Swimming to Antarctica_ Tales of a Long-Distance Swimmer - Lynne Cox [44]
As we fumbled through a black corridor lit only by handheld flashlights into the arrival area, dust clouds rose around us, illuminated by moonlight streaming through the mortar holes in the airport ceiling. The moonbeams spread out, and as people passed us to stand in line for customs, they cast ghostly shadows against the bullet-pocked walls.
On the way in the United Arab Airlines plane had nearly crashed twice, during landings in Zurich and Cairo. Somehow, the first time, the pilot misjudged our distance to the ground, and we bounced down the runway with so much force that the overhead compartments sprang open and the contents flew across the plane; one woman got banged on the head by a silver platter. The second time, as we landed in Cairo, the brakes failed. We overran the runway, stopping moments before we crashed into a metal fence.
Now a customs official who hadn’t taken a shower for days, and was wearing an old, torn, and faded uniform, was studying our passports. He leaned in close to Dave and whispered something that sounded like “baksheesh.”
At first, neither Dave nor I understood what he was saying, and then it occurred to us that he was demanding a bribe and wasn’t about to let us go unless we paid him off. He turned Dave’s bag over and dumped his clothes onto a table. Then he picked up each article of clothing piece by piece, opening the shirts, inspecting the seams, and turning the pants and underwear inside out. When he didn’t find anything of any value, he unzipped my travel bag, pushed my street clothes aside, and began fingering my underwear and leering at me.
“Jeez, I can’t believe this guy,” Dave said loudly enough for everyone in the room to hear us. The army officer who had led us into the terminal came into the room. He said something in Arabic to the customs official, who tried to wave the officer away. But the officer conferred with his men posted nearby and he turned to the customs officer and started shouting at him. Abruptly the customs official turned to us, his entire demeanor softening. “So sorry for the delay. Welcome to Cairo. I hope you enjoy your stay in our beautiful city.”
He led us into the lobby, where we were supposed to meet with an official from the Egyptian Swimming Federation. It was three a.m., and the arrival area was completely deserted. We didn’t know what to do; we didn’t know where we were supposed to stay. We couldn’t speak Arabic so we couldn’t talk to anyone outside the terminal, and we couldn’t exchange our travelers’ checks, since the bank was closed.
We had been traveling for thirty-six hours, with a brief stopover in London. Not only was I exhausted, but I suddenly felt very far from home, in a place I didn’t think I wanted to be. Sinking down onto the floor, I tried to hold back the tears. I knew crying wouldn’t help, but this seemed like a strange and scary place, and I had no idea what to do.
“Don’t worry, they’ll find us here in a couple of days,” Dave joked to make light of our predicament. He had no better idea of what to do. He was only nineteen, and he had never traveled outside the States. So we sat for a couple hours and waited.
Fortunately, a man who owned a car-rental agency saw us looking very forlorn. He spoke a little English, and he offered to call Fahmy’s brother Nassief. I felt bad that we were calling him at five in the morning, but we didn’t know what else to do.
Nassief immediately offered to put us up in his apartment until everything was sorted out. The car-rental-agency man told us to wait for a minute while he called us a cab. The cab that pulled up a few minutes later had barely survived the war: the hood was tied to the bumper, the tires were completely bald, and the trunk had been so smashed forward that we would have to hold our luggage on our laps.
Reaching through broken windows, we opened