“Ya La!” means “Let’s Go!”

Unlike the ferry boat between Tarifa, Spain and Tangier, Morocco, the vessel that moved us between Al Aqaba, Jordan and Nuweiba, Egypt was full to the brim. Hoards of Arab men, some families, and very few tourists: we all packed into the seats and benches of the ferry with some men and boys sitting on the floor or napping between rows of seats. It was the same sort of vehicle that I had earlier taken across the mouth of the Mediteranean Sea. However, the ship that departed from Europe had a timetable–which it followed–it played a video about emergency scenarios; it was calm, orderly, and boring. This boat, hopping between Arab states waited patiently until it was full, and then waited a little longer–maybe for the company to get all their non-computerized records in order? No announcements or safety videos played (I could digress about the cultural differences with respect to fear, security, accuracy, and time, but that would be boring). The men around us kicked off their sandals and had loud conversations over paper cups of tea. Arab music fuzzed through mobile phone speaders. And eventually, we departed, a good seven hours late, down throughthe Gulf of Aqaba at the crown of the Red Sea towards a place called Sinai.

In the almost six weeks since I landed for the first time in the Eastern Mediterranean, I have picked up the most basic cultural and linguistic understanding of the region: what not to wear, the meaning of gestures and facial expressions, basic phrases and etiquette. But, the patience required to travel peacefully in this part of the world, is not easily learned. I, with my bad book and my desire to not be impatient and grumpy, could only withstand the first ten hours of the trip. I finished the bad book and tried to feel calm and meditative, but by this time we were stuck on a ferry that had arrived, but from which we could not depart, or Fhar was arguing with the bus company, trying to convince them that our bicycles could be disassembled and placed in the baggage compartment. Indeed, my Western instinct to feel impatient and indignant was resurfacing. I stood in the shade with the local women and waited. We made eyes at eachother and when I through their eyes were smiling–because many of their faces were covered–I smiled back. Fhar meanwhile, without a bad book and having been forced to fight for our bus tickets, seemed tired, annoyed and utterly impatient. I suppose, having been here much longer, all the previous inconveniencies, inconsistencies, and annoyances were weighing on him. It was still a novel experence for me. Still, in such situations, I hope to never find myself cursing “this country” or “these people” disdainfully. It is best to just let things roll out in front of you at their own pace. Patience is a virtue.

We arrived in Cairo at 3:15 AM, assembled our bikes, packed our things atop, and fought off the meddlesome taxi drivers who seemed incredulous that we would actually ride our bikes and then quite amused after they began to believe us. Lights, helmets, and 18 km through the streets of the Cairo periphery: finally, after 21 hours traveling, we reach the house, just in time for the dawn call to prayer.

So, we are back in Cairo, or back in the ‘burbs of Cairo, eagerly awaiting our respectively flights out of the desert. Fhar and I both leave on the 7th of July, but we’re headed to different places (me to Barcelona, he to D.C.). Until then, there will be some time spent packing, taking the cat to the vet, cooking,  eating, adjusting the air conditioner, sleeping, reading, and making the final arrangements to leave. The rest of our time will be spent putzing around on the internet. Why, you might ask, don’t we go out and explore the beauty of Cairo, the sights of Upper Egypt in our final days in the Middle East? And maybe I’ll look back and wish I had, but for the moment, the heat, traffic, language barrier, relative unfriendliness of the Egyptians, the dust and smog, the lears of men, and my lowered tolerance for looking at old stuff, and making small talk with people I don’t know and will never see again is enough to keep me inside. There’s enough brown rice and lentils, nescafe, milk and honey to keep me happy and I can walk around in a t-shirt and my underpants inside this house.

On the horizon, the return to Barcelona promises dinner parties and field trips to squats, co*ops, and gardens. I’ll plan a bike tour into France, and hopefully, I’ll visit some of the Frenchies I’ve met in other parts and maybe work on a farm for a few months (I don’t really have the money or the energy to keep moving for too much longer). I’ve contacted some WWOOF hosts and am awaiting replies.

~ by Elaina on July 4, 2009.