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 ship cruises the Nile, its engines tickle the souls of my feet, tingle up my legs and wrap around my body. The steady churn of the ship is calming, comforting, a reassuring, no-worries bear hug.
I’ve been aboard the AmaDahlia for nearly a week now, hanging out on deck soaking up the Egyptian sun and savoring the passing shoreline. The bucolic landscape of banana and papyrus plants, acacia and jacaranda trees, small farms and mud-brick dwellings, goats, cows, horses, citrus and fig trees scroll like a movie reel played at half speed. Restful. Romantic.
The Egyptian crews in charge of AmaWaterways, like the Germans and the Swiss, know how to stick to a schedule. We arrive on time at every port of call.
Since the Egyptian tombs, temples and pyramids have been around for five millennia, as a teacher of high school history, I find myself wondering what does being ‘on time’ even mean? After all, King Tut will still be dead tomorrow.
One afternoon, cruising south of Luxor, from my perch at the portside railing, I catch sight of the ship’s deckhands leaning out over the bow, excitedly pointing. The shoreline—coming closer and closer—is no longer just picturesque scenery, but 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 clearing. 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 powerful diesel motors, the captain holds the ship’s bow firmly against riverbank, swirling the bottom mud and churning Nile cabbage out into the current.
A gangway appears and is lowered. Onshore, a young Egyptian male strips to the waist, wades out to grab the gangplank and wrestles it into a steady position.
Down the improvised walkway, a crew member slinging a sailor’s duffel bag over his shoulder offboards. The man doesn’t look back or wave, just moves with urgent purpose toward the waiting villagers.
An elderly woman—too old to be a wife or sister—steps out from the crowd. They hug, their cheeks touching briefly.
The Amadahlia backs away, returning to midstream. 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 dispersing crowd.
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 seasoned farmer or a skilled bread-maker. He stops near me, meeting my questioning gaze.
“His father died unexpectedly,” he explains. “He needed to be home for the funeral.”
