A Kindred Spirit

by Khushbu Soni (Iraq)

Making a local connection Egypt

When I travel, I go home. I collect people, their characters and their strengths. I saw her wearing a bright red scarf, just lie all the other women in her country. She was in her comfortable walking sneakers and jasmine pants. And she looked so young. She was late. ‘But that’s how the locals are’, they said. I was waiting for a call from my guide of the day. I had insisted I wanted to go local, to see the real Cairo, to eat like a resident. Apprehension is often a tool of the unknown. Also, this was making her go right out of her comfort zone. “No car? “, she was shocked, her face falling at the long day awaiting her, “But you are alone.”. I said, “We should be good. Be my friend.” I pushed, smiling, hoping the trick would work. Over the years, I’ve realised one thing, some smiles kill and some simply convince. I guess that day mine was the latter. Her brows crinkled, then suddenly her eyes twinkled, she smiled and said, “Come. Let’s see MY Cairo, my friend.’ I sighed in relief. I thought I had won. I was in for a ride. She had met me at Tahrir Square. She caught my hand tight and started walking towards the metro station below ground, manoeuvring the crowds going to work, school children running and tumbling on the way, the security checks and towards the long queue at the ticket stations. I remember she spoke to me all through the way to the Giza and the pyramids. In the metro, then the cab we took, the horse cart ride between the Pyramids and Sphinx, the tuk-tuk, the van and on the way back. She spoke about her studies, her children, her marriage. She spoke about her love for India, her knowledge of Yoga surpassed even mine. Her continual strife with keeping up with the latest news and discoveries from Egyptian archaeological department. The sight of the Great Pyramid at Giza left me spellbound. Majestic, timeless, still. Fascinated by the techniques of construction and spaces created within, I didn’t even notice that I was claustrophobic in the dingy tomb of the pharaohs or parched when I came out in the heat. She had to repeat most things twice because I could not take my focus away from the grand beauties long enough. I was told I would take about an hour to see the Great Pyramids at Giza and the Sphinx. I took three. She waited patiently like she had all the time in the world. But what I remember most is her constant smile. Her aspirations. Her hospitality. “I’m hungry “, I told her. She treated me to an amazing lunch of falafel, foul, fresh pita and juicy salad. I saw most of the city that day. Not the architectural wonders, but how the people live. The rush-hour traffic, the women chattering about the long day ahead, sharing recipes and gossip. Small farm vendors, selling their goods on the pavements near the railway stations. That day she showed me not only the physical and visual Cairo that travellers talk of, but she showed me the rhythm of the city. What makes Cairo breathe, what makes Her alive and what Her people believe. “You are a strong woman. Call me when you reach home”, she said as she hugged me late in the evening and waved goodbye. She was my friend. She showed me home. I thought I had won. But in reality, it was she, who had won me over. Being a local in a new country would be about knowing their language, dressing up to blend into the public around you, behaving the way they would, using gestures they connect with, eating and drinking what they would. But being a local is also about walking the streets, not taking random photographs and being local is mostly just about connecting to the places and people you go to. It is about creating people and relationships in the city who could bail you out of your situations. It is about creating homes. When I travel, I go home. I collect people, their characters and their strengths.