{"id":660,"date":"1988-10-03T04:28:08","date_gmt":"1988-10-03T04:28:08","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/newmythology.net\/mv\/?p=182"},"modified":"2024-09-03T19:18:16","modified_gmt":"2024-09-03T19:18:16","slug":"there-are-no-kangaroos-in-egypt","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"http:\/\/redesign.visualspring.net\/varga\/short-stories\/there-are-no-kangaroos-in-egypt\/","title":{"rendered":"There Are No Kangaroos In Egypt"},"content":{"rendered":"
\n
\n

A<\/span>m I a fool?<\/em><\/p>\n

I can\u2019t get this question out of my head. \u00a0I thought I was doing the right thing but now that I\u2019m so alone, left to be<\/span>pounded by my own self-doubt, I can\u2019t help but hug this question, lie down with it tonight, stare at it in the darkness.<\/span><\/p>\n

Am I a fool?<\/em><\/span><\/p>\n\n<\/div>\n<\/div><\/div>

<\/hr>
\n
\n

We had come to Egypt on a lark. \u00a0Mitch\u2019s Dad is a travel agent and so Mitch can always get the best air fares. \u00a0To <\/span>anywhere. \u00a0We\u2019d already been to Australia together\u2014where the worst thing that happened was one night outside <\/span>of Perth when we collided with a kangaroo. \u00a0We didn\u2019t try to hit it, of course, but it hopped right in front of the <\/span>headlights of the 404 we\u2019d rented. \u00a0It had no chance and neither did we. \u00a0In the darkness it had seemed to jump up <\/span>from somewhere within the road itself. \u00a0We decided to carry the mangled body into the brush.<\/span><\/p>\n

It seems strange to me now. \u00a0I had completely repressed that incident\u2014obliterated it from my memory\u2014yet now, <\/span>after all that\u2019s happened here in Egypt, it all comes back to me so clearly. \u00a0I remember how shocked we were at <\/span>how heavy the kangaroo\u2019s body seemed. \u00a0Mitch used to play football in high school; he still sports all the muscles <\/span>from those days. \u00a0I\u2019m not very big physically, but I can benchpress 160. \u00a0And so we thought we\u2019d be able to carry <\/span>the dead animal into the bush quickly and easily and get out of there. \u00a0But each time we tried to raise up the body <\/span>one of us wouldn\u2019t be able to hold on, the blood oozing from the flesh making our grasps always tentative.<\/span><\/p>\n

Mitch suggested that we drag it and started tugging it to the side. \u00a0We both pulled at its warm feet, but as we did <\/span>so its entrails spilled into the road\u2014leaving a track of organs shining in the headlight beams. \u00a0We managed to pull <\/span>the body into the tall grass and then gathered up the loose, scattered parts. \u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

It was a messy scene. \u00a0We drove off as fast as we could although the blood we\u2019d wiped on our clothes remained a <\/span>constant reminder of the death we\u2019d witnessed, the death we\u2019d caused. \u00a0And the animal\u2019s smell inside the 404 <\/span>made us want to return the truck to the rental agent as quickly as we could. \u00a0We knew the smell was on us but we <\/span>both attributed it to the 404.<\/span><\/p>\n

Up to then we hadn\u2019t used the VISA card Mitch\u2019s Dad had given us \u201cfor an emergency.\u201d \u00a0But after we unloaded <\/span>the truck we went into a department store and bought whole new sets of clothes (even new white underwear) with <\/span>the credit card. \u00a0When we handed our stinking, sticky jeans and shorts to the clerk, he said sarcastically: \u201cAre you <\/span>sure you boys don\u2019t want to take these with you?\u201d<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n\n<\/div>\n<\/div><\/div>

<\/hr>
\n
\n

As I said, that\u2019s the only bad thing that\u2019s happened to us abroad. \u00a0Until now. \u00a0This trip to Egypt wasn\u2019t even <\/span>planned. \u00a0Makes me recall what John Lennon is supposed to have said: \u201cLife is what happens to you while you\u2019re <\/span>planning to do something else.\u201d \u00a0Egypt is happening to me now and God knows I never planned for it. \u00a0Twenty-one <\/span>years old. \u00a0Sitting alone in a prison in Cairo, waiting for the American consul to show. \u00a0God, am I a fool?<\/span><\/p>\n

Mitch\u2019s Dad had two last-minute cancellations on this chartered tour to Cairo and the Valley of the Kings. \u00a0When <\/span>he offered us the spots for free we couldn\u2019t refuse them, although we set it up so we didn\u2019t have to follow the tour.\u00a0 \u00a0<\/span>Once we got to Cairo we left that troop of stereotypical American tourists with their Polaroids and their pantsuits.\u00a0 <\/span>We hopped the train to Alexandria and spent some great days on the beaches there\u2014promenading the evenings <\/span>away on the wind-swept corniche. We pretended to be characters in the latest novel of Lawrence Durrell. \u00a0It was <\/span>the best of times. \u00a0Who would believe that our fates could shift so quickly, so unpredictably?<\/span><\/p>\n

Hard as it was to leave Alexandria, in the morning we left in a rented Peugeot, windows air-tight to keep the cabin <\/span>its air-conditioned coolest for the long drive. \u00a0The plan was to return to Cairo, visit the pyramids, and then go south <\/span>by train to see the tomb of King Tut and the whole cohort of mummy kings near Luxor. \u00a0We both were fascinated <\/span>with the Egyptian attempts at meticulous preservation of their royal dead. \u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n

The highway between Alexandria and Cairo is fairly modern and it\u2019s easy to forget that\u2019 you\u2019re in the Third World. <\/span>Except for the mud shacks that dot the sides of the road all seems up-to-date.<\/span><\/p>\n

As I drove, Mitch complained about the ease of it all, how we could conceivably be on Interstate 95 in the U.S. <\/span>We weren\u2019t seeing the real Egypt, he said. \u00a0The real Egypt was just off the road, in the lives led by those in the <\/span>villages we were passing all too quickly.<\/span><\/p>\n

We needed to meet up with some \u201creal Egyptians\u201d\u2014farmers and poor women and struggling students. \u00a0He said <\/span>those we\u2019d met in Alexandria were just too western, aping the European style of life, offering to buy the t-shirts off <\/span>our backs. \u00a0He wanted to shake an Egyptian farmer\u2019s hand and feel the calluses he earned in his fields. That\u2019s <\/span>what Mitch said. \u00a0And the more I listened to him the more convinced I was that we were passing life by: we were <\/span>gliding through Egypt the same way we slid through our lives in the United States.<\/span><\/p>\n

I could see a sandy exit up on the right that appeared to be a stopping-off point for the crowded buses that <\/span>traveled the route. \u00a0There were a number of Egyptian women standing there\u2014some with valises, others with <\/span>bundles beside them, all of them holding umbrellas to keep the hot sun off of their faces. \u00a0I told Mitch we were<\/span>
\ngoing to take a detour for a bit and he shouted: \u201cAll right! \u00a0That\u2019s the spirit!\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

At first, there were a few huts along the sandy route but after less than a mile we saw nothing but tall reeds on <\/span>either side of us. \u00a0It was early afternoon and the temperature was certainly more than a hundred degrees <\/span>(although we were cool as could be inside the Peugeot) so we surmised that most of the natives were probably<\/span>
\ntaking siestas or at least hiding away from the sun. \u00a0There was absolutely no one to be seen along the route. \u00a0I <\/span>wanted to suggest that we turn back but there really wasn\u2019t enough room in the narrow roadway to maneuver. \u00a0The <\/span>glinting reeds\u2014more than eight feet high, in mixed shades of a pale green and a baked brown\u2014lined the very <\/span>border of the road. \u00a0The traction of our tires in the spreading sand led me to think that if we stopped, we might<\/span>have to dig the tires out of the sand to get going again. \u00a0Not a pleasant thought in such desolate heat.<\/span><\/p>\n

The road twisted in some bizarre curves and with the reeds so high, so ubiquitous, so reflective of that burning <\/span>light, I was for moments at a time blinded. \u00a0My instincts led me to twist the steering wheel to the right and to the left; <\/span>my eyesight was a poor tool here where I could see but twenty feet ahead at each point\u2014and sometimes not even <\/span>that distance when the road arced more sharply. \u00a0I saw nothing but reeds, angling over the dusty roadway, waves <\/span>of them bending to the slightest breeze, bobbing upwards as we passed.<\/span><\/p>\n

We couldn\u2019t go on like this. \u00a0At some point we would have to stop, but when might we have the opportunity? \u00a0The <\/span>sand was too deep to risk stopping. \u00a0There was no alternative but to continue driving until we might find a break in <\/span>the walls of reeds, a place wide enough where we might manage a U-turn. \u00a0Mitch was silent now. \u00a0He knew too that <\/span>we were caught. \u00a0There was no point in verbalizing our shared fear. \u00a0To talk about it would only make us both more <\/span>anxious.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n\n<\/div>\n<\/div><\/div>

<\/hr>
\n
\n

And then it happened. \u00a0As we came around a particularly severe curve, the Peugeot banged against something <\/span>and halted. \u00a0We had no idea what we might have hit, but in a way it didn\u2019t matter to us. \u00a0From Mitch\u2019s expression I <\/span>could tell that he too was simply relieved that we had finally stopped. \u00a0It seemed like we had been driving for days.\u00a0 <\/span>Whatever goal we might have had in this detour had rapidly disappeared with each passing reed.<\/span><\/p>\n

I want to say that we hit another kangaroo but everybody knows there are no kangaroos in Egypt. \u00a0I want to say <\/span>that we hit a pile of wheat stalks, or a bale of hay, or a\u2026.I want to say anything but that we hit an old man sitting in <\/span>the road. \u00a0We killed an old Egyptian sitting in the road.<\/span><\/p>\n

We did not know it then but the policeman who brought me here told me that it\u2019s a rural custom among the <\/span>Egyptian elderly\u2014when they feel they can no longer contribute to the family, when they are feeling tired and <\/span>longing for that long sleep\u2014that, if they hear the sound of an approaching motor they often go and sit and wait in <\/span>the middle of just such an obscured road and hope to be struck dead. \u00a0You see, it has two functions: it relieves <\/span>them of their own misery, and the judicial rule is that the driver must pay for the upkeep of the deceased\u2019s <\/span>dependents for the rest of their lives.<\/span><\/p>\n

Am I a fool? \u00a0I now have the care of fourteen Egyptians to worry about. \u00a0I killed a man and I\u2019m sitting alone in a <\/span>Cairo prison waiting for the American consul.<\/span><\/span><\/p>\n\n<\/div>\n<\/div><\/div>

<\/hr>
\n
\n

Mitch freaked out when he saw the man\u2019s oozing body. \u00a0He rushed back to the driver\u2019s seat to turn off the <\/span>engine. \u00a0It was only then that we could hear the repetitive chant coming from the body, a sort of gurgling mantra, a <\/span>prayer perhaps that slowly faded to silence. \u00a0Mitch said we had to carry it off into the reeds; we had to get away <\/span>before somebody found us. \u00a0The old man\u2019s body was small and light and Mitch lifted it, the blood oozing out, <\/span>dripping into the sand. \u00a0He carried it a dozen yards into the reeds and instinctively I covered the blood stains in the <\/span>road, using my feet to shift the \u201cclean\u201d sand over the red. \u00a0Mitch came out of the reeds saying we had to abandon <\/span>the Peugeot; we would just walk back to the highway and forget everything. \u00a0We would catch a bus for Cairo and <\/span>be in Luxor tomorrow, he said. \u00a0When they would find his body we\u2019d be long gone, he said.<\/span><\/p>\n

But as I listened to his plan, the reeds shifting in silent witness all around us, I knew I couldn\u2019t do it. \u00a0I could not <\/span>simply walk away from this. \u00a0This wasn\u2019t just some animal. \u00a0It was a man. \u00a0It had been a man! \u00a0Mitch shook his head, <\/span>grabbed his bag out of the Peugeot and started walking backwards toward the highway. \u00a0He said I couldn\u2019t stay, <\/span>that only a fool would stay. \u00a0He disappeared around the curve of the road and I don\u2019t know where he is now.<\/span><\/p>\n

Am I a fool?<\/em><\/p>\n

<\/span><\/p>\n\n<\/div>\n<\/div><\/div>\"Image\"<\/span>

<\/i><\/div>
First published in Scholastic Magazine at the University of Notre Dame in 1985, it was later broadcast by the BBC World Service in 1988, and converted to a stage play and given a staged reading at the Source Theatre in Washington, D.C. in 1991.<\/div><\/div><\/div><\/div>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Am I a fool? I can\u2019t get this question out of my head. \u00a0I thought I was doing the right thing but now that I\u2019m so alone, left to bepounded by my own self-doubt, I can\u2019t help but hug this question, lie down with it tonight, stare at it in the darkness. Am I a fool? We had come to … <\/p>\n

Read More<\/a><\/div>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":824,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-660","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-short-stories"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/redesign.visualspring.net\/varga\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/660"}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/redesign.visualspring.net\/varga\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/redesign.visualspring.net\/varga\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/redesign.visualspring.net\/varga\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/redesign.visualspring.net\/varga\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=660"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"http:\/\/redesign.visualspring.net\/varga\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/660\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":820,"href":"http:\/\/redesign.visualspring.net\/varga\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/660\/revisions\/820"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/redesign.visualspring.net\/varga\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/824"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/redesign.visualspring.net\/varga\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=660"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/redesign.visualspring.net\/varga\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=660"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/redesign.visualspring.net\/varga\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=660"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}