From the Basmatic to Luxor

I’m in Luxor,

but that’s getting ahead of the story.

The Basmatic, free of the mud, made an easy sail the rest of the way.

I don’t know if it was so, but I can imagine that Khaled had invoked Shu, the ancient god of the wind, to favor us on our journey,

for we were blessed with a breeze any seasoned sailor would welcome with open arms.

I napped off and on, nursing my wounds, as Khaled tended the helm and Bebo tended to the evening meal.

It was the last day of Ramadan. Come sunset, the fast would be broken and appetites satisfied.

Late afternoon sun is a delight,

and the one that follows as well.

Khaled suggested a resting place for the night,

then secured us in anticipation of any eventuality.

The cooking, a slow and delicate process, allowed time to go ashore,

and wander.

Like the wind earlier in the day, a little man appeared from nowhere, directing that I follow.

Elfin-like in his own way,

he had a magic touch for beasts of the land.

No sooner had I grown fond of his friend, that I found myself seated on the back of another.

It was quite a ride,

terminating at the Basmatic.

I would like to have visited with Mr. Shalabet, but the sun had set, and the juice that breaks the fast had been readied.

Soon enough, I discovered the satisfaction that comes to those who wait.

The meal preparation continued,

but by dark, all was complete,

and our fellowship consummated.

There is no alcohol on board the Basmatic, but there are other gifts of nature that calm the mind and loosen the heart.

For hours we spoke, and listened, in the easy way that comes with comrades who share secrets in moments of trust.

The ear is a petal,

that grows from the heart.

When we hear each other,

it all becomes a garden.

• Mark Nepo

Midnight came, and with it the cool,

and time for sleep.

Morning arrived, as if in a moment, and I returned to shore,

to see what could be seen.

A centuries-old Nubian farmhouse.

The green gifted by the Nile.

The desert beyond which the Nile cannot reach.

The vessel of an ancient mariner.

I returned at the appointed hour

for the last meal,

prepared by Bebo and shared by all.

Set free from our mooring,

we continued,

gliding with ease as the feluca does.

Soon to be delivered ashore into the hands of others, I felt the coming loss of my Nubian friends.

Omar and Mohammed would deliver me by auto to Luxor, though there was much to see along the way.

The option was given to detour,

which I readily accepted.

The Temple of Kom Ombo, constructed during the Ptolemaic dynasty, 180–47 BC., is a site of reverence and quietude.

Continuing north, we were stopped for “payment” by police at three checkpoints.

Omar calls them “thieves”.

The last hour we were alone with the desert,

a lone tree with fields beyond

appearing as we neared our destination.

Omar and Mohammed were good companions of the road,

delivering me safely to a room with a view,

and a sunset for the ages.