by Levison Wood
At that moment, Turbo stood up, poured the dregs of his morning coffee into the sand, and moved towards the car. Climbing back in, he waved goodbye, choked up the engine, and left me in a cloud of sand and dust.
Throughout the next days, I took Turbo’s advice, keeping to the creeks and gullies, out of sight and out of mind. The walking was hard but it was much cooler here, and at least I was close to the water so – unlike in the Bayuda – I’d never run out. Sometimes I saw more car tracks in the sand, but for several days the only people I saw were illegal fishermen across the water, or the distant glow of a campfire at night. Turbo was never far away, and always on the end of the satellite phone, but this was the first time in the trek I’d felt truly alone: no Boston, nor Moez, nor any porters constantly chirping in my ear.
On the fifth day, mindful of Turbo’s advice, I crested a sand dune and, for the first time since setting out, the stark landscape was broken by human habitation. About a mile away, at the bottom of a valley, completely isolated from the main body of the lake and accessible only by a small channel, sat what looked like a farm. Even at this distance I could see the glint of a tin roof, and the shapes of disused tractors rotting in the scrub.
For a long time, I stopped and stared. There was no way around the valley, not without making a twenty-mile detour to circumnavigate the channel. I was not sure my legs or feet could take that – but, more importantly, I was not sure the permissions allowed it. I dreaded to think what it might mean if my government overseers discovered I had gone off-piste.
But, all the while, Turbo’s words were in the back of my head: This is a place for smugglers, Lev. If they see you, they’ll kill you. The supply lanes are too important.
I proceeded carefully, keeping low amongst the boulders on the banks of the lake, and following natural wadis – dry, ancient riverbeds – to get as close to the farm as I could without being seen. With the sun beating down, I stopped to catch my breath where a fishing boat was tied up among the reeds. In its meagre shelter, a thought hit me: perhaps I could steal the boat and avoid the house completely, by rowing through the lake until the coast was clear? For a moment the temptation was too much – but then I imagined being caught in the act, and consequences that didn’t bear thinking about. No – I would have to do as I’d done so many times before: put my life in the hands of a complete stranger.
The farmhouse sat on the other side of the channel. Cautiously, I waded through the water, my boots sinking deep into the mud as I cast stones into the deeper parts to scare away whatever crocodiles lurked there. On the far bank, a few camels grazed, unperturbed by the stranger clambering out of the creek, and fish plopped around in the shadows.
No sooner had I set foot on the bank than there was sudden movement up ahead: the unmistakeable noise of a human being treading on gravel. I took one step, one step more – and there, between the parting bushes, stood a man in a white vest, a shotgun in the crook of his arm.
I froze. The man stared at me. In that moment, I imagined a hundred different possibilities – but all of them boiled down to this: I was a trespasser, a stranger in a strange land, hundreds of miles from the nearest village, staring down the barrel of a gun.
A voice flurried up, somewhere beyond the gunman. ‘Lev!’
At first, I hardly recognised my own name. Then, as the man stepped aside, all my terror evaporated. Behind the man stood Turbo, waving cheerily.
‘Where have you been?’ he asked. ‘I thought you’d have reached here hours ago . . .’
Turbo was standing outside the tiny farmhouse, happily drinking a glass of chai. Deeply relieved, I pushed through the reeds and clasped the eccentric red-head by the hand.
‘This is my friend, Osama,’ he said, patting the gun-toting man cheerily on the back.
‘Like Bin Laden!’ he said with a wicked grin and a wink.
I didn’t know what to say.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Turbo, ‘he’s harmless. He’s just a local hunter.’
‘I grow crops out here, do some fishing,’ the man named Osama explained, as he offered me chai, his gun now over his shoulder. ‘Sometimes I shoot crocodiles, too,’ he added, as nonchalantly as if he was talking about his morning commute.
‘For fun?’
‘No,’ Osama replied. ‘For handbags. And because one ate my father’s leg.’ He pointed to the side wall of the shack, against which was propped an enormous skin, hardened by salt. Next to it was a massive skull, shiny and white, bleached by the sun. ‘Would you like to see my pigeons?’ he asked, with the enthusiasm of a child wanting to show off his new toy.
I looked sidelong at Turbo, who only shrugged. ‘Sure,’ I said.
Inside the house, a stark room containing only a bed and a single chair, was a single bookshelf – on which a family of pigeons had nested. ‘Baby pigeons!’ Osama announced. ‘Nobody gets to see baby pigeons . . .’
‘Is he mad?’ I whispered at Turbo.
‘Not really,’ said Turbo. ‘He just likes the solitude. But he won’t get it tonight.’
‘Why not?’
‘This, Lev . . . this is your guesthouse!’
‘Sorry there are no spare rooms,’ said Osama, seemingly coming back to life. ‘You’ll have to sleep on the trailer.’
Outside, a flat-topped wooden cart sat under a tree. ‘It’s okay,’ I said, not wishing to offend the madman’s hospitality. ‘I don’t mind sleeping on the floor . . .’
Osama only gave one of his cryptic smiles. ‘You don’t want to do that.’
‘Why not?’
Quickly, he snatched up a stick from his veranda and hooked up a shirt left drying on one of the boulders just outside. Something fell from the collar onto the sand – and, with the speed of an Olympic javelin, Osama speared a rogue scorpion right through its back. As he held up the gruesome creature, it wriggled in the throes of death. With his forefinger and thumb, he pulled off the tail and threw it into the bushes.
‘Too many monsters.’ He grinned and walked away, presumably to feed his pigeons the remains.
It was the end of the month of Ramadan, and the feast of Eid Al-Fitr was upon the town of Kom Ombo.
Two days after a fitful night at Osama’s farm, we had reached Aswan – but I had already had my fill of the city and didn’t plan on staying long. Lingering only to ditch all my camping gear and all my other redundant pieces of kit, I crammed everything into an old British Army issue desert satchel and set off. I was about to embark on a different kind of journey. The path from Aswan to Alexandria would be a thousand miles of roads, towns and cities; it was no longer snakes and scorpions I’d have to watch out for – it was internal politics and secret police.
By the end of the second day, I had come fifty kilometres along the river, to find that Turbo had already booked me into a guesthouse at the town of Kom Ombo. Famous for its great temple, dedicated to the crocodile god Sobek – protector of ancient men from the powers of the Nile – Kom Ombo was originally the ancient city of Nubt, a ‘City of Gold’, and it was as a centre of trade into Nubia that it had originally made its name.
In the morning, I woke to find Turbo standing over my bed. A squint at the clock on the wall told me it was not yet 5am, and outside Kom Ombo was still smothered in darkness. Usually, we tried to be on the road by 7, but today was special. It was formally the end of the month when Muslims around the world fasted. Turbo was bouncing energetically from wall to wall. It was time, he told me, for us to eat.
Blearily, I got out of bed. Naturally, I hadn’t been fasting throughout Ramadan – and neither had Turbo. It wasn’t until this very moment that I’d even considered he might have been Muslim, let alone one who prayed.
‘It doesn’t apply if you’re ala safar – a traveller,’ he said smiling.
The police escorts who had trailed us up the road from Aswan had taken advantage of this particular loophole too – sneaking a crafty cigarette or sweet chai whenever they could. I supposed Turbo was not so different from those
Christians back home who only went to Church for weddings and Christmas – all he wanted to do was make an effort.
‘Come on,’ he said, ‘let’s go and join in morning prayers . . .’
How could I resist?
In Kom Ombo, the local sheikh welcomed us warmly as we followed crowds of men into the open courtyard of the town mosque. About half the men wore traditional jellabiyas, and the other half Western dress – just jeans and T-shirts. Turbo was very much in the latter camp. Around us were young men and old men, many proudly wearing a dark bruise on their foreheads from striking their heads on the floor of the mosque during prayer. ‘It’s called the alamit el salah,’ Turbo whispered. ‘The mark of prayer. Or, if you prefer it, a raisin . . .’
By the mixture of dresses, beards and raisins, there seemed to be a widespread representation of the Islamic faith here: the devout, strict adherents, as well as the more casual, pragmatic types like Turbo. Among the men, I saw several Salafists – these men, in strict traditional dress, were standing together, but somehow apart from the rest.
‘They follow the wahhabi doctrine,’ explained Turbo. ‘It comes from Saudi Arabia. There never used to be any here. My mum used to say that, in the ’60s and ’70s, no women ever wore the veil – and anyone with a beard would have been considered barmy. But it’s different now. Lots of poor Egyptians went to find work in Saudi when I was a kid, back in the ’80s and ’90s. When they came back, they looked like relics from the Middle Ages. That’s what Salafism is – they think the oldest form of Islam must be the purest. Now all the women look like . . . bloody ninjas.’
I looked at the men he was pointing out. You could spot the Salafists by their long black beards and the absence of a moustache.
‘They look like Abraham Lincoln.’ Turbo chuckled. ‘Look, you hang out over there, at the back. It’s about to begin . . .’
At Turbo’s instruction, I retreated to the back of the mosque, while he took up a spot on the front line. By the time all the men had entered, the mosque was crammed with two hundred devotees. Most had brought their own personal prayer mats, and they congregated in straight lines ten deep. At the front of the room, the Imam began the prayers – or salat – with a rhythmic recital of the raka’ah, in which the worshippers joined together in saying the Takbir. ‘Allahu Akbar!’ they cried. God is Great! As one, the crowd bent down on their hands and knees and fell to the floor, first kneeling and then pressing their foreheads to the ground. Even the old men seemed flexible enough to perform the operation with grace. The whole process was repeated countless times, interspersed with chanting from the Imam and repetitions from the congregation. It was such a mesmerising scene that I quickly lost track of time. In that moment, I deeply admired and respected the sense of purpose and community that Islam creates. Even Turbo – or, rather, Mahmoud – who was as Western a man as you could meet, seemed utterly devoted for this one moment in time.
The final prayer was uttered and the roar of ‘Amen!’ flooded across the courtyard. Everywhere, faces broke into smiles – and I could sense the eagerness with which everyone was looking forward to breaking the fast. Turbo turned to me, and slowly he opened his mouth to call me near.
Then all hell broke loose.
In a second, everything changed. No sooner had the last ‘Amen’ faded away, than two armed policemen thundered through the gates, thrusting anyone who stood in their way to one side. From the back of the mosque, I started; the policemen were heading directly for Turbo. I cried out to warn him – but, too late, they barrelled him aside, grabbing the man who had been standing behind him. Turbo twirled around, bewildered, while cries of protest went up across the mosque. The second cop desperately tried to pacify the baying crowd while the first dragged the arrested man towards the gates. On my tiptoes, I tried to see what was going on – but all I could see was Turbo waving his arms.
‘Lev, let’s get out of here!’ he screamed. ‘Fast!’
I didn’t need to be told twice. Shouldering my way through the protestors, I reached Turbo in the middle of the throng. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Muslim Brotherhood,’ he whispered. ‘Quick, before the mob turns on us . . .’
‘Why would the mob . . .?’
But, before I could finish my question, Turbo had already dragged me to the gate.
Outside, he turned to me and asked, ‘That man – did you see him?’
‘Not really. I just saw the police grab him. Who was he?’
Turbo shook his head as we hurried away from the gates. ‘Well, I was a bit suspicious. He had a black bag. Nobody brings a bag to the mosque.’
‘What was in it?’
‘I don’t know. Perhaps it was a bomb, or some guns. He must have been Muslim Brotherhood, Lev. Some of the other people were saying they didn’t know who he was, that he wasn’t from here . . .’
By now, more and more men were pouring into the mosque to find out what the commotion was. Turbo and I raced the other way, stopping only when we were clear of the place and hiding behind a house.
‘What were the crowd saying?’ I asked.
‘It was mixed – that’s why it was so dangerous. Some of them were with the police, telling them to round up more Brotherhood supporters, grassing up their neighbours . . . but some of them were actually on his side, trying to drive the police away.’
‘Why would they do that?’ I asked, confused.
‘There’s still a lot of support for the Brotherhood. Don’t forget, after the first revolution, in 2011, Egypt basically elected the Brotherhood to government. Morsi was one of their key leaders. So there are plenty of people who sympathise – people you wouldn’t expect it from either. School teachers, farmers, taxi drivers – I know plenty of people who voted for Morsi. They’re normal people, but there’s such a divide in this country, it runs through every village.’ Turbo paused, if only to catch his breath. ‘It’s lucky we escaped, Lev. Some of the men in the crowd were blaming us. They thought we’re the reason the police were there.’
‘But . . . why?’
‘Well, the police have been following us since Aswan, right? They thought we’d led them to the mosque. They were going to lynch us.’
‘Wouldn’t the police have stopped that?’
But Turbo only laughed. ‘What power do you think the police have here? That’s why they waited until the end of prayers – they just wanted to do a quick smash-and-grab. Lev, the one thing you need to know about Egypt, the one thing we learned from the revolutions, is . . . it doesn’t take long for things to get out of hand here. Every man has a gun hidden away in his home. Honour killings, revenge killings, tribal violence – if you so much as look at their wives, some of these men will disembowel you. The police rarely interfere. There are whole districts they don’t dare enter.’
‘A bit like London, then,’ I said – but underneath, I wasn’t in a jocular mood. We’d only just begun this journey into upper Egypt’s rural heart, and already I was discovering the dark side of this blighted country.
THE LONG ROAD HOME
Lower Egypt, August 2014
‘Won’t they ever go away?’ I asked.
‘Never.’ Turbo grinned, rolling in the car alongside me. ‘Do you still need to ask?’
We’d been on the road for a week since Kom Ombo, and were finally nearing the city of Luxor. Wearily, I looked over my shoulder – and, sure enough, Turbo’s wasn’t the only car tracking me. A jeep packed full of uniformed police officers was trundling just behind, at barely three miles an hour. As they’d done every step of the way, the coppers looked on in utter disbelief. ‘Are you sure you won’t jump in?’ one of them crowed, for what must have been the tenth time today. ‘Much quicker this way!’
From a different window, another chirped in, ‘We tell nobody . . . Don’t worry!’
‘Ever get tempted?’ asked Turbo.
I tried to shut out the policemen’s guffaws. The truth was, I’d been tempted on more than one occasion – especially on these lon
g stretches of agricultural road, which seemed to be communal dumping grounds for all kinds of dead animals. Yesterday, the stench of death had been unbearable as I’d slowly walked past the carcasses of rotting camels, buffalo, donkeys, dogs and cats. Flies had swarmed me – the only pedestrian for dozens of miles – and, just when I thought I was out of range, another mountain of carcasses would appear and I’d begin the rigmarole all over again. The police didn’t seem to care; they simply wound up their windows, turned on their air-conditioning and shook their heads – not at the carcasses, but at my stupidity for walking among them.
‘Not far now,’ said Turbo.
I wanted to make Luxor by nightfall, because, if I didn’t, I’d have to jump in the car with Turbo and drive back to whichever the last small town was and book into a guesthouse there. My journey through Egypt had begun at the centre of a labyrinth of bureaucracy, and from there it had only got worse. According to the rules imposed by the Egyptian authorities, I was not allowed to camp beyond the shores of Lake Nasser – so I was always ferried backward or forward, to a town where the police could put me under a twenty-four-hour guard. Sometimes we’d sleep on an empty Nile cruiser, watched over by the maritime police who’d circle my watery abode in a blow-up dinghy like an episode from some abysmal spy movie. I had to walk to a prearranged schedule, and never deviate from the route Turbo had submitted back in Aswan. The expedition had become a circus act, a kind of Orwellian charade, and I was the dancing monkey, performing for the pleasure of the Egyptian Ministry of Tourism. Every time we entered a new governorate, I’d have to go through the same theatrics of drinking tea with the governor and being presented with a plastic plaque in front of a government-approved journalist. My every move was being watched, my every word recorded, my every action noted.
