Wanderlust

The gem of our trip to Aswan is a sixty-year-old. His name is Ismael.

“That’s I-Smile,” he explained. “My mother said I was born with a smile on my face.” He laughs. “I haven’t stopped!”

Earlier today, we flew from Cairo to Aswan to catch a Nile cruise. The cruise basically involves lounging aboard a floating hotel for two days. Cruising the section of Nile between Aswan to Luxor was traditionally done aboard a graceful felucca with swallow wing sails, but, as Egyptian proverb puts it, the one who voyages the Nile feluccas must have sails made of patience. Lacking the time to test said sails, we chose a typical cruise ship, which provides food, entertainment, and a wide Astroturf roof deck on top.

The cruise-ships’ 10,000-horsepower engines can propel khaki-legged tourists to Luxor in a matter of hours. In order to extend the cruises—and get a feel for the Nile’s famous languor—tour companies have the boats dock at destination cities for many hours, including overnights. It is common to see battalions of floating hotels belch diesel fumes onto lovely Nilefront corniches (waterfront walkways), speedo’d and pale tourists lounging on top, lacking interest and access to the more chaotic world outside the ship.

But chaos implies chance, which, done right, leads to fortune. Which is where Ismael comes in. We are killing time watching the sunset from Geziret el-Nabatat Gardens in Aswan, a tranquil, green retreat minutes from the polluted corniche, when he walks up behind us, a grinning Nubian man in a white tunic and turban.

My first instinct, brought on by relentless touts, is to ignore him. One blink later, I feel a rare and innate goodness emanate around him. His genuine enthusiasm eddies around him in gentle whorls, drawing us in, overriding chatter, noise, and tourist headaches.

“I just retired from 35 years as a diving instructor,” he explains after introducing himself. His eyes twinkle. “I spent so much time underwater. Now that I am retired, I want to make up for all the time I didn’t talk.”

He invites us to his ancestral home, a traditional Nubian affair with cooling mud walls and stairways that look up to the stars. This 300-year-old compound has lived Ismael’s family’s history, witnessed births and deaths, absorbed generations of tea circles, children at play, big, fresh meals crafted in a simple kitchen. Its walls radiate a sense of calm familiarity. Time slows.

It is here, over homebrewed cinammon-ginger tea, that Ismael shares the kaleidoscopic stories of his life. His tales weave a rich inner life offset by the simplicity of his surroundings: A night spent alone inside the tomb of Giza’s second pyramid, quaking in his sandals at the alien howling of the wind. Riding a motorbike through the open desert to Sudan with a bunch of Germans and losing several turbans in the process. Falling asleep on one bank of the Nile, dreaming that he turned into a beam of light, and waking up on the opposite bank. It’s the stuff of fairytales, or biographies.

Night after night, Ismael invites foreigners like us into his home. He is motivated only by the urge to share his life and culture and make new friends. His experiences are religious; ever-expanding whirling dervishes that deepen his connection with life itself. As a listener, I felt like his stories had, instead of merely being told, been lovingly etched into the fiber of my Egypt memories.

Ismael’s memories became our own. They are shared pieces of his human experience, which mirrors the human experience.  Our chance encounter opened us up to Ismael’s stunning world, reminding us that the best stories are not heard, they are received. They bear not only words, but new memories. And, most powerfully, stories are not experienced by one person alone. We share them, keeping them alive by connecting, relating, and retelling them.

Thank you, Ismael.