I woke up with a start, not knowing where I was. I shot up, soaked with sweat, completely lost with the vertigo that sleep had brought me. I had no idea where I was. Actually I had no idea where I was, no idea when it was, and no idea who I was. It was a horrible feeling, and I was still breathing heavy. My half-asleep mind spun in panic to try and lock into some detail of my life, but I could not. Where the hell was I? I was in a dark room, with the curtains drawn, the busy workaday noise of diesels trucks and motorcycles drifting in from the street outside. It was oppressively hot, the only breeze in the room coming from a wobbly ceiling fan. I rubbed my eyes, but I still felt like I was falling down an elevator shaft, desperately trying to catch on to something solid to slow my fall. Was I in the Philippines? No wait, in Chang Mai, Thailand? No I’m pretty sure that was last week. It had to be Beijing, China, right? Oh wait it was freezing cold in China, so that couldn’t be it. I swung my legs off of the creaky cheap bed and put my feet on the floor. That just brought a wash of painful amnesia. I couldn’t even remember the date, or be sure of what month it was; maybe it was March? Or February? I pulled off my shirt, but it was difficult because it was so wet with sweat, then threw it on the green tile floor. I had been traveling way too long. In the dizzying keleidescope of a year of backpacking around the world I couldn't even decipher what city I was in? What jungle, what barren desert, what remote and forgotten corner of the Earth? What dream was this; what dream of a life that I was walking in? There was something I was missing and I couldn’t quite wrap my head around it.
A month later I was taking a train from Cairo down to Aswan, near the Sudanese border. The train was set to leave at about 6am but I was early, carrying an oversized backpack that held all of my possessions in the world. As dawn broke the sun creeped over the dusty skyline, warming the earth enough to send steam rising from the cold metal train cars. One by one the train windows were illuminated with reds, pinks, and yellows reflected from the sunlight. The track was mostly deserted except for a couple of vendors selling bread out of a covered basket and a sleepy conductor; it was surprisingly quiet for such a chaotic, bustling city. I felt someone watching me out of the corner of my eye. I half-turned, and a child was huddled in the shadows behind a concrete column. He was shrouded in darkness so I couldn’t make out the details, but he was staring curiously at me but trying to remain hidden. Since he was my only company on the train tracks and I had time to kill I figured I’d make him feel welcome, so I turned fully around to face him and smiled. He jumped further back into the shadows, afraid at first, but then I smiled again and gave him the thumbs up sign. He hesitantly stepped out into the sunlight. My companion looked to be around eight years old, though it was hard to tell because he was so filthy and malnourished. He might have been thirteen for all I know. He wore layers of dirty rags that were covered with train soot and black shoes that were falling apart. I looked closer and saw that his skin was dried and diseased, like it was covered in scales that plagued most of his body, including his face. Even on his nose the skin was cracked and permanently marred. His fingers were withered, raw with red sores where they weren’t covered with dirt.
At first his appearance shocked me, but then I made sure to smile at him again to make him feel comfortable. He’d probably never seen a foreigner or even a white person with blond hair before, something I found often when I trekked through remote parts of Asia or the Middle East, and sometimes the kids would run up and touch the blonde hair on my arms. He stared up at me with big black eyes, taking in every detail. This boy was obviously a street kid with no roof over his head, no one to look out for him, and not enough to eat. The thought occurred to me that maybe he lived somewhere near these tracks and got his food by rummaging through the garbage cans and waste of others at the train station. Of course I’d seen plenty of street kids over my last year of travelling; in fact I’d seen much worse, but there was something different about this kid – something warm and alive in his eyes that registered more than just the pain that I expected.
There was an empty soda can on the track near my feet. I nudged it a few times with my sneaker like I was dribbling soccer ball. He looked on, intrigued. I kicked the can over in his direction and a huge smile broke out on his face when he realized I was playing soccer and including him in my game. He stepped closer and kicked it back to me. We kicked the can back and forth a few times, both chuckling at how quickly our new friendship was formed. I said my name in English and then said a few words in Arabic. He tried to respond but when he opened his mouth only a grunt came out, even as he strained his throat muscles. It seemed like he was also mute. Damn that’s rough.
A chill from the morning air overcame me so I zipped up my wooly fleece. Was he cold? If so he didn’t show it, even though he was only wearing some flimsy rags that were falling apart, the remnants of a matching sweat suit that was so yellowed with age I couldn’t even tell what color it originally was. I noticed that his sweatshirt said “the Best Quality” on it - now if that ain’t irony I don’t know what is. Since he couldn’t talk I held out my hand for him to give me five. He didn’t know what I was doing at first, and then his face lit up when he realized that I wanted him to slap my palm. I bet that this kid was used to no one wanting to touch him or go near him because of his skin disease. He probably had no one to hug him, and that thought broke my heart. He had no chance to live a normal life: he would never be safe, never be well fed, never be able to sleep indoors, never get an education, never know what it feels like to be loved and have family around him and get married and raise children. No matter what this kid did he was destined for a short life of pain, misery, and suffering. Yet it was by no choice of his own - his only crime was being born at the wrong place in the wrong situation to the wrong people. Even with all of these disabilities and detriments he was a smiling, good natured kid.
I felt ashamed for not appreciating my own life. How dare I complain, feel sad, get stressed. I mean, what the hell in the grand scheme of things did I have to worry about? I had every advantage and opportunity in the world and very little of it was earned. What separated the two of us? How were we different? Luck. Bad friggin luck.
It made me mad how unfair life was, that the good often suffer while those who should pay the price for their wicked actions live unpunished, privileged and gluttonous lives. This was just one kid on one train track in one third-world city - imagine how many billions of others were out there who were suffering and needed help? There was so much sadness in the world you could get lost in it if you weren’t careful. How were we ever expected to overcome it? Was there enough light in the dawn to warm such endless and drowning darkness?
I motioned the kid closer and handed him a $1 bill. It didn’t seem like enough. I handed him a $10 bill. His face showed disbelief and his big, ancient eyes registered a gratitude I’d never seen before nor since. He looked around to make sure no one else was watching so he wouldn’t be robbed once we parted, took the money in his small, shriveled hands, and tucked it safely under his sweatshirt. If possible, his smile got even bigger but he was not focused on the money – he had found something kind in my face and that was most comforting to him. Fuck it - I handed him a $20 bill - the last money I had with me, and closed my wallet. $36 in US dollars could probably feed a kid like this for a year. He was now the richest urchin in the slums of Cairo, the king of his train platform.
It still wasn’t enough – these small tokens, though greatly appreciated, didn’t even come close to how I felt for him. I motioned for him to hold on and went into my bag, rummaging around until I fished out a pair of Nike basketball shorts and my favorite t-shirt, and handed them to him. He proudly put them on over his rags. They were so big on him that he looked like a child playing dress-up in his dad’s clothes.
My train pulled up and the conductor whistled for everyone to board. We looked at each other and smiled. There was an understanding. We had fought the darkness together and done well, even for one small, fleeting moment. I walked onto the shiny train that reflected the early morning sun. The doors closed and we chugged slowly down the track. The boy waved with a huge smile on his face, and then turned and walked on down the track back into the ruins of Cairo, kicking a soda can. I stared at the seat in front of me. Something had changed in me. I’d been all over the world that year, registering about 80,000 miles over six continents; I’d seen ancient wonders of the world and majestic vistas that would steal your breath, but somehow, inexplicably, here on this dirty train station with this little street kid, I had found what I was looking for. It was time to go home.
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I woke up feeling like the world was upside down. I couldn’t breath – my lungs were screaming for air and the darkness was choking me. I shot up and looked around. I was drenched with sweat and lying on the floor, on a dirty mattress. Ants and tiny iguanas crawled over me where the strands of moonlight crossed my legs. I felt like I’d been asleep for one hundred years. Where the hell was I? I’d just had a dream of the kid – the street kid on the train tracks in Cairo. A long-forgotten feeling of falling vertigo overtook me. It was painful just to be in existence, like something in my psyche was screaming to be heard. I recreated the last few days. Was I in Costa Rica? No – that was yesterday. It was New Year’s Day, 2011, and I was in Nicaragua. I’d partied all night and then in the morning hopped a taxi for the border and crossed over into San Juan De Sur. All of the hotels were booked so I had to rent part of a private house and sleep on the floor. And the dream of the kid, the street kid? Had it really been ten years since I travelled around the world and met him? What had I been doing with all that time? Had I forgotten about him? I remembered that day on the train platform and the connection we had and knew I had not. It still shook me that would never be able to talk, or scream in anger against the pain the life inflicted upon him. That urchin, who didn't even have a name, would never be able to tell his mother he loved her or pray out loud for a better future, but he had somehow passed part of his soul along for me to carry on. So I would be his voice. I would make sure that he was heard, that the world knew that he existed. I would be the one to fight for his place in eternity because he could not. For him I would write a book, and tell the world what I’d seen. So I got started.
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