Doha Airport was enveloped in a sweltering haze. The moment I stepped out of the boarding gate, a gasp escaped my lips. It felt as if a raging inferno was bearing down on me. My companion and I held our breath and sprinted, full throttle, towards the shuttle bus that would ferry us to our connecting flight to Cairo.

We were the first to breach the bus doors, securing adjacent seats near the entrance. A seemingly endless stream of passengers followed, packing themselves in like vegetables in a hot pot. Backpacks and suitcases were crammed in every available space, creating a precarious jumble that threatened to topple with the slightest movement. I tried to conceal a smug grin as I quickly pulled out my fan.

We were en route to Cairo, invited to a literary event hosted by the Korean Cultural Center in Egypt. I was attending as a writer, and my companion — the managing editor and second-in-command at the publishing house that releases my books (I’ll refer to her affectionately as “Jinny” for the purpose of this article) — was there as a publisher. The journey had been arduous. There were no direct flights, requiring a layover in Doha, and the flight to Doha alone took over ten hours. Yet, I felt neither bored nor fatigued. I was wide awake, eyes alert with a sense of anticipation. A premonition, perhaps unfounded, whispered that this trip might hold the key to unlocking my writer’s block, a creative impasse that had stalled my new novel for months.

The journey had been arduous. There were no direct flights, requiring a layover in Doha, and the flight to Doha alone took over ten hours.

Yet, I felt neither bored nor fatigued. I was wide awake, eyes alert with a sense of anticipation. A premonition, perhaps unfounded, whispered that this trip might hold the key to unlocking my writer’s block, a creative impasse that had stalled my new novel for months.

The bus lurched forward, and a man suddenly appeared from behind the throng of passengers, stepping directly in front of us. He began shouting in Arabic. Although I didn’t understand a word of the language, his meaning was unmistakable. The clipped, commanding tone, the imperious expression and voice, the wagging index finger — all combined to form a sentence with no room for misinterpretation:

“You two, get up.” The man wore a uniform. That, in itself, was intimidating. I couldn’t discern whether it was a military, police or airport staff uniform, but he certainly looked authorized to issue such a command. Jinny inquired politely in English, “Sir, have we done something wrong?”

The uniformed man didn’t answer. He simply snapped at us, ordering us to get up, quickly. It felt as if one more question might result in handcuffs. We stood up. A woman emerged from behind the uniformed man, her appearance striking. She sat down in my seat and crossed her legs elegantly. She placed her handbag in Jinny’s seat. I took a moment to assess the woman: an emerald-green hijab, a sparkling dress, wrists and fingers heavy with gold and jewels. She looked like a noblewoman from an Arab royal family. I felt the impulse to inform her, “Excuse me, Madam, that’s my seat.”

She raised her chin, her gaze sweeping down over her cheekbones to fix on the uniformed man. The look conveyed a clear command: “Get rid of them.”

The uniformed man turned, positioning himself between us and the woman. Jinny, her tone now less polite, attempted to reason with him, but he remained unresponsive. He stood there, a broad, unyielding barrier, blocking our view and refusing to budge. He even extended his arm, forming a makeshift barrier to prevent us from approaching the woman. Jinny shot me a bewildered look. “Are we being mugged in broad daylight?”

It certainly felt that way. The duo’s identities seemed obvious: the noblewoman and her manservant. The situation was also crystal clear. This manservant had brazenly seized the seats of unsuspecting foreigners to accommodate his mistress and her handbag.

My face flushed, and a disbelieving laugh escaped me. The heat of anger was mixed with the absurdity of the situation, which made me laugh, and once I had started laughing, it felt awkward to suddenly turn serious and demand our seats back. Besides, there wasn’t time to argue. The bus had already reached the plane. As the bus doors opened, the manservant used his arm to create a barrier, halting the flow of passengers exiting. The lady disembarked with the grace of someone walking a red carpet.

On the plane, we encountered the lady again. She was seated alone next to the emergency exit, her handbag resting on her lap. The manservant was nowhere to be seen. Questions swirled in my mind. Why was she in economy class, not first class or business? Perhaps her private jet had malfunctioned, forcing her to scramble for an economy ticket. What did she think of us, the gullible foreigners whose seats she had commandeered? And where had the manservant disappeared to?

Jinny and I engaged in a lengthy discussion, dissecting these perplexing questions. As we approached Cairo, we reached a consensus: “Whatever happened···”

Genie and I engaged in a lengthy discussion, dissecting these perplexing questions. As we approached Cairo, we reached a consensus: “Whatever happened···”

“···tonight, she’ll be serving that manservant the very finest food.”

The enjoyment of a journey hinges on the relationship with one’s travel companion. Even the most breathtaking destinations and meticulously crafted itineraries can turn into nightmares if the dynamic with your travel partner sours. Don’t we all know of friendships that have ended after an ill-fated trip? In this respect, Jinny is my ideal travel companion. I can’t say for sure that I’m her ideal companion, however.

We share remarkably similar daily routines, tastes, and physical endurance. We’re both early risers, unfussy eaters, capable of endless conversations on trivial topics, and enthusiastic about extreme activities. We can handle both subzero temperatures and scorching heat, undeterred by blizzards or torrential downpours.

We each have our respective strengths. I’m good at tasks requiring physical exertion. Jinny is fluent in English and German. This means we rarely face linguistic challenges wherever we go. She also possesses an uncanny ability to read my mind, instantly understanding my thoughts with a mere glance. This unspoken communication is perhaps the fruit of a decade spent
together on numerous literary events and media coverage abroad.

When a destination is chosen, Jinny, the meticulous planner, takes charge of the itinerary and detailed schedule. I, ever the scatterbrain, am entrusted with the arduous task of following her lead. Cairo was no exception. I didn’t even ask her where we were going as we left the hotel immediately after unpacking. It was A, the local staff member from the Korean Cultural Center who had met us at the airport, who asked, “Where would you like to go?” He had volunteered to be our guide for the day on account of his fluency in Korean. He mentioned that due to the late hour, we would likely only have time to visit one place. Jinny’s choice was neither the Pyramids nor the Egyptian Museum. It was the Naguib Mahfouz Café in Khan el-Khalili market.

Our car navigated the chaotic streets of Cairo. We were jostled by massive trailers, dump trucks, buses, cars, motorcycles, bicycles and horse-drawn carts. A hazy smog enveloped the city’s skyline, and people bustled along sidewalks lined with timeworn buildings. The scene felt like a blend of modern summer and medieval autumn, a disconcerting juxtaposition that evoked a sense of time travel. Perhaps it was the jarring contrast between the familiar and the foreign. If the medieval autumn felt alien, the modern summer was reminiscent of Korea in the early 1980s.

The car stopped at the entrance to the market. Our guide gave us two pieces of advice. Guard your belongings from pickpockets. And close your ears. He warned us against falling prey to the smooth-talking shopkeepers. He recommended a fixed-price store called Jordi within the market for souvenir shopping. For someone like me, notorious for my susceptibility to persuasive sales pitches,this was a Herculean task.

As we entered the market, A shared some history. Khan el-Khalili, meaning “the prince’s inn,” was a traditional market established in the 14^th century in the Islamic district. Often compared to Istanbul’s Grand Bazaar, Khan el-Khalili is one of the largest markets in the nation boasting an astonishing array of goods — “everything under the sun in Egypt’s emporium.” The entrance itself confirmed this reputation.

An endless succession of shops selling gold, jewelry, spices, candles, pottery, carpets and handicrafts lined the streets. Overwhelmed by the sheer volume of merchandise, the bustling crowds, the similar-looking buildings and the labyrinthine alleyways, I felt a sense of disorientation. Even amid this sensory overload, my attention was constantly drawn to the tempting displays. I found myself instinctively inquiring about prices, only to be met with Jinny’s gentle whisper: “Jordi…”

After about thirty such reminders, we reached a building adorned with a camel sign. Jordi was located on the second floor. There, I bought a Mohamed Salah jersey, the Liverpool FC superstar and a source of national pride for Egyptians. Collecting jerseys of local sports heroes had become a travel habit, a way of preserving my impressions of a country. Just as Koreans of my generation remember Park Chan-ho during the Asian Financial Crisis of the late 1990s.

Naguib Mahfouz Café was not far from Jordi. It was said to be the favorite haunt of Naguib Mahfouz, the first Nobel laureate in Literature from the Arab League. Rumor had it that he actually wrote at El Fishawy Cafe and merely loitered at Mahfouz. If that were true, I mused, then Naguib Mahfouz Café might be the true birthplace of Mahfouz’s literary genius. Loitering is an essential human activity, and play is the wellspring of human imagination.

Mahfouz resembled a traditional restaurant more than a café. It featured ornate wall decorations, a striking marble floor with geometric patterns, gold-trimmed tables with matching ashtrays (Our guide informed us that smoking remains prevalent in Egypt, where alcohol consumption is limited), cushions embroidered with Arabic letters, and velvet chairs draped with white covers.

Jinny ordered some pita bread and Turkish coffee. Meanwhile, my attention was drawn to an elderly man sitting in a corner with a shoeshine box. Our eyes met, and he approached me, uttering words I understood without A’s translation: “Shoe shine?”

I glanced down at my worn-out work boots, their faux leather not exactly requiring professional attention, but I said yes anyway. It was, in fact, the eleven-year-old girl conjured up from my memories who answered.

I was born and raised in a small town in Korea’s Jeolla Province. My father, a county office worker, would sometimes call me during his lunch break, summoning me for errands. He’d ask me to bring a change of clothes in case of an emergency, or a file folder he’d left on his desk.

These were my lucky days. They meant my father wasn’t calling me to his office, but to Hong’s Coffee Shop, a nearby establishment. There, I was always greeted with warmth and hospitality. Madam Hong, the owner, dressed in elegant hanbok (traditional Korean clothing), would prepare crispy toast and hot cocoa. And that wasn’t all. She would watch me eat and whisper to my father, “Your daughter is so adorable.”

Is there anything more gratifying than receiving a compliment on one’s genetic makeup? Since growing my hair out, Madam Hong of Hong’s Coffee Shop had been the only one who had called me cute. It goes without saying, but I never told my mother that Madam Hong had been clinging to my father’s arm. That would have been the end of my visits to Hong’s Coffee Shop.

Around the time I finished my toast, the shoeshine man would usually arrive. He would take my father’s shoes, and I would eagerly follow him. Squatting outside the coffee shop, in front of a small shoe-shining stall, I’d watch, mesmerized, as my father’s worn-out shoes were transformed into gleaming, almost new ones. The dust would be brushed off, polish applied, and then, the final touch — a piece of burning newspaper used to buff the toe caps to a brilliant shine.

After observing this process countless times, I concluded that I could do it myself. Polishing his shoes would surely earn me a reward. I didn’t hesitate. I dragged my father’s old shoes to the backyard shed, applied polish, lit a piece of newspaper···

That day, I nearly burned down the shed.

Three days had passed since our arrival in Cairo. The official literary events were over. We had one day of free time remaining. We spent the morning exploring the Pyramids of Giza. Around lunchtime, we found ourselves in the garden of the Marriott Mena House Hotel nearby. The garden is famous for its view of the pyramids, but that wasn’t what we were there to see.

In 1943, this hotel hosted the Cairo Conference, where the Cairo Declaration was issued, guaranteeing Korea’s independence. Chinese President Chiang Kai-shek had reportedly championed Korea’s independence during the conference. A monument commemorating the Cairo Declaration stands in the Churchill Garden. We stood side-by-side, reading the inscription:
“Korea shall become free and independent.”

I felt a surge of patriotism, wanting to salute my country, which had risen from colonial rule to become a developed nation in less than a century. Perhaps “an intense feeling of national pride” would be the closest pharase to describe this emotion.

Over a late lunch at the hotel restaurant, Jinny brought up our next destination. She gave me a choice. We could follow our original plan and visit the National Museum of Egyptian Civilization, or we could explore Saint Simon Monastery in Mokattam, a place recommended by a Korean expatriate employee at the Korean Cultural Center. Time constraints meant we could only choose one. I opted for the latter. Jinny concurred. It was unanimous.

On the outskirts of Cairo is Manshiyat Nasser, a neighborhood known as “Garbage City.” Its residents earned their living by collecting trash and sorting recyclables. They were said to be unwelcoming to outsiders. For various reasons, taxis and Ubers were reluctant to enter the village. Even if we managed to get there, finding transportation back would be a problem. The staff member had advised against foreigners using public transportation in the village.

After several attempts, Jinny managed to hail an Uber. Unlike the other taxis in Cairo, this one had functioning air conditioning and a clean interior. The driver, a middle-aged man with a friendly demeanor, introduced himself asMohamed. He shared the same name as the owner of the jersey I’d bought on my first day, Mohamed Salah, which, for some reason, made me feel a sense of kinship. I decided to call him Mohamed 2 to differentiate him from the first Mohamed. Thankfully, this second Mohamed spoke English, allowing for easy communication with Jinny. Even more fortunately, he expressed a fondness for Koreans. This allowed us to relax and enjoy the ride.

After driving southeast of Cairo for less than an hour, we entered the village. Even with the car windows closed, a foul stench permeated the air. It was an overwhelming, unfamiliar odor. The car passed through an entrance where garbage was piled high, then navigated narrow, winding streets. I started breathing through my mouth. I could hear Mohamed 2 talking about the village.

In Arabic, Mokattam means “cut off.” It had originally been a mountain, but quarrying for the construction of the Pyramids and the Sphinx had left it truncated, hence the name. The government had decided to establish a settlement for garbage collectors at the foot of the cliffs, and that was the origin of the village. Cairo residents called them Zabbleen, meaning “garbage collectors.”

Around 30,000 people resided in the village at the base of Mokattam Hills, most of whom suffered from respiratory illnesses. While around 90 percent of the country was Muslim, the majority of Mokattam’s residents were minority Coptic Christians. As history demonstrates, minority groups often face persecution, their narratives marked by hardship. As their stories became more harrowing, their faith and convictions likely grew stronger. They endured discrimination and oppression, taking on the jobs shunned by other Egyptians.

I observed the passing scenery with a renewed perspective. The landscape blurred past the car window: heaps of haphazardly piled trash, the Coptic crosses hanging in the windows of dilapidated houses, bakeries, grocery stores and hardware stores. Behind the shops stood tall, windowless buildings. These were the garbage sorting facilities, where the work was primarily done by children and women. Collecting garbage from Cairo city center was traditionally a male occupation.

The village road ended after about a kilometer and a half. A steep slope appeared, along with rock walls carved with images of the Ten Commandments, Jesus and Mary. Further up, Saint Simon Monastery, nestled at the foot of the cliffs, came into view.

Mohamed 2 parked the car nearby. He had initially planned to drop us off and leave, but he changed his mind in a most welcome turn of events. He decided to wait for us until we finished our sightseeing and take us back to Cairo. He reasoned that it would be better than returning with an empty car, even if it meant a slight delay. He even offered to act as our guide, without asking for any guide fees or tips. Given our return journey concerns, we were immensely grateful.

Saint Simon Monastery’s main worship hall, known as Tanner’s Hall, featured an arch-shaped stone structure at its entrance. I murmured the inscription carved above the arch:
“Amen Come Lord Jesus”

According to Mohamed 2, this was the cry uttered by early Coptic Christians facing persecution and death. Entering the arch, the vastness of the worship hall unfolded before us. Like a tiered lecture hall, it was carved out of the rock face, descending from top to bottom. It was awe-inspiring in scale. One of the largest cave churches in the Middle East, it could accommodate up to 20,000 of the faithful. Rows of chairs, seemingly endless, stretched out beneath a rock ceiling that appeared ready to collapse at any moment.

What a painstaking process it must have been. Carved out by hand, centimeter by centimeter, one person at a time. There must have been times when the rock face collapsed. A prickling sensation crept over my skin, beneath the sweat and dust. It was a testament to human faith and conviction, the ultimate weapon that seemed capable of achieving anything.

We descended the long staircase, pausing to examine the wall carvings depicting the life of Saint Simon the Tanner, a Coptic saint, as we went. When we reached the lowest level, near the altar, I felt another shiver. Organ music was playing from somewhere. It seemed to be coming from the altar itself, but from my vantage point, I couldn’t see the organist or even the instrument. The music was unlike anything I’d heard before. The melody was majestic and beautiful, resonating like a celestial hymn. Each sacred note seemed to resonate with the divine.

I suddenly felt parched. Swallowing dryly, I turned towards where the breeze was coming from. Beyond the high cave ceiling, the evening sky was ablaze. The setting sun cast long shadows of light across the rows of chairs in the worship hall. It was as if a deity was about to descend, following that path of light. The organ music playing behind me sounded like a hymn of salvation, welcoming the divine presence.

Was the cool sensation that brushed my forehead a breeze? Or was it an illusion, born of light and sound? I remember feeling momentarily dazed. And I remember what I thought at that moment.

If the entire human race were to face its end in the next 30 seconds, what would I be doing? I would probably be sitting in my chair at home, recalling this path of light and this organ music.

• Read Part 2 in the next issue.

• Written by Jeong Youjeong
• Illustration by Kwon Minho & Hwal