We set sail mid-morning aboard the Basmatic. The same Basmatic as the Nubian Guest House. I’d been told that Basmatic refers to a late dynasty pharaoh, but have yet to find verification of the assertion.
There was a Psamtik I, 600 BC or so. Perhaps the same guy.
Anyway, it was a beautiful morning.
The heat hadn’t set in and the breeze was sufficient to move us gently north from Aswan and down river toward Luxor.
I still struggle with the notion that the Nile flows downhill on its journey north toward the Mediterranean.
Waled took the helm first.
A quiet man and new father of barely a week.
We made steady progress and after a while Khaled, the eldest of my three feluca mates, took over.
It was acknowledged among the other two that Khaled is who you want at the helm in a pinch.
The sailing was smooth as we left the sights and sounds of the city behind,
the unobstructed banks of the Egyptian life source revealing themselves.
But out of nowhere a stiff wind arose. Without immediate action we’d be headed back to Aswan.
Bebo, an accountant by profession, took hold with all his might to control the great sail.
Though a renowned athlete among the Nubians as a young man, it was too much for him.
Our only recourse was to head toward shore until the wind abated. The right decision for sure, except the force of the wind drove the keel (I think that’s what it’s called) into the mud just a couple of feet below.
Try as they might to free us,
we were stuck.
Being of no help, I disembarked to stretch my legs and relieve my bladder.
Young swimmers on the port side,
an ancient ruin looked down from atop the hill straight ahead.
I considered the climb, but a trio of dromedaries attracted my attention,
resting in their wisdom in the shade.
After a brief conversation,
I walked in the direction of a fourth camel,
and a fifth,
a young man adjacent.
Ashraf directed that I follow, stopping first at an ancient mosque,
its walls covered with inscriptions
sketched with shades of henna.
We continued toward his village,
passing friends and relatives,
before arriving at his house,
where I was welcomed in.
In a small room to the right of the inner courtyard was Ashraf’s mother, Bahita.
The youngest of six, Ashraf is her caretaker.
Excusing himself to prepare tea, I sat with her as I sat with my own mother near the end.
After a short time, Ashraf returned with the tea,
and a photo of his father, who he’d met just once when his father returned from Kuwait where he worked as a driver to support the family.
Within a week of returning to Kuwait, his father was killed in a car accident.
Sipping our tea in silence - his mother no longer able to speak - we then bid her goodbye to return to the Basmatic.
Walking at first,
Ashraf convinced a cousin to give us a lift.
Back at the Basmatic,
I attempted to pull myself up onto the bow, misjudged my strength, and my agility, and fell into the Nile, striking my back on the stone bank and then the water.
Perhaps you’ve had something surreal like that happen.
Soaked through and through, my phone in one pocket and passport in the other, thoughts vacillated between:
“Oh, how foolish” and “Oh my, I think I’ve broken it.”
Pulled from the drink by Khaled and Bebo, I appeared to be in one piece, small cuts and scrapes and aches notwithstanding.
After a reluctant immersion to wash the sand from neck to toe, I was back on board and soon after we were on our way.
It’s funny how the mind works. How forgotten images or passages can rise to the surface at an odd time:
Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things you didn't do than by the ones you did. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.
- Mark Twain
The rest of the story next time.
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