true.
Money, count it twice in Egypt.