Egypt 1990 - Part V - Third Class

How I remember it, with some writer's licence. All photos from the trip.

On the night train to Cairo, third class really was one step beyond. No tumblers for sale this time, but perhaps there had been: the floor was strewn with broken glass. No sleeping there then, and definitely not in the vestibule where the doors to the outside were constantly flapping.

It was fantastic. There were plenty of overripe tomatoes, dead chickens, live chickens. The Egyptian I sat opposite was friendly and most interested in me, but chastised me for putting my feet up on the seat without taking my shoes off first. I slept, until it became too painful, on the luggage rack. It was sturdy, made of three steel bars. I can still remember the feel them in my back. Every time I got off to sleep, a man carrying an urn and a tray of tumblers would offer me tea or coffee. Lots else was on offer too, but it was not for me. My new travel strategy was to eat nothing on long journeys.

The train arrived in Cairo six hours late. Next to grinning children I peered out of the windows at the suburbs as city commuters got on at city stops. It felt good to be back.

Back in Cairo, and on my own terms. I had no-one else’s requirements to meet for budget, hotel, transport, sightseeing, or timetable – except that I had two weeks to get to Switzerland.

Why oh why did it take me so long to realise I had more fun my own? I craved travel companions. I sought them out. I compromised my values to fit in with theirs. I longed for a girlfriend, but thought friends to travel with would be nearly as good. I craved adventures I could share.

And I’m glad I had them when I did. Without the Bridge group, I wouldn’t have had a long felucca ride, tried to sleep under the pyramids, stayed in a refugee camp, visited half the temples I did, joined an archaeological dig, discovered it was fun to work with children, or probably even travelled to Egypt at all, secure as I was in the knowledge that I could come back to their friendly faces. I’m certainly glad I had them with me when I fell ill. I hate being ill alone, and it was horrible when they had to leave.

But on my own I had better adventures. I could go where I wanted. I found unexpected places, strange sights, and interesting people. Strangers spoke to me who would not have spoken to a group. I learnt more of the language, and more from my mistakes.

Without autism I’m not sure I would have done it - ironically, as years later after getting a diagnosis I briefly had travel insurance that would not cover me to travel solo. Robert on the kibbutz, an extravert Dutch party animal who I admired and feared, told me he was amazed how far I had travelled on my own. He could never have done that. But I loved it. Other socially confident people said similar. I think they noticed social risks which did not occur to me, while brief interactions with strangers thrilled me more than trying to think of what to say to familiar people.

Back in Cairo, I took a dusty room in a ramshackle hotel with a creaky lift. I gorged myself on street food and koshary, being more careful this time where I drank from. I went back to the pyramids, missing opening hours again but finding Ahmed. Teenage boys in Giza were excited about Egypt being in the World Cup, told me Mubarak was good and Thatcher bad. I walked all around Old Islamic Cairo. Taking tips from Lets Go and going wherever seemed interesting, I found great mosques and city gates; the street which sold nothing but chairs; an exam taking place at the ancient Al Azhar University; a minaret to climb; my first Iranian. I spent half an hour asking where to find an old madrassa in the guidebook, eventually being directed to an derelict modern school. I found the Cities of the Dead. That is where I began to feel at home.

Click for what happened next.

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