One woman's experience of what it is like to leave the safety of your Nile cruise ship to visit a local inhabitant's village, family and friends.:
The dirt streets quickly narrowed as we moved away from the riverside. We had switched to French within a few minutes of meeting; I didn't speak Arabic, and Ali's rudimentary English was limited to the finer points of spice sales. He chatted easily as he wended a circuitous route through the warren of open-fronted shops and homes. He clearly enjoyed being seen in the company of tourists and waved ostentatiously when we passed people he knew: a wizened tinsmith, a middle-aged tailor at an ancient sewing machine, a gypsum merchant several years Ali's junior.
As the dim maze closed in around us, though, our presence began to feel like an intrusion. We felt the eyes on our backs. At street level, men watched with stern faces; from above, unveiled women peered through wrought-iron window screens. Children stopped kicking around a deflated soccer ball to stare as we passed–and then swarmed noisily around us with hands outstretched.
Ali was determined that we meet his family, but as we wandered further into his private Egypt I felt a mounting anxiety. We didn't have a clue where we were. Ali was vague on how much farther we had to go. We knew the ship would leave without us. We hadn't told anyone where we were going.
When Ali's pudgy arm circled my waist, I slapped it away and told him it was time to go back–now. He just smiled and kept walking.
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