In the armpit of an Egyptian giant

It was an interesting Sunday. I didn’t have anything in my planner, and I’d hoped to stop by the office and do some writing (in addition to picking up my sunglasses that I left last week and a copy of this month’s magazine, which I haven’t read yet). On my way to the office I was sidetracked by a visit to a Sudanese man I ran into a few days ago at a bar. He met me at the train station and I bought some small peaches and cantelopes while I waited for him. We crossed the bridge over the train tracks because I didn’t understand that was where I was supposed to meet him.

As we walked to his apartment, the conversation was mostly about how the Egyptian authorities keep tabs on him and hawk him about everything he does. He said that he doesn’t trust anyone, not even other Sudanese, who he said are the ones telling the police his whereabouts.

We went up to his apartment and a woman living in the building was questioning him about me. She said, "Who is he? Who is this guy you are with? Why is he here?" As I deciphered in my head what she was saying in Arabic, the Sudanase guy explained that I am an American who is friends with his flatmate, a doctor.

We chatted for a bit in his bedroom and sipped on tea. He gave me two CDs with video from the protest in Mustafa Mahmoud. I gave him two of the peaches I bought. He showed me his tattered yellow refugee card, issued more than two years ago as a temporary application for refugee status determination until UNHCR approves him for a more permenant blue card. His story is like many Sudanese. He fled his country for a thousand reasons and fears a return will lead to imprisonment, conscription and/or death.

Two of his friends arrived. One named Andrew, but he could never be confused a short white guy like me. Sweat was beading along his hairline and pieces of white tissue stuck to the side of his face as he blotted off the droplets. They showed me some pictures and I told them about my difficulties getting a Sudanese visa.

They are wanderers in Cairo. Without a job and a permenant home, they migrate from place to place. They can’t afford to maintain a regular residence so they rent out beds and rooms in modestly-furnished apartments. They move around so the authorities don’t always know where they’ll be. They were both eager and cautious to give me the disks with video of Sudanese refugees in Cairo. They trust me; they welcome me into their world. I don’t worry for myself; but I fear that they will be questioned for talking to me.

I left the apartment with the intention to meet them tonight at a cafe downtown where I have seen several Sudanese hang out. I decided not to go to the office. I picked up the next train home to burn copies of the video.

The train was more crowded than usual. One of the doors didn’t open fully and I didn’t notice that a man pushed up against the doorway had somehow lodged his forearm between the handle and the wall. He grimaced in pain until about three of us pulled the doors shut so he could get free and then we quickly boarded. I caught the train a few stops closer to home, which at the time seemed like the reason for the full car. I was still about 6 stops from the Sadat station, so I hoped some people would get off on the way back.

Cairo is warming up now, the winter is long gone, the spring rains have
certainly passed, and the sun is heating the mornings earlier. I looked around and noticed the man across from me was sweating profusely. The fans mounted to the walls weren’t spinning, and each station brought more passengers, not less.

One stop away from the main station, one of the few with a transfer, the car was about to explode. For most of the ride, my front, sides and back leaned against someone else. I had been continually pushed until I was now against side door. The wind shooting through the space between my car and the one behind me was like gushes from a cool oxygen tank. I looked up and saw the tallest Egyptian man I have ever seen holding his arms above my head onto the wall behind me. He stood in an akward Gumby pose, curled and bent, and the loose sleeves of his blue-green tee shirt were closer to my head than his skinny arms.

When the doors opened many passengers rushed out aggressively. I was the last of the herd to make it to the promised land, and the small pocket that had formed in front of the opening was closing fast. I tucked my arms in, put my head down, and volleyed through a sea of arms and bodies like a
pinball bouncing off rubber stumps.

I never looked so happily up the stairs of the metro into dusty beams of sunlight as I did today.