Egypt in 13 Hours

The weight of my concerns with traveling to Eritrea lied with retrieving luggage once it reached Asmara, but I had almost 17 hours and (two) time difference delays ahead of me, so all that anxiety had to be queued.

The journey began once I landed in Gibtsi.

Thirteen hours in Egypt was enthralling. And bumpy, literally. Egypt Airlines hooked myself, my mother, sister and other families with a tour guide in less than an hour. Since dinner was six hours away, and there was only so many hours in half a day — showering triumphed sightseeing and an hour later, I was on the highways of Cairo — meaning I was on the continent’s soil after 15 years.

One reappearing image I noticed out of the van’s side window was the tower of sand heaped on the middle or side of the road. (But I already knew this.) Sitting in the window seat on the plane ride there, I got a lustrous look at Egypt’s distinct trait and seeing it 1,000 feet in the air failed to prepare me from witnessing the astonishment on the ground.

The sand or Hutsa I saw indicated the level of inactive construction work there. Even my mother spoke of the brilliant Egyptians who have fallen under Africa’s doomsday: severely high unemployment.

Our driver, Mohammed (not confirmed spelling), sped past other vehicles as if he’d been trying to lose the cops in a chase. What I saw was somewhat reckless, or lawless. With fourteen passengers in the vehicle, everyone gasped at a woman covered in an abaya carrying a baby -without a helmet- on the back of a motorcycle.

I mean, how’d she see past all that dust?, I thought. And the moment a car on the side of us almost crashed into ours. “You’re in Egypt,” said our tour guide, who shot a look at us and chuckled.

As risky as this might seem, Egyptair exceeded my predictions and provided us with care, going and returning. With the discontinuation of Lufthansa, which goes directly from North America to Eritrea, there weren’t really any other options to choose from. An alternative was to fly via Yemen Air, which sounds as sketchy as it reads in print. I’m not writing to bash any airline company or deter one from choosing it, but here’s the things I heard from others who’ve flown Yemen in the past. ‘They took my passport,’ ‘It’s a crazy place to be in. I saw men drive past us with AK-47s. You just didn’t know what was going to happen.’ And one more account: ‘They weren’t telling us anything. And they didn’t feed us for sometime,’ said another diaspora who took that option this summer.

So Egypt sounded like the safest option, and that’s what my mother, sister and I chose to take. Now, the reason to travel to Eritrea was to see her again, after a 15-year separation. I wasn’t reluctant to even disclose this fact in private out of embarrassment and guilt of not going there soon.

By late May, the flights were booked and I still had a month and a half left to complete my spring internship with the International Center for Journalists in Washington D.C. I almost had this sensation once learning that I’d be there for nearly two months because it meant I’d be out of New York City, my hometown, for another two months. It also derailed another job search for two months.

Being away from New York City gave me sanctuary and a new city to love. Without it as a distraction, who knows what type of thoughts about Eritrea would’ve spruced up. Maybe, how would the locals perceive me and my American accent? Or if locals would get offended that I couldn’t speak the language well? What if my grandmother didn’t recognize me? And if my family failed to understand me altogether? I bought maps, too. Would they help me out in anyway?

Egypt acted as yet another interference in these thoughts. Egypt could’ve easily been the last sign to say that these things didn’t matter and they won’t matter because I belonged in Eritrea, with family, neighbors, locals and other children of the diaspora. What enrichened my experience those thirteen hours in Egypt more fruitful were the people with me. My family, a young Catholic priest, a mom from Minnesota and a couple and their two kids, whom were all Eritreans on the same flight as us. The others were White Americans en route to Kenya. So there I was, with Eritreans and Americans, among my people. I already felt like I was home.

We entered El Giza, the site of the Pyramids, about an hour later and I got to see the oldest of the Giza Pyramids. Wheezing for air, jotting notes on my phones and taking photos of everything I thought was worthy of one was overwhelming. I even climbed down a tunnel, with a downward stairwell of wood holding up my frame. It was too dark to actually think straight but I was able to discern history as I was tasting it. Realizing that I couldn’t make this moment last forever, or forecast these feelings once I had reached Eritrea, it was a layover that I’d never forget.

My favorite part of the tour was overcoming the fear of riding a camel. I missed my first chance of doing it, and then felt compelled to ask the other Americans in the van what I had missed out on. Honestly, it didn’t take much convincing because I wanted the famed tourist photo in front at Giza. I agreed to climb the gemel (italics) and sit on its hump, long enough, to have my photo taken. The tour guide, photographer (a traveler) and the herder were all in on it, until it began moving. Once the herder, a young Egyptian who spoke English fluently, tugged at his camel signaling it to walk farther away from our car, I squealed, “Oh it’s moving!” Good times.