There's a unique tranquility which is only achieved on an overnight bus. The leather on the headrests of the East Delta Express, Taba - Cairo, is peeling and I can feel the knees of the person behind me through the thin seatback. It's alright because I won't recline until I'm truly exhausted, which means I won't do it on purpose but instead let it happen with headphones singing softly and some murky, well-worn thought stumbling through my mind.
Out the dirt- spotted window, I watch the sun set behind the mountains of the Sinai and as the last reds and yellows bleed out of the horizon we dive into an inky blue and the spines of the peaks look like great black whales swimming besides us, oblivious to our passing. Eventually even the whales deliquesce into darkness and all we can see out the window is our own dim reflection, mirthless and smooth. Watching the pavement pass below us one feels like a manufactured product on a conveyor belt, not quite finished yet but waiting for another screw and coat of paint, a final inspection and then a welcome to frigid pre-dawn Cairo.
Then we'll all stumble into the wide world and our bags will feel heavy and our necks stiff. And very few will remember anything at all about the half a day we spent together in stygian silence as we embark on the next leg of our journey.
Remarkable events on long bus rides are studiously ignored but privately relished by all passengers. An overloud phone conversation. An exceptionally pretty girl across the aisle. A near-crash by a reckless driver.
Once my 14-hour bus along the southern coast of Turkey broke down after 13 and a half hours, outside the tiny village of Cizre in the southeast. First the AC started blowing hot air and suddenly we were all bus technicians, each one of us opening and closing the vents above our seats, testing the air with the backs of our hands every few minutes and muttering in consternation. When the engine finally quit we were only a couple kilometers from my stop; I hopped on the back of a passing donkey cart and I was at the station in a minute, the drivers and me laughing our asses off the whole way. It was the best bus ride I've ever taken.
Out the dirt- spotted window, I watch the sun set behind the mountains of the Sinai and as the last reds and yellows bleed out of the horizon we dive into an inky blue and the spines of the peaks look like great black whales swimming besides us, oblivious to our passing. Eventually even the whales deliquesce into darkness and all we can see out the window is our own dim reflection, mirthless and smooth. Watching the pavement pass below us one feels like a manufactured product on a conveyor belt, not quite finished yet but waiting for another screw and coat of paint, a final inspection and then a welcome to frigid pre-dawn Cairo.
Then we'll all stumble into the wide world and our bags will feel heavy and our necks stiff. And very few will remember anything at all about the half a day we spent together in stygian silence as we embark on the next leg of our journey.
Remarkable events on long bus rides are studiously ignored but privately relished by all passengers. An overloud phone conversation. An exceptionally pretty girl across the aisle. A near-crash by a reckless driver.
Once my 14-hour bus along the southern coast of Turkey broke down after 13 and a half hours, outside the tiny village of Cizre in the southeast. First the AC started blowing hot air and suddenly we were all bus technicians, each one of us opening and closing the vents above our seats, testing the air with the backs of our hands every few minutes and muttering in consternation. When the engine finally quit we were only a couple kilometers from my stop; I hopped on the back of a passing donkey cart and I was at the station in a minute, the drivers and me laughing our asses off the whole way. It was the best bus ride I've ever taken.
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