From atop Mounib bridge, what was recently a common scene, has become a rarity. Amid tears of joy and sadness the wooden planks of a small boat touched the waters of the Nile for the first time as it was launched from a quay on Geziret El Dahab, Giza’s troubled Gold Island.
Its owner Marei Mahmoud, thought he would never live to see that day. For months after he commissioned it to Mostafa Fathi, who runs a boat-building business on the Island, the price of steel began to skyrocket. His small project came to a complete standstill.
But Mahmoud is perhaps among the few lucky ones who were able to keep up with the rising cost of steel and wood throughout the past year.
“Following the unprecedented price hikes in materials, business at the few small docks operating in Cairo and Giza has taken a sharp downturn, said Fathi who has inherited the trade from his father and grandfather before him.
“Look at these, Fathi said, pointing to two rusty steel structures in the middle of the yard.
They were commissioned as two ferries before their owners faltered on payments, he explained. The clients can’t even afford to buy the anti-rust paint.
“Left like that the humidity and wind would irreparably eat into the metal and the poor guys will lose everything, he said.
The scene is familiar in dockyards tucked away in El Warak and other small islands dotting the Nile in the North and in Upper Egypt.
The lush vegetation on Geziret El Dahab camouflages the suffering of an entire sub-community that whose livelihood has been jeopardized by the slings and arrows of the open market and the stark effects of the global economic crisis.
Even though the business slump reached its peak over the past year, Fathi says that the dramatic deterioration first began to be felt more than a decade ago when the market became saturated large ferries, fellucas and picnic boats.
“In the last few years, we managed to survive on commissions by farmers and villagers who sold their land and livestock in search of greener pastures on the Nile, says Fathi.
But the short-lived honeymoon was soon over with steel prices hitting LE 8,000. Depending on the size, in the 1970s a small boat could cost LE 700 and a large one about LE 5,000. Now, however, a medium boat can reach up to LE 40,000.
Nowadays, Fathi’s business depends entirely on maintenance work and repaints of old boats. If he’s lucky he would be commissioned to make small fishing boats from time to time. And as the business slackened, many workers were forced to leave the docks for jobs at car repair shops or boat-owning travel agents.
For Fathi’s small team of six, hiked steel prices were the straw that broke the camel’s back. And to control the growing number of boats operating on the Nile, the Ministry of Irrigation and Navigation which grants boat licenses, has put in place new rules restricting the issuance of licenses to quay owners.
The prohibitive cost of obtaining a new license, standing at between LE 3,000 to LE 4,000, has also taken its toll on the boat-building business, as those carrying old licenses would rather buy a second hand boat, whose license can be renewed for LE 1,000, than bear the extra cost of a new one.
Fathi also says that the large docks in Helwan, El Saf, Badrashein and Hawamidya now monopolize the boat-building industry with commissions from travel agencies and the Nile shipping tycoons.
He compares boats today to property on land, the price of which has also seen unprecedented hikes with the real estate boom.
Building a large boat is as difficult as constructing a five-storey building, he says, so in many cases ferry and boat owners are opting to rent or sell their boats for a large profit.
At close range, the lush greenery engulfing Geziret El Dahab turns out to be no more than a deceptive façade.
The reality for the island’s villagers is all but green. Marooned in a jungle of plantations and green fields, residents can only get their food supplies by traveling by boat to the nearest village.
Villagers must also think twice before venturing out by ferry to the sprawling metropolis of Cairo’s affluent Maadi district, where the differences in price of food is not insignificant.
It is also indicative of the huge wealth and development gap between what the casual observer will automatically see as two different worlds.
“Our lifestyle hasn’t changed here, says Rais Abdel Shafi, 65, the oldest worker in the dock. “We didn’t mind as long as our livelihood wasn’t affected by developments on the other side. But for all those young people the future is bleak.
He recalls that in 1962 when Rais Fathi, Mostafa’s father, started his business seven families easily managed to earn their living working at the dock which employed no less than 40 people.
In the 1970s, business was in full bloom because agricultural products like hay, bricks, sugarcane, vegetables, fruits and other items were transported by boat countrywide.
“Starting the 1980s, land shipping took off, he continued, “as trucks and trailers, began to operate on a large scale.
“But even then we found solace in the booming small picnic-boat industry. But now they are no longer in demand. Our heyday is gone; now it’s the heyday of the mega docks, he added.
Fathi, however, would never consider getting a job at one of those large docks. For him, it’s a matter dignity.
“How can I leave behind my father and grandfather’s workshop? I’m an owner, everyone knows me well. Do you want them to say that I’m now working for someone else? It’s not worth it. Besides, those big docks still pay very little. One big deal at my own dockyard can last me a whole year.
And despite the challenges, for some, this is more than an inherited profession, it’s a passion.
“I wish I never took up this path, said Mohamed El Isnawy, one of the dock’s two welders. “I fell in love with my work.
After completing his diploma at a polytechnic school in his hometown of Esna in Upper Egypt, he moved to the docks and became enamored with the boat-building life. Despite the dwindling income, he was never able to let go.
“I am miles away from my family and I wonder how long I can continue to live like a nomad. But to quit? It’s a difficult decision. I am tied to the river.
“We’re all bound to stay here until God wills otherwise, says Rais Abdel Shafi.”We aren’t unhappy despite the difficulties. The purest of God’s creations are those closest to His rivers.
“I’ll never quit this place, says Rafai, 10, the youngest worker at the dock.
The young boy has never gone to school and has no future beyond this yard. As he ran towards the river, he seemed dwarfed by the big boats on one side and the gigantic buildings on the other.
