I drew myself up and waved to a passing workman two tracks away. We engaged in a brief, shouted conversation, during which he made reassuring Egyptian noises in response to my distressed American ones. With gestures and smiles, he indicated that I should stay where I was, and then he hustled away.
Eventually the workman returned, grinning happily. He was accompanied by a railway porter who spoke some English and was at pains to point out that the chanting had ended and that the mob outside had dispersed. “No worries, madams,” he soothed, while he and the workman heaved my baggage onto a luggage dolly. “No worries atall!”
The two of them leaned forward to push the cart outside, where lines of wagons and taxis waited. Believing I was now to find my own way to the hotel, I reached into my handbag for some coins. The workman accepted one with much gratitude and left. The porter, on the other hand, displayed an expression of such offended sensibilities, you’d have thought I’d asked if I might eat his favorite child.
Stammering an apology, I closed my pocketbook. The porter looked relieved. With an attitude of intense dignity, he whistled down a donkey-cart driver. This “dragoman” was to be engaged to convey me and my luggage the final few miles to the Semiramis Hotel at a price that the porter would determine.
Establishing the fee involved much vituperative negotiation. The dragoman glared at Rosie. She returned the favor. I might have been alerted to the impending difficulties by their mutual hostility, but that was when the porter said severely, “Six piastres, madams! Not more for him!” The porter himself then stood still, which seemed to indicate that his services to me were complete. Tentatively I reached into my pocketbook, and this time my offering was accepted with a charming, toothy smile.