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"My Summer Adventures"

August 29, 2006

I swung my dangling legs over the cobalt brine and squinted up into the sun, feeling my muscles relax from almost six months of constant tension. The pavement of the old bunker was warm and black on my bare shoulders. “New Zealand,” I whispered, still in mild state of shock after my rescheduled flight home had left me with forty-eight blessed hours in the land where Lord of the Rings was filmed. I glanced over at Megan, who was snapping pictures of the improbable, jutting islands dotting the ocean around us. Funny, I thought, that I didn’t even know she existed last year and now we are, well, practically related. Nothing like world travel to bring people together.

I smiled grimly, remembering the first flurried arrival in Australia several lifetimes ago, the training, the working, the preparations for outreach. And then, a too-short, nervous flight to Cairo. And my first view of Shubra El Kheima, the slum we were stationed to work in for three months. Irritating tears stung at my eyes, and I was too weary to prevent them, thinking of the beautiful people who had welcomed me into their lives. I had arrived confident, energetic, immature, and terribly American. How awkwardly I stood out at first! I giggled thinking about it: a tall, skinny, too-pale missionary among the exotic, fluid crowds of Egypt. And despite the fact that Americans are widely despised, especially in the Middle East, I had quickly felt more at home than anywhere else on earth. It was like being transported back to Bible times. The farmers pulled their wares through the overwhelming, chaotic streets on donkeys, and I could barter my American ink pen for breakfast. Five times a day, the city stopped as the Fajr wailed and millions of foreheads touched the ground. But there were new elements to that city: the countless Sudanese refugees wandering the streets, unable to work, their children unable to go to school. Televisions blaring the African Cup in the Sheesha bars. Piles of garbage everywhere, and diseased animals grazing in the filth. Yes, Egypt was a beautiful land, but not so beautiful that corruption didn’t show.

“Should we climb down?” Megan inquired, bringing me back to our island paradise. We rolled back over the bunker, pausing for a last view of One Tree Hill in the distance. I automatically thought of Ahmed, Walid and Nohar, my very best Egyptian friends, and wished they could share the view. The air was clear here, cleaner for lungs. Ahmed would protest that Egyptian air was best. I smiled. Patriotism was high in Egypt, and at first my white skin had made me unapproachable to the funny little boy. But after time, his curiosity overtook his pride and a warm friendship developed. Like many, he was the man of his house and worked hard to support his mother and younger sisters, who lived in squalor on the outskirts of the city. But he dreamed of becoming rich and moving his family into a big house; the American dream has leaked into every corner of the globe.

The people of Cairo were the real adventure, I thought as Megan and I wandered down toward the pier, hoping for a ferry to take us back to Auckland. Adventure. I had been a hound for adventure since I was a child, and early trips to China and Europe made me disdainful of anything less than extraordinary. “To live will be an awfully big adventure,” my hero Peter Pan said. But so often I found that living wasn’t an adventure at all— it was a list, or a box full of empty hours waiting to pass by. No wonder my first instinct after being released from school was to spread out and run! I had my expectations for Egypt, like everywhere else I had gone, but it wasn’t the pyramids nor the spices nor the traffic that had made it worthwhile. The people were like baskets full of treasure, each one an adventure, each full of stories and wisdom passed down for centuries.

Because of the illegal nature of our mission work, we filled in our visa gaps by teaching English, doing basic healthcare training, and taking “tourist” outings to the basements of various underground churches, where we met up with other missionaries to refuel and refocus ourselves. But it wasn’t religion that we focused on. What the people in the slums needed more than anything was hope: a new enthusiasm for life. So many were bent down, weighed by worry and poverty, unable to do anything for themselves. A few kind words and a smile did more for them than any amount of money could. And more often than not, we got a solid adventure in exchange for our services. Once we ended up on a train bound for Alexandria, where a few wrong turns lead us into some ancient catacombs straight out of Raiders of the Lost Ark. Another time we were invited over to someone’s house, little knowing they lived on a farm four hours away, and planned to keep us there all week! And once we had even been invited to meet the Pope of the Coptic Church.

“Oh no!” Megan cried suddenly, half-laughing. “Our ferry!” It was at the other end of the pier, and ready to depart. I jerked myself back to the present and we dashed madly for it, waving at stunned passersby as we went along. I contemplated missing my plane on purpose, and disappearing into the New Zealand countryside for a few days, but then, my family was waiting, along with a another life it was time to re-enter. And there were new adventures to be had at home in the fall, even though home did mean America!

Watch a video online highlighting Kate's summer trip.

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