Discovering Egypt: Personal narrative

Emily Schaumann

Lori Steadman

Writing 150

 November 29, 2015

Discovering Egypt

I braced for impact as we hit the landing strip. Out my window was a vast swath of desert and through the window on the other side of the plane I could see sprawling, bustling Cairo, the same color as the endless sand that threatened to bury it. We would only be in Cairo for a short time before heading to Luxor, but I wanted to see the pyramids. As we walked out of the airport, I saw a glimpse of them and ran ahead to get a better view, bumping into passerby. When I finally ran up to where I could get a better view, I realized that what I thought was had been the pyramids was simply the pointed top of a hotel. Disappointed, I headed back towards my family, angrily deflecting a hawker selling street food. 

“Don’t worry,” said my mom. “We’ll see the pyramids. But this afternoon we have to head to Luxor.” And so we did, and arrived in Luxor tired, hungry, and already dusty, soon realizing that there was no escaping the dust that pervaded the air.

“Good morning,” I heard behind me. I turned around to see a man step out of the crowd of Arabs, a head taller than the rest, and inadvertently stepped back before realizing his attention was directed toward my father. 

“My name is Samir Abbass. I will be your tour guide for the week. And your name is?” 

“Erik Schaumann,” my father responded. Samir repeated the name, pronouncing it with surprising ease, and then asked each of our names, repeating them in his Arabic accent. 

And off we headed to the Egyptian museum in our clunky van, the only thing that would hold all 8 of my family plus Samir and the driver. Samir pointed out the landmarks and beautiful buildings as we passed them, but I zoned out, staring out the window of the masses of people with dark skin and long robes, upset that my mom wouldn’t let me read my book.

The Egyptian museum was, I had to admit, fascinating. Even Anna, who usually seemed determined to not enjoy anything she was subjected to, soon dropped the moody teenage persona we were used to seeing, and wandered over to the mummies, exclaiming ‘Just think, these were actual people, who lived and breathed and had families and favorite colors and secret crushes and were afraid of death. I wonder what they would have thought of us gawking at their corpses three thousand years after they’d died.’ 

Samir made up stories about them, based on the hieroglyphics on their coffins. One was a noblewoman, he deciphered, and he spun a tale about her being killed after she chased after her cat into the busy street. One was a young prince, who had only been 7 when he died from a mysterious disease. “See the coins in his coffin?” Samir said. “See his gold-lined sarcophagus? This boy lived in luxury.” Samir sent my youngest siblings on treasure hunts to find specific artifacts around the museum, and described to my parents what the hieroglyphs on the walls meant.

On the way home, I looked up from my book, my attention distracted by the tense atmosphere from the front seat. I saw Samir talking in earnest while my parents listened tersely. What were they talking about? I inched closer to listen.

"I had decided to infiltrate the protesters, so I snuck towards Tarir square, trying to stay out of sight of the police. I was almost there when I saw the flames coming from the direction of the Egyptian museum, and suddenly my plan was forgotten in the face of this new catastrophe; Was the museum on fire? I dashed towards it, feeling the air get hotter with every step, until I was at the museum and, with a breath of relief saw that it was not the museum that was on fire, but the building next to it."

"My relief was short-lived, though, and was replaced with dread as I realized that the museum was in terrible danger - the fire would soon spread, and even if it didn't there were no guards protecting it- anyone could damage it or steal the ancient artifacts. So back out into the rioting streets I went, to search desperately for something that could put out the fire, and recruiting anyone I could find to protect the museum."

As Samir continued, I wondered what he had experienced and why. Did he not fear for his life? Or if not for his own life, the fact that sacrificing his life would mean abandoning his family? It was just a museum, I thought to myself. Containing artifacts, things. Certainly no-one would risk their life to protect objects. But Samir went on with his story, never mentioning concern for his safety, just that of the museums and the relics inside it. There must have been something I was missing.

Later in the afternoon, my dad and I went out to walk around Luxor. We walked past a dusty family of four piled on a puttering moped, two men leading a donkey loaded down with reeds through the streets, one talking animatedly and the other laughing at his friend’s story, and dozens of owners of the hundreds of enormous but empty boats on the river trying to convince us to take a day trip down the Nile. Samir had told us how 5 years ago, before the revolution, Luxor had been a bustling hub of tourists, and every boat that was now perpetually tied to the bank, paint peeling, would have been filled with lights and food and music.

“Excuse me, sir,” said a young Egyptian. “Will you and daughter like to ride in my carriage?” My father politely declined, and continued walking. I followed suit.

“Please, ten Egyptian pound only for one ride around Luxor. The price is not much because no business. See? Luxor is empty. No-one ride my carriage. 1 US Dollar only, please!” 

As my dad declined again, a little more firmly, I studied the young man’s face, wondering what his life had been like 5 years ago, in the heyday of Luxor. If his now bony horses had been plump and glossy, if he had lines of tourists waiting for his carriage. Did he participate in the Tahrir square riots? If he had, would he have known what effect they would have on his livelihood? If he had known, would he still have rioted? I wondered at how different his life was from mine as we turned to head back to the hotel.

Central message: Because of Samir and specifically his story I began to see and care about each person as a person instead of simply part of a larger group/culture.