Jonathan C. Lewis
Author and Artist
Dignity on the Nile
A fictional travelogue; four minutes to read.
When a transatlantic ocean liner powers out to sea or a sightseeing ship cruises the Nile, its engines tickle the souls of my feet, tingle up my legs and wrap my body with a reassuring, no-worries bear hug. The steady churn of the ship is calming, comforting.
I’ve been aboard the AmaDahlia for nearly a week now, hanging out on deck soaking up the sun and savoring the passing shoreline. The bucolic landscape of banana and papyrus plants, acacia and jacaranda trees, small farms and dwellings, goats, cows, horses, citrus and fig trees are a movie reel. Restful. Romantic.
The Egyptians in charge of AmaWaterways, like the Germans and the Swiss, know how to stick to an itinerary. Our cruise-tour arrives on time at every port of call. For my part, the ancient Egyptian tombs, temples and pyramids have been around for 5,000 years, so what does being ‘on time’ even mean? I figure King Tut will still be dead tomorrow.
From my perch at the portside railing, I catch sight of the ship’s deckhands leaning out over the bow, pointing. The shoreline--moving closer and closer—no longer just picturesque scenery—is now a navigational hazard. The soft greenery has turned hard and dangerous. The embankment a foreboding threat to the ship’s hull.
My first thought is the ship’s engines have lost power, but the turning propellers still tremble, rumbling my bowels. Man overboard? No splash or cry for help. Taking on provisions or refueling? A dock is nowhere in sight. Maybe the rudder is fouled and needs urgent clearing. No marauding pirates. My mind is spinning faster than a Nile crocodile death-rolling its victim.
From nowhere, children come running to stare at the unfolding drama. They are shouting, waving, watching wide-eyed. A group of women appear, clustering together in their colorful hijabs and gallabiyahs.
Menfolk stand strung out along the levee, some in shouted conversation with the boat’s crew. Before it dawns on me that I don’t speak Arabic, I strain my head to hear better.
The ship comes to a controlled stop. Using the ship’s powerful diesel motors, the captain holds the ship’s bow firmly against riverbank, swirling the bottom mud and floating Nile cabbage into the current.
A gangway appears and is lowered into the water. A young Egyptian male strips to the waist, wades out to grab the gangplank and wrestles it into a steady position.
A crew member, carrying a sailor’s duffel bag, offboards hurriedly. The man doesn’t look back or bother to wave.
As soon as the man is ashore, the Amadahlia backs away, returning to the middle of the Nile. We’re moving a few knots faster than normal, making up for lost time.
The sun—still burning brightly--is turning downwards in the cloudless sky. Shadows are forming at the feet of the assembled.
Exiting the wheelhouse, the captain strides across the deck. Wearing an unadorned, white gallibaya, he carries himself with the unassuming dignity and natural nobility of a farmer or a bread-seller.
He stops to explain, “His father died unexpectedly. He needed to be home for the funeral.”
