The value of gold

The heat is fierce, almost suffocating. Six hundred threads of Egyptian cotton cling to sweating, tanned skin. The resting place of my camel becomes a distant memory now fading into the smells of shisha dancing in the air.
Scents of cinnamon flaunt with hints of mint and apple before melting among sandstone walls.
The over-crowded station provides a sanctuary from the grains of burning sand that creep into my sandals and rest between vulnerable toes.
A small boy tugs at my sleeve, bare gums escaping his wide smile. We trade a foreign currency for a bottle of water and I wonder if he believes in the tooth fairy. Between tiny fingers he clutches an American baseball card, a sign the western word has visited him here in Luxor.
The train launches into view and a mass of bodies swells towards the rusty doors. I grasp a torn piece of paper. The Arabic letters claim my destination and I memorise the word before immersing into the women’s carriage.
Hundreds of pairs of surprised, friendly eyes gaze upon me, searching my face for stories, my soul for meaning.
And then she approaches.
Cloaked in a Hijab, she reveals small pieces of almond-washed skin, framed with hair the colour of a starless night. Above the dark fabric she wears a pink top and a green skirt, the fashions of another world. She points to my hair.
“Gold?” She has never seen such a colour.
I shake my head. “Blonde.”
She giggles and a group of girls gather, smiling widely, reaching for my hair. I nod approval and hands fill with strands of long hair, eyes dart through the carriage to see which passengers are witnessing this bravery.
A girl with turquoise eyes points to her textbooks. White pages exposing Arabic symbols.
“One day, I will be smart like you.”
I laugh and shake my head.
“I can’t read Arabic.”
She takes the torn paper from my hands and begins to write.
“Friendship,” she translates.
I want to tell her nothing in her book is as rewarding as our encounter but I think she knows. Without reading it.