“Two days. Khaled doesn’t like to push the boat too hard. It’s also good to have a couple of days to rest and prepare. Take in the scenery. We’re up at five am the day after we arrive.”
I take a few quick shots of the dock and the feluccas with their elegantly draped white sails as we start to pull slowly away.
“You were quick. Everyone else is still in their cabins stowing their gear and getting settled.” Ethan grabs a bottle of water from the cooler tucked under the table and hands it to me.
“Yeah. I can unpack later. I’d rather not miss sailing through Cairo.” I take a long pull on the water. Egypt is thirsty work.
“You’ll get the best view from up the front there.” Ethan points to the front of our little boat. “Ask Noha for a couple of cushions.” For a moment, I think he might join me. Then he sighs and makes himself scarce. Which is good. I don’t need to be seeing him in all his gorgeous handsomeness. Or smelling his aftershave. No need to put temptation in my way.
One by one, the others appear, with Riley bringing up the rear. Shocker.
Lunch is served on deck, followed by a lazy afternoon watching the crowded buildings of Cairo open up to the breathtaking Nile Valley, a narrow strip of green on either side of the river with dusty hills and cliffs beyond.
The boys start up a card game, and Riley stretches out in the shade with a book. I’m glued to the railing with my camera.
The late afternoon sun is a beautiful golden yellow when Khaled pulls the boat up to a protected spot at the bank forthe night. Sayed leaps ashore and lopes off down a narrow little track through what looks like corn fields.
“Where is he going?” I ask Khaled, who’s double-checking the ropes Sayed just tied.
“There is a small village here. He has gone to announce our arrival and see if Karim, the head villager, would welcome a visit.” Khaled’s English is formal, but his face is open, warm and friendly.
“Really? We get to visit a village?” I can barely contain my excitement.
Ethan comes to stand by the rail beside me.
“If Karim says it’s okay. But he’s usually happy to see us.”
Barely fifteen minutes later, Sayed is back with a tall, stately man not unlike Ashraf, who I take to be Karim, trailing a gaggle of shouting, laughing, waving children.
“I think I’ll stay here,” Riley says after surveying the crowd.
“No. You’ll come. You will be polite. You will drink the tea you are offered without comment. Karim has seen you, and we won’t be offending him by refusing his hospitality.” Ethan’s voice is quiet, but his tone brooks no opposition.
Ethan undersold our potential welcome. Karim gives him a warm hug and invites us to tour the village and drink tea at his house. I’m down the narrow gangplank before he’s finished talking.
As the sun drops to touch the horizon, we tour the village. Karim proudly explains, through Sayed, about their crops, their school and their almost-finished village hall. Most of the houses are made of mud bricks. Women, goats, and chickens wander freely through open doorways and the children follow us as though Ethan is the Pied Piper. It’s no wonder. He hands out sweets to the little children and coins to the older kids.
A group of women are sitting in the last of the sun, leaning on the mudbrick walls and gossiping beside rounds of bread dough,set to rise on wooden paddles on the ground, as wood-fired ovens heat, ready to cook the bread for dinner.
Karim’s house is one of the few built with concrete, and at the front is an enclosed courtyard with a packed sand floor that was used for village meetings until the hall was built. The courtyard and house beyond are spotlessly clean, painted in bright aquas, blues and peach.
The children crowd in the doorway laughing and whispering, and watch us sit on thick, embroidered cushions to drink strong, sugary tea from a collection of cracked and mismatched mugs.
I look around at the shining faces of these children, at their proud head villager and his shy wife. What an honour it is to be invited into their homes. To see their lives.
Finally, Ethan stands.
“We must get back to the boat before dark, my friend,” he says. “Thank you for your hospitality.”
The children follow us back to the boat, laughing, singing, jockeying to take my hand. There is so much joy in this village.
I don’t want to leave. Because this has been the best experience of my life. And after the past few days in Cairo, that’s saying something.
Ethan catches my eye as we clamber up the gangplank.
“Thank you. That was …” I’m lost for words.
He smiles and nods. I don’t need to explain.
