"One wonders that people come back from Egypt and live lives as they did before."
Florence Nightingale
Of all the countries on the face of this incredible planet, Egypt is the one that most takes my breath away. The land of sand, cut by a liquid ribbon called the Nile, fills me with raw, gut-wrenching awe, and just as the grandeur of the pyramids has not dimmed with time, my feelings and memories of this land also refuse to dim. As the years go by I still find it hard to believe that I, a mere mortal of the present day, actually walked upon the ancient sands.
When I think of Egypt I mostly think of its deserts. I have always loved deserts – those wonderful, wandering seas of sand. I have visited many and once lived in the middle of one for one long hot year. Deserts may be harsh, but their beauty seems to be strongly etched on the earth’s face, as if the creator was definite about making a statement in pure, clear lines and colour. In desert places I feel calm, serene and safe from the hustle and bustle of modern life. Some think the searing heat sucks the very life out of you, but I don’t think that at all. That heat breathes life into me, recharges my worn down batteries, and sends my spirits soaring into the heavens.
My first two visits to Egypt were in the 1980s, with my husband and parents. Twenty years passed till I returned, again with my husband, this time accompanied by his adult daughter and our teenage daughter. Cairo was our entry point on all visits. Cairo, a teeming, horn-honking city of millions, is not the kind of peace I am referring to above, but it certainly is a colourful, noisy kaleidoscope of life: people, cars, dust; donkey-pulled carts collecting trash; flat bread piled high on trays on heads weaving through crowded streets; children tugging skirts and trailing with cries of “Baksheesh!”; robes and turbans; moustaches and grins; bazaars filled with spices and unbelievable aromas, gleaming brassware and colourful cloth; the cries of the muezzin broadcast over loud speakers calling the faithful to prayer. People. Noise. Dust. This is Cairo as it is today and as it has been for centuries.
Walking amongst the people, the noise and the dust is the best way to get to know Cairo, but there are surprising pockets of peace that are a welcome relief to bombarded senses. An early morning walk along the Nile is refreshing. A visit to the top of the Cairo Tower lifts you above the busy-ness and provides a panoramic view worthy of note. And standing in the shadow of the pyramids casts a silence to the core of your soul that cannot be shattered.
Exhausted from fending off promises of the best/cheapest/most authentic … papyrus/perfume/jewellery/food/clothing/tours, we left Cairo on each occasion with a sigh of relief. Each direction out of Cairo is an exciting journey to different desert places. These are the stories of my journeys.
When I think of Egypt I mostly think of its deserts. I have always loved deserts – those wonderful, wandering seas of sand. I have visited many and once lived in the middle of one for one long hot year. Deserts may be harsh, but their beauty seems to be strongly etched on the earth’s face, as if the creator was definite about making a statement in pure, clear lines and colour. In desert places I feel calm, serene and safe from the hustle and bustle of modern life. Some think the searing heat sucks the very life out of you, but I don’t think that at all. That heat breathes life into me, recharges my worn down batteries, and sends my spirits soaring into the heavens.
My first two visits to Egypt were in the 1980s, with my husband and parents. Twenty years passed till I returned, again with my husband, this time accompanied by his adult daughter and our teenage daughter. Cairo was our entry point on all visits. Cairo, a teeming, horn-honking city of millions, is not the kind of peace I am referring to above, but it certainly is a colourful, noisy kaleidoscope of life: people, cars, dust; donkey-pulled carts collecting trash; flat bread piled high on trays on heads weaving through crowded streets; children tugging skirts and trailing with cries of “Baksheesh!”; robes and turbans; moustaches and grins; bazaars filled with spices and unbelievable aromas, gleaming brassware and colourful cloth; the cries of the muezzin broadcast over loud speakers calling the faithful to prayer. People. Noise. Dust. This is Cairo as it is today and as it has been for centuries.
Walking amongst the people, the noise and the dust is the best way to get to know Cairo, but there are surprising pockets of peace that are a welcome relief to bombarded senses. An early morning walk along the Nile is refreshing. A visit to the top of the Cairo Tower lifts you above the busy-ness and provides a panoramic view worthy of note. And standing in the shadow of the pyramids casts a silence to the core of your soul that cannot be shattered.
Exhausted from fending off promises of the best/cheapest/most authentic … papyrus/perfume/jewellery/food/clothing/tours, we left Cairo on each occasion with a sigh of relief. Each direction out of Cairo is an exciting journey to different desert places. These are the stories of my journeys.
By Felucca up the Nile 1984/85
Cairo roofline
On our first trip to Egypt we reigned in our independent spirits and opted for the safety of a small group tour. It was 1984 and airline travel was quite relaxed, security wise. We flew Olympic Airways from Athens with robed, turbaned passengers who looked like the stereo-typical terrorists we fear today. We felt a little tense, even then, as everyone looked so stern and unsmiling. When the plane took off and the seat belt sign turned off, almost every seatbelt unclicked in unison and every passenger on the plane was up out of their seat and walking up and down the aisles. When the plane touched down there was a thundering rattle which sounded like the plane was falling apart. With relief, we realised it was the sound of applause. Allah be praised. We had arrived safely in Egypt.
We arrived in Cairo a few days before the tour started and were able to roam the teeming city alone, so to speak, if you don’t count the other 10 million inhabitants. We dutifully booked into the Hotel Fontana, a rickety run down establishment in a back street not far from Ramses Square and the Railway Station. This hotel confirmed that our choice of tour would indeed live up to its claim that we would be experiencing Egypt from an angle different to that seen by most other tourists.
The Fontana will always hold fond memories as it was here we were introduced to many facets of the ways of life on the tourist trail in Egypt. We tasted our first of many breakfasts of black sweet tea, one hard boiled egg, one wrapped cheese triangle, fig jam and a mound of bread. We learned that waiters are always male and that they find the easiest way to carry teapots to the table is to wedge the thumb firmly down the spout. We learned that ordering more than one bottle of wine at any sitting created great interest, bordering on amazement, amongst the staff. To this day I am unsure if the reason was; a) that drinking alcohol was not common in a Muslim country, or b) that the wine was considered so bad that they were surprised to find anyone who would order more of the stuff.
It was here we first heard the call of the muezzin, that sing-song wail that wafts hauntingly through the air, calling Muslims to prayer. It was broadcast through a loud speaker right outside our window and suitably surprised us before dawn on our first morning in Cairo. In the hush of the early morning, this first call of the day was always the one we noticed most. The other four calls were less obvious as they played against the noisy backdrop of the city awake.
We arrived in Cairo a few days before the tour started and were able to roam the teeming city alone, so to speak, if you don’t count the other 10 million inhabitants. We dutifully booked into the Hotel Fontana, a rickety run down establishment in a back street not far from Ramses Square and the Railway Station. This hotel confirmed that our choice of tour would indeed live up to its claim that we would be experiencing Egypt from an angle different to that seen by most other tourists.
The Fontana will always hold fond memories as it was here we were introduced to many facets of the ways of life on the tourist trail in Egypt. We tasted our first of many breakfasts of black sweet tea, one hard boiled egg, one wrapped cheese triangle, fig jam and a mound of bread. We learned that waiters are always male and that they find the easiest way to carry teapots to the table is to wedge the thumb firmly down the spout. We learned that ordering more than one bottle of wine at any sitting created great interest, bordering on amazement, amongst the staff. To this day I am unsure if the reason was; a) that drinking alcohol was not common in a Muslim country, or b) that the wine was considered so bad that they were surprised to find anyone who would order more of the stuff.
It was here we first heard the call of the muezzin, that sing-song wail that wafts hauntingly through the air, calling Muslims to prayer. It was broadcast through a loud speaker right outside our window and suitably surprised us before dawn on our first morning in Cairo. In the hush of the early morning, this first call of the day was always the one we noticed most. The other four calls were less obvious as they played against the noisy backdrop of the city awake.
We also became familiar with many of the local customs and differences, but we quickly learned the most important survival lesson of all – toilet paper is more precious than gold. Our lives became obsessed in the quest for toilet paper. If you were lucky, the Fontana housemaid just might leave you a small ration each day, but never enough. Do you know why room rates are so high at the Hilton on the Nile? They have to be to cover the cost of stolen toilet paper. Each day we, along with thousands of other 2 star tourists, would use the toilets in the Hilton foyer and unwind most of the roll into our handbags. The fear of running out of the stuff was so great that we worked hard to build up surplus supplies, just in case. Even to this day, in our own well stocked country, I become jittery if our home toilet paper stock falls below a few spare rolls. We usually have a mountain of rolls spilling out of a giant basket in the corner of our loo. Yes, Egypt turned us into toilet paper junkies. We cannot live without the promise of our next fix.
Our explorations of Cairo began somewhat tentatively. This was our very first time in a middle-Eastern country. We were careful with where we went and what we ate. Christmas day saw us celebrate with a lunch of a Mars bar and an orange, the only foods we could find protected from flies and dust, and these we munched as we plodded ever onwards through the honking traffic. However, we quickly became braver and more adventurous and threw caution to the wind. Eat, drink and be merry we decided, for tomorrow you may have tummy trouble, no matter how careful you are.
We warmed to the city as we walked through the heat and the dust and the noise. It was a throbbing creature, alive like no other city I had experienced. As we pounded the streets daily, the pulse of this teeming mass of humanity seemed to eke its way into our veins and join the beating of our own hearts.
As the starting date of our tour grew closer, the rest of the group began to trickle into the Fontana from countries far and wide. An interesting mix from various walks of life, the group was bound by a common quest – to see Egypt from a mid-comfort zone. These were people who liked middle-sized adventures. They wanted to get off the beaten track a little and they wanted time to explore. They didn’t want luxury that far removed them from every day life, but they did want the comfort of someone else dealing with the hassles of organising their travels in a country where they suspected they might too easily be taken advantage of.
Small group adventure travel was what was promised, and we now began by visiting nearby sites – the Cairo Museum, the pyramids of Giza, the step pyramid at Saqqara, Memphis – all amazing, all wondrous. We took in everything with minds open and mouths to match. It was all deliriously dazzling.
Our explorations of Cairo began somewhat tentatively. This was our very first time in a middle-Eastern country. We were careful with where we went and what we ate. Christmas day saw us celebrate with a lunch of a Mars bar and an orange, the only foods we could find protected from flies and dust, and these we munched as we plodded ever onwards through the honking traffic. However, we quickly became braver and more adventurous and threw caution to the wind. Eat, drink and be merry we decided, for tomorrow you may have tummy trouble, no matter how careful you are.
We warmed to the city as we walked through the heat and the dust and the noise. It was a throbbing creature, alive like no other city I had experienced. As we pounded the streets daily, the pulse of this teeming mass of humanity seemed to eke its way into our veins and join the beating of our own hearts.
As the starting date of our tour grew closer, the rest of the group began to trickle into the Fontana from countries far and wide. An interesting mix from various walks of life, the group was bound by a common quest – to see Egypt from a mid-comfort zone. These were people who liked middle-sized adventures. They wanted to get off the beaten track a little and they wanted time to explore. They didn’t want luxury that far removed them from every day life, but they did want the comfort of someone else dealing with the hassles of organising their travels in a country where they suspected they might too easily be taken advantage of.
Small group adventure travel was what was promised, and we now began by visiting nearby sites – the Cairo Museum, the pyramids of Giza, the step pyramid at Saqqara, Memphis – all amazing, all wondrous. We took in everything with minds open and mouths to match. It was all deliriously dazzling.
What can one say about the pyramids that has not already been said? Are there words to describe the feelings one has on first glimpsing sight of those man made peaks? What do you call that gasp that catches in your throat, that pounding that quickens in your heart? Is it awe? Is it incredibility?
The first surprise is that the pyramids are so close to the city, and not in the distant desert sands as one imagines. The second surprise is that they are every bit as amazing, breathtaking and magnificent as you ever imagined, and more. The pyramids. Giants space and time. Monuments that testify to the mighty imaginations of man. The pyramids. If I lived in Cairo I could go happily each day to gaze upon them, to walk in their shadows, to feel touched by time and eternity. |
If the pyramids appear grand from the outside, you should take a look on the inside. We entered the pyramid of Cheops and walked, stooped and crawled through long, narrow tunnels running at angles difficult to navigate upright, let alone hunched over. Not for the feint hearted, this journey into the bowels of the building led to the king’s chamber where all that remains is the lower part of Cheop’s sarcophagus. The outward bound path is more difficult to negotiate as longer time is spent angling downwards while hunched over in the long low tunnel. Once begun there is no turning back as you are carried along single file by the stream of sweaty tourists. I calmed myself by breathing slowly and praying that no one would have a heart attack or a claustrophobia attack I didn’t want my obituary to read, “Australian tourist trampled to death in crazed stampede inside an Egyptian pyramid.”
Bursting back out into the piercing sunlight, we stretched our cramped limbs and gazed with wonder anew. The three pyramids at Giza, having stood for over 4 500 years, represent the highest achievement in pyramid building. Many people are not aware that more than 60 pyramids extend over 100 kilometres between Abu Roash and the Fayum. They vary in form, height, technical character and state of repair. Some are unfinished and some are partly demolished, but they are all there on the left bank of the Nile at the beginning of the desert and the kingdom of the dead. And they are all symbolic of the mystery and majesty of Pharaonic times. Before leaving Giza we went to see the Sphinx nestled in the shadow of the great pyramid. Any photograph I have seen cleverly angles the lens so that the Sphinx appears larger than it is in reality, and so its size caught me by surprise. Standing 20 metres high and 76.5 metres long, it may be dwarfed by the pyramids in size, but not in importance. The couchant lion with the royal head of Chephren has survived for four and a half thousand years, sometimes slowly whittled away by the wind as it stood guard over the royal tomb and sometimes buried beneath the sand lying unnoticed. As early as 1400 BC there is documented evidence of Thutmose IV gathering a team, and after much effort, managing to dig out the front paws. It wasn’t till 1925 that the entire sphinx was excavated. Many times men have dug it out of the sand and although it now stands a little crippled by man and nature, it faces the rising sun with an eternal majesty. |
After a few days of exploring the highlights of Cairo our little group boarded the overnight train to Luxor. This was style and luxury compared to the Hotel Fontana. A splendid meal was served to us in our first class sleeping compartment and we then joined the others in the club car to drink outrageously expensive alcohol served by lively, entertaining waiters.
The short time we had been with the tour group had already revealed an interesting array of quirks and characteristics. Most were jovial, friendly and enthusiastic travellers. Some were quiet and barely noticed. One was loud and bombastic. One was a know-it-all. One was sullen. One was the whinger, always dissatisfied. One was dotty, the eternal late arriver, with an aura of never really understanding what was going on around her. And one was not quite in the present, lacking the social skills that would ever endear him to the rest of the group. He bled profusely for the first half of each day from the numerous nicks he inflicted while shaving. He was nicknamed the penguin as he waddled about with a gait that resembled those black and white birds of the Antarctic.
This was all extremely interesting to us who had never travelled in a group before. We did not know it at the time, but years later we came to realise that groups always have these main players. It is as if tourist agents of the world have a secret data base they use to ensure each character trait is represented. Yes, we need a whiner. Check. A know-it-all? Check. A comedian? Check. A social misfit? Darn it, Norman Gunstun is not available. Where can we find someone at this late notice? Oh, I know. A little British bleeder will do instead, and just to liven things up a bit, he walks like a penguin. That should entertain the group and provide the uniqueness factor that will put them off the trail of our secret data base. Don’t want them stumbling on to the fact that all tour groups are exactly the same.
After a wonderful night’s sleep on the train and an early morning breakfast, again served in our compartment, we arrived at the rubble and dust of the Luxor Station. We were then transported by calish (horse and buggy) to another quaint and inexpensive hotel known as the Hatshepsut. It was old and basic, but we were able to have our first hot shower since arriving in Egypt. The rooms opened onto a delightful, interior, open roofed courtyard where meals were served and you could while away the siesta hours somewhat protected from the heat.
Luxor is another world to Cairo. It is a sleepy country town, but the lull of letting your guard down was short lived. The tourism industry has created a population of hawkers, calish drivers and hoteliers who will fleece you for all they can. You may have to remain on guard, but you can’t help feeling a little more relaxed as you stroll along the wide avenue that hugs the Nile instead of being crushed shoulder to shoulder in the crowded streets of Cairo. And your ears, instead of hearing honking horns, are soothed by the rhythmic clip-clopping of horses’ hooves.
Each group of four in our party was assigned a calish driver for the duration of our stay in Luxor. We got Mahammet with horse named Jimmy. Mahammet wore a flowing, grimy galabeah and a big cheesy grin beneath his dusty turbin. He, and horse named Jimmy, took us everywhere and always claimed us fiercely on our exit from any of the stops we made. Even when we preferred to walk, horse named Jimmy clopped along after us with Mahammet pleading for us to get in.
The short time we had been with the tour group had already revealed an interesting array of quirks and characteristics. Most were jovial, friendly and enthusiastic travellers. Some were quiet and barely noticed. One was loud and bombastic. One was a know-it-all. One was sullen. One was the whinger, always dissatisfied. One was dotty, the eternal late arriver, with an aura of never really understanding what was going on around her. And one was not quite in the present, lacking the social skills that would ever endear him to the rest of the group. He bled profusely for the first half of each day from the numerous nicks he inflicted while shaving. He was nicknamed the penguin as he waddled about with a gait that resembled those black and white birds of the Antarctic.
This was all extremely interesting to us who had never travelled in a group before. We did not know it at the time, but years later we came to realise that groups always have these main players. It is as if tourist agents of the world have a secret data base they use to ensure each character trait is represented. Yes, we need a whiner. Check. A know-it-all? Check. A comedian? Check. A social misfit? Darn it, Norman Gunstun is not available. Where can we find someone at this late notice? Oh, I know. A little British bleeder will do instead, and just to liven things up a bit, he walks like a penguin. That should entertain the group and provide the uniqueness factor that will put them off the trail of our secret data base. Don’t want them stumbling on to the fact that all tour groups are exactly the same.
After a wonderful night’s sleep on the train and an early morning breakfast, again served in our compartment, we arrived at the rubble and dust of the Luxor Station. We were then transported by calish (horse and buggy) to another quaint and inexpensive hotel known as the Hatshepsut. It was old and basic, but we were able to have our first hot shower since arriving in Egypt. The rooms opened onto a delightful, interior, open roofed courtyard where meals were served and you could while away the siesta hours somewhat protected from the heat.
Luxor is another world to Cairo. It is a sleepy country town, but the lull of letting your guard down was short lived. The tourism industry has created a population of hawkers, calish drivers and hoteliers who will fleece you for all they can. You may have to remain on guard, but you can’t help feeling a little more relaxed as you stroll along the wide avenue that hugs the Nile instead of being crushed shoulder to shoulder in the crowded streets of Cairo. And your ears, instead of hearing honking horns, are soothed by the rhythmic clip-clopping of horses’ hooves.
Each group of four in our party was assigned a calish driver for the duration of our stay in Luxor. We got Mahammet with horse named Jimmy. Mahammet wore a flowing, grimy galabeah and a big cheesy grin beneath his dusty turbin. He, and horse named Jimmy, took us everywhere and always claimed us fiercely on our exit from any of the stops we made. Even when we preferred to walk, horse named Jimmy clopped along after us with Mahammet pleading for us to get in.
Luxor is a place of massive monuments, not least of which is Karnak. From the moment we walked down the avenue of rams, we knew we were about to be overwhelmed. This double-rowed boulevard of creatures with lion’s bodies and rams’ heads was dedicated to Ramses II and provides a fitting entry to this temple of constructions spanning millennia of Egypt’s history.
Feeling minute and insignificant, we could only stare up open-mouthed as we walked past pylons, obelisks, columns and pillars. But nothing could have prepared us for the grandeur of the Great Hypostyle Hall, a sandstone forest of 134 colossal columns, each 23 metres high. With necks still aching, we returned to stare upwards again the following night for the performance of “Sol et Lumiere”. The sound and light show lays the dramatics on thickly, but it was informative and offered us another chance to be in the presence of past gods and one of history’s greatest complexes. |
One of the main highlights of our time in Luxor was to be a donkey trek to the Valley of the Kings, and it was with great joviality that, the night before the planned trek, we gathered for dinner and drinks in our little Hatshepsut courtyard to select our donkeys and anticipate the adventure ahead. The names of the donkeys were put into a hat and as each of us drew a crude name, raucous laughter emanating from the rough red wine and the growing group camaraderie would erupt. Reg got Mangy, Dad drew Windy, Mum got Kamikaze, and I got Donkey Dong, commonly known as Old Five Legs. As we lingered over the simple, but delicious fare of fish, salad and cheese washed down by the rough red, enjoying the friendly chatter, we felt a warm rosy glow descend upon us. We imagined it was the magic of Egypt, but more likely it was the magic of travel itself; the magic of being somewhere other than home.
The donkey trek exceeded all our expectations. Mark Twain was right when he wrote that riding a donkey in Egypt “was a fresh, new, exhilarating sensation worth a hundred worn and threadbare pleasures.” Even the previous night’s red wine did not hamper our early morning start, first by calish to the river, then across the Nile by ferry to collect our beasts of burden.
Mounting the beasts was difficult; controlling them damn near impossible. Our merry band of travellers seemed to be heading off in several different directions at differing speeds. Whooping and hollering didn’t seem to help. Giving in to the animals seemed to be the only answer and as each of us was tamed by our beast we fell into a straggly, well strung out line that began to wend its way towards the hills.
I do think someone else got my donkey, Old Five Legs, by mistake, for before we left the green strip of cultivated land that hugs the Nile, the donkey ahead started braying amorously and trotted off sharp left. No amount of yelling or leg kicking by the woman on his back could change his course. Reaching the object of his desire, a pretty female ass flaunting herself by a cane field, he mounted her without hesitation and began the deed. As the poor rider (who happened to be the dotty one) became aware of where he was heading, the look of annoyance on her face was replaced first by a look of horror, followed closely by disbelief as she slid off his now titled back and landed with an ungainly thump at his back hooves.
The hysterical shrieks of laughter from the rest of us reduced us to helpless jiggling blobs upon our mounts. Our donkeys trotted on uncaring and uncontrolled. The dotty one had to salvage her donkey and her dignity alone, and for the remainder of the day, quietly but nervously, brought up the rear of our caravan.
The donkey trek exceeded all our expectations. Mark Twain was right when he wrote that riding a donkey in Egypt “was a fresh, new, exhilarating sensation worth a hundred worn and threadbare pleasures.” Even the previous night’s red wine did not hamper our early morning start, first by calish to the river, then across the Nile by ferry to collect our beasts of burden.
Mounting the beasts was difficult; controlling them damn near impossible. Our merry band of travellers seemed to be heading off in several different directions at differing speeds. Whooping and hollering didn’t seem to help. Giving in to the animals seemed to be the only answer and as each of us was tamed by our beast we fell into a straggly, well strung out line that began to wend its way towards the hills.
I do think someone else got my donkey, Old Five Legs, by mistake, for before we left the green strip of cultivated land that hugs the Nile, the donkey ahead started braying amorously and trotted off sharp left. No amount of yelling or leg kicking by the woman on his back could change his course. Reaching the object of his desire, a pretty female ass flaunting herself by a cane field, he mounted her without hesitation and began the deed. As the poor rider (who happened to be the dotty one) became aware of where he was heading, the look of annoyance on her face was replaced first by a look of horror, followed closely by disbelief as she slid off his now titled back and landed with an ungainly thump at his back hooves.
The hysterical shrieks of laughter from the rest of us reduced us to helpless jiggling blobs upon our mounts. Our donkeys trotted on uncaring and uncontrolled. The dotty one had to salvage her donkey and her dignity alone, and for the remainder of the day, quietly but nervously, brought up the rear of our caravan.
|
Leaving our donkeys above the Valley, we climbed into the ancient cemetery, still quiet before the onset of the daily bus loads of tourists. The eerie emptiness belied the magnificent splendour of the tombs that riddle the valley, burrowing beneath the rock and sand, walls ablaze with colour. For five centuries the pharaohs excavated their tombs here, starting with Tutmose I. However, the well laid plans to ensure a secure resting place did not deter pillaging and plundering. Only Tutankhamen’s tomb escaped such a fate and survived to stand testament to the finery and riches which were buried with kings.
Of course we entered Tutankhamen’s tomb, by far the smallest, but none the less magnificent. Walking down the steps to the tomb’s entrance, one couldn’t help but feel the hint of romance and drama that must have accompanied Howard Carter’s discovery of it in 1922. A short corridor leads to the tiny antechamber and the tiny sarcophagus chamber. The exterior sarcophagus is still in place with a gilded wooden coffin which still holds the mummy of the young king. Apart from this and the well preserved, richly coloured wall paintings, the tomb is empty. After witnessing the splendid booty of this tomb as it is housed in the Cairo Museum, one could only stare in amazement and wonder how it all could have possibly fit into such a tiny space. We wandered through other empty tombs, suitably awed by the magnificent colours of the walls decorated with litanies and representations from the funerary books and the very necessary hieroglyphic instructions on the way to the after-life to overcome danger. The dazzling art work was not the only impressive aspect of the tombs. The sheer size of some is amazing. Some galleries reach 200 metres in length. The most common plan used was of three corridors extending one after the other, then an antechamber to hold the king’s sarcophagus. Annexes and niches off the corridors were built to hold the precious funerary materials. After a cool drink in the rest house in the centre of the valley, we struggled up to our waiting donkeys. The sun was higher now and the heat more intense. Several tourist buses had arrived and the isolated valley was isolated no more. Wilting with the heat, our shoulders sagged a little as we sat upon our animals, enjoying the peace of this high lonely track. |
Suddenly, out of nowhere we were attacked by a mob of men running beside us, displaying wares for sale “at very good prices.”
“Madam! Madam! Look! Straight from a tomb of the Valley of the Kings!
Tell no one. You can have it for very good price. Only 30 American dollars.”
Statues and scarabs, paintings on slabs of plaster, pieces of jewellery all kept appearing from beneath dusty robes. The men ran from donkey to donkey, tempting us with their wares. Reg made the mistake of raising an eyebrow and looking directly at an object being proffered for sale.
“See, Mister. A treasure. Straight from the wall of Ramses’ tomb.”
“How much?” asked my silly husband.
“For you sir, only 80 American dollars.”
Reg laughed good naturedly, but the Egyptian took this as a sign of encouragement rather than the intended refusal.
“First sale of the day. I’ll let you have it for $70.”
“No thanks, really,” said Reg still smiling.
“O.K. $60. Here, hold it. Look closely. It is real.”
“Come on,” said Reg. “You really don’t expect me to believe this painting was chipped off the wall of a pharaoh’s tomb, do you?”
As Reg continued to shake his head, the persistent fellow ran along beside dropping the price with each knockback. When the price hit $4 Reg thought it might be a prize worth having, just for the story mileage he could get out of it back home.
“Ask my wife,” said Reg. “She’s on that donkey way up front.”
Now the man knew that a sale was at hand. Excitedly he scrambled along the trail and showed me the treasure.
“Your husband, he really likes. You must let him have it. Only $3.”
I shrugged my shoulders which he took to mean yes. Back he trotted to Reg. One final half hearted attempt to say no was met by the man thrusting the painting into Reg’s hands and saying, “O.K. It is yours. $2.”
Reg paid up and said, “Now tell me the truth. This didn’t come from a tomb. You painted it yourself last night, didn’t you?”
The man looked hurt. “I did not.”
Then he grinned through his big moustache and said, “My father did.”
To this day that little slab of painted plaster holds pride of place amongst our souvenirs. To Reg, it really is a treasure, symbolic of man’s perseverance, industry and humour. It brings back numerous memories of a precious time and place in our travels.
After the exciting interlude of bargaining on donkey back, we returned our attention to enjoying the scenery which continued to be spectacular and hair-raising as we negotiated the high narrow trails. Suddenly below us, at the base of a sheer limestone cliff face appeared a sight to behold in even more awe. The Temple of Hatshepsut rose from the desert floor in three broad columned terraces. People, the size of ants swarmed all over it. Stone blocks lay nearby in neat rows awaiting attention. Since the mid 1960s a Polish expedition has been working here, piecing together sections of the temple that have been displaced over the centuries. When we reached the base of the cliffs we were afforded just as spectacular a view of this mighty temple from another perspective. The eye cannot help but be drawn up by the towering backdrop of those 300 metre high cliffs capped by a vivid blue sky.
“Madam! Madam! Look! Straight from a tomb of the Valley of the Kings!
Tell no one. You can have it for very good price. Only 30 American dollars.”
Statues and scarabs, paintings on slabs of plaster, pieces of jewellery all kept appearing from beneath dusty robes. The men ran from donkey to donkey, tempting us with their wares. Reg made the mistake of raising an eyebrow and looking directly at an object being proffered for sale.
“See, Mister. A treasure. Straight from the wall of Ramses’ tomb.”
“How much?” asked my silly husband.
“For you sir, only 80 American dollars.”
Reg laughed good naturedly, but the Egyptian took this as a sign of encouragement rather than the intended refusal.
“First sale of the day. I’ll let you have it for $70.”
“No thanks, really,” said Reg still smiling.
“O.K. $60. Here, hold it. Look closely. It is real.”
“Come on,” said Reg. “You really don’t expect me to believe this painting was chipped off the wall of a pharaoh’s tomb, do you?”
As Reg continued to shake his head, the persistent fellow ran along beside dropping the price with each knockback. When the price hit $4 Reg thought it might be a prize worth having, just for the story mileage he could get out of it back home.
“Ask my wife,” said Reg. “She’s on that donkey way up front.”
Now the man knew that a sale was at hand. Excitedly he scrambled along the trail and showed me the treasure.
“Your husband, he really likes. You must let him have it. Only $3.”
I shrugged my shoulders which he took to mean yes. Back he trotted to Reg. One final half hearted attempt to say no was met by the man thrusting the painting into Reg’s hands and saying, “O.K. It is yours. $2.”
Reg paid up and said, “Now tell me the truth. This didn’t come from a tomb. You painted it yourself last night, didn’t you?”
The man looked hurt. “I did not.”
Then he grinned through his big moustache and said, “My father did.”
To this day that little slab of painted plaster holds pride of place amongst our souvenirs. To Reg, it really is a treasure, symbolic of man’s perseverance, industry and humour. It brings back numerous memories of a precious time and place in our travels.
After the exciting interlude of bargaining on donkey back, we returned our attention to enjoying the scenery which continued to be spectacular and hair-raising as we negotiated the high narrow trails. Suddenly below us, at the base of a sheer limestone cliff face appeared a sight to behold in even more awe. The Temple of Hatshepsut rose from the desert floor in three broad columned terraces. People, the size of ants swarmed all over it. Stone blocks lay nearby in neat rows awaiting attention. Since the mid 1960s a Polish expedition has been working here, piecing together sections of the temple that have been displaced over the centuries. When we reached the base of the cliffs we were afforded just as spectacular a view of this mighty temple from another perspective. The eye cannot help but be drawn up by the towering backdrop of those 300 metre high cliffs capped by a vivid blue sky.
We joined the throngs of tourists climbing over this masterpiece of the only queen ever to assume the title of Pharaoh. Sadly no images of Hatshepsut remain in tact. After her death, Tutmosis III defaced virtually all of them. She had refused to marry him and he had to wait 20 years in her shadow before becoming Pharaoh in his own right. Then he got even.
As the long hot day turned towards evening we mounted our donkeys a final time for the final leg home. The donkeys, knowing the route well, plodded on. As we got closer to the Nile they began to trot faster and faster, eager to be home and rid of their heavy burdens. Weary and saddle sore, we dismounted and walked bow-legged on to the ferry to be carried back to the East bank of the Nile and deposited in downtown Luxor.
We enjoyed a couple more days of Luxor, leisurely exploring the back streets and restaurants, strolling along the cornice beside the river in the cooler evening hours, and sipping drinks on the veranda of the Savoy. So far, so good. Egypt was proving to be everything we had hoped for and more.
Now came the part to which we had all been looking forward – sailing by felucca to Aswan. We piled out of our calish for the last time, said a fond farewell to Mohammet and horse named Jimmy and gazed upon the mighty vessels which were to be our home for the next five days. Two little boats bobbed on the river edge awaiting us. Well, tiny boats actually. Tiny, weensy, little floating bits of wood. Small things. Quite wee.
There are many boats that cruise along the Nile carrying tourists past the wonders that are Egypt. Most of them are somewhat luxurious, offering private facilities such as bedrooms and bathrooms, elegant meals and cool refreshing drinks which are served by white waist coated waiters on the aft deck in the early evening. These vessels are often referred to as gin palaces – an apt name really when you picture the passengers sitting there sipping their gin and tonics out of tall, iced glasses.
As the long hot day turned towards evening we mounted our donkeys a final time for the final leg home. The donkeys, knowing the route well, plodded on. As we got closer to the Nile they began to trot faster and faster, eager to be home and rid of their heavy burdens. Weary and saddle sore, we dismounted and walked bow-legged on to the ferry to be carried back to the East bank of the Nile and deposited in downtown Luxor.
We enjoyed a couple more days of Luxor, leisurely exploring the back streets and restaurants, strolling along the cornice beside the river in the cooler evening hours, and sipping drinks on the veranda of the Savoy. So far, so good. Egypt was proving to be everything we had hoped for and more.
Now came the part to which we had all been looking forward – sailing by felucca to Aswan. We piled out of our calish for the last time, said a fond farewell to Mohammet and horse named Jimmy and gazed upon the mighty vessels which were to be our home for the next five days. Two little boats bobbed on the river edge awaiting us. Well, tiny boats actually. Tiny, weensy, little floating bits of wood. Small things. Quite wee.
There are many boats that cruise along the Nile carrying tourists past the wonders that are Egypt. Most of them are somewhat luxurious, offering private facilities such as bedrooms and bathrooms, elegant meals and cool refreshing drinks which are served by white waist coated waiters on the aft deck in the early evening. These vessels are often referred to as gin palaces – an apt name really when you picture the passengers sitting there sipping their gin and tonics out of tall, iced glasses.
Well, our boats are not to be confused with these gin palaces. Our little feluccas were not built as cruise liners. They are work boats really; little vessels to carry goods and produce across the Nile; little boats to carry locals short distances. The Arabic word “felucca” actually means boat, and these flat bottomed, narrow vessels can be easily handled by one man. Ours were about four metres long with a sheet covered deck which was to be our quarters. Sailing wistfully and dreamily on the Nile they look rather romantic. Up close they look rather tiny and rough and battered and old.
Our tour leader split us into two groups. The “oldies” (being older than a teenager, or being married being the categorising factors here) were directed to the smaller boat and the young ones (presumably the party animals) were allocated the (slightly) bigger boat. We balanced carefully across the narrow boarding planks, stowed the bulk of our luggage in the small hold at the front and staked our spot on the deck which would be our quarters for the duration of the sail trek. We were allowed a small bag each to keep with us on deck to hold necessities such as toothbrush, toilet paper, change of clothing, reading matter and a pack of cards. |
Settling in took only minutes. Our seven other sailing companions each took a space on the deck and, with a wave to the other boat, our Nubian captain cast off. The single tall sail flapped to catch a waft of breeze and we were away. Immediately the mood hit like a soft silk sheet falling upon us. We were enveloped in a feeling of peace and relaxation. We gave ourselves over totally to the feeling. At first we barely even talked, preferring to soak in the silence.
Those five glorious days were heavenly. By day we drifted past farmers tilling the soil and drawing water as they have done for centuries. By night we snuggled down into sleeping bags under the brilliant stars. Slowly the feluccas sailed along, sometimes stranded without a breath of air, sometimes skimming along swiftly. Once we threw a rope to a barge and hitched a ride for several kilometres on a particularly still day. There is an Egyptian proverb that says, the one who voyages the Nile must have sails made of patience. I guess it didn’t matter too much to us whether the wind blew or not. Patience is an easy virtue when you are relaxed and carefree.
Several times a day we would pull into the shore for a toilet stop in the cane fields. Our meals were prepared by an Egyptian cook who would do so on a little gas burner at the front of the boat. Each day he would get fresh provisions at the nearest village. He also bought local beer and made himself a healthy profit selling it to us at inflated prices.
Sometimes we would take a walk through a village, but we would immediately be surrounded by the total child population, all wanting to practise their English. “What is your name? How old are you? Where are you from?”
The children were delightful, but surrounded by them, we could hardly move. It was like trying to sightsee from the middle of a bee hive. As they buzzed along around us, touching us and giggling and laughing, they continually asked their other favourite question, “Biro? Stylo?” If only we had known about the scarcity of the humble ball point pen and their great hunger to own such a piece of equipment, we would have brought hundreds into the country.
On board our little boat we wiled away the hours by watching life on the river banks drift past as we rested on our rolled up sleeping bags. Sometimes we napped a little. Sometimes we played cards. Sometimes we chatted with our fellow sailors. We were very relaxed and a warm relaxed companionship grew between our crew members. Luckily they were a pleasant group and we often thanked our lucky stars we were not on the other boat with the penguin and the grump and the dotty one. Sharing every minute of our lives on board with these people – sleeping beside them, waking up beside them, eating with them, washing along side them as we dangled over the boat into the waters of the Nile – meant we couldn’t help but get to know them intimately.
The party animals on the other felucca turned out to be a subdued lot. The squeals of laughter and clinking glasses and lusty singing that punctuated the night noises came from the boat load of oldies. The minister’s wife from Canada (travelling alone) was the life of the party. Her gravelly voice broke into frequent gravelly laughter. She gargled twice daily from a bottle containing 99% proof alcohol. She said it was to kill any bugs she might be exposed to under such living conditions, but she never spat after gargling. She always swallowed and seemed the happier for it. The elderly, angular, adventurous spinster from England spent many hours studying to pass a masseur’s course. She also practised on fellow crew members and her knarled brown hands were strong, but soothing as she stroked away the final stubborn strands of stress that had managed to make it this far with us. A fellow Englishman with snowy hair and a cheeky grin became her soul mate for the trip and managed to clock up the most massages. Another Englishman and a Scotsman, perhaps in their mid 20s, joined forces to form a United Kingdom team of card players. We taught them how to play “500” and they proceeded to whop the socks off us every chance possible. The English were by far the best represented group. The honeymoon couple were also English and in their early 20s. Kind of shy, they were the quietest of the group. Or perhaps they were so moonily in love that kept them quiet. They were always the first to bed. Some honeymoon, sharing a bedroom with nine other people. Their sleeping bags were thick cacoons which they crawled into each night and pulled tight around themselves. Dad said they looked like a pair of Egyptian mummies wrapped up lying there on the deck, and the name stuck. Then there were the four of us from the colonies – the Aussies who had the reputations of coming from a lucky country of long holidays and eternal sunshine. And so our felucca became home for a while to our united nations, with us doing our bit for world peace and happiness.
The monuments of Egypt are impressive beyond words, but my fondest memories of this country will always be wrapped in this special quiet time we had upon the Nile; the early misty mornings, the warm sunny days and the crisp clear nights; the camels laden with sugar cane lumbering along the banks; the donkeys trotting along carrying robed riders; the women filling earthen pots with water and skilfully carrying them on their heads as they climbed back up the banks; the buffalo plodding round and round, turning a wheel to draw water for irrigation; the fellah turning soil with a short handled hoe; the beating of oars on still water as early morning fishermen chased fish into nets; the faint, distant cry of the muezzin calling the faithful to prayer still managing to waft across the water and reach every ear in Egypt. And at night, when finally every last one of us was tucked inside our sleeping bags, the blaze of stars winked and watched over us, just as they have done for all Nile travellers for thousands of years. This is the Egypt in my heart and soul and dreams.
Those five glorious days were heavenly. By day we drifted past farmers tilling the soil and drawing water as they have done for centuries. By night we snuggled down into sleeping bags under the brilliant stars. Slowly the feluccas sailed along, sometimes stranded without a breath of air, sometimes skimming along swiftly. Once we threw a rope to a barge and hitched a ride for several kilometres on a particularly still day. There is an Egyptian proverb that says, the one who voyages the Nile must have sails made of patience. I guess it didn’t matter too much to us whether the wind blew or not. Patience is an easy virtue when you are relaxed and carefree.
Several times a day we would pull into the shore for a toilet stop in the cane fields. Our meals were prepared by an Egyptian cook who would do so on a little gas burner at the front of the boat. Each day he would get fresh provisions at the nearest village. He also bought local beer and made himself a healthy profit selling it to us at inflated prices.
Sometimes we would take a walk through a village, but we would immediately be surrounded by the total child population, all wanting to practise their English. “What is your name? How old are you? Where are you from?”
The children were delightful, but surrounded by them, we could hardly move. It was like trying to sightsee from the middle of a bee hive. As they buzzed along around us, touching us and giggling and laughing, they continually asked their other favourite question, “Biro? Stylo?” If only we had known about the scarcity of the humble ball point pen and their great hunger to own such a piece of equipment, we would have brought hundreds into the country.
On board our little boat we wiled away the hours by watching life on the river banks drift past as we rested on our rolled up sleeping bags. Sometimes we napped a little. Sometimes we played cards. Sometimes we chatted with our fellow sailors. We were very relaxed and a warm relaxed companionship grew between our crew members. Luckily they were a pleasant group and we often thanked our lucky stars we were not on the other boat with the penguin and the grump and the dotty one. Sharing every minute of our lives on board with these people – sleeping beside them, waking up beside them, eating with them, washing along side them as we dangled over the boat into the waters of the Nile – meant we couldn’t help but get to know them intimately.
The party animals on the other felucca turned out to be a subdued lot. The squeals of laughter and clinking glasses and lusty singing that punctuated the night noises came from the boat load of oldies. The minister’s wife from Canada (travelling alone) was the life of the party. Her gravelly voice broke into frequent gravelly laughter. She gargled twice daily from a bottle containing 99% proof alcohol. She said it was to kill any bugs she might be exposed to under such living conditions, but she never spat after gargling. She always swallowed and seemed the happier for it. The elderly, angular, adventurous spinster from England spent many hours studying to pass a masseur’s course. She also practised on fellow crew members and her knarled brown hands were strong, but soothing as she stroked away the final stubborn strands of stress that had managed to make it this far with us. A fellow Englishman with snowy hair and a cheeky grin became her soul mate for the trip and managed to clock up the most massages. Another Englishman and a Scotsman, perhaps in their mid 20s, joined forces to form a United Kingdom team of card players. We taught them how to play “500” and they proceeded to whop the socks off us every chance possible. The English were by far the best represented group. The honeymoon couple were also English and in their early 20s. Kind of shy, they were the quietest of the group. Or perhaps they were so moonily in love that kept them quiet. They were always the first to bed. Some honeymoon, sharing a bedroom with nine other people. Their sleeping bags were thick cacoons which they crawled into each night and pulled tight around themselves. Dad said they looked like a pair of Egyptian mummies wrapped up lying there on the deck, and the name stuck. Then there were the four of us from the colonies – the Aussies who had the reputations of coming from a lucky country of long holidays and eternal sunshine. And so our felucca became home for a while to our united nations, with us doing our bit for world peace and happiness.
The monuments of Egypt are impressive beyond words, but my fondest memories of this country will always be wrapped in this special quiet time we had upon the Nile; the early misty mornings, the warm sunny days and the crisp clear nights; the camels laden with sugar cane lumbering along the banks; the donkeys trotting along carrying robed riders; the women filling earthen pots with water and skilfully carrying them on their heads as they climbed back up the banks; the buffalo plodding round and round, turning a wheel to draw water for irrigation; the fellah turning soil with a short handled hoe; the beating of oars on still water as early morning fishermen chased fish into nets; the faint, distant cry of the muezzin calling the faithful to prayer still managing to waft across the water and reach every ear in Egypt. And at night, when finally every last one of us was tucked inside our sleeping bags, the blaze of stars winked and watched over us, just as they have done for all Nile travellers for thousands of years. This is the Egypt in my heart and soul and dreams.
But not all days were calm and quiet. We saw the new year in on the waters of the Nile in grand style. It was a fun day as we celebrated each country’s hour of reaching midnight. Strains of Auld Lang Sign rang out through the day followed by a toast to the country of the moment. Happy New Year New Zealand. Happy New Year Australia. Happy New Year Egypt. Happy New Year Holland. Happy New Year U.K. Happy New Year Canada. Happy New Year …
The minister’s wife sang until she was hoarse. She complemented her 99% proof medicinal alcohol with a bottle of brandy. A cup full was lost over board, cup and all, when an inebriated elbow knocked it off the edge of the felucca, but rather than waste time crying over spilt brandy, the crew burst into song.
Her brandy fell into the river.
Her brandy fell into the Nile.
Her brandy fell into the river.
She can’t have a drink for a while.
The party continued into the night over and around the sleeping, honeymooning mummies.
The lazy days drifted by. We waved to our loftier friends who cruised past us on their gin palaces. They raised their glasses to us and we in turn saluted with our beer bottles. It came as somewhat of a shock when we suddenly found our sailing time was up and we were still a long way from Aswan. The sad looking lot on the other felucca seemed thankful the epic was over, but we were sorry to say goodbye to this part of our journey.
Our ever resourceful tour leader rounded up several taxis to carry us the final 90 kilometres to Aswan. Now there was a new adventure for us. Goodbye peace. Goodbye quiet. Goodbye calm watery heaven. Goodbye relaxed bodies. Hello danger.
Our taxi driver was a cheery chap who probably didn’t even notice he was flirting with death. He loved to sing and clap at the same time. Hurtling down the highway at 100 k/h he would twist around to look at us in the back seat, and sing and clap a catchy Egyptian ditty. He took our hysterical laughter as encouragement rather than the sheer raw fear that it was, and sang more heartily. The front passenger would reach across and take the steering wheel to save us from being ditched into the dunes beside the road. Never did 90 kilometres seem such a long distance. And those glowing restful feelings we left the felucca with? BANG! Destroyed in a few moments by one wild taxi ride through upper Egypt.
We tumbled out of that taxi, tense and dishevelled. We dragged our dirty, smelly bodies up to our hotel rooms and proceeded to wash away five days of sweat and grime. We felt much cleaner that night as we lay upon soft, clean beds, but we did miss the stars and the lulling soft lap of the water under us.
Aswan had a totally different feel to it than either Cairo or Luxor, or any of the other little towns and villages we had passed through. It had a holiday feel about it and in fact has a long reputation as being a popular winter holiday resort. We thoroughly enjoyed strolling along the avenue along the Nile, breathing in the pure air and the peaceful beauty of white sailed feluccas skimming the blue waters. Here the desert comes right down to the water’s edge and the stark contrast of colour paints a striking picture. We enjoyed walking through the colourful bazaar quarter of town, watching the sandal makers stitch leather and the butchers carve off chunks of meat from dangling carcasses. Customers were lucky if they happened along as the choicer cuts were next to be hacked off.
We also enjoyed visiting the rich historical sites around and near the city which, in antiquity, was the gateway to the interior of Africa and an important centre of trade. All the main trading routes and caravan trails converged on Aswan.
The stone quarries in the area provided the pharaohs with granite for their ambitious statues and buildings. In the north quarry we viewed the famous unfinished obelisk, never completed due to cracks appearing in the stone before the lower face was detached. It lies there almost 42 metres long and over a thousand ton, as evidence of the ingenuity of the ancient stone masons. The monumental task of cutting, lifting, transporting and then erecting such a giant is beyond my comprehension.
From quarries to islands we journeyed. On Kitchener’s island we wandered through the garden it has been transformed into of rare and exotic plants. On the island of Elephantine the nilometer fired images of ancient times when the levels of the Nile were measured and calculations of the inundation made. And on the island of Aegilka, the Temple of Philae stands monument to the cleverness of man, modern and ancient. Threatened by submersion beneath the waters of Lake Nasser, it has now been completely moved and re-erected on this island which was landscaped to re-create the topography of Philae.
The minister’s wife sang until she was hoarse. She complemented her 99% proof medicinal alcohol with a bottle of brandy. A cup full was lost over board, cup and all, when an inebriated elbow knocked it off the edge of the felucca, but rather than waste time crying over spilt brandy, the crew burst into song.
Her brandy fell into the river.
Her brandy fell into the Nile.
Her brandy fell into the river.
She can’t have a drink for a while.
The party continued into the night over and around the sleeping, honeymooning mummies.
The lazy days drifted by. We waved to our loftier friends who cruised past us on their gin palaces. They raised their glasses to us and we in turn saluted with our beer bottles. It came as somewhat of a shock when we suddenly found our sailing time was up and we were still a long way from Aswan. The sad looking lot on the other felucca seemed thankful the epic was over, but we were sorry to say goodbye to this part of our journey.
Our ever resourceful tour leader rounded up several taxis to carry us the final 90 kilometres to Aswan. Now there was a new adventure for us. Goodbye peace. Goodbye quiet. Goodbye calm watery heaven. Goodbye relaxed bodies. Hello danger.
Our taxi driver was a cheery chap who probably didn’t even notice he was flirting with death. He loved to sing and clap at the same time. Hurtling down the highway at 100 k/h he would twist around to look at us in the back seat, and sing and clap a catchy Egyptian ditty. He took our hysterical laughter as encouragement rather than the sheer raw fear that it was, and sang more heartily. The front passenger would reach across and take the steering wheel to save us from being ditched into the dunes beside the road. Never did 90 kilometres seem such a long distance. And those glowing restful feelings we left the felucca with? BANG! Destroyed in a few moments by one wild taxi ride through upper Egypt.
We tumbled out of that taxi, tense and dishevelled. We dragged our dirty, smelly bodies up to our hotel rooms and proceeded to wash away five days of sweat and grime. We felt much cleaner that night as we lay upon soft, clean beds, but we did miss the stars and the lulling soft lap of the water under us.
Aswan had a totally different feel to it than either Cairo or Luxor, or any of the other little towns and villages we had passed through. It had a holiday feel about it and in fact has a long reputation as being a popular winter holiday resort. We thoroughly enjoyed strolling along the avenue along the Nile, breathing in the pure air and the peaceful beauty of white sailed feluccas skimming the blue waters. Here the desert comes right down to the water’s edge and the stark contrast of colour paints a striking picture. We enjoyed walking through the colourful bazaar quarter of town, watching the sandal makers stitch leather and the butchers carve off chunks of meat from dangling carcasses. Customers were lucky if they happened along as the choicer cuts were next to be hacked off.
We also enjoyed visiting the rich historical sites around and near the city which, in antiquity, was the gateway to the interior of Africa and an important centre of trade. All the main trading routes and caravan trails converged on Aswan.
The stone quarries in the area provided the pharaohs with granite for their ambitious statues and buildings. In the north quarry we viewed the famous unfinished obelisk, never completed due to cracks appearing in the stone before the lower face was detached. It lies there almost 42 metres long and over a thousand ton, as evidence of the ingenuity of the ancient stone masons. The monumental task of cutting, lifting, transporting and then erecting such a giant is beyond my comprehension.
From quarries to islands we journeyed. On Kitchener’s island we wandered through the garden it has been transformed into of rare and exotic plants. On the island of Elephantine the nilometer fired images of ancient times when the levels of the Nile were measured and calculations of the inundation made. And on the island of Aegilka, the Temple of Philae stands monument to the cleverness of man, modern and ancient. Threatened by submersion beneath the waters of Lake Nasser, it has now been completely moved and re-erected on this island which was landscaped to re-create the topography of Philae.
Egypt is home to many ancient monuments, but here in Aswan reside great modern feats as well. For a long time the Old Dam in Aswan, built between 1898 and 1902, was the largest in the world. It has now been superseded by the New High Dam opened in 1971, six kilometres to the south. This massive artificial mountain holds back the waters of Lake Nasser and although the more constant water supply it ensures has brought many benefits, it has also caused problems. As well as covering important archaeological sites and homes to thousands of Nubians, the holding back of silt is diminishing the fertility of arable land.
A camel trek across the sands of the west bank was a fitting finale to our time in Aswan. Two to a camel, we managed to stay on as the clumsy looking beasts lumbered to their feet. First tossed forward as they lifted to their knees, then thrown backwards as they stood fully up, we clung desperately to the saddles strapped onto their great humps. Their handlers grinned and enjoyed the spectacle of more tourists making fools of themselves. But what did we care? We were up there now with Lawrence of Arabia, looking over the mighty sun scorched desert. Our caravan got underway and we rolled with the rhythm of the beasts as they plodded across the dunes to their first stop at the Monastery of St Simeon. After going through the indignity of dismounting, we were treated to a delightful tour of this Coptic monastery by an Egyptian comedian of the year. His limited English made his mimed antics all the more comical as he informed us about life in the monastery. Built in the 6th – 7th centuries A.D., it was abandoned in the 13th century. It is the best preserved Coptic monastery in Egypt and the monks who once resided here must be turning in their graves as their lives are colourfully interpreted by this hilarious modern day man. With aching jaws and bellies from the side splitting laughter to which we had just been exposed, we heaved our beginning-to-ache backsides back onto the camels. Up, up and away. Off we rolled to our next port of call, the Mausoleum of the Aga Khan. Inside the imposing mausoleum rests a white marble sarcophagus. A fresh red rose is placed upon it every day in accordance with the wishes of the deceased. |
Before crossing back to the east bank, we sat on a lovely red dune that rolled down to the water’s edge and drank in the beauty of the surroundings. If I close my eyes even now I can still picture that beauty, feel that peace, and smell that pure air.
We finally departed lovely Aswan in style, boarding the overnight train for Cairo for a good night’s rest in first class sleepers as it rattled back beside the Nile. We enjoyed watching the scenery roll by over a leisurely breakfast and on disembarking, booked back into the good old Hotel Fontana. We spent our final afternoon in Cairo wandering the streets, exploring the Grand Bazaar and seeking out the Citadel. We walked until we dropped, not wanting to waste a precious moment of our time here before leaving. We shared a final supper with the group before going to the airport and boarding a flight to Athens. A final glimpse of the pyramids from the ascending plane was a fitting farewell to carry with us.
We finally departed lovely Aswan in style, boarding the overnight train for Cairo for a good night’s rest in first class sleepers as it rattled back beside the Nile. We enjoyed watching the scenery roll by over a leisurely breakfast and on disembarking, booked back into the good old Hotel Fontana. We spent our final afternoon in Cairo wandering the streets, exploring the Grand Bazaar and seeking out the Citadel. We walked until we dropped, not wanting to waste a precious moment of our time here before leaving. We shared a final supper with the group before going to the airport and boarding a flight to Athens. A final glimpse of the pyramids from the ascending plane was a fitting farewell to carry with us.
By the Nile and into the Oases 1988
Our second trip to Egypt was every bit as memorable as the first. As we had enjoyed our previous trip with Explore, a company providing small group adventure travel, we booked with them again. My parents had returned with us and this time we ventured further from the Nile, into the vast deserts in search of oases. We also felt braver with familiarity and ventured on journeys alone for a couple of weeks before joining our tour group.
Our journey from airport to hotel was a long one, late into the night as the taxi driver searched for our little known hotel. The Crillon was roomier than the Fontana, but similar in plumbing and service and toilet paper allowance. After two weeks exploring Alexandria and the Sinai we returned to this hotel and did the usual summing up of our fellow travellers on first meeting them. Our journey began in usual Egyptian style – a lot of noise and little preparation. Our minibus ran out of fuel after only a short distance into the desert on the way to El Fayyum, the garden of Egypt. We sat on the side of the road contemplating the dunes while our bus driver solved the problem by draining the tank of a broken down abandoned tractor he had seen a few kilometres back. (More of this story to come.) |
Along the Nile in Style 2008
The top deck of our "gin palace."
Our previous arrivals into Cairo had always been in the night. To land in the daylight was wonderful. We caught sight of the pyramids and I felt that familiar quicken of the heart. The 20 years since our last visit (a mere blip in this ancient land’s history, an achingly long time in mine) saw us landing in a new airport. Some things never change though. The computers were down and long lines of tired travellers waited in the heat and dust to get through passport control.
On finally getting through passport security we then joined the throngs collecting luggage. It was here we were joined by our tour guides and shuffled into a group. We started our initial categorising of those around us. Loud mouths? Check. Country bumpkins? Check. .Comedians? Check. Complainers? Check. The quiet, hesitant ones? Check. Our doubts began. Had we done the right thing in choosing a luxury tour this time to see our beloved Egypt? Could we put up with total organisation and the distance it would place between us and the locals? Time would tell, so we quietly waited, watched and followed instructions to climb aboard the waiting bus.
This tour had called to us from the travel pages of our weekend papers, promising an itinerary too good to be true, at a price too good to be true. It seemed tailor made for us, including the places we would have chosen to visit if travelling on our own. I was quite looking forward to being pampered instead of roughing it and not having any of the worry about organising things. Our past trips had been with my parents and I had done all the planning, the negotiating, the money managing, etc. This time we were with our teenage daughter and Reg’s adult daughter and I was very happy to sit back and let others do the organising and worrying. Nothing was going to phase me.
We made our way through the morning traffic witnessing sights and sounds we remembered well – crowded buses bulging with robed figures, honking horns, unfinished buildings packed densely together and topped with a myriad of TV satellite dishes and antenna.
We arrived at our 5 star luxury hotel on the Nile and knew that this time we would not have to worry about a lack of hot water and toilet paper, the things that plagued our previous visits. We became part of the Golda Group, quietly observing our fellow travellers, our tour director who was a dead ringer for Eddie Murphy and our flamboyant guide, Isis. Fortunately the tour had a good balance of organised time and free time. We never felt rushed and had plenty of time to escape on our own.
Once again we explored Cairo and gazed in wonder at its Museum’s treasures, bargained ruthlessly at Khan El Khalil, and put our lives in the hands of the gods as we roamed the city and crossed its busy streets.
We took the overnight train from Cairo to Luxor, just as we had on previous visits. The first class sleepers had seemed so wonderful back then after all our roughing it; now they seemed a bit ordinary. But that didn’t matter one bit. There’s nothing so lulling as sleeping on a bunk in a train, and even better, we were being carried out of the city and back in time to Luxor, glorious splendid Luxor.
At Luxor we boarded our cruise boat, a far cry from our humble felucca in ’84. We had made it to the “Gin Palace” league.
Before setting sail, we had a couple of days to explore Luxor. The wonders were still as wonderful, but where once we had trod in relative peace, now the sites were crowded. And somehow it just wasn’t the same bussing into the Valley of the Kings. I missed the donkeys. Still, I was grateful to be here again and my jaw still dropped in awe at the wonder of it all – the temples of Luxor and Karnak, Hatshepsut’s Palace, the Valley of the Kings, the Colossi of Memnon.
On finally getting through passport security we then joined the throngs collecting luggage. It was here we were joined by our tour guides and shuffled into a group. We started our initial categorising of those around us. Loud mouths? Check. Country bumpkins? Check. .Comedians? Check. Complainers? Check. The quiet, hesitant ones? Check. Our doubts began. Had we done the right thing in choosing a luxury tour this time to see our beloved Egypt? Could we put up with total organisation and the distance it would place between us and the locals? Time would tell, so we quietly waited, watched and followed instructions to climb aboard the waiting bus.
This tour had called to us from the travel pages of our weekend papers, promising an itinerary too good to be true, at a price too good to be true. It seemed tailor made for us, including the places we would have chosen to visit if travelling on our own. I was quite looking forward to being pampered instead of roughing it and not having any of the worry about organising things. Our past trips had been with my parents and I had done all the planning, the negotiating, the money managing, etc. This time we were with our teenage daughter and Reg’s adult daughter and I was very happy to sit back and let others do the organising and worrying. Nothing was going to phase me.
We made our way through the morning traffic witnessing sights and sounds we remembered well – crowded buses bulging with robed figures, honking horns, unfinished buildings packed densely together and topped with a myriad of TV satellite dishes and antenna.
We arrived at our 5 star luxury hotel on the Nile and knew that this time we would not have to worry about a lack of hot water and toilet paper, the things that plagued our previous visits. We became part of the Golda Group, quietly observing our fellow travellers, our tour director who was a dead ringer for Eddie Murphy and our flamboyant guide, Isis. Fortunately the tour had a good balance of organised time and free time. We never felt rushed and had plenty of time to escape on our own.
Once again we explored Cairo and gazed in wonder at its Museum’s treasures, bargained ruthlessly at Khan El Khalil, and put our lives in the hands of the gods as we roamed the city and crossed its busy streets.
We took the overnight train from Cairo to Luxor, just as we had on previous visits. The first class sleepers had seemed so wonderful back then after all our roughing it; now they seemed a bit ordinary. But that didn’t matter one bit. There’s nothing so lulling as sleeping on a bunk in a train, and even better, we were being carried out of the city and back in time to Luxor, glorious splendid Luxor.
At Luxor we boarded our cruise boat, a far cry from our humble felucca in ’84. We had made it to the “Gin Palace” league.
Before setting sail, we had a couple of days to explore Luxor. The wonders were still as wonderful, but where once we had trod in relative peace, now the sites were crowded. And somehow it just wasn’t the same bussing into the Valley of the Kings. I missed the donkeys. Still, I was grateful to be here again and my jaw still dropped in awe at the wonder of it all – the temples of Luxor and Karnak, Hatshepsut’s Palace, the Valley of the Kings, the Colossi of Memnon.
We did a horse and callish ride for old time’s sake, clopping around the narrow backstreets, through the market lanes and along the riverside cornice. We chatted with the driver and told him of our previous visits. We asked if the Hatshepsut was still around, the hotel we had loved so much on our first visit. He shook his head in disbelief. “The Hatshepsut? But that’s crap.” Maybe it was, even back then, but we had still loved it and will continue to remember it with fondness, especially its ramshackle open courtyard where we had sat under the stars and shared wine and laughter and stories and plans.
Setting sail was wonderful. But once again we were in for a shock. The Nile was no longer a river of few vessels. Behind us, as far as the eye could see, sailed a trail of cruise boats.
Despite the many boats, the river still felt serene and life on the banks drifted by, much as it has for thousands of years. We relished the special quiet of the early pink sky mornings and the late orange afternoons. We toasted the occasional felucca with our gin and tonics and dined on sumptuous Egyptian feasts. We traipsed ashore and re-explored the famous sites with throngs of other tourists, now more amazed at their numbers than at the monuments.
On this trip the highlight of our cruise had to be passing through the locks at Edfu. Last time we had merrily sailed up and spent a couple of pleasant hours ashore as our little felucca passed through… “lonely as a cloud”. This time we waited all day for our turn, hitched to the shore with scores of other boats, row upon row. But oh, what entertainment we had while we waited.
As we sat upon the deck of our boat tethered to the shore, a myriad of small boats descended upon us, one man rowing and one man throwing. Hey Mister, cheapest price. 10 Egyptian pounds. And suddenly a dress flopped into our lap. Wares were tossed to and fro. Prices negotiated. If you decided to finalise a bargain you tossed the money down in a plastic bag. Change was tossed back. No deal? No problem. Toss the goods back. And even to the last minute, as our boat left the dock, canoes continued to negotiate last minute deals, risking life and limb, in danger of being squashed between boats, plying wares. Negotiating in many different languages, our daughters bargained all day buying towels, shawls, dresses, headwear. At one stage my husband went into our cabin which was close to water level and was pelted with scores of items through our open windows. He ducked and crawled along the floor ever after that, just to get to the toilet unseen.
The day was exhilarating, exhausting, hilarious, fun beyond our imaginings, straight out of a Monty Python movie. But finally our boat took its turn and we entered the lock. We passed through to the next stage of our journey.
Setting sail was wonderful. But once again we were in for a shock. The Nile was no longer a river of few vessels. Behind us, as far as the eye could see, sailed a trail of cruise boats.
Despite the many boats, the river still felt serene and life on the banks drifted by, much as it has for thousands of years. We relished the special quiet of the early pink sky mornings and the late orange afternoons. We toasted the occasional felucca with our gin and tonics and dined on sumptuous Egyptian feasts. We traipsed ashore and re-explored the famous sites with throngs of other tourists, now more amazed at their numbers than at the monuments.
On this trip the highlight of our cruise had to be passing through the locks at Edfu. Last time we had merrily sailed up and spent a couple of pleasant hours ashore as our little felucca passed through… “lonely as a cloud”. This time we waited all day for our turn, hitched to the shore with scores of other boats, row upon row. But oh, what entertainment we had while we waited.
As we sat upon the deck of our boat tethered to the shore, a myriad of small boats descended upon us, one man rowing and one man throwing. Hey Mister, cheapest price. 10 Egyptian pounds. And suddenly a dress flopped into our lap. Wares were tossed to and fro. Prices negotiated. If you decided to finalise a bargain you tossed the money down in a plastic bag. Change was tossed back. No deal? No problem. Toss the goods back. And even to the last minute, as our boat left the dock, canoes continued to negotiate last minute deals, risking life and limb, in danger of being squashed between boats, plying wares. Negotiating in many different languages, our daughters bargained all day buying towels, shawls, dresses, headwear. At one stage my husband went into our cabin which was close to water level and was pelted with scores of items through our open windows. He ducked and crawled along the floor ever after that, just to get to the toilet unseen.
The day was exhilarating, exhausting, hilarious, fun beyond our imaginings, straight out of a Monty Python movie. But finally our boat took its turn and we entered the lock. We passed through to the next stage of our journey.
Aswan was as lovely as we remembered it – sleepy and warm with a holiday feel about it. A camel trek to a Nubian village was a new experience, followed by a lovely boat ride back down through the cataracts as the sun set and the sky came alive with stars.
Our visit to Abu Simbel was quite different to our last trip here. We flew in witnessing its grandeur from on high in the early dawn. It was still breathtakingly big, but alas, no longer so isolated. The crowds poured into the site in unbelievable numbers, swarming around dwarfed to the size of ants. Yet again we thanked our lucky stars we had explored such an amazing place peacefully and almost alone in the past.
We finally farewelled Aswan and returned in a convoy by road to Luxor. Two convoys of vehicles left per day to make this trip accompanied by armed guards to discourage terrorist attacks. I am not sure how much this improves safety, but we had to follow procedure. One refreshment stop was made along the way and we enjoyed stretching our legs at a sleepy roadside house before continuing.
Our visit to Abu Simbel was quite different to our last trip here. We flew in witnessing its grandeur from on high in the early dawn. It was still breathtakingly big, but alas, no longer so isolated. The crowds poured into the site in unbelievable numbers, swarming around dwarfed to the size of ants. Yet again we thanked our lucky stars we had explored such an amazing place peacefully and almost alone in the past.
We finally farewelled Aswan and returned in a convoy by road to Luxor. Two convoys of vehicles left per day to make this trip accompanied by armed guards to discourage terrorist attacks. I am not sure how much this improves safety, but we had to follow procedure. One refreshment stop was made along the way and we enjoyed stretching our legs at a sleepy roadside house before continuing.
That night we slept in luxury in Luxor in a new hotel by the river. As the sun rose next morning, so too did scores of hot air balloons. They hung in the sky, heaving great sighs as fire warmed their bellies, and drifted slowly over the mountains of the West bank. After a leisurely breakfast we flew on to Sharm el Sheikh. And there lies another story.
The Sinai 1988
When the Sinai is described as the place where two continents collide, the landscape literally reflects this. Here, several million years ago, the earth heaved and tossed, folded and snapped. Splintered, jagged rock now lies beneath the blue sky, an echo in the silence, a place of amazing beauty.
It was here that the pharaohs came in search of gold and copper and turquoise. The Bible says it was here that Moses received the Ten Commandments from God. And in more recent history, it was here that the Israelis and Egyptians battled over ownership of this triangular peninsula. We four Australians chose to pass through the Sinai to join the ranks of others who have done so since ancient times – the Egyptians, the Hittites, the Phoenicians, the Arabs, the Marmelukes.
On our first trip to the Sinai we were brave, intrepid explorers venturing into unfamiliar territory. My parents and husband and I had travelled in Egypt almost four years previously, but in the safety of a small group tour with somebody to take care of us. This time we dared venture out alone and our bravery and resourcefulness led to an exciting journey of discovery beyond our wistful and limited expectations.
Travelling lightly with a small bag each, we took a bus from Cairo to St Catherine. We were pretty proud of the fact that we actually made it to the bus station in Cairo and worked out which of the hundreds of buses to board. The 134 kilometre desert road from Cairo to the town of Suez follows a course slightly to the west of the ancient caravan trail which was used by pilgrims on their way to Mecca. After several hours of driving through clouds of dust we were suddenly struck by the strange sight of a ship sailing through the desert. The unseen canal lay below ground level and the ship, gliding through the sand, was in fact upon one of the most used waterways in the world. The Suez Canal stretches 171 kilometres between the Mediterranean and Red Sea and allows rapid travel between Europe and the Indian Ocean. Officially opened in 1869, Nasser blocked it with sunken ships during the 1967 war against Israel and it remained closed for eight years.
The bus crossed into the Sinai through the Ahmed Hamoli Tunnel which runs under the canal 30 kilometres north of Suez. We hugged the west coast of the peninsula for some time and then turned east into the heart of the Sinai. We drove through this quiet, brown country enjoying the sharp beauty, surprised every now and again by black robed Bedouins tending black skinned goats or by tufts of green indicating a spring. Life is sparse, but it is there, defiantly surviving harsh odds.
The long lonely road, the heat, the low hum of the bus motor and the rhythmic movement of the bus all combined to lull us into a trance-like state, so the sudden stop in the middle of nowhere took us by surprise. It more so aroused our interest when the door opened and two figures draped in heavy black boarded. The two sat across the aisle from us and the bus resumed its journey. Muffled giggles and movement beneath the black drew our attention. A packet of cigarettes was withdrawn from deep inside the robes and nimble, gnarled fingers withdrew two cigarettes. Veils were partly lifted and flick, flick, the cigarettes lit. The two Bedouin women huddled forward in their seats and smoked like naughty school girls behind the school toilets. One smoked through her veil, the other lifted her veil for each puff. They finished their cigarettes, smoothed down their smoky robes and rose. The bus driver nodded when they spoke in his ear, stopped the bus and opened the door. The two climbed down into the silent desert and the bus continued on its way. We quickly fell back into our trance and when the sight of St Catherine’s Monastery finally aroused us we wondered if our short term passengers had really existed or had we been dreaming.
Alighting from the bus we surveyed our surroundings and pondered where to seek lodgings. My husband hates all things back-packish with a passion. He assumes that anything to do with backpacking means Spartan conditions to which he is not prepared to reduce himself. He does not seek out Hilton type luxury, but his own bedroom, bathroom and toilet are on his list of basic necessities. When two backpackers left the bus to seek lodgings in the monastery hostel, he didn’t even consider their choice of accommodation an option. Instead we rocked into the only motel we could see which looked rather pleasant sitting by the road into St Catherine. The “all full” reply to our request for a room was like a punch on the chin. It caught us completely by surprise and stopped us dead in our tracks. How could this desolate, isolated place be full?
“Try the monastery,” they said.
“Oh no,” my husband said. “Isn’t there anywhere else to stay?”
“You could try the Alfairoz Hotel,” they said.
The Alfairoz was a short walk away and yes, they had a room the four of us could have – a tiny, very basic room with a toilet that didn’t flush, a door that didn’t lock, and a bed that wasn’t really a bed. A thin mattress lay on a concrete slab. There were no towels, no hot water and no toilet paper. But we had a roof over our heads which was something to be grateful for.
We hiked into the tiny township and purchased some bread from the traditional brick oven bakery, some ripe tomatoes and a tin of spam. Back in our basic room we ate a basic meal and turned in for an early night so as to get an early start up the mountain in the morning. A large group of loud German tourists partied through most of the night, frequently entering our unlockable room by mistake. Perhaps they were mistaking it for the toilet block. The thought did cross my mind that they were not mistaken at all. Perhaps we had been allocated the toilet block.
We endured till 3:00 a.m. and decided that then was as good a time as any to begin our climb up Mt Sinai. So off we trod over silent hallowed ground, through the night, in the footsteps of Moses. Onward we plodded ever up. About 2/3 of the way Elijah’s Hollow greeted us with a refreshing sight of greenery. A 500 year old Cyprus tree dominates the depressional plain where the prophet Elijah is said to have heard the voice of God after fleeing the wrath of Jezebel.
Feeling more energetic and more determined than Reg and my parents, I began climbing in earnest and left them further and further behind. As I sweatily climbed the final rocky heights I was surprised to see clumps of snow and ice nestled in rocky hollows. To stand alone on the mountain, to witness the sunrise, to behold the view was a moment in time that still feels elusive and unreal. I savoured the experience, far from the maddening crowds, content beyond words in the delicious solitude.
At peace with the world I met the others on the way back down and we returned to visit St Catherine’s Monastery at the base of the mountain. An oasis enclosed by ramparts, it nestled in the valley surrounded by mountains. Its monks belong to the Greek Orthodox Church who preserve within, its tradition of piety, its frescoes, icons, manuscripts and treasures.
It was here that the pharaohs came in search of gold and copper and turquoise. The Bible says it was here that Moses received the Ten Commandments from God. And in more recent history, it was here that the Israelis and Egyptians battled over ownership of this triangular peninsula. We four Australians chose to pass through the Sinai to join the ranks of others who have done so since ancient times – the Egyptians, the Hittites, the Phoenicians, the Arabs, the Marmelukes.
On our first trip to the Sinai we were brave, intrepid explorers venturing into unfamiliar territory. My parents and husband and I had travelled in Egypt almost four years previously, but in the safety of a small group tour with somebody to take care of us. This time we dared venture out alone and our bravery and resourcefulness led to an exciting journey of discovery beyond our wistful and limited expectations.
Travelling lightly with a small bag each, we took a bus from Cairo to St Catherine. We were pretty proud of the fact that we actually made it to the bus station in Cairo and worked out which of the hundreds of buses to board. The 134 kilometre desert road from Cairo to the town of Suez follows a course slightly to the west of the ancient caravan trail which was used by pilgrims on their way to Mecca. After several hours of driving through clouds of dust we were suddenly struck by the strange sight of a ship sailing through the desert. The unseen canal lay below ground level and the ship, gliding through the sand, was in fact upon one of the most used waterways in the world. The Suez Canal stretches 171 kilometres between the Mediterranean and Red Sea and allows rapid travel between Europe and the Indian Ocean. Officially opened in 1869, Nasser blocked it with sunken ships during the 1967 war against Israel and it remained closed for eight years.
The bus crossed into the Sinai through the Ahmed Hamoli Tunnel which runs under the canal 30 kilometres north of Suez. We hugged the west coast of the peninsula for some time and then turned east into the heart of the Sinai. We drove through this quiet, brown country enjoying the sharp beauty, surprised every now and again by black robed Bedouins tending black skinned goats or by tufts of green indicating a spring. Life is sparse, but it is there, defiantly surviving harsh odds.
The long lonely road, the heat, the low hum of the bus motor and the rhythmic movement of the bus all combined to lull us into a trance-like state, so the sudden stop in the middle of nowhere took us by surprise. It more so aroused our interest when the door opened and two figures draped in heavy black boarded. The two sat across the aisle from us and the bus resumed its journey. Muffled giggles and movement beneath the black drew our attention. A packet of cigarettes was withdrawn from deep inside the robes and nimble, gnarled fingers withdrew two cigarettes. Veils were partly lifted and flick, flick, the cigarettes lit. The two Bedouin women huddled forward in their seats and smoked like naughty school girls behind the school toilets. One smoked through her veil, the other lifted her veil for each puff. They finished their cigarettes, smoothed down their smoky robes and rose. The bus driver nodded when they spoke in his ear, stopped the bus and opened the door. The two climbed down into the silent desert and the bus continued on its way. We quickly fell back into our trance and when the sight of St Catherine’s Monastery finally aroused us we wondered if our short term passengers had really existed or had we been dreaming.
Alighting from the bus we surveyed our surroundings and pondered where to seek lodgings. My husband hates all things back-packish with a passion. He assumes that anything to do with backpacking means Spartan conditions to which he is not prepared to reduce himself. He does not seek out Hilton type luxury, but his own bedroom, bathroom and toilet are on his list of basic necessities. When two backpackers left the bus to seek lodgings in the monastery hostel, he didn’t even consider their choice of accommodation an option. Instead we rocked into the only motel we could see which looked rather pleasant sitting by the road into St Catherine. The “all full” reply to our request for a room was like a punch on the chin. It caught us completely by surprise and stopped us dead in our tracks. How could this desolate, isolated place be full?
“Try the monastery,” they said.
“Oh no,” my husband said. “Isn’t there anywhere else to stay?”
“You could try the Alfairoz Hotel,” they said.
The Alfairoz was a short walk away and yes, they had a room the four of us could have – a tiny, very basic room with a toilet that didn’t flush, a door that didn’t lock, and a bed that wasn’t really a bed. A thin mattress lay on a concrete slab. There were no towels, no hot water and no toilet paper. But we had a roof over our heads which was something to be grateful for.
We hiked into the tiny township and purchased some bread from the traditional brick oven bakery, some ripe tomatoes and a tin of spam. Back in our basic room we ate a basic meal and turned in for an early night so as to get an early start up the mountain in the morning. A large group of loud German tourists partied through most of the night, frequently entering our unlockable room by mistake. Perhaps they were mistaking it for the toilet block. The thought did cross my mind that they were not mistaken at all. Perhaps we had been allocated the toilet block.
We endured till 3:00 a.m. and decided that then was as good a time as any to begin our climb up Mt Sinai. So off we trod over silent hallowed ground, through the night, in the footsteps of Moses. Onward we plodded ever up. About 2/3 of the way Elijah’s Hollow greeted us with a refreshing sight of greenery. A 500 year old Cyprus tree dominates the depressional plain where the prophet Elijah is said to have heard the voice of God after fleeing the wrath of Jezebel.
Feeling more energetic and more determined than Reg and my parents, I began climbing in earnest and left them further and further behind. As I sweatily climbed the final rocky heights I was surprised to see clumps of snow and ice nestled in rocky hollows. To stand alone on the mountain, to witness the sunrise, to behold the view was a moment in time that still feels elusive and unreal. I savoured the experience, far from the maddening crowds, content beyond words in the delicious solitude.
At peace with the world I met the others on the way back down and we returned to visit St Catherine’s Monastery at the base of the mountain. An oasis enclosed by ramparts, it nestled in the valley surrounded by mountains. Its monks belong to the Greek Orthodox Church who preserve within, its tradition of piety, its frescoes, icons, manuscripts and treasures.
We bumped into our backpacking friends who had spent the night here and they enjoyed telling us about the clean, comfortable beds and the basic, but good food included in the room cost. “Very quiet and peaceful,” they said.
“Hmmmp,” we said. I dared to hope that Reg might learn a lesson from this little episode in our travels, but I think not.
We enjoyed a brief tour of the monastery including a quick look at the burning bush, then scurried back helter skelter to collect our bags and catch the last bus out of town so as to avoid another night on a slab of concrete. We headed east and hit the Gulf of Aqaba where the desert collides with the sea, then travelled south to Sharm el Sheikh near the southern tip of the Sinai. No basics for us that night. Straight to the Clifftop Hotel, the best in town. Well, there wasn’t much choice actually – the Clifftop or a hostel. The Clifftop won as Reg was not a converted backpacker yet.
We luxuriated in the delights of hot water and flushing toilets for a few days in Sharm el Sheikh, where tourists were noticeably absent. This is the town where the Egyptians who work in nearby Na’ma Bay live. We took the open air bus to see Na’ma Bay, a resort town of hotels, dive centres and restaurants. Construction work in this part of the Sinai was heavy and seemed to indicate a future of more heavy tourism, so we were glad to be there before the crowds.
We loved this sleepy, quiet untouched place where the desert meets the remarkable blue sea. We loved poking through the shops, talking with the locals, sampling the wonderful food and lazing beneath the clear warm winter sky. Little did we know how lucky we were to stumble upon this place at this time, for the tourist industry was about to hit this spot with a force similar to the geological impact of colliding continents of the past.
We returned to Cairo with the spirit of the Sinai forever within us. Our footprints had joined the travellers, the soldiers and the prophets who have come here for thousands of years. Our journey may have been easier and more comfortable than theirs, but it was certainly no less emotional.
“Hmmmp,” we said. I dared to hope that Reg might learn a lesson from this little episode in our travels, but I think not.
We enjoyed a brief tour of the monastery including a quick look at the burning bush, then scurried back helter skelter to collect our bags and catch the last bus out of town so as to avoid another night on a slab of concrete. We headed east and hit the Gulf of Aqaba where the desert collides with the sea, then travelled south to Sharm el Sheikh near the southern tip of the Sinai. No basics for us that night. Straight to the Clifftop Hotel, the best in town. Well, there wasn’t much choice actually – the Clifftop or a hostel. The Clifftop won as Reg was not a converted backpacker yet.
We luxuriated in the delights of hot water and flushing toilets for a few days in Sharm el Sheikh, where tourists were noticeably absent. This is the town where the Egyptians who work in nearby Na’ma Bay live. We took the open air bus to see Na’ma Bay, a resort town of hotels, dive centres and restaurants. Construction work in this part of the Sinai was heavy and seemed to indicate a future of more heavy tourism, so we were glad to be there before the crowds.
We loved this sleepy, quiet untouched place where the desert meets the remarkable blue sea. We loved poking through the shops, talking with the locals, sampling the wonderful food and lazing beneath the clear warm winter sky. Little did we know how lucky we were to stumble upon this place at this time, for the tourist industry was about to hit this spot with a force similar to the geological impact of colliding continents of the past.
We returned to Cairo with the spirit of the Sinai forever within us. Our footprints had joined the travellers, the soldiers and the prophets who have come here for thousands of years. Our journey may have been easier and more comfortable than theirs, but it was certainly no less emotional.
The Sinai 2008
We waited 20 short years before we ventured back to the Sinai and despite the timelessness of the desert, the differences were amazing, both in how we travelled and in what we saw. This journey saw us a little older and a little more cashed up. Reg had finally convinced me that backpacking ideas should be cast aside once and for all, and so here we were flying into Sharm el Sheikh on a luxury, fully organised tour.
The first surprise hit us even before we landed. Kilometres and kilometres of roads and luxury resorts rolled along the coast line. We landed in a modern, light and airy airport constructed to blend in with the desert dunes and handle the millions of tourists that arrive each year. Then we were driven to our unbelievably luxurious, all inclusive resort on acres of property beside the sea. Where was our sleepy little village of one hotel, one hostel and a few shops? Where were those first few resorts of Na’ma bay that had stood adventurously alone 20 years earlier? What had happened in the blink of an eye? Progress. That is what. Tourism and progress.
We thoroughly enjoyed our amazing resort and all it offered – the unlimited food and drink in an array of different restaurants and bars, the pools and spas, the gardens, the beach, the comfy beds, the hot water and, yes, dare I say it, the more than adequate supplies of toilet paper. Times had definitely changed, some would say for the better, but we couldn’t help feel we were missing out on something. And that something was Egypt. This resort could be anywhere in the world. Still, for those who had never been before, there was the amazing blue sea, the amazing blue sky and the opportunity to take some trips into the desert.
A trip into down town Na’ma Bay was another mind boggling experience for us as we came to grips with the past and the present. This hive of activity and casinos and neon lights is now known as the Las Vegas of Egypt. Outdoor Oriental themed restaurants line the streets where tourists refuel after shopping in the myriad of souvenir stores.
After a week of extravagance in this tourist mecca we drove through an unchanged desert to St Catherine. St Catherine had a few more hotels than our previous visit, but otherwise, seemed little changed.
The small settlement still lay in the hush of hot desert sands and the shadow of the mighty Mount Sinai. Our hotel was modest, but a major step up from the hotel on our previous visit, which just happened to be next door, looking exactly the same as it had done 20 years ago.
At 2:00 a.m. next morning I rose to climb Mt Sinai once again, this time well-rested. The sky was clear, the moon full and the air chilled. This time, however, I was not alone on the mountain. This time there were thousands of feet ascending with mine, step by slow step on the track winding upwards to meet the sunrise. Where had they all come from? I was gob-smacked. When I reached the top I had to claim a spot amongst the crowds, but even though there were so many around, a hush descended as darkness lifted and light filtered across the world with the sunrise. It was still a beautiful sight even though I had to share it, but I remain grateful for the chance to have once experienced it alone.
The first surprise hit us even before we landed. Kilometres and kilometres of roads and luxury resorts rolled along the coast line. We landed in a modern, light and airy airport constructed to blend in with the desert dunes and handle the millions of tourists that arrive each year. Then we were driven to our unbelievably luxurious, all inclusive resort on acres of property beside the sea. Where was our sleepy little village of one hotel, one hostel and a few shops? Where were those first few resorts of Na’ma bay that had stood adventurously alone 20 years earlier? What had happened in the blink of an eye? Progress. That is what. Tourism and progress.
We thoroughly enjoyed our amazing resort and all it offered – the unlimited food and drink in an array of different restaurants and bars, the pools and spas, the gardens, the beach, the comfy beds, the hot water and, yes, dare I say it, the more than adequate supplies of toilet paper. Times had definitely changed, some would say for the better, but we couldn’t help feel we were missing out on something. And that something was Egypt. This resort could be anywhere in the world. Still, for those who had never been before, there was the amazing blue sea, the amazing blue sky and the opportunity to take some trips into the desert.
A trip into down town Na’ma Bay was another mind boggling experience for us as we came to grips with the past and the present. This hive of activity and casinos and neon lights is now known as the Las Vegas of Egypt. Outdoor Oriental themed restaurants line the streets where tourists refuel after shopping in the myriad of souvenir stores.
After a week of extravagance in this tourist mecca we drove through an unchanged desert to St Catherine. St Catherine had a few more hotels than our previous visit, but otherwise, seemed little changed.
The small settlement still lay in the hush of hot desert sands and the shadow of the mighty Mount Sinai. Our hotel was modest, but a major step up from the hotel on our previous visit, which just happened to be next door, looking exactly the same as it had done 20 years ago.
At 2:00 a.m. next morning I rose to climb Mt Sinai once again, this time well-rested. The sky was clear, the moon full and the air chilled. This time, however, I was not alone on the mountain. This time there were thousands of feet ascending with mine, step by slow step on the track winding upwards to meet the sunrise. Where had they all come from? I was gob-smacked. When I reached the top I had to claim a spot amongst the crowds, but even though there were so many around, a hush descended as darkness lifted and light filtered across the world with the sunrise. It was still a beautiful sight even though I had to share it, but I remain grateful for the chance to have once experienced it alone.
Alexandria 1988
In 1988 we bravely purchased rail tickets to Alexandria, a whole 5 Egyptian pounds for first class tickets, and negotiated our way through the throngs of people at the Cairo Station to find our seats aboard the train. As we saw the conditions in the second class carriages and spied passengers even riding on the roof, we felt our 5 pounds was well spent. We chose a one star hotel on the waterfront on arrival and were delighted to find clean rooms, toilet paper and plenty of hot water for bathing. In my diary I noted we only paid 16 Egyptian pounds for a double room that included a huge breakfast as well. What a bargain!
We enjoyed exploring the streets and waterfront of Alexandria, covering many miles by foot, but we were also lucky to know a local (a cousin of an Egyptian friend in Australia) who kindly showed us around for a couple of days. He showed us local ruins such as the Roman amphitheatre, took us into the catacombs beneath the city, and drove us to see the El Montazah Palace, the grand palace of King Farouk, set in massive grounds. Little did we realise we would stay in a hotel on these grounds 20 years into the future.
Alexandria had a whole different feel to Cairo. It was less crowded, less expensive, less busy. Its seaside position made it feel more like a holiday spot. We found the restaurants inexpensive and the food delicious, eating most nights on the waterfront. At night the town always seemed in carnival mode with colour and music and laughter from large groups of people out and about. I celebrated my 31st birthday here and was delighted to receive a gift of a Mars bar and an orange from my parents in memory of our last visit to Egypt. (In 1984 a Mars bar and an orange were all we could find for Christmas dinner, as Christmas Day had fallen on a Friday when Muslims shut down their shops for their holy day.)
We returned to Cairo by bus, feeling quite relaxed and refreshed from our little sojourn to the seaside.
We enjoyed exploring the streets and waterfront of Alexandria, covering many miles by foot, but we were also lucky to know a local (a cousin of an Egyptian friend in Australia) who kindly showed us around for a couple of days. He showed us local ruins such as the Roman amphitheatre, took us into the catacombs beneath the city, and drove us to see the El Montazah Palace, the grand palace of King Farouk, set in massive grounds. Little did we realise we would stay in a hotel on these grounds 20 years into the future.
Alexandria had a whole different feel to Cairo. It was less crowded, less expensive, less busy. Its seaside position made it feel more like a holiday spot. We found the restaurants inexpensive and the food delicious, eating most nights on the waterfront. At night the town always seemed in carnival mode with colour and music and laughter from large groups of people out and about. I celebrated my 31st birthday here and was delighted to receive a gift of a Mars bar and an orange from my parents in memory of our last visit to Egypt. (In 1984 a Mars bar and an orange were all we could find for Christmas dinner, as Christmas Day had fallen on a Friday when Muslims shut down their shops for their holy day.)
We returned to Cairo by bus, feeling quite relaxed and refreshed from our little sojourn to the seaside.
Alexandria 2008
20 years after our initial trip to Alexandria we returned to a city much changed, yet strangely still the same. We had come on a tour that took us to stay at the luxurious Helnan Palestine Hotel, built to accommodate the Arab Kings and Heads of States participating in the Second Arab Summit Alexandria, Egypt in September 5th, 1964. Alexandria still had that seaside holiday feel about it, but there were many new buildings and hotels along the waterfront and signs of plenty of ongoing construction. The archaeological sites had also been unearthed more, and an impressive new structure had risen on the waterfront which truly dazzled us.
The Library of Alexandria was completed in 2001 and is a commemoration of the Library of Alexandria that was lost in antiquity. The building is a vast circular form with walls of grey Aswan granite, carved with characters from 120 different human scripts. The main reading room stands beneath a 32 metre high glass-panelled roof, tilted out toward the sea like a sundial, and measuring 160 m in diameter. We stood within its walls in awe, not only of the architecture, but also of the technology that drives it.
The Library of Alexandria was completed in 2001 and is a commemoration of the Library of Alexandria that was lost in antiquity. The building is a vast circular form with walls of grey Aswan granite, carved with characters from 120 different human scripts. The main reading room stands beneath a 32 metre high glass-panelled roof, tilted out toward the sea like a sundial, and measuring 160 m in diameter. We stood within its walls in awe, not only of the architecture, but also of the technology that drives it.
Our daughter celebrated her 14th birthday during our stay, with white gloved waiters in the hotel's dining room tending her every need during dinner and bringing forth a birthday cake with candles to finish the evening. I must say she scored better than the Mars bar and orange I received 20 years ago during my birthday celebrations here. How times change.
Outside of Alexandria we enjoyed a visit to El Alamein, where we spent time in the War Museum and the Commonwealth War Cemetery. Buried here are 6,425 identified Commonwealth service personnel and 815 unidentified ones, besides 102 of other nationalities. It all seems so quiet and peaceful that it is hard to imagine the horrendous war that caused it to be here.
Outside of Alexandria we enjoyed a visit to El Alamein, where we spent time in the War Museum and the Commonwealth War Cemetery. Buried here are 6,425 identified Commonwealth service personnel and 815 unidentified ones, besides 102 of other nationalities. It all seems so quiet and peaceful that it is hard to imagine the horrendous war that caused it to be here.
South of Alexandria we also visited another most peaceful spot - a monastery that is an oasis in the desert. It was like stepping back in time - well, except for the monks talking on their mobile phones beside the earthenware water containers and the grinding stone to turn seed into flour.