For a change of pace...I wrote this soon after my first daughter was born. It
would take an infinite number of perspectives to tell the true tale of any
experience. One Drop attempts to
recount one story from three. Structured
after its primary metaphors of a waterfall and an hourglass, the climax of One
Drop is found in the center of the story.
That which precedes and recedes from the central moment of grace attains
meaning by what we carry to and from such a moment.
Part I
There is a waterfall in the
desert. There may be more, but I have
seen one.
Fully formed I fell from the
heavens. Unlike my sisters and brothers
whose numbers are like the stars, I did not drop on the sand, haplessly exposed
to the hunger of the heat. I was fated
to join the river. My fate was salaam.
* * *
There
is a waterfall in the desert. There may
be more, but I have seen one. I can take
you there.
Allah
be praised. The German just may be my
salvation. How else was I going to
fulfill my promise to Um-Khalid, my mother-in-law? How does a woman of such influence have a
fart of a jackass for a nephew? And how
did she buy her way to such social status?
Her sister is but a poor village hag, bent over like a broken olive
tree. When I married Zein, Um-Khalid
warned me that her sister had married for love.
I, on the other hand, would treat her daughter right or else find myself
living among the garbage. So what’s all
the fuss about bringing her nephew to Cairo?
Women love their secrets better than their men. Thank God for foreigners.
* * *
There
is a waterfall in the desert. There may
be more, but I have seen one.
“This
is ‘Beit-el-Sabaah’ village; the village of the morning,” said our guide,
Ziyad. “My friend lives here and we can
break our Ramadan fast with him.”
The
three of us had been designated by our guide as The German—the one who had set
up this trip, but who was actually from Holland; the American Bedu—my
brother-in-law who had lived in Jordan for the first twelve years of his life
and spoke fluent Arabic; and I was Frenchie, as I happened to be wearing a
beret that day and had been given a francophone name by my Swiss mother. Leaving our car near the road, we walked
through the cultivated fields, observing the irrigation systems powered by
donkeys. Most of those whacking the
donkeys’ asses were young boys whose agility when mounting their practical
steeds was impressive. Ziyad had a
package wrapped in newspaper under his armpit as he walked, happily chatting
about the status of the fields and the prosperity of this excellent
village. The package was the same one he
had stuffed under The German’s seat, who was driving as we passed a checkpoint
manned by interrogating guards. As
tourists we were given relatively little hassle.
* * *
True
salaam approaches eternity. One may
drift for years but it is only a single moment, a single action. Only the wind is restless in the desert.
* * *
Some
like to gossip and say I only know how to make easy and unreliable money, but
they are simply jealous. I cannot forget
how everyone laughed when I chose to study English instead of business. But the world is changing and I have a knack
for sniffing out the right winds. If
only Zein would believe in my ability.
She is a conniver and has found out my plan. I had to make her swear not to tell her
mother, but she thinks I am a crazy fool all the same—especially now that The
German has invited two friends. Well,
piss on her and her mother. They will
see what I can do. I will fetch this
wretched nephew and have myself a time with my friend Mahmoud all while being
paid as a guide. The plan is so
beautiful, even Allah must look down and chuckle. The only challenge will be The German’s
friend, the American Bedu. Like me, he
understands both Arabs and Westerners.
This is dangerous. The other one
is only a pretty boy who married the Bedu’s sister and is full of himself
because he got her pregnant on their wedding night.
* * *
Passing
through the fields, we suddenly came out in front of an open expanse of
water. After driving for miles through
utterly barren desert, the lake made me giddy.
I half expected to see a melting clock hanging from some gnarled
driftwood. Several hundred yards out, an
egret stood on one leg only thigh deep.
The sun was low and just to the side of the bird, reflecting a long,
corrugated, orange path to the edge of the water.
“I
don’t get it,” I said to my brother-in-law.
“What’s this doing here?”
“Pharaonic
engineers,” came the answer. “They
channeled flood water from the Nile thousands of years ago. I think it’s older than the pyramids.”
I
gave him my touristy “oh-of-course” nod.
Why wouldn’t water be as permanent as stone in the desert?
“The
sun has nearly set,” piped in Ziyad and began walking back through the fields
away from the lake.
* * *
Salaam.
* * *
Mahmoud
is a teacher. He teaches many of the
village children simple English phrases when they are allowed such
luxuries. He understands which way the
wind blows these days. He also
understands what a ‘good time’ really is.
That is why we are such fast friends.
I knew it would only take a few good puffs on the sheesha for him
to see what a riot it would be accompanying the foreigners to see the
oasis. They even want to sleep out
there. Do they think deserts are always
hot? But Mahmoud and I know just the
place to take them when they realize sleeping out there is ridiculous. Being the culturally sensitive kind, they
would not dream of not accepting our hospitality. Hell, they did not eat anything all day, just
to respect Ramadan.
* * *
We
had eaten our supper with bread and hands and the tea had been poured. The religious observance and rural life were
romantically appealing in their seamless interaction. With the tea also came the sheesha, and that
precious little package was opened so that its contents could be added to the
apple tobacco. Our guide and his teacher-friend
soon became quite jolly. I was too
suspicious of what was being smoked, but the others accepted the water bong
with happy cordiality. We were soon back
in our car, the anticipation of the oasis now punctuated with hilarity.
When
we arrived we were intercepted by several agitated Arabs in their faded-blue gallabiyyeh’s. The oasis was not open at this time of night,
we were told. We would have to return
tomorrow. From the amused interpretation
of my brother-in-law, it was evident that Ziyad was playing the social status
card. These pathetic excuses for guards
were explicitly told that they needed to piss off or Ziyad would personally
shove their faces in their respective asses.
Mahmoud found the whole situation entirely too funny.
* * *
In
the hourglass the purpose of a single grain of sand is realized in a fleeting
instant, simply by crossing a threshold.
There is a moment, even in eternity, which one spends forever building
to, and another forever resolving from.
Even space funnels its great expanses to a tiny, infinitesimal
point. It’s as if were we to only
squeeze enough quantity like a lemon-half, we would eventually wring out a true
and pure drop of quality. In our galaxy
there may be only one solar system that can sustain life; and only one planet
of that solar system harbors sentient beings.
And only after billions of years has life evolved to the point of
creating a mind that can throw its own contemplative shadow back over the
vastness of an infinite universe.
* * *
To
think of it. I have met many foreigners
over the years, but they so often surprise me still. I had not figured out what they had been
carrying in their large duffel bags. I
dared not guess, for foreigners can be as peculiar as women. Yet when Mahmoud and I explained how it was
getting too cold to stay out and that we knew of a place to sleep, they began
pulling heavy wool blankets from their bags.
Arabs know when they have lost an argument, and as the tenth blanket was
revealed, we roared with laughter at our defeat.
* * *
Out
in the desert I fell once more.
Water. Fall. An echo of my birth. I was flung free of the whole. An individual once more, aware of movement,
of myself, and of the space that separated me from the body of water that I
would return to once my brief, defining flight was complete.
* * *
Under
the brilliant stars, I sat with my brother-in-law, smoking our Camels as we
contemplated the pool of water whose surface was disturbed by a waterfall no
taller than ourselves. The ceaseless
churning of falling water carved out the space of silence in our minds. I don’t know what the American Bedu heard in
that silence, but that river brought many voices across the desert to me. I heard reckless children playing in the
innumerable waterways in the heart of Africa.
I heard the over-crowded streets of Cairo; a terrific churning of lives
poured together, coagulating into the massive body that we name ‘city’. I heard the flattering trust of my lover as
she opens body and heart for me to pierce with wholehearted, awkward love. And I heard the indignant cries of my
daughter, born only days after I returned from the oasis.
Then
the voices were gone. To be heard only
in memory, if at all. I reached down and
scooped up a handful of water. I
hesitated, looking over at my brother-in-law.
He wrinkled his nose as if to say he wouldn’t trust the sanitation of
the water. I stuck my tongue out, down
to my cupped palm. One drop would be
enough.
Part II
Salaam.
* * *
I
am sure they saw through the façade, but they cooperated very politely. I am not sure whether to be thankful or
insulted. I suppose it makes no
difference. I have fulfilled my duty to
Um-Khalid and the foreigners will still pay me in full. Besides, it was great to see Mahmoud.
* * *
Arabs
may be good liars, but after enough absurd explanations even tourists grow
suspicious. Ziyad insisted we had to see
an ancient pyramid that few tourists ever saw.
Of course when we got there, it was the wrong hours and instead of timid
villagers in gallabiyyeh’s blocking our entrance, these guards had military
fatigues and rifles to match. There was
no social card to play there. Still,
Ziyad pestered The German until he took some pictures from outside the fence,
thus validating Ziyad’s role as a guide.
It was only a hop, skip, and numerous potholes to an obscure village we
were then led to. Men, women, children,
and donkeys near the roadside all paused in mid-action to see this strange
entourage penetrating their sluggish, rural life. The fields were not nearly as healthy as
those of the Morning village, and the scars of a hard life showed through their
deep, leathery wrinkles.
Ziyad
kept stealing glances at our expressions to see if we were growing angry at
this strange new turn of events. But
hell, this was the real Egypt, and we felt honored to see such a naked view. We stopped at a thatched house where tea was
being readied for us, having been forewarned by the children who had ran ahead
of us to announce our arrival. Getting
out of the car, we were greeted by the oldest looking creature I have ever
seen. Gnarled like some tormented olive
tree, the old woman was bent at the waist, her back permanently parallel to the
ground. She had to crane her head to the
side and as far back as she could, just to get a glance at our faces from the
corner of her eye. She greeted us with a
toothless mumble and then hobbled away.
* * *
Salaam.
* * *
You
should have seen Frenchie on the ride back home. Squished between the American Bedu and my
wife’s cousin, he gripped the back of my seat until his knuckles were
white. The German is a push-over, so
when we came to the highway back to Cairo, I persuaded him to let me
drive. In America, only cars share the
road. But in Egypt we have donkeys,
pedestrians, bicycles, busses, and the wild ones like myself. I drive like Mohammed (may Allah’s peace be
on him) rode to war. And Frenchie looked
ready to shit his pants.
* * *
I
just wanted to get home in one piece or I knew my wife, nine months pregnant,
would never forgive me. But a two-lane
road divided into five, with objects of varying speed from 2 mph up to 55 mph, all
vying for right-of-way, is enough to give one a heart attack even if you don’t
end up with a donkey hoof impaled through your gut. This highway was indeed a main artery for the
city, and the size of the loads of produce carried by human, beast, and machine
defied laws of physics, each unit performing a miraculous feat of balance. Ziyad was hamming it up, using his horn as
often as he spoke, trying to get glimpses of our expressions as he navigated
the confluent traffic. We had already
just evaded certain death numerous times when The German decided a little
revenge was in due order. Halfway to
Cairo, he switched with Ziyad and took the wheel. The car shot off and plunged directly into
the eddies and swirls and chaos of the mad highway.
“Slow
down!” screamed Ziyad incredulous.
“Don’t you see that man on the bicycle?!”
The
German looked over casually and smiled, zipping by the cyclist, clearing the
man’s back-fender cargo of chickens and garlic by no more than ten inches. On our left a monster of a bus, blaring its
horn, nearly brushed our flank with its huge wheels close enough to be touched
if we were to stick out an arm. We all
laughed and even Ziyad joined in good-naturedly. The German sped on faster, the pedestrians
and slower traffic now only a blur of color and noise.
“Where
the hell did you learn to drive?” Ziyad said wide-eyed.
“I’m
German right?” came the answer. “Haven’t
you ever heard of the ‘autobahn’?”
* * *
Salaam.
* * *
“Maa-el-Salaameh”
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