CAIRO AND THE PYRAMIDS
In all of north Africa there was no place that I wanted to visit more
than Cairo. I had heard, too, that I might find work there easily. At
any rate, I felt that I must get there soon, before my money was
entirely gone.
I went to the railway station in Alexandria, and found that the fare to
Cairo was just three piasters more than I had. Should I go by train as
far as my money would take me, and finish the journey on foot and
penniless? Or should I save the few coins I had for food on the way, and
tramp the entire distance?
While I was thinking it over I dropped on a bench in a park, and fell to
whittling a stick. A countryman in fez cap and gown, strolling by,
stopped and stared at me. Then he sat down on the far end of my bench,
and watched my movements closely. Inch by inch he slid along the bench.
“Very good knife,” he murmured.
“Aywa” (“Yes”), I answered, tossing away the stick and closing the
knife.
The Arab gave a gasp of delight.
“But it shuts up like a door,” he cried.
I opened and closed it several times for him to see, then slid down in
my seat, my thoughts elsewhere.
“You sell it?” grinned the peasant.
“What?” I gasped, sitting up in astonishment.
[Illustration: A woman of Alexandria, Egypt, carrying two bushels of
oranges.]
“I give you five piasters,” he coaxed.
“Take it!” I cried, and, grasping the coin he held out to me, dashed
away to the station.
Half an hour later I was speeding southward across the fertile delta of
the Nile. How different was this land from the country I had so lately
left behind! Every few miles the train halted at a busy city. Between
these cities were the mud villages of the Egyptian peasant, and many
well cultivated fields. Inside the car, which was much like our own in
America, well dressed natives read the latest newspapers with the easy
manners of Paris business men. There were several half blind Egyptians
in the car, victims of an eye disease common in this country; but even
they leaned back in their seats contentedly. An eyeless one in one
corner roared with laughter at the lively talk of his companions. Far
more at ease was he, for all of his misfortune, than I, with neither
friend nor acquaintance in all the length and breadth of the continent.
Evening came on. The changing scenery grew dim. The land near and far
was so flat that in the dusk I could hardly tell the difference between
a far-off village and a water-buffalo lying down near at hand. The
western sky turned red for a moment, dulled to a brown, and then the
darkness that suddenly spread over the land left me to stare at my own
face beyond the window. The sight was not encouraging. Who would give
work to the owner of such a face and figure? The lights that began to
twinkle here and there over the black plain were of villages where
strangers were very probably disliked and unwelcome. Every click of the
wheels brought me nearer to the greatest city of Africa, of which I knew
little more than the name. Yet I would soon be wandering alone there in
the darkness, with only ten cents in my pockets! Perhaps in all Cairo
there was not another penniless adventurer of my race! Even if there
were, and a lodging for vagabonds somewhere in the great city, what
chance had I of finding it? For who would understand my words, and even
if they did who could direct me to such an out-of-the-way place?
The train halted in a vast domed station. A great crowd swept me through
the waiting-rooms and out upon a brightly lighted square. There the
screaming mass of hackmen, porters, donkey-boys, and hotel runners drove
me to seek shelter behind a station pillar. I swung my knapsack over my
shoulder, and gazed at the human sea about me, hopelessly undecided as
to what to do or where to go.
[Illustration: An abandoned mosque (Mohammedan church) outside the walls
of Cairo, and a caravan off for a trip across the desert.]
Suddenly a voice sounded above the roar: “Heh! Landsmann, wohin?”
(“Comrade, where are you going?”) I stared eagerly about me. Under a
near-by arc-light stood a young man of sunburned face, in a stout,
somewhat ragged suit, and a cloth cap. When he saw me look at him he
dived into the crowd and fought his way to my side.
“Ah!” he shouted in German. “I knew only one of the boys would blow into
town with a knapsack and a corduroy suit! Just got in from Zagazig
myself. How long have you been away? Business any good down at the
coast? Don’t believe it is. Cairo’s the place for easy winnings.”
As he talked we left behind the howling crowd. No need to ask where he
was taking me.
“You’ll meet all the comrades where we’re going,” continued my
companion.
We crossed a corner where street-cars clanged their way through a great
crowd, and turned down a street faced by brightly lighted shops.
“This street is the Moosky,” said the German. “Good old lane. Many a
piaster I’ve picked up in her.”
He dodged into a side alley, jogged over a street, and entered the
lodging of “the comrades.” It was a wine-shop with a kitchen in the
rear, on the lowest floor of a four-story building. A shuffling Jew was
drawing beer and wine for several groups of noisy Europeans at the
tables. The Jew kept up a continual jabber in Yiddish, to which the
drinkers replied now and then in German. A woman wandered in from the
back room with a steaming plate of meat and potatoes.
“The place has lodgings,” said my companion, pointing at the ceiling.
“They cost three piasters. You can still eat a small piaster worth.” For
I had told him how much money I had.
By the time I had finished eating, the “comrades” were demanding that I
tell them who I was and where I came from. As all the party spoke
German, I gave them a short account of myself in that language.
“And what countryman are you?” asked a youth at the next table.
“I am an American.”
The entire party, including the Jew, burst into a roaring laugh so
suddenly that two black boys who had been peering in upon us scampered
away down the street.
[Illustration: An Arab café in Old Cairo.]
“Amerikaner! Ja! Ja!” shrieked the merry-makers. “Certainly! We are all
Americans. But what are you when you tell the truth to your good
comrades? Amerikaner! Ha! Ha!”
The first speaker beat a tattoo on the table with his cane, and the
others became quiet. Plainly he was the leader of the company.
“Now, then,” he cried, as if I had the right by the rules of “the union”
to give two answers, “what country are you from?”
I repeated that I was an American.
“So you are an American really?” he demanded suddenly in clear English.
He thought I would not understand him; but a long reply in my own
language proved that I did. The others, however, grinned unbelievingly
and fell to chattering again.
“Why doesn’t the crowd believe me?” I asked of the youth who had spoken
to me in English.
“Ah!” he burst out, “here in Cairo all the boys are Americans. We have
Germans, Austrians, Poles, Hungarians, Norwegians—all sorts—in our
union; and every one is an American—except when they are together. And
not one of them ever saw the United States! It is because, of all the
foreign travelers in Egypt, the Americans are most ready to give
money—to their own countrymen, of course. The Germans will help us. Yes!
but how? By giving us a loaf of bread or an old pair of shoes or two
piasters. Bah! But the Americans—they give pounds and whole suits! The
tourists are your rich harvest, mein Freund! If you are a real
Amerikaner, you can live in Cairo until you grow a beard!”
So I had fallen among the beggars of Cairo! It was too late, however, to
find another lodging-place. I leaned back, and finally fell asleep amid
the fumes of tobacco that filled the room.
A whining voice sounded in my ear: “H’raus, hop!” (“Wake up!”) I opened
my eyes to find the Jew bending over me. The room was almost empty, but
the youth who had spoken to me in English still sat there. I paid my
lodging, and followed him up a narrow winding stairway at the back of
the shop. On the third floor he pushed open a door which was much like
the drop of a home-made rabbit-trap. This let us into a small room
containing six beds. Four of these were already occupied. It needed only
one long-drawn breath to prove that the bed-clothes had not seen the
wash-tub for months. But he who is both penniless and particular should
stay at home. I took the bed beside that of the German, and soon fell
asleep.
The next morning I arose early, hoping to find work before noon. But my
new acquaintance of the evening before was awake. He asked me where I
was going.
I told him I was going to look for work.
“Work!” he shouted, springing to his feet. “A fellow who can talk
English—and German too—wants to _work_ in Cairo? Why, you—you’re a
disgrace to the union.”
I went down to the street and set out to look for a job. Long after
dark, footsore and half starved, covered with the dust of Cairo, I
returned to the lodging-place of the comrades, and sat down at one of
the tables. It was easy to see that the comrades were not footsore. They
had told a hard-luck story somewhere, and returned with enough money to
enable them to sit around for the rest of the day. Apparently that was
all they expected or cared to do for the rest of their lives.
The leader of the union watched me, with a half-smile on his face, for
some time after I had entered. “Lot of work you found, eh?” he began.
Then he raised his cane and rapped on the table for silence.
“Ei! Good comrades!” he cried. “I have something to show you! Look once!
Here is a comrade who is an American—do you hear?—a real American, not a
patched-up one. And this real American—in Cairo—wants to work!”
“_Work?_” roared the chorus. “_Work_ in Cairo—and a real American—Ist’s
denn ein Esel?” (“Is he a jackass?”)
I ate a tiny supper and crawled away to bed. For two days following I
tramped even greater distances, without success. But, in a side street
in which sprawled and squalled so many Arabian babies that I couldn’t
count them, I came upon the mission building called the Asile Rudolph.
Glad to escape from the beggar colony at last, I tugged at a bell-rope
that hung from a brick wall. A bare-legged Arab let me in. The
superintendent, seated in the office, welcomed me. He was a lively
Englishman about fifty years old. He had long been a captain on the
Black Sea, and was still known to everybody as “Cap” Stevenson.
There was something more than bed and board for the lucky lodgers of the
Asile Rudolph. The mission had a new shower bath! It was closed during
the day; but, as I was never the last to finish the evening meal, I
would get inside the wooden closet first; and it was only the argument
that the stream could be put to even better use among my companions that
saved me from a watery grave.
I looked for work for five days longer. No tourist ever peeped into half
the strange corners to which my wanderings led me. I learned the Arabic
language rapidly, too; for the servants of Cairo seemed to hate workmen
of my race; and the necessity of speaking my mind to them made me learn
new words every day.
Rich or penniless, however, there must be something wrong with any one
who does not enjoy the winter in Cairo. Here one never has to change his
plans on account of the weather, for Egypt is always flooded with joyous
sunshine. There is much to see, too, in this city of the Nile. If you
take a walk to the Esbekieh Gardens, you can hear a band concert at any
time, and Arabians are always performing queer tricks out there. At all
hours of the day, people of great wealth are driving about in the
gardens, while the crowds stand watching them. At times the Khedive and
his guard thunder by. Now and then the shout of Cairo’s most famous
runner tells us that the Khedive’s master, Lord Cromer, is coming near.
There is always enough to see—but not enough to eat.
[Illustration: Carriage runners of Cairo, clearing the streets for their
master.]
One day, while wandering sadly away across the city, I stumbled upon the
offices of the American ambassador. I managed to fight my way into the
presence of the consul-general himself, and told him of my experiences
in Cairo.
“If you are willing to do any kind of work,” he said, “I can give you
employment at once.”
I told him that any kind of work would be welcome.
The consul chose a card from his case, turned it over, and wrote on the
back:
_Tom_: Let Franck do it.
“Take this,” he said, “to my home; it is opposite that of Lord Cromer,
near the Nile. Give it to my butler.”
“Tom,” the butler, was a young American. I came upon him dancing blindly
around the ball-room of Mr. Morgan’s residence, and shouting himself
hoarse in Arabic at the servants under his charge. The consul, I was
told, was to give a dinner, with dancing, to the society people
wintering in the city. In the two days that were left before the evening
of the party, the ball-room floor must be properly waxed. Twelve Arabic
workmen had been puttering around in the dance-hall doing almost nothing
since early morning. About them was spread powdered wax; in their hands
were long bottles; above them towered the dancing butler.
“Put some strength into it!” he shouted, as I stepped across the room
toward him.
A thirteenth “workman,” who had been hired to squat in a far corner and
furnish musical encouragement, began to sing. For the next three strokes
the dozen bottles, moving together in time with the tune, nearly crushed
the powdered wax under them. But this unusual show of energy did not
last long.
I delivered the written message. Tom read it. “I’ll fire ’um!” he
bellowed. The Arabs bounded half across the room at his shriek. “I’ll
fire ’um _now!_ An American? I’m delighted, old man! Get after this job
while I chase these fellows downstairs. Had any experience at this
game?”
I thought of a far-off college gymnasium, and nodded.
“Take your own time, only so you get it done,” cried the butler, chasing
out the fleeing Arabs.
I tossed aside the bottles, and fixed up a tool of my own with which to
rub the floor. By evening the polishing was half done. When I turned my
attention to the dust-streaked windows, late the next afternoon, the
ball-room floor was too slippery to be safe for any but sure-footed
dancers.
[Illustration: An Arab gardener on the estate of the American consul of
Cairo, for whom I worked two weeks.]
On the evening of the entertainment I helped to look after the dinner.
We were separated only by a Japanese screen from the guests of the
evening. Among them were Lord Cromer and the ex-Empress Eugénie, once
Queen of France, who was driven from the throne by the Germans in 1870;
the Crown Prince of Sweden was there, and the brother of the Khedive,
ruler of Egypt.
It was long after midnight when I returned to the Asile. Captain
Stevenson let me in. I found the inmates there still, all up and awake
at that late hour, waiting for me. They were as excited as so many
schoolgirls, and asked me question after question about whom I had seen
at the party, what they had done, how they had danced, what they had
talked about. I was sorry I did not have something interesting to tell
them. As it was, the dancing had not been especially graceful, and the
conversation of the great people had been commonplace. By arrangement
with Tom, I continued to “do it” long after the ball. The food at the
servants’ table was excellent, and I kept my cot at the Asile at a cost
of two piasters a day.
One evening while sitting in the office at the mission I saw in a Cairo
newspaper the following paragraph:
Suez, February 2nd, 1905.
The French troop-ship ——, outward bound to Madagascar with five
hundred recruits, reports that while midway between Port Said and
Ismailia, on her way through the Canal, five soldiers who had been
standing at the rail suddenly sprang overboard and swam for shore.
One was carried under and crushed by the ship’s screw. The others
landed, and were last seen hurrying away into the desert. All five
were Germans.
I showed the paragraph to the superintendent. “Aye,” said Cap; “I’ve
seen it; that happens often. They’ll be here for dinner day after
to-morrow.”
They arrived exactly at the hour named, the four of them, sunburned and
bedraggled from their swim and the tramp across the desert. Two of the
four were very friendly fellows. I was soon well acquainted with them.
One of the two had spent some months in Egypt before.
On the Friday after they arrived, the one who had been in Egypt on a
former occasion met me at the gate of the Asile as I returned from my
day’s labor.
“Heh! Amerikaner,” he began, “do you get a half holiday to-morrow?”
“Yes,” I answered.
“I’m going to take Hans out for a moonlight view of the Pyramids. It’s
full moon, and all the companies are sending out tally-ho parties. Want
to go along?”
I did, of course. The next afternoon I left the Asile in company with
the two. At the door of the office I stopped to pay my lodging for the
coming night.
“Never mind that,” said Adolph, the man who had invited us. “We’ll sleep
out there.”
“Eh?” cried Hans and I.
[Illustration: Egypt—A young Arab climbing down the pyramid.]
Adolph pushed open the gate, and we followed.
“Suppose you’ll pay our lodging at the Mena House out there?” grinned
Hans, as we crossed the Kasr-el-Nil bridge.
“Don’t worry,” cried Adolph.
We pushed through the throng of donkey-boys beyond the bridge. There was
a street-car line running along an avenue lined with trees, out to the
Pyramids in the desert; but we covered the eight miles on foot.
Darkness fell soon after we reached the place, and with it arose the
moon, large and red. The Pyramids were monstrous. They looked like
mountains. Adolph led the way in and out among them, and pointed out the
most charming views, like a guide. We climbed to the top of the Pyramid
of Cheops. Cheops was once a king of Egypt, you know. The Pyramid that
was built for his tomb still covers thirteen acres. It seems to run to a
peak when viewed from a distance, but we found the “peak” three yards
square when we reached the top. Some of the huge blocks of stone that we
had to pull ourselves over, in making the climb, weigh over fifty tons.
[Illustration: On top of the largest pyramid. From the ground it looks
as sharply pointed as the others.]
The desert night soon turned cold. We climbed down again. The tourist
parties strolled away to the great hotel below the hill, and Hans fell
to shivering.
“Where’s this fine lodging you were telling about?” he chattered.
“Just come here,” said Adolph.
[Illustration: I take a camel ride while visiting the pyramids.]
He picked his way over the huge blocks of limestone that had tumbled
from the ancient monuments toward the third Pyramid, climbed a few feet
up its northern side, and disappeared in a black hole. We followed, and,
doubled up like balls, slid down, down, down a steep tunnel about three
feet square, into utter darkness. As our feet touched a stone floor,
Adolph struck a match. The flame showed two small cave-like rooms, and
several huge stone coffins.
“Beds waiting for us—you see?” said Adolph. “Probably you’ve chatted
with the fellows who used to sleep here. They’re in the British museum
in London.”
He dropped the match, and climbed into one of the coffins. I chose
another, and found it as comfortable as a stone bed can be, though a bit
short. Our sleeping-room was warm, somewhat too warm, in fact, and Hans
began to snore. The noise echoed through the vaults like the beating of
forty drums. When we awoke it was still as dark as midnight, but our
sense of time told us that morning had come. We crawled upward on hands
and knees through the tunnel, and out into a sunlight that left us
blinking painfully for several minutes.
A crowd of tourists and Arabian rascals were surging about the
monuments. Four British soldiers in khaki uniforms kicked their heels on
the forehead of the Sphinx, puffing at their pipes as they told the
latest garrison jokes. We fought our way through the Arabs who clung to
us, took a look at the sights, and then strolled back to Cairo.