What I Learned at Dawn on the Nile River
How to stop eating that big, nasty, hate-filled enchilada and take a cool dive in healing waters
Dear PharJoes, Pharettes, and Fair Pharts of all kinds:
“Pssst! Re-post your newsletter from Egypt. Re-post, I say. Re-pooooost!”
My Muse whispered that command in my ear all last week as Fabi walked through Scotland. But why? Why, why, why are you tormenting me so, O Muse?!?
Upon our return, I learned about the horrible attack in the U.S. State of Colorado by an Egyptian man. Then, my mission became clear — I am to repost the newsletter, originally written in November 2022, as part of my never-ending fight against bigotry.
Bigotry, sayeth thou? Yay, my friend.
Bigotry is not a word we hear often nowadays, even though it exists in spades. It’s kind of like racism, sexism, fascism, libtardism, ageism and and all those other nasty isms wrapped up into one big fat, ugly hate-filled enchilda, and then topped with a toxic sauce made from xenophobia, Islamophobia, homophobia, and the wide range of phobias known to man.
Bigotry is a lot to choke down, so I wrote this simple poem about it last year, just to give you a bitter taste of it:
When I was born
My nature loved
All people like my brother
When I grew old
I learned to hate
and I hate none more than “the Other”
Our shirts are white
For all that’s pure
The Others’ shirts are red
And for that cause
And that cause alone
I wish the Other dead
“The Other” is anyone, be he foreign or domestic, whose values and culture are foreign to yours. He could be someone from your own country or the other side of the world. He’s just different, and you don’t understand him.
There’s a good book about The Other by Ryszard Kapuściński, one of my favorite travel writers, in case you want to know more. It’s called… wait for it… “The Other.”
Novel, ain’t it?
No, I get it. It’s hard not to feel anger, even hatred, toward people who contribute to or, worse, outright commit violence. I struggle with those feelings myself.
But we must resist those dark compulsions. The way to understand any person, and especially those we find alien or strange, is with love.
For that reason (and to appease my Muse) I reposted below the newsletter I wrote about a trip Fabi and I took “down" into southern Egypt, near the border with Sudan, while at the same time going “up" the Nile River, which flows south to north.
That trip is behind me now, but apparently not the idea of going down to go up. I find that paradox beautifully expressed in Richard Rohr’s book “Falling Upward: A Spirituality for the Two Halves of Life.”
Rohr’s sweet little read is all about a truth I’ve been hammering on for years (a pun I’ll explain later) — how the “bad” things that happened to us (the “little deaths,” as I refer to them in my book “Blue Skyways”) are portals into a new, more expansive, fulfilling, and adventurous life, away from bigotry and toward love.
Sometimes we are shoved through those doors, as I was, and sometimes, if we are wise, we walk through them willingly. Either way, passing through is better than falling into the pit of hatred, or tucking tail and running back into the old “safe” world.
Enough pontifying. Below are the words I wrote in Egypt one dawn morning in November 2022 while gazing out at the glassy Nile. It’s what I saw… from the balcony.
From the Balcony
I am presently sitting on the balcony of my hotel overlooking the Nile River. It’s early, just past dawn. The only man-made sound I hear is the train to Cairo in the distance, its low, rumbling engines, barely audible, pierced by an occasional blast of the air horn. Otherwise, I hear only birdsong — the soft coo of the morning dove, the cackling squawk of the white stork, the merry chirp of tiny lime-green birds playing in the mahogany trees towering over the banks of the mighty river.
Since the many watermen who usually ply these waters on their colorful boats have yet to rise, the water is glassy smooth. The air is soft and cool. Fabi is still asleep.
We are fortunate. Although our hotel is exceedingly humble, the owner is a gracious and kind Nubian man who served us one of the most delicious dinners we have had since arriving in Egypt a little over a week ago: grilled tilapia fish caught fresh that day, oven baked bread, and my favorite, a tajine (earthenware pot) of stewed vegetables. The spices the cook (our host’s sister) used are a mystery, but Egyptian food is script-dilly-icious!
My balcony faces west, so the rising sun illuminates the towering dunes on the far side of the river, crested with the crumbling structures of ancient tombs and monasteries. Over the dunes lies the barren desert stretching 1000 miles to the border with Libya. There is an oasis somewhere in the middle. Otherwise, there is nothing but sand.
We have been repeatedly warned by the locals about the danger in the desert from the small but highly venomous horned viper. Our Innkeeper, who holds a Master’s degree in agricultural science, informed us that there is no recovery from a bite. Once bitten, death within 30 minutes is inevitable.
But not all his counsel was so dire. When Fabi was feeling a bit under the weather, our gracious and kind Egyptian Innkeeper made a tonic tea from local plants, and soon enough, Fabi was feeling better.
It’s been said that nothing focuses the mind quite like the prospect of a hanging. What would you do if you had only 30 minutes to live? Who would you call? What would you say? What conversation would you have with yourself, or with your God? These are questions on my mind as the soft dawn light brightens and the train wails in the far off. I am safe on the balcony, I think. No vipers here. Death is far off.
Or is it?
I hear the rippling of water now, and I wonder about its source, so I peer over the balcony and see half a dozen ducks at the edge of the water, busily feeding on something below the surface I cannot see. Their presence is yet another metaphor for life: there is so much good food waiting for us just below the surface, but we cannot see it without sticking our heads underwater. We cannot fully nourish our souls without going to an inhospitable place...without taking a risk.
This truth is wonderfully expressed in a poem about rivers and risk by the great Kahlil Gibran.
It is said that before entering the sea
a river trembles with fear.
She looks back at the path she has traveled,
from the peaks of the mountains,
the long winding road crossing forests and villages.
And in front of her,
she sees an ocean so vast,
that to enter
there seems nothing more than to disappear forever.
But there is no other way.
The river can not go back.
Nobody can go back.
To go back is impossible in existence.
The river needs to take the risk
of entering the ocean
because only then will fear disappear,
because that’s where the river will know
it’s not about disappearing into the ocean,
but of becoming the ocean.
To the Western eye, Elephantine Island, where I am now, is deeply impoverished. There are no paved streets; in fact, there are no streets or cars at all. The island is a labyrinth of narrow earthen paths twisting and turning through crumbling stone walls and lopsided half-finished houses.
There is no modern infrastructure here, in fact, I am surprised that we even have electricity. The hotel claims to have Wi-Fi, but I have yet to find it. I am only able to stay connected by the benefit of a satellite far out in space.
But there is love here… family, friendship, hospitality to strangers like Fabi and me. There is kindness. There are good people, mostly good. There are few reasons to be afraid, and many that bring joy.
That’s what I saw from the balcony in Egypt.
Navigating Across Cultures
Egypt surprised me. It isn’t at all like what I expected it to be. It is, in fact, much better. I had heard so many warnings about food poisoning, the stifling bureaucracy, wild-eyed terrorists, and the dastardly cunning of the people, but I did not experience any of that.
Sure, the street vendors are plenty pushy, annoyingly so, but if you learn the secret of firmly saying la shukran (no thanks), they give up and go away with a polite “have a good day.” It’s one of the skills one learns when accommodating a foreign culture.
Fabi and I have had a lot of good conversations between us about accommodating foreign cultures. She is, as you know, Italian, and I am an American. We live in Türkiye. As man and wife, we must accommodate each other’s cultures in the context of an international marriage, plus the culture of our host country, which is foreign to both of us. It makes for some amusing moments!
What I Am Learning
The longer I live, the more I have come to believe that many of the conflicts I see in my own country are the result of cultural intolerance, of some American people unwilling to accommodate another American people’s culture. Sadly, some politicians fan those flames of division and prey on the charred results, for to divide is to conquer, and to conquer is to control.
Since so many of the countries I visit are still shaking off the chains of colonization, I tend to view what’s happening in the U.S. as a form of Neo-colonization. At the end of this letter, I’ll provide links to some of my additional thoughts on that matter, should you be so interested.
That's a Wrap!
The first boat has appeared, causing ripples in the Nile. I spy a man leading a camel down the soft slopes of the dunes. The desert hills dwarf them as they walk into the sunrise.
A small grey and white bird is perched on the wooden mast of a boat, watching, watching. His breakfast lies below the surface. A daring dive, a splash, and the bird flies off with a small, silver fish wriggling in his beak — the nourishing reward for leaving his world for another.
Fabi has risen and given me the first kiss of the day, with many more to come, I am sure. It is time to start our day.
Thank you for staying with me. I would love to hear your thoughts on this essay, or any of my other scrivenings. Please use the comments or send me a private message. I read them all and respond to most.
Until then…
Additional Stuff
Sheesh! As if my long newsletters aren't punishment enough!
What You Hammering On?
And what about the hammer pun I lofted on you at the beginning of this letter? Oh yeah. It refers to my short essay The Hammer of God, which I recommend reading this if you have an extra moment.
Corny Country
I occasionally still make music as I did with my corny cover of Josh Turner's song Your Man. Be sure to see the trigger warnings!
Winter Train Ride
Sometimes I am smart enough to let others make the music, as I did with this nine-minute film of the trip through northern Türkiye Fabi and I took last winter. The film is, by my own admission, somewhat depressing. The musical score was supplied by the French electronic duet Invisible Kaos Outside.
Underwater Color
Prefer something warmer? How about a three-minute video of the colorful fish and coral Fabi and I saw while snorkeling in the Red Sea? You can see that one from here.
Enter at Your Own Risk
Finally, I promised more about the idea of neo-colonization. Those ideas are, ahem, more political, so fair warning. I chose not to post them on Medium because, well, that would be like posting an essay entitled "Ten Ways the Pope is Wrong" in The Catholic Digest. Boooo! But if you dare, you'll find a three-part series entitled Poisonous Characters: Letters That Harm Us, starting with this one: My Problem with U.
That should keep you busy.