they went to a waiting area where transportation to el-Amarna was to be waiting for them. There was nothing there. Passersby looked curiously at the stranded-looking knot of Americans surrounded by videotaping gear in dented metal trunks and valises.
Forrest turned apprehensively to Phil. “I thought there was supposed to be a van to meet us.”
Phil nodded. “Sort of.”
Forrest twitched slightly. “What do you mean, sort of?”
“Sort of a van,” Phil explained.
“Well, where is it? We’re almost two hours late, why isn’t it waiting?”
“They probably went for tea when they heard we’d be late. They’ll be along.”
A tic beside Forrest’s right eye started jumping. “Now, but—look, Phil, we’re on a very tight schedule, we, we need our transportation to be right bang on time, right on the minute.”
“Then my advice is to shoot this thing in Switzerland.”
Phil said pleasantly. “Cheer up, Forrest, you know the way things work here. You ought to be used to it by now.”
“Oh, God, do I know the way they work,” Forrest said, “but I’ll never get used to it. Not in a million years will I get used to it.”
Phil smiled encouragingly at him. “Everything will work out; you can trust me.”
Forrest heaved a great, pathetic sigh, and sank down onto a metal bench. “Why do I keep doing this to myself? Why don’t I ever learn?”
But at that moment, the “sort of a van” came coughing and chugging up to meet them, with two smiling Egyptians in the front seat. It was a doddering old flatbed truck with benches bolted to the bed and a canopy rigged on top, probably used for hauling local workmen to and from their jobs.
“Christ,” said Forrest, but he wasted no time getting his equipment aboard, and within a few minutes they were on their way. They boarded the ferry to cross the Nile, then drove in the deepening twilight past dilapidated tenements, falling-down houses, and beautifully, meticulously cared-for garden plots of tomatoes, onions, wheat, and potatoes, then into the desert, and finally to their lonely destination on the east bank of the Nile. To everyone’s astonishment, and even Phil’s mild surprise, the ship was there waiting for them; a white, modern, two-level affair tied up beside a dusty, rubble-strewn embankment, boxy and welcoming in the uneven glare of a couple of wavery, generator-powered spotlights set up on the shore. On its side, in gleaming metal lettering was its name:
Menshiya.
They boarded by means of a gangplank, under the engrossed, unswerving gaze of a row of Arab men from the nearby village of el-Till. A pack of giggling,
bakshish-
demanding, sociable children (“Hello, mister! What’s you name?”) were kept ineffectually at bay by an unshaven, patently unmenacing local policeman in a frayed, untidy black uniform with a private’s stripe safety-pinned to one sleeve.
The Americans ran this lively gauntlet and reported to the dining room, where the boat’s manager, Mr. Murad Wahab, formally introduced the ship’s captain,
Reis
Ali, a ferocious-looking, weathered old man who seemed to be wondering how he’d gotten mixed up with all these infidels, and the lined-up staff, ten dark, shy, friendly men, half of whom would work on the upper deck as servers and room attendants, and the rest of them out of sight as cooks and boat crew on the lower.
Mr. Wahab then gave a short speech of welcome on behalf of the Happy Nomad Navigation Company, cordial in tone, but consisting mainly of admonitions to report to the dining room at the stated times if they wished to eat. Breakfasts would be from seven to eight o’clock, lunches from one to two, dinners from seven to eight-thirty. Exceptions would be made in cases of illness only. Tea, coffee, and biscuits would be served on the poolside terrace at ten-thirty in the morning and four in the afternoon for forty-five minutes. Guests were strongly advised not to drink or brush their teeth with water from the taps.
Forrest turned apprehensively to Phil. “I thought there was supposed to be a van to meet us.”
Phil nodded. “Sort of.”
Forrest twitched slightly. “What do you mean, sort of?”
“Sort of a van,” Phil explained.
“Well, where is it? We’re almost two hours late, why isn’t it waiting?”
“They probably went for tea when they heard we’d be late. They’ll be along.”
A tic beside Forrest’s right eye started jumping. “Now, but—look, Phil, we’re on a very tight schedule, we, we need our transportation to be right bang on time, right on the minute.”
“Then my advice is to shoot this thing in Switzerland.”
Phil said pleasantly. “Cheer up, Forrest, you know the way things work here. You ought to be used to it by now.”
“Oh, God, do I know the way they work,” Forrest said, “but I’ll never get used to it. Not in a million years will I get used to it.”
Phil smiled encouragingly at him. “Everything will work out; you can trust me.”
Forrest heaved a great, pathetic sigh, and sank down onto a metal bench. “Why do I keep doing this to myself? Why don’t I ever learn?”
But at that moment, the “sort of a van” came coughing and chugging up to meet them, with two smiling Egyptians in the front seat. It was a doddering old flatbed truck with benches bolted to the bed and a canopy rigged on top, probably used for hauling local workmen to and from their jobs.
“Christ,” said Forrest, but he wasted no time getting his equipment aboard, and within a few minutes they were on their way. They boarded the ferry to cross the Nile, then drove in the deepening twilight past dilapidated tenements, falling-down houses, and beautifully, meticulously cared-for garden plots of tomatoes, onions, wheat, and potatoes, then into the desert, and finally to their lonely destination on the east bank of the Nile. To everyone’s astonishment, and even Phil’s mild surprise, the ship was there waiting for them; a white, modern, two-level affair tied up beside a dusty, rubble-strewn embankment, boxy and welcoming in the uneven glare of a couple of wavery, generator-powered spotlights set up on the shore. On its side, in gleaming metal lettering was its name:
Menshiya.
They boarded by means of a gangplank, under the engrossed, unswerving gaze of a row of Arab men from the nearby village of el-Till. A pack of giggling,
bakshish-
demanding, sociable children (“Hello, mister! What’s you name?”) were kept ineffectually at bay by an unshaven, patently unmenacing local policeman in a frayed, untidy black uniform with a private’s stripe safety-pinned to one sleeve.
The Americans ran this lively gauntlet and reported to the dining room, where the boat’s manager, Mr. Murad Wahab, formally introduced the ship’s captain,
Reis
Ali, a ferocious-looking, weathered old man who seemed to be wondering how he’d gotten mixed up with all these infidels, and the lined-up staff, ten dark, shy, friendly men, half of whom would work on the upper deck as servers and room attendants, and the rest of them out of sight as cooks and boat crew on the lower.
Mr. Wahab then gave a short speech of welcome on behalf of the Happy Nomad Navigation Company, cordial in tone, but consisting mainly of admonitions to report to the dining room at the stated times if they wished to eat. Breakfasts would be from seven to eight o’clock, lunches from one to two, dinners from seven to eight-thirty. Exceptions would be made in cases of illness only. Tea, coffee, and biscuits would be served on the poolside terrace at ten-thirty in the morning and four in the afternoon for forty-five minutes. Guests were strongly advised not to drink or brush their teeth with water from the taps.
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