Off the Beaten Tracks

by Irina Bogatyreva

Anton suggests the third and most convincing: due to unsanitary conditions, some kind of fungus is widespread on the mosques’ prayer-rugs and leaves its mark of devotion on the Egyptians’ brows.

  In fact they don’t need any proof of their religious devotion. The space in front of the mosques, completely occupied with the faithful on Fridays, bears eloquent enough witness, and that’s not even all of them – they simply all can’t fit inside.

  Women

  The most freethinking city in any country is always the capital. As concerns religion an indicator of this pattern can often be found in women. The capital cities of Muslim countries usually have a higher percentage (in comparison to the provinces) of women with uncovered heads. In Egypt everything is different: it’s nearly impossible to see a woman without a headscarf on the streets of Cairo. If you do run into one she’s either a foreigner or a Christian.

  The Coptic Quarter

  More than five hundred years before the Catholic and Orthodox churches were formed the Coptic Church already existed. On Sunday I go to a church in the famous Coptic quarter. There are many bare-headed women there. Here and there you can see big stone crosses on the wide domes of enormous cathedrals. I go into one phenomenally big church that is empty; another one is empty too. Sunday and no service?! Finally, I find a girl who agrees to take me to a church where there is supposed to be a religious service. Side streets, narrow passageways, a few steps down – the service is being held in a small lower church.

  No more than ten women are sitting on wooden benches, with no more than five men seated on the other side. Without thinking I sit down on the left-hand side, the one with more space. Shortly thereafter someone, probably a novice, comes up and asks me to switch my seat to the ladies’ side.

  The service lasts around two and a half hours, like in an Orthodox church. The priest says something in a singsong voice in a language I don’t understand. Finally, they move from words to action. Another priest, different from the one conducting the service, comes out to administer communion. He looks like he has a higher rank.

  To my shock, I discover that the churchgoers take off their shoes before communion and that for some reason everyone gets snow-white, embroidered and lace-edged handkerchiefs. Finally, the parishioners move towards the communion chalice shaped as a little house-box containing bread from which the priest breaks off hefty chunks and hands them to the parishioners. The men come up for communion first, the women only afterwards. After the bread, the people go up to the deacon for deep spoonfuls of holy wine. This is when those handkerchiefs come in handy: the parishioners wipe their lips with them.

  At the very end, the people come up to the priest who gives them bread and his smile. I’m pleased: not because it’s finally over but because I‘ve got here after all.

  Matchless silence

  The January sun is beating down mercilessly. And I don’t have a drop of water on me. I’m so thirsty it seems like my entire body has been squeezed dry. I’m alone in the midst of the Sinai desert.

  At the last post where I’m stopped the frightened policemen yells after me:

  “Where are you going?”

  “To Saint Catherine,” I name the village at the foot of the famous Moses’ mountain.

  “That’s a hundred kilometers,” they attempt to appeal to my good reason.

  “No problem,” I smile.

  “What if I really do have to walk the whole way?” I think, my smile fading. My confidence that I’ll get picked up by a car evaporates with the remnants of moisture in my body (for some reason I hadn’t brought any water with me). I’d already turned around a few times at the sound of a motor. Tall tour buses rush by without even slowing, blasting me with the wind from their speed.

  Well, I’ll just keep walking then. Maybe there’s a special meaning in this. After all, the Israelis walked a long time before they reached Sinai and earned their wondrous prize: the wonderful Ten Commandments.

  A car picked me up in the end but not for long. There are no cities in this part of the country, but there are Bedouin villages. One of these Bedouins, wearing a long white robe and a beautiful white headscarf, is giving me a lift. We turn off the road in order to visit his friends who treat me to some life-saving sweet tea.

  Soon I find myself back on the road, alone with my thirst.

  From time to time I lift my head heavenward and its cool azure assuages my unbearable thirst, at least slightly. At the same time I am glad that after the dark months of Russian winter I am finally able to meet face-to-face with the sky, free from the storm-cloud barrier.

  Behind me, I hear the hopeful hum of a motor. I lift my arm at the new white foreign-made car. It slows down but drives past and disappears around a bend. Although the people inside signaled something to me. “Maybe the driver just didn’t want to brake on an uphill?” I think hopefully and start running after the car feeling the air grate against my dry-as-sandpaper tongue.

  The car really is waiting for me, but it turns out to be a taxi: the Bedouin driver is taking an elderly German couple to Saint Catherine. Without much faith in success I make my request. Surprisingly, the driver agrees. And in response to my question about water he hands me a full bottle of water.

  Though the four of us chat cheerfully the whole way to Saint Catherine, I keep thinking that the Bedouin may have not understood me and will probably demand money in the end.

  The driver, whose name is Suleiman, leaves the Germans at their hotel and turns to me:

  “You’re probably hungry?”

  I nod involuntarily and the Bedouin orders four different dishes for me in a roadside café. He watches me trying to manage it all.

  “I’m taking a group of Romanians up the mountain today, want to come along?” He suggests and adds right away, “Absolutely free.”

  I had the earliest wake-up call in my life that night – 00.40. Suleiman came to pick me up at the campsite, where he’d also fixed me up with his friend for free.

  The evening before he’d invited me to look at the stone with “Moses’ eyes.” I couldn’t understand what this meant until I saw the enormous chunk of cliff, taller than me, with oblong depressions. Legend has it that this is the very stone from which Moses drew water for the thirsting Israelis. How? Well, how did I manage to meet a tourist guide in one of the most touristy places on the road to Saint Catherine who started taking care of me quite selflessly?

  The sky is alight with myriad yellow stars as if a million eyes are following me. Twinkling as if winking. I smile at them in grateful response.

  The road leading up to the mountain looks a lot like a busy city street, a bit like the Arbat in Moscow. People move in masses, constantly turning on their flashlights, shouting, screaming, laughing:

  “Camels, camels!”

  Aside from English the Bedouins here have also learned good Russian. For the Russian tourists who usually can’t speak English.

  The group of Romanians is moving too slowly. I overtake them, agreeing to meet Suleiman at the last café on the way, a coffee shop, as they call it here.

  Nearly at the top of the mountain there are some steep, tall steps. A young Bedouin overtakes me.

  “Can I lend you a hand?” He asks in Russian.

  “For money?” I smile, remembering all the stories I heard.

  “No.”

  I accept his help. At the last coffee shop I say good-bye to my helper and sit down on a bench covered with a colorful blanket, waiting for Suleiman to arrive with his Romanians.

  There come loud cries: “Blankets, blankets!”

  These are coffee shop workers offering to rescue the tourists from the cold while lightening their wallets.

  I’m so sick of hearing “camels” and “blankets” that when some Bedouins ask me where I’m from I answer in an annoyed tone:

  “Not telling.”

  “From Russia?” One of them guesses. He is strong, tall, and is wearing a headscarf.

  “No,” I say, shamelessly denying my homeland.


  My attempt to go incognito quickly becomes a joke. A Bedouin with a headscarf comes up to me. I expect him to try to sell me something.

  “You don’t have a Russian accent,” says the Bedouin, paying me a compliment without knowing it. “But you’re from somewhere near Russia, no? Where from?”

  “I’m not telling.”

  “OK, OK. As you wish. Let’s say you’re from the Moon.”

  I show my appreciation for his sense of humor with a bright smile.

  “Do you work in the café?”

  “Yes, this is my coffee shop.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-six.”

  “And do you like your work?” I ask expecting him to complain about the endless streams of tourists.

  “Yes, I love the peace and quiet. There is no one here during the day.”

  I take in his burly appearance, sports pants and a worn grey sweater, and I can’t believe it’s him saying these things.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Joseph,” he answers. “Would you like some tea? My treat.”

  “It’s too expensive here,” I say not having heard his last words.

  “My treat,” he repeats.

  The sweet aroma of the strong, life-giving drink rises up along with the steam. Once again it saves me from thirst, and once again in an unexpected way.

  After I greet the sunrise on the peak, I come down to the coffee shop and Joseph again treats me to a cup of tea. He invites me to come inside the little store. Tired foreigners hurry after their guides while at the same time pricing souvenirs. I am meanwhile sitting on top of one of the most touristy spots in Egypt holding a cup of hot tea. The steam from the tea melts along with all of my silly fears about Egyptians’ incorrect and selfish behavior.

  Joseph lives on top of the mountain six days a week, and on his day off he goes down to his village. Today happens to be Friday.

  “We can go together,” he offers. “I know a different path. It’s beautiful but not easy.”

  “All the better.” I agree without a second thought.

  We leap from stone to stone. I look back at Joseph:

  “So why aren’t you offering me your hand?”

  In touristy places like this Bedouins and Arabs usually try to seize any opportunity to take white women by the hand.

  “If you need a hand you’ll ask,” Joseph answers.

  I look back at him again with astonishment.

  We go to see his brother. Once again I am holding a glass of tea, this time made from hibiscus. His brother then leaves to run some errands and we stay behind to guard his goods.

  “Look,” Joseph points to the peak of one of the mountains surrounding us. “There’s a chapel up there. There are a lot of them here. Monks used to go up there a lot to pray. Now they’re almost always closed.”

  “So do you pray?” I ask expecting a negative response. In these touristy spots the foreigners often infect the locals with their materialism and Western values.

  “Yes,” answers Joseph.

  “Five times a day?”

  “No, not always. Sometimes I don’t pray for a whole week. I don’t want to lie to you… And sometimes during prayer I think about what I need to buy for the shop. That’s not right either.”

  I look back again at this Bedouin who spends six days a week on top of this mountain. But he spends those six days on a mountain that is far from ordinary.

  We come out to the start of our difficult journey. Below us, the buildings of the St. Catherine monastery lie like rectangular boxes.

  “How long will it take to get there?” I ask.

  “Two hours.”

  The sun is still high.

  “Let’s sit here for a bit,” I suggest.

  “All right.”

  We sit down on a big yellow rock at the edge of the mountain. I sit face-to-face with the sky. I feel like I’m seeing it for the first time. To the right the peak of Moses’ mountain looks eloquent at us. Everything is seeped in matchless silence. There is not a single sound coming from below, so it seems as if the world below does not even exist. And you don’t feel like going back there, all the possible fullness of life is here, in this proximity to the matchless azure silence. I look back once again at the mountain thinking of Moses and the Ten Commandments. Yes, in this silence you could hear many things!

  Ring of oases

  Sahara means “desert” in Arabic. This morning I am heading there. On the map the road I’ll be going by resembles the ribbon of a river. But in fact, there are no rivers all around for hundreds of kilometers in every direction.

  The first oasis I’ll reach – Bahariya– is indicated on the map by a few little palm trees. But what will it look like in reality?

  The paved road that leads from Cairo to the southwest is empty, evidently because it runs through the desert. Maybe it’s not too late to run back to Cairo, heed all the warnings about the oases being far off and hard to reach? I sit down on my backpack by the side of the road. The road is empty ahead and behind me. To the left and right lies empty desert.

  * * *

  “If the road is paved, there have to be cars on it. And if there are cars, then you’ll get picked up,” Anton instructed me. Having been in complicated countries like Afghanistan and Sudan he really knows what he’s talking about.

  The two astonished Egyptian drivers exchange glances. They have seen lots of different kinds of tourists, of course, but probably none of them has ever tried to stop their big old truck.

  No, they fail to understand the point of my words shvaye-shvaye mashi, seiyara – “a little bit by foot, car.” When it’s time for me to get out I have to take a few pieces of dry bread from them which they push on me against my will. They pour the remains of their water into my bottle mixing my bought drinking water with their tap-water which is dangerous for untrained foreign stomachs. One of the drivers goes for his wallet.

  “Lya-lya! – No, no!” I almost screamed.

  They exchange glances but once again there’s no arguing with them. I’m forced to take fifty pounds, around two hundred fifty rubles (about nine dollars) and in Egypt you can buy a lot more with that money than in Russia.

  By midday I am in the oasis of Bahariya. The simple clay huts alternate with palms whose dull branches barely give off any green. Apparently there isn’t enough water in the oases for them.

  I look for the next clump of palm trees in the mist of yellow desert on the map – Farafra. Found it… then drive right past it in the evening darkness.

  The next day, just past Farafra, a pick-up truck driven by a sturdy young Arab comes to a screaming halt. It turns out he’s driving to Kharga, the penultimate oasis, where his uncle’s family lives. I’ll get to cover a significant distance! But my joy can’t compare to Muhammad’s, the name of my new friend. He immediately invites me to meet his relatives. And it seems he’s hurrying to get us there faster so that he can provide me with all the necessary hospitality in the proper fashion.

  I’m met by their entire enormous family. The only one missing is the father. But the mother, around sixty-five, is there with her numerous adult married and unmarried children, grandchildren of all ages, all the way up to near-adults. The oldest, thirty-year-old Mahmud, speaks a little English. The impossibility of communicating through words is compensated for by our irrepressible desire to make friends.

  We sit for a long time in the living room. They bring in supper especially for me – the others have already eaten. A few of them join me in eating, slightly embarrassed. Then tea is served. Despite the fact that it’s after midnight and I’m tired from the journey, despite the fact that we don’t even have a common language, we simply can’t get enough of this communication and our laughter won’t quiet for even a second.

  Even if I remembered the law forbidding Egyptians to invite foreigners into their homes I’d probably not believe in its existence and that anyone could possibly observe it.

  Chapter 5. The Val
ley of the Nile

  Sugarcane

  I’m sitting by the fireside – red coals smoldering in a metal tank – surrounded by a big Arab family. The mother sits opposite, watching me, and crinkles of joy run across her tired dark face.

  Her thirty-year-old daughter brings two sticks. She hands one to me and starts gnawing on the other one. I wonder in horror whether I have to do the same.

  The whole family responds with gleeful laughter at my perplexed and frightened expression. With her teeth, the woman peels the bark off part of the stick, breaks off a piece and hands it to me. It’s sugarcane, of course. My mouth fills with sweet juice. Now they look worried and signal to me that I have to spit out the pulp.

  The mother can’t hold back her feelings, she comes up to me and places her work-rough hand on mine looking at me with her clear eyes. She doesn’t say anything. But does she really need to?

  She has a little tattoo on her forehead: a tiny cross. The whole family, indeed the whole area around here is Christian. This time they’re Orthodox.

  * * *

  At the exit post from Baris, the last village in the ring of oases, the poor policemen are quite perplexed not knowing what to do with me. But happily, a big new van soon appears that is driving to Luxor. The driver is amazed to find a white tourist with no money, but to the sincere joy of the policemen he agrees to take me.

  “Muslim?” he asked, pointing to my headscarf.

  “Lya, masykhi. – No, Christian.”

  “Ana masykhi. – I’m a Christian too,” says the driver, pointing to a small copy of the Gospels in its familiar blue cover, sitting on the dashboard. He asks whether I might like to come for a visit – maybe joking, maybe serious. It’s not hard to guess my answer.

  The final 120 kilometers run through unchanging yellow desert. Finally the desert parts before us and we approach the Nile. As if waiting for us the sun starts leaning down over the horizon which opens out into a blue full-flowing river. Meanwhile, the palms flanking it and spreading their luxurious juicy-green branches against the transparent blue sky, sing a silent hymn to the celebration taking place: the closing of yet another day on Earth.