The Sand Between My Fingers, The Abandonment of a Museum, and The Golden Mask.

Alexandria & Cairo, Egypt

We made our first scheduling error when it came to the overnight train to Cairo on our way to Alexandria. We purchased tickets for a night later than we intended and found ourselves, after making our way to the train station, back in our hotel room in at the Winter Palace in Luxor. This was actually a blessing in so much that we were given an opportunity to relax and catch our breath for the first time since our arrival. We napped, wandered the gardens and spent some time discussing our adventures.

Ramadan had begun when we arrived from Aswan and we were witness to the daily celebrations of the setting sun as the city settled down for Iftar dinner together. We sat in our balcony and listened to the calls to prayers echoing in the dusk. It would begin with one voice over the PA system in one mosque, then spread, one voice at a time, around us until the air around us was filled with a multitude of songs competing with each other, but somehow achieving a hint of choral definition within the melodic cacophony. It was thrilling to witness at first, and not a little surreal. But it eventually became a source of calm and comfort. In truth, we felt privileged to experience this time in this place.

The night we actually left the Winter Palace was bittersweet for me. I had dreamed of staying at this historic place for so long, and now that was done. Eric and I had stayed long enough to see the frayed edges of the display that the hotel puts forward to its guests, the lack of menu choices, the inexperience of some of the staff, the snobbery of others, and the colonial whiff that permeated the halls. The dream was dead, but the gratitude for having stayed before remained. The Winter Palace had lost its magic, but that was okay. Now it felt like an old friend. Imperfect, but still worth loving.

Alexandria was completely different than the previous destinations we had slept in. On the shores of the Mediterranean, the more cosmopolitan nature of the city was immediately noticeable. The people who walked the streets were more diverse, speaking a variety of different languages we hadn’t heard in Egypt as yet, and the streets were generally wider and more reflective of European design. Clearly a result of the Greco-Roman origins of this place.

Our hotel, like the Winter Palace, was a remnant of the Victorian and Edwardian influences on Egypt. We were charmed by the salon style room we were allotted, with a grand view of the sea, and the unique elevator with it’s wrought iron gates and cage-like design.

We visited the key sites of Alexandria, the Roman amphitheatre, the site of the Pharos lighthouse, and the catacombs, but it was the libraries that impacted me the most. Yes, plural: libraries.

Near the amphitheatre was the underground remains of the small Alexandrian library that served as a satellite of the major, famous, library. It would be at this location that the scrolls you requested would be made available and it would be here to which you would return them. It is a simple cavernous passageway now, with the recesses for scrolls still carved in the ancient sandstone.  At one point the guide and Eric walked away and I was left alone in the dimness of this ancient place. I placed my hand on the sandstone wall to feel it. I don’t know why. Perhaps to connect with it? As my hand pressed against the wall, the sand of the stone began to fall gently through my fingers. Not a lot, the place was quite steady, but enough to allow for a feeling of something disintegrating between your fingers. Like time.

The burning of Alexandria’s library, the very thought of what had been lost, was always heartbreaking to me. So much knowledge. So much collected wisdom and ideas and explorations. Gone in an instant due to man’s folly. We are so much our own worst enemy. In that dark space I was reminded of how distant, in time, in space, and in context, my world is from the world which holds so much fascination for me.

That ancient world was a place of refuge to me, but it was also a place of escape. Not just from unhappiness, but, I suspect, from some joy as well. If I am to be honest, I believe that my love of this subject matter was not always healthy. It allowed me to isolate myself. To avoid difficulties with peers and family. It was an easy way for me to disappear into myself and not deal with the issues I had, both internally and within my family.

In that dark place, watching the sand gently slip past my fingers and fall silently to the ground, I was reminded how lucky I was to eventually find my own truth and become more whole in the real world.

We also toured the new Library of Alexandria. To say that I was impressed is to understate my reaction. The building was amazing, the various museums were impressive and the design of the complex, including a planetarium, was genius. It was abundantly clear that all those involved in the creation, design, and implementation of this project wished to harken back to the original inspirational idea while bringing a twenty-first century design that focussed on the future. They wanted to make Alexandria the centre of human thought once again.

Having finished our final tour together in Alexandria, we returned to Cairo with the intent of having a quiet finish to our time in Egypt. Eric, determined to see as much of Cairo as he could, hired a driver and explored the Islamic and Coptic regions of the city. Visiting mosques, synagogues and biblically significant sites, he explored aspects of the country not covered by pharaonic history. I, however, continued my dream trip with a last minute surprise tour.

When planning my trip to Egypt I had to postpone everything a couple of times. The first reason was because of the revolution in 2011, but I also tried to plan the trip to coincide with the opening of the new Grand Egyptian Museum. This was not meant to be as the opening date kept being moved forward. It is currently planned for some time in 2020. We shall see. During our trip we discovered that it was possible to visit the construction site of the new museum and tour the research and restoration labs within. It would be costly, but I chose to do it.

Getting in felt like I was attempting to enter a high security military site. Four different checkpoints and a final drawn out process at the reception desk in Receiving. They examined my passport, I signed a document that promised I would not publish my activities, I was required to keep my phone in my pocket, and I was searched. Thoroughly.

The tour was mind bending. I saw things in boxed, just unpacked, that overwhelmed me. I was shown objects that had just been found and items that had been kept away from the public since 1922. I was able to wear protective white gloves and touch an item that was used in everyday life three thousand years ago. I saw some things that are famous, and other items currently unknown to the general public. I watched professionals clean and restore artifacts and I discussed a newly found piece that is a puzzle with Egyptologists.

In short, I was in a state of absolute grace for three and a half hours. It was like I walked down the path of an alternative life. The life I would have had if I had made different choices. I was shocked. I was overcome with joy. I was at home. I was a visitor in a strange land. I was overwhelmed to the point of weeping.

I was in a moment that was forty-one years in the making.

After the labs I  visited the construction site and saw the scaffolding, the workers, the structural progression around me and wondered, even working twenty-four hours a day every day, how it could ever be complete within a year and a half. When it is done, it will be a massive and impressive place. Standing at the foot of a colossal stature of Ramses II that supervised the work going on around him, I was awestruck by the commitment and passion towards this process. Egypt was taking a public stand regarding ownership of her history and her artefacts.

Before I left the site, I stared at the pyramids of Giza not far away. I had visited these marvels only three weeks away. So much had happened since then. So much had been seen. So much had been experienced. So much had been learned.

I was dropped off at the Cairo Museum and spent the rest of the day, and all of the next, touring its many rooms. Apparently the first building ever to be constructed for the sole purpose of being a museum, this place is definitely showing its age. I’m not referring to the structure itself, the Uffizi, the British Museum, and the Louvre are significantly older structures. It’s not just a faded relic, it is a partially abandoned collection of artefacts with little or no over arching vision or organisation.

The abandonment is not reflected in emptiness, although there are spaces vacated from due to the upcoming move, but, rather, it is found in the lack of passion for the space or for the collection. The wood-framed, dusty, smeared-glass display cases are neglected. The light is terrible. Most information cards are incomplete and unhelpful. If there is any information provided at all. Some cases have been moved so that the limited information provided is facing the wall or out of reach.

The artefacts themselves are hidden behind doors, other exhibits, or so dusty the details are lost. One large piece was hidden behind a floor model air conditioner.  Some of the disarray can by attributed to the packing up and reorganisation of the moving process, but this included two or three rooms in the Greco-Roman section. Most of this is clearly neglect.

It seemed like there was a massive attempt at updating the place in the thirties or possibly the forties, but then not attempts have been made since. There is no passion evident in the building. No respectful archival of a nation’s heritage. Instead, you feel as if you are wondering your recently deceased hoarding grandparents’ attic.

If you enter the front and go to your left, there is an attempt to follow a semblance of a timeline, but this is abandoned by the second floor as you wander between pre-dynastic pottery and artefacts from Tutankhamon’s tomb.

In order to see the mummies you have to pay extra. Of course. This approach is consistent with The Valleys of the Kings, The Valley of the Queens and Egypt in general. As I have noted before, I am not a fan of displaying human remains for the purpose of people staring at them. But, I dutifully paid extra. In for a penny, in for an Egyptian pound. Or a hundred extra pounds as it were.

Ramses II the was there, of course. I remember the fact that he had to get a passport in order to be shipped to the United States for a tour. And a number of others from the 18^th and 19^th dynasties. Including the mummy known as “The Noble Woman” until very recently when her identity was finally confirmed as that of Hatshepsut. As I gazed down upon her, I read the card that described her as “an obese woman with very bad teeth” and sighed. Now they decide to get specific in their description. No other mummy has this kind of description when describing their attributes. The female pharaoh is still badly treated by the Egyptology community.

I returned the next day with Eric and we spent hours wandering the museum and discussing the pieces, famous and relatively unknown. Having spent the last three weeks going up and down the Nile visiting temples, tombs, and other archaeological sites, Eric could now hold his own in a conversation about ancient Egypt. It was so wonderful to be able to share this place, inadequate as it was in many ways, and wonder over the many artefacts I had dreamed of seeing for so long. This was especially true among the Tutankhamon collection.

At the end of the day, after having seen every single room in the building, I returned to the collection of Tutankhamon. I had seen this in Seattle in 1978 when I first gazed into the eyes of the famous gold mask and saw the face of a young man, a boy, who ruled his world. The facts and theories of surrounding this face, and the family of the boy it supposedly represents, has made my relationship with masterpiece more textured and complicated. But the wonder is still there.

As Eric stood by, I gazed once again into the eyes of this most famous of ancient Egyptian art pieces and silently gave thanks. I had finally seen the things I have wanted to see for so long. Been to the places that I have longed to visit. Experienced the connection to an ancient culture that had provided me with a safe place to dream, a passion that would lead me to higher education and a wanderlust that would take me far beyond the Thompson Valley in the interior of British Columbia. And I saw it with Eric.

It had been a wonderful trip. Perfect really. It had been worthy of forty-one years of preparation.

The Inevitable, The Crypt, and The Pause.

Luxor, Egypt

We returned to the Winter Palace in Luxor for a few more days after our visit to Aswan. Two days, though, were designated tour days that would take us out of the city and into the country. Or, the Egyptian version of the country. There is not hinterland in Egypt.

First we went south, about halfway back to Aswan to visit the temples of Edfu and Kom Ombo. Despite evidence of tourism infrastructure, these places were basically empty. Cruise ships were only just beginning to return to the Nile after the 2011 revolution. We were told that Wednesday was the day to avoid as that is when the ships docked. But our day was quiet.

Kom Ombo is a small temple dedicated to the god Khnum who is purported to have created humanity on his potter’s wheel. But the crocodile Sobek plays a key role and the two deities share the space. The Greeks restored and added to the temple creating a temple within a temple effect.

Edfu, sacred to the god of royalty, the falcon-headed Horus, is famous for its dramatic pylons and the most preserved falcon statue in Egypt. It is not a large statue, which means one has the opportunity to gaze upon it with a semblance of intimacy, making it easier to create a connection.

When I was eleven, I received a book of ancient Egyptian history for Christmas. I have no doubt it was my mother who picked it our. Paul Johnson’s Ancient Egypt was a very detailed tome with university level vocabulary (one of the chapters is names ‘A Totalitarian Theocracy’.) and a great many pictures. My mom, bless her, picked a great book for serious study whilst allowing for serious photo-gazing for allowing a young mind to wander. She clearly took my interest as seriously as I did.

In this book there is a picture of this well-preserved falcon statue. Walking up to it, I couldn’t help but think about the countless hours staring at the photo. I have come to realize that I have chosen many of the sites we have visited based on my initial reaction to that book. Obviously, it is a bit more complex than that, but this book, given to me in the early days of this passion, has clearly had an impact. I still have it. It survived my recent purge of my library for purely sentimental reasons. I cannot wait to flip through it again after this trip.

The colours of the ceiling are well preserved, and the temple itself is in remarkable condition. But it was the staircase that did me in.

You may recall that there were bets about when I would burst into tears. The good money was at Hatshepsut’s temple but that didn’t happen. Neither did it happen at the Valley of the Kings. And certainly not at the pyramids. Oh sure, I will admit to a few tearful moments, but not actual crying.

The staircase, and accompanying narrow passages, are quite intent. The walls are covered in beautiful relief of the god Horus and pharaohs of the Ptolemaic period. When you walk up the gentle incline of the stairs you must work to no brush up against the walls. The passages are lit with natural sunlight beaming through narrow slits. You twist in a wide circular motion as you make your way up to the roof. At Edfu, the roof is inaccessible, but the effect is still strong.

When I visit an archaeological site, and I have visited many, I am always attracted to stairways. These are places where you can guarantee a person has trod. Often you can see the effects of thousands of years of stepping on stairs, providing witness to this high traffic area. So, walking up the original stairs within the intense artistry of this ancient passageway reserved only for the priests, I was finally overcome with emotion. I felt the tears beginning to well up and I looked down to concentrate on stopping them. We reached the top and Eric turned around. I instinctively looked up to face him and then it finally happened. It took two weeks, but I did openly weep in Egypt.

I know. I’m pathetic. And if I had any sense at all I’d be too embarrassed to admit this moment. But there you have it.

The next day found us north of Luxor to visit the temples of Abydos and Dendara. Abydos’ small exterior belies a complex and well preserved temple. Dedicated to the Osiris, ancient Egyptian king of the underworld, this was a very influential cultural and religious centre. This is reflected in the depictions of the god in his mummified form and of his wife Isis.  We followed this visit with our final temple visit. One that was, in my opinion, the best preserved.

The Temple of Dendara is famous for the high level of preservation of the original colours still surviving after over two centuries. Rich greens and brilliant whites and flashing gold create a ceiling of vibrant colours that carpet the surface. And the blue! The lapis lazuli colour throughout the complex brings a texture that is unique in this place. The pillars are not immune to these dazzling displays, the capitals seemingly fresh painted.

Like Edfu, there are passageways and stairs leading to the rooftop, equally overwhelming and this time the passage to the roof is clear. We find a small chapel, another smaller room and a view of our surroundings that transport us back in time. The three of us, our guide, Eric and myself, are alone. The place is ours and we wander on the roof looking about us in wonder.

One of the sheltered spaces looks like a small hut, complete with a window looking out onto the rooftop terrace. The blackened walls and hole cut into the ceiling tells me this was a home at times. Used for shelter and for a cooking fire. There were probably many residents here throughout the ages, including early Christians evading persecution.  Once again I am reminded that the relics of a time in history that has kept my attention all these years has a rich and vibrant history that takes place after the thirty dynasties that ruled the two lands of Egypt.

Our guide, fed by my enthusiasm and a kindness that runs deep, has made arrangement for a surprise for me. It will cost me a minor tip, but one of the ‘guards’ will open up the crypt for me. Was it really closed to begin with? Probably not. But I would not have known about it had he not made us aware.

It wasn’t a crypt per se. There were no bodies here. It was used for storage for the most part. But it was a secret underground passage that required us to climb deep into the earth. Once I was able to swallow my fear and wriggle my way through the small crawlspace, I found myself in another passageway that was just as narrow and tall as the ones before. Eric and I wandered through the passageway, taking in the myriad of reliefs that surrounded us. It was deathly quiet, but calm. It seemed like we were alone in the world, secure in the ground from the passage of a two thousand years.

As I stood there in the shadows of this passageway, with only some light coming in from the passage leading to the outside world, I became aware of how my most profound moments were manifesting in this trip. It wasn’t the grand spectacles, the giant monuments, the vast footprints of temples, the majesty of the pyramids, that impacted me emotionally the most. It was the subtleties that moved me. The face of a pharaoh seeking immortality with the head of his statue face down in the dirt. The vibrant blue night sky painted on the ceiling of a tomb for a beloved wife. The back passages of a temple for the practical use of the priests. These small witnesses to the motivations and aspirations of the people behind the ruins were the things that most touched me. 

After over forty years of gazing at the splendours of this place in books and in films, these very splendours have helped me see the humanity of those who built them. And when all is said and done, it was this humanity, a boy king, that drew me to this place to begin with.

We returned to Luxor and I would return to visit the Valley of the Kings one more time. I visited all of the tombs I had not seen before, including that of Tutankhamon’s.

If I am to be honest, I initially had no intention of visiting the most famous tomb of the valley. I knew it was small, I knew there was not much to see, and I knew that everyone would expect me to see it. It was that latter point that finally convinced me to go. I didn’t want to constantly justify a decision to not see it that would go against most tourist’s rationale. It would be, in most people’s eyes, like going to Vegas and never gambling. I just didn’t want to deal with it. So I went.

It was very small, and there was not much to see, and it cost extra because it was famous. The boy king is the only mummy found in the valley that still rests there. Too fragile to move, he rests to the left after you exit the passageway. I am ambivalent about human remains. I find it often disrespectful, appealing to morbid curiosity. Some places do it better than others. Some place, like Pompeii where they have a display of the plaster casts of corpses of varying decomposition displayed in their eternal agony like butterflies, I find reprehensible.  Tutankhamen lies within a glass case with only his head and feet visible. The rest is covered in linen.

As we left the tomb, I paused and I gazed upon him. I admit it.

I like going to celebrity grave sites. I’ve seen the resting places of Maria Callas, Houdini, Anne Bancroft, and many others. Why? I assure you it’s not about some lurid sense of morbid curiosity. I wish to pay my respects for their contributions to entertainment, to history, to providing me with an escape in film or music or whatever. For Tutankhamen it was something a little different.

This boy king whose only real historical importance is having his tomb found intact, who did not live long enough to complete a restoration of the status quo that was needed in Egypt at the time, had had a profound affect on me. He had fired my imagination. He had given me a role model of a young boy who had power, had agency, had value in his very presence. Sure, the details were lost on me at the beginning, but the effect was true. He had provided me with a focus upon which to train a mind that allowed me to explore and discover an entire three thousand years of history. And, in so doing, brought a sad, lonely boy, immense pleasure.

So, silently as others walked past me, I thanked him profusely.

The Dire Warnings of Ramses II, The Rescue of Yesterday, and The Dinner Guests

Aswan, Egypt

Unlike the old-world charm of the Winter Palace in Luxor, our hotel in Aswan was the very modern Movenpick Resort situated on the island of Elephantine in the centre of the city. Eric managed to get a very good price as a result of the value of the Egyptian Pound and the fact that we were visiting during the shoulder season. Requiring a ferry to take you across from the downtown core, the location was a blessing and a curse. Away from the vibrancy of the city, but a quiet refuge for an introvert like me.  The ferries were frequent, though, and the journey across was very brief.

We were in Aswan for two full days before we would return to Luxor, and it promised to be a busy time.

Our first day was a day trip to Abu Simbel. Built by Ramses II at the border of Kmt (the two lands of ancient Egypt) it served as a warning to southern hostiles. It depicted the might of the pharaoh and his armies by demonstrating that they could not only repel any southern attempt to invade, but also that it could do so while also repelling any northern forces. In short, it was a clear signal to not even try.

Ramses was many things, but humble was not one of them. Ruling 67 years, fathering around 150 children, and presenting himself on the same level as the gods Ramses’ quest for eternal life was not only targeted for the fields of the gods, but also for here on earth. After reaching a very old age, especially for his time, he began to think he was actually immortal. Boy, he must have felt like a doofus when he finally died.

His most favoured wife was Nerfertari, whose image is everywhere at Abu Simbel. She is the small figure next to his legs on the temple’s famous façade. To the right you will see the smaller temple dedicated to her. She was his most favoured wife and he demonstrates this by building this temple for her memory in which he filled images of just how fantastic he was. Again, hubris incarnate.

But his high opinion of himself has provided us with a marvel to behold. Abu Simbel is a monument to behold. There is a great deal of hype about this particular spot in Egypt, with all kinds of sources indicating it is worth the effort to visit, and it does not disappoint. I felt dwarfed as we approached it, it massive faces gazing serenely over Lake Nasser only added to the sense of awe.

Carved into the mountain itself, it has a relatively small footprint in the interior when you compare it to such sits at the Ramesseum or the Temple of Karnak. But it is by no means a tight, claustrophobic space. Great columns reach up more than twenty feet before holding up an elaborately carved ceiling. No piety in this hall, however, as Ramses II towers above us in relief demonstrating his strength over his enemies. He offers gifts for the Amon-Re most of all, who embraces him like a brother.

The innermost chamber is the smallest and consists of four figures. Three, Amon-Re, Re-Herakhti, and Ramses II himself, are bathed in light from outside. One remains in the shadows. He is either Ptah, as god of darkness, or Khonshu, the moon god. I have heard both named. It is said the rays of the sun penetrate into the temple of bathes the three statues of Amon-Re and Ramses II only twice a year, to celebrate the cultivation season in February and to celebrate the flooding season in October. This is also supposed to be the birth and coronation dates of the king. By pure coincidence I am certain. Our guide ruefully admitted that this phenomenon occurred not just on two separate days each year, but, rather, during two different weeks of the year, give or take.

The other story of this site, of course, is the impressive efforts it took to move the two temple complexes to safety from the flooding waters resulting from the building of the Aswan Dam. There is a wonderful National Geographic documentary about this that was made in 1964 that provides a witness account of the process that can be found on YouTube. I remember seeing this in elementary school many years ago and the exact same film, complete with narrator and music, was playing in the visitor centre at the entrance.

Despite the hubris of its creator, I found Abu Simbel to be quite humbling. It is a bold statement that has been emphasized by the equally bold endeavours of those who moved the very mountain in which it is carved. Such was their skill that you would be hard pressed to find the lines that are present as a result of them cutting the structure into puzzle pieces and then reassembling them. Abu Simbel is a testament to our ability to demonstrate our commitment to what we value deeply. For the ancients, it was the security of the homeland. For us, our commitment to our common heritage.

We saw this commitment recently with the pledges of money to support the restoration of Notre Dame in Paris. UNESCO is a testament to this commitment. If only we had such commitment in the areas of peace, hunger, and equality. We have proven we can literally move mountains if we so desire.

Our second day in Aswan was spent touring the sites of the city. We visited the unfinished obelisk, a failed attempt by Hatshepsut to build the larges obelisk ever, during the heat of the afternoon. Walking through the remains of the quarry was oppressive to say the least, but it was worth it to see the process of cutting a single piece of rock in order to carve out an obelisk. Well, it was worth it for me. We also toured the Aswan High Dam, a modern miracle of engineering.

The Temple of Philae, a Greco-Roman temple to Isis, was the highlight of the day. Also saved from the flooding of the dam, the cutting marks on the stone are a more evident here. Nevertheless, it is a lovely temple with some great reliefs of the goddess Isis.

Eric and I stayed at a resort hotel on the Island of Elephantine right next to a Nubian village. We had tried to visit a restaurant called The Nubian House earlier but failed. We ate at another small restaurant instead. While the food was good and the experience interesting, Eric was determined to check out a highly praised local spot to eat. So, we decided to leave the touristy confines of our resort and walk through the village to seek out this restaurant again.

The differences were apparent almost immediately after passing through the rear gate of the resort. Paved walkways abruptly ended at dirt paths that disappeared into the foliage of the island. We wandered through a maze of crumbling homes, fields, and smaller pathways winding in every direction. We saw a building we presumed to be a school based on the pictures painted on the exterior walls.  Some children said hello to us and waved as we passed by but the adults, which were few in numbers during the late afternoon, simply watched us walk by if they acknowledged us at all. We passed goats, and chickens and evidence of work abandoned to the heat of the day. Laundry was strung up and windows were shuttered. Every so often a door was open and we caught glimpses of every day life in the village. A naked mattress in a stark room. Old furniture piled up in a corner. Cooking utensils neatly stacked on a shelf. A common area with a dirt floor scattered with toys and tiny chairs.

We made our way slowly and eventually hound ourselves at the ruins of a temple. A old man approached us an invited us to his café. We declined saying we were seeking out a specific place. He spoke to us for a bit in broken English and kept asking to come to his place for tea. Just tea. Feeling sad for him we agreed to visit after our meal. He followed us a bit but we kept going. We paid our entry into the temple, which included a museum that was currently under restoration. Because we were the only ones there, someone decided it was there job to give us a tour. We tried to ignore him, but this is difficult when you really are the only three people in the joint. We asked him to take us to the Nubian House. Smelling a tip, he agreed and we followed him out the gate back into the village. He enlisted his friend to help and the four of us turned the corner only to be met again by the old man. He insisted it was time for tea. We insisted it wasn’t and we followed our guides.

The old man began a heated argument with our guides, clearly he felt they were robbing him of his customers. They waved him off and we could tell they were saying that they were following our requests. The old man insisted but they became firm with him until he stopped and stepped away.

We found ourselves at the back of a house and they were knocking on the door. Eric and I began to protest. Clearly this was someone’s private home. A woman and child came out and a conversation in Arabic began in earnest. She looked confused, then amused. She turned to us and stated in relatively good English that her brother owned the Nubian House but that she was the cook.

We tipped our guides and she led us to the house that Eric saw on Trip Advisor and had us sit in the front waiting room. She kept calling for her brother but he didn’t answer. She asked us what we liked to eat and we told her chicken for me and fish for Eric. She smiled and called around the house again. She eventually left to find him and we were in the house alone.

Just as we were looking at each other and wondering what we had gotten ourselves into we heard a voice call out from outside: “Hello?” We stood up and looked out the window, a square hole in the mud brink without glass, and saw the old man had returned with the exiting of our guides. He asked us to come to his house for tea after dinner and we agreed and waved him off firmly. We felt bad for him but he was starting to become a bit much.

We sat down and waited. And waited. And waited some more. Eventually, a young man, no more than 25 years old came in and looked at us.

“Hello.”

We both stood up and greeted him by introducing ourselves. He regarded us a moment, then said, “This is my house.”

We laughed and told him we knew, that his sister brought us here and that she was already cooking our dinner. He smiled and brought us further into the house and sat us in a room without windows and a large air conditioner in case it was needed. It wasn’t. The room was very comfortable. He asked us what we would like to drink and then left.

We were alone again, thinking we were knee deep in something, until the sister returned with our food. Eric had about six or seven medium sized fish while I had three small pieces of chicken. There was also hummus and bread. The brother returned with our drinks, canned pop, and the two left us to our meal.

While Eric’s food was quite good, mine was clearly just out of the fridge and recently warmed up. It was ice cold in places. I was startled as this place had a high rating for its delicious food. Maybe we needed to make reservations?

The sister eventually returned to see how everything was and we told her it was great. Eric stated that the bones in the fish were quite plentiful, simply as conversation, and she took it upon herself to tear apart the fish with her hands and remove all the bones for Eric.

“I do this for my children all the time.” She smiled as she finished and handed Eric back his dinner.

When we left the house, the old man was waiting for us. Not surprised at all, we sighed in unison and walked the short distance to his café. He, and his friend, led us upstairs to a remarkable patio that had a great view of the Nile and city of Aswan on the other side. The old man disappeared and we were left with a middle aged man who served us some bottled water and regaled us with his opinions of the plight of the Nubians in Egypt since their villages and lands were lost to Lake Nasser after the dam. Having been told that the relocation efforts were welcomed and that all was well, we were not surprised in the least that a Nubian account of the past fifty or so years was quite difference.

The gentleman also showed us around his patio full of curiosities, but his favoured specimens could be found in rickety cabinet that had doors that could no longer close. Instead, stuffed haphazardly on the shelves were all kinds of things. Gas lanterns, military issued gas masks, empty bottles, empty cans, teeth from an alligator, and coins from all over. He took great pride in his collection and we listened attentively to each word.  As we started to make our exit, he gently attempted to sell us something but quickly acquiesced when we declined.

Outside we were not surprised to see the old man who wanted money from us and followed us to the boat launch by the closed museum. Our dinner hosts had, at our request, arranged to get us a boat to return to our hotel.

As the waves of the Nile rocked us gently we reflected on our experience that day. The village, the abject poverty, so very close to the affluent and bustling resort town, was a stark contrast. To listen to the majority non-Nubian population you would think that the resettlement is a thing of the past. This is not so. It certainly wasn’t to our second host for the evening. The village, isolated on the Island of Elephantine, with its population living there but having to leave the community to find work, reminded me of our Reservation system for the indigenous in Canada.

Later, Eric would look over his Trip Advisor research and find a surprise. The restaurant we were looking for was not The Nubian House, it was Nubian Dreams. The former was a place specializing in arts and crafts with some snacks, the latter was a restaurant that was across the street from where we were eating and a place we passed when we were looking the first night!

This meant, we realised, that we showed up unannounced at someone’s home expecting to be fed. The sister, realising we had it wrong, improvised on the spot and took this as an opportunity to make some money. She must have rifled through her kitchen and collected the hummus and fish and leftover chicken, hence the refrigerator-cold I experienced, and whipped something up. Probably the dinner of the kid we saw.  This explained why the brother was nowhere to be seen. He wasn’t expecting us. This is why he said “This is my house”. Not to welcome us, but to let us know we were…well…in his house. He must have run out of the house looking to buy sodas. This explained the long waits. This explained a lot.

At least we paid them.

I suppose it is a little embarrassing, but it’s a good story about cultural differences, the grace of our hosts, an the adventure that can be found in walking past the iron gates and into the unknown.

Posters Come to Life, A Connection to Kamloops, and The Path of Ra

Luxor, Egypt

The next two days brought us a new guide and a fresh outlook on our explorations of the ancient West Bank. Michael was everything our previous guide was not. He was enthusiastic and accommodating, and he patiently answered every question we threw at him.

To be honest, Eric did most of the questioning while I remained quiet save for a few observations and questions peppered along the way. When I was with young Mahamoud at the Pyramids I eventually told him of my passion for the subject matter. After this disclosure he tended to ask me if I agreed with his statements and I felt bad. He may have been intimidated. Our next guide, at Tell El-Amarna was a little older than me and was much more confident in his abilities. Whatever I knew, or thought I knew, he was was fully aware of the fact that he knew more.  Our guide from the day before kept asking “Do you like my version? Do you agree with my story?” Clearly there was a concern that I would be one of ‘those people’. You know the ones. You see them in museums speaking too loud to their friends so that they can impress you with their knowledge. Or that guy on the tour that would start every fifth sentence with “Actually…”.

I did not want to be that guy.

Michael connected with Eric very quickly. Eric had disclosed that he was a Minister with the United Church (we decided to keep the facts simple) and the two chatted happily many times about religion, faith, and the similarities and differences of their two denominations.  

Strangely enough, it was only after I confessed to Michael my level of interest that he and I really connected. I had underestimated his confidence. This was very refreshing.

Throughout these two days we visited waded waist deep in ancient Egyptian history. We visited the Valley of the Workers (also called the Valley of the Artists) and stood over the ruins of the workers village. These artisans and their families were separated from the rest of society to secure the secrets of the royal tombs. No outside contacts were allowed, offspring were trained in the requisite work to continue the traditions, and everyone was blindfolded to and from work. As payment for their loyalty, they were want of nothing. Far from the fertile Nile, the state ensured that all of the needs of this population were met and that they could find their own resting places near where living gods occupied their eternal homes. It was a great honour.

We visited the smaller, but no less impressive tombs of the upper class in the Valley of the Nobles and I was able to see some art that I recall having as a poster in my bedroom. Yes, while others had movie and music posters I had posters of ancient Egyptian tomb art. I also had a hand made list of all of the pharaohs of 30 dynasties, from Narmer to Cleopatra VII on my wall. What you are thinking to yourself right now is probably exactly, or very close, to what my parents thought as they shook their heads at my bedroom décor.

The Valley of the Queens was punctuated by the beautiful ceiling of Nerfertari’s tomb.  The favoured wife of Ramses II, no expense was spared in the making of her tomb. The ceiling painted as a night sky is not unusual as a choice for a royal resting place, but the richness of colour, the bold outlines of the stars and the dramatic effect attest to the level of love and devotion the king had for Nefertari. It is an extra cost to visit this tomb, but it is well worth the price.

Our return to Hatshepsut’s temple allowed for me to visit the site with a  clearer head and an eye for detail. Our guide took us a around and provided a more fulsome tour while I began exploring the nooks and crannies of the place. I can honestly say that there is very little of that temple I did not see. Thankfully, Eric is always patient with me.

We also returned to the Valley of the Kings. Another ticket meant another three of the nine eight tombs currently opened to the public. It was also an opportunity to check out the tombs that cost extra. The most expensive of these is the tomb of Seti I, and for good reason. It is the most beautiful one in the valley. The rich colours, the clean cuts of the reliefs on the tombs, and sheer magnitude of the interior is overwhelming in its scope. As you descend deeper into the mountain you are struck by the open space rather than the gravity of so much rock above you. I thought back to our guide from before who told me it was a lot of money for an empty room. She was clearly in the wrong business. I shook my head in annoyance as I remembered her.

Knowing that I would return again, I decided to wait on the other tombs of extra cost, Tutankhamon and Ay, for later.

We visited the Ramasseum, with its massive head of the pharaoh lying face down in the dirt in front, followed by the temple of Seti I. It was at Medinet Habu, the mortuary temple of Ramses III that the intensity of the day, and the days before, finally caught up with me. The heat on this day was particularly brutal, and there was very little shade to be had. While I had SPF60 sunblock and a hat, and had been religiously hydrating myself throughout my trip, I began suffering from the effects of the heat and the sun.

While in the bathroom I realised that was overheated and thought back to most of the water I had been drinking. While the water was safe, it wasn’t cold. We would take it out of the bar fridge in our room before we left, but an hour later it would as warm as tea.  Also, I felt the very slight breeze there was on my head a realised that the hat I had bought to protect me was actually causing me to feel the heat as well. It was designed to breathe (it was also designed to last no more than a couple of weeks), but there was not enough breeze to get through the material and cool me down.  Before going much further I purchased cold water and left my hat off for a while and this seemed to help.

I grew up in a semi-arid desert and living with heat was nothing knew. In fact, I have found that the weather we have been experiencing during the shoulder season in Egypt is about the same as what we had in the hottest part of summer in Kamloops. I chastised myself for not knowing better. I know when a hat is useful and when it isn’t. I know when water gets warm it doesn’t cool you off.  Clearly thirty years in the humidity has changed me.

I rested during the evening and felt better by the end of the day.

On the morning of the day of our departure to Aswan we woke up very early and met our tour leaders in the lobby at 4am. Eric had booked us a balloon ride over Luxor at sunrise. The early morning was warm but we could see and feel the last evidence of dew as we boarded the ferry that would take us to the west bank.

As we lifted up into the air, Eric and I leaned against the edge of the basket and watched the landscape around us slowly reveal itself. The sharp line between the black lands and the red lands, the arable land and the desert, traced its way next to the Nile to the south and the north. Donkeys, dogs, cats and people could be seen walking along the meandering streets below. The tops of homes, flat and wide open to the sun, clustered and dotted below us as we wafted by farms and dirt roads. We rose higher and the skyline of Luxor, thin towers piercing the sky,  could be seen across the river. And the desert unfolded and revealed her treasures that have been the focus of our past three days. The Valley of the Kings, its simplicity hiding the complex warren of art and mystery below it.  The Ramasseum and Temple of Seti I, spread out on the sand like the skeletal remains of an ancient sea beast on the ocean floor. The Colossi of Memnon, now dwarfed into two small specks along a road only now coming alive with locals off to work. And Hatshepsut’s mortuary temple at Deir El Bahari, gracefully laid out at the foot of the cliffs, her ramps already brilliantly reflecting the early morning sun.

Egypt is a busy, loud, chaotic country in many ways. Its intensity is sometimes overwhelming for me. But this morning with Eric and was drifted silently over a landscape that watched humanity grow and evolve, for better or for worse, there was mostly silence. The pilot of our craft tried to be entertaining and informative, but he was easily ignored as you gazed onto the horizon.

We were tracing the path of the sun god Ra himself, and we smiled upon the Gift of the Nile.

Sharing Passions, The Temple of Karnak, and She Who Was King

The Luxor, Egypt

I loved ancient Egypt so much as a teenager that I actually read romance novels. I loved reading, but romance was not my genre of choice. But two novels come to mind Child of Light, by Pauline Gedge, about Hatshepsut, and Wrap her in light, by Sandra Adelson, about the wife of Tutankhamon, Ankhsenamon.  There was another one called She Who Was King, but I cannot find any evidence of it. I remember I liked that one the most. I remember how she died at the end, willingly drinking the poison given to her by her son so that he could replace her. “To Egypt!” she toasted as she drank from the chalice so that her beloved country could remain strong and stable.

Looking back, these were books that focussed on these strong women in a way that required a man to help her achieve was made her great. A man that they, of course, had to fall in love with.  All the fierceness I feel when I think of these women are reduced. I identified with them because they were unappreciated by modern powers that be. This is changing. With Egyptologists like Kara Cooney who are re-examining the life of women like Hatshepsut in creative and meaningful ways.

When you visit the temple of Hatshepsut at Deir-el-Bahari you do not see a testament of romance. Instead you are witness to an attempt to create a whole new narrative to establish her claim to the throne. This mortuary temple, a place where she was mummified, tells the stories of her sacred birth as a child of Amon-Re, the state god at the time. In mute stones that seem to organically grow from out of the hillside are the tales that connect her to the goddess Hathor, a cow goddess of love and motherhood. One unique relief on one of the southern walls shows Hatshepsut suckling directly from Hathor’s udder. A powerful message of divine connection indeed. The surviving external Osirid statues, wherein the pharaoh’s face is placed on a statue representing the god of the underworld, clearly demonstrates the features of Hatshepsut.

As I predicted, the narrative of our friend’s time on the throne is variable depending on who is telling it. She is often called a queen despite the clear pharaonic references. She is called an usurper. Our guide on our first tour, a woman, downplayed her role as a leader because she was not involved in the army as her son was. The incredible improvements in infrastructure, trade (she is famous for her seeking out the land of Punt…modern day Somalia…in an attempt to trade and build international relations), and stability with the two lands meant nothing compared to the conquests of the army. While things are changing, Hatshepsut, like many historical women, is still overlooked and underappreciated by modern narratives.

When the temple came into view I did not, as many predicted, become overwhelmed in tears. If there has been a betting pool of when this would happen, I believe the odds-on favourite would have been this moment. But something else did happen.

I became numb. I almost felt disconnected, like I had left my body to look on upon my arrival from a distance. As our guide purchased our tickets we waited while stared from afar. The temple which I had seen so many times on purpose sat before me in the desert. It gleamed in the sunlight. It sat with a regal pose snuggled up against the cliff behind it. Its two ramps invited me to ascend it and seek out the sacred chapel chiselled out of the rock.

Already, at 8am in the morning, the sun was beginning to demonstrate its oppressive nature. Gone were the days of comfortable temperatures of Cairo. We haggled with one of the vendors for the least offensive and tacky hats we could find, unsure if mine actually fit properly. We walked the rest of the way through the gauntlet of vendors and climbed onto the mini train that would bring us to the temple. I allowed myself to be sucked into sitting with the driver so he could take photos of us and the temple with my phone while I steered the train. I’m not convinced this was the safest course of action, but I did manage to keep us on the wide walkway paved onto the desert floor. When the shenanigans were over we dismounted and I allowed myself a moment to just stare.

She was beautiful. Unique in its structure, this temple is a collection of sharp angles and clean lines. Influenced by the ziggurats of Mesopotamia, we do not see the ornate columns of with lotus and papyrus capitals we find in the temples of Luxor and Karnak. Despite the obvious human influence, the architecture seems to organically blend in with the environment while, at the same time, juxtapose with the craggy surface of the mountain. Nearby, cut into the rock face, are the tomb openings of the workers of this space who were given the honour of being buried near a living god.

I was overwhelmed by the majesty of this place. As the wind picked up and sand cooled us off, we ascended the ramp silently. Occasionally I would pause and turn around, searching for the Nile which was always nearby. When we reached the top the tour continued. Eventually we made our way into the inner sanctuary where the mummification would have taken place. This area was the reason for the existence of this place. Years of massive work in order to support a process of forty days or so.

Our next stop was the Valley of the Kings. Your ticket allows you to visit three tombs under general admission. Seti I, Ramses IV, and Ay are extra costs along with the choice of taking photos within the tombs. None of this bothered me as I planned on returning at least twice in the near future. The tombs are larger on the inside that the pyramids. The ceilings in the passageways are around ten to twelve feet high and at least six feet across. When you get to the end and enter the burial chamber the roof can be as high as twenty feet in some tombs. Not all rooms are available in each tomb. Some ante chambers are too small, inaccessible, or simply not worth the effort to open. The colours in some of these tombs, including Ramses III and and Ramses VI, are quite vibrant. The tombs can demonstrate specific traits of the occupants, or favourite activities. Ramses IX’s tomb, while still maintaining some colours, consists of painted on scenes rather than the use of carved or raised reliefs. He apparently spend his money on more earthly desires and did not invest in his tomb. Merenptah’s tomb shows evidence of a failure to measure properly so that the sarcophagus can fit past the columns, causing the last minute chiseling out of bases. Thutmosis III had the most dramatic evidence of last-minute decision making. After chiseling a significant length of the passageway, the workers discovered that they had stumbled upon another tomb. They then changed the direction of the passageway in order to avoid further disturbances.

These signs of everyday moments in the ancient world, the explanation to the boss of your poor design or the sudden realisation that the project has taken a left turn at Albequerque, are my favourite parts of archaeology. They bring out the universal qualities of human nature and the passions and skills we present to history. It serves as a connection across the centuries.

Our guide for this tour was not good. She was clearly uninterested in the locations of our tour, she talked a lot about how she was looking for a husband, and she complained constantly about her family. In my state of wonder I ignored most of it. When she brought us to the ‘educational’ tour at the Alabaster Village, I was not surprised.  A collection of alabaster workhouses which, surprise, sold a great many products for us to purchase, this place was a common occurrence in most tours I have taken throughout my travels.  They show you how they do their work with a little demonstration, provide your with refreshments and a tour of their selection, and then offer to help you purchase many items which will bring you lifelong happiness.

This is always a disappointing experience for our hosts. Eric and I are not souvenir shoppers. We never have been and probably never will be. We did a cursory glance at the objects around us, refused the refreshments, and told our guide we were ready to go.

She made her surprise and disappointment of our quick visit abundantly clear. This made me unhappy. At least hide it. I recognise that this is break time for her and that she gets a commission, but we had been at it for less than three hours. We spent significant time inside the tombs, where she was not allowed to join us, so we were hardly breaking her back in work. Earlier, I let her talk me out of seeing the tomb of Seti I. She was astounded we would spend so much money when there was ‘nothing there’.  At the time I simply decided to avoid pushing the situation as I was returning anyway, but now, standing outside of the factory watching her call our cab I became annoyed. I think Eric, while unimpressed, was fine up until now, but her next act irritated the snot out of the both of us.

Our lunch was included in the tour. We expected those touristy places where they play music or dress up in costumes or whatever that usually happens in these situations. Not our favourite but we were willing to deal with it. Instead, she said we were having a lunch on the Nile on our own personal boat.

“Really?” I asked flatly. Not really a question.

Eric regarded her. “Is the boat included in the cost?” Definitely a question.

No. It wasn’t. If we did not want it she could try to find something else or perhaps we have an idea or perhaps…

Eric and I looked at each other, shrugged our shoulders and agreed to the price she presented. It wasn’t that much after all. And the Nile was a nice idea. Long story short, our lunch on the Nile consisted of a take away lunch of chicken or vegetable with fries and a drink on a boat that would be used for tours or ferrying. There was bread and tahina, which was awesome, and I enjoyed the young boy, off from school, helping his dad with piloting the boat. After I finished my lunch I sat back and looked out onto the Nile.

As our guide droned on about how her company doesn’t pay her enough I leaned back and watched the coastline drift by. I wasn’t listening. When I glanced at Eric I could tell he was doing the same. Despite the situation I actually felt happy. After so many years I had finally seen the temple of Hatshepsut. The reality of that was finally sinking in. The Valley of the Kings had been everything I had expected, and more. I was with Eric and we were on the Nile. Life was good.

When we reached the dock on the east bank the young son, no more than ten, clamoured out and reached out his hand to me so that I may safely disembark. He was so serious and professional it made my heart melt. This moment was worth the guide’s nonsense.  We tipped the boy and his father and thanked them for their efforts and made our way to the Temple of Karnak.

The largest place of worship in the ancient world, the Temple of Karnak is a place to behold. The rambling ruins spread far and wide. There is a mosque still in use on the site and there are plenty of examples of early Christian use. Loved by the Egyptians, the Greeks, the Romans, and those the can came afterwards, this sacred space has been is use, even if only barely, for four thousand years. Even as the structured crumbled, unattended due to lack of resources, it was still a place of worship. If there is such a thing as residual energy within mad made structures, the Temple of Karnak is flush with it.  Our guide did her brief vanilla tour and, to our great relief, left us to our own devices. We wandered through the pylons and courts and passageways and examined the carvings of the gods and pharaohs, all begging for our attention. Amon-Re, resplendent in his feather plumed headdress was everywhere. Being the state god and native to ancient Thebes, this is not surprising. Ramses conquering the enemies is a common theme, but he is not alone. Thutmosis III is here too. And Seti I. There is a small statue with the likeness of Tutankhamon, and a some of the sphinxes that graced the front entrance.

In the second courtyard stands an obelisk built by Hatchepsut. It was one of you to grace the entrance of the second pylon. There is an empty base where the other stood, now on the shores of the Thames in London. I smiled when I saw that base. The obelisk in London was the first ancient Egyptian obelisk I ever saw. I stood at its base and took a full roll of film’s worth of pictures to commemorate that moment. I remember the sticky, damp day even now. It seemed so far away from this hot place.

And then there was the hypostyle hall. A magnificent colonnade of massive pillars that dwarfs anyone who stands next to one. Replete with carvings of pharaohs offering praises and gifts to the gods, it is an intense place of worship. Isis is there, her throne sitting upon her head. So is her sister Nepthys. Osiris is also present, green skinned and mummified. Ibis headed Thoth records the great deeds of those who ruled with his pen. And Ma’at, goddess of truth, justice and balance, is everywhere, her feather of truth prominent in her representation.

At one point one of the guards showed me the way to the stair case the priests of Amon-Re used to raise the festival flags. I walked up and was given a breathtaking view of the ruins from on high. Alone, with only the wind as my company, I soaked in this massive, wonderful, exhilarating place. This was the place I had seen in photographs, read in books, studied in school and presented in class. This was the Temple of Karnak and, for a brief moment, I felt it was all mine.

Later, as we casually walked back towards the main entrance, I watched Eric as he enthusiastically pointed out reliefs and spoke with excitement about the early Christian carvings we discovered. I felt deeply his enthusiasm and loved so much that we could share this place together. When I grew up I had Terrie, a childhood friend, to share my love of ancient Egypt. But mostly it was a solitary passion. Eric always listened to my stories and ideas and encouraged me, but on this day I was able to truly share my passion with him. He was able to walk with me and find interests of his own in ancient Egyptian history.  I will never forget that walk back.

Afterwards we saw the Temple of Luxor, only a few moments away from our hotel. This was what I saw when we first arrived in Luxor. Unlike the sprawling Temple of Karnak, this smaller site is tightly surrounding by traffic, an island of serenity within a river of honking and swerving. Without a tree in sight we were grateful for what little shade the columns and walls provided. Once our tour guide checked out we wandered a bit. Near an area where early Christians made a chapel we recorded a video for our niece Kipi, showing her the beautiful colonnade that surrounded us. Like me, Kipi began an interest in Egypt at ten years old. Now, a year later, I believe that the bloom of that interest has wilted, making way for other passions. For a brief moment though, it was fun to watch. Nevertheless, we made sure we included her in this tour so that she could see just a snippet of what we once shared. I’d like to think of it as a seed of an idea that will grow into her own journey to this land, to these ancient places.

God, I hope so. It would be like I would be with her then as she was with us that day in the hot afternoon sun of Luxor.

The Journey South, a Gauntlet and a Colonial Retreat

Luxor, Egypt

It is expected that tourists take the overnight train between Luxor and Cairo. In typical Egyptian fashion, the rules are somewhat interpretive. It is not possible for a tourist to purchase tickets for a daytime journey, but they are allowed to ride the rails during the day if they have a ticket. We had someone from the hotel purchase tickets for us so that we could actually obtain them. The man behind the counter made a big deal about how big a favour he was doing for us, breaking the rules and all, but we were unconvinced of his personal risk. First of all, we had learned pretty quickly the average Egyptian was not big on following rules. From the concept of lining up to traffic signals, there was very little evidence of agreed-upon parametres.  We probably paid too much money, and Eric was a little frustrated at the hotel staff’s shenanigans, but all in all it was worth the effort.

The ten-hour train ride from Cairo to Luxor is worth the time for the experience of seeing how modern Egypt functions. Instead of going on a tour, you sit in your seats and the tour comes to you!

We started off with a frantic search for the correct car, then we had to find our seats. Using our knowledge of Arabic numbers we determined that someone had taken one of our places hoping nobody would notice. Our research warned us that this was common and instructed us to be confident as we approached the person to ask him to move on. We did this. I while tapping him on his shoulder so he had to look up from his phone and Eric waving him off in a firm and polite manner. He looked up at us in confusion, looked at his seat number, and then regarded us with confusion. We did the “You are in our seat, buddy. No matter but you gotta find another place to squat” mime routine to which he responded with a shaking of his head, a pointing to his ticket, and some vague pointing towards the other end of the car.

At this point we started to waiver. Eric looked at his ticket again while I confidently opened up the curtain to regard the sign above the window. As I frowned at the unhelpfulness of my bold, confident actions Eric groaned and shook his head. We had the numbers backwards. We were disturbing an innocent man. After apologizing in a profuse and completely wavering and not-at-all bold manner to our friend, who was gracious in his response, we made our way to our seats and sat down heavily.

As the day progressed, we watched the events unfold. We witnessed a number of people being told to leave the first-class coach and make their way back to either second or third class. These occurrences were usually done without incident with the staff member moving on and the passenger shrugging and leaving. Two young people were caught without a ticket and the staff person was so upset that he called the armed security guard to come. It became so heated at one point that one of them shut the door to the coach so that they could proceed in private between the cars. This was not effective as we could still hear everything. The incident had been unfolding for about fifteen minutes when the two young men calmly walked back to their seats. This set off another passenger and the two staff members and then it all began again. In the end, the two boys were kicked out at the next stop and they glared at the departing train from the platform. 

Commuters left from Cairo and disembarked along the first three or four stops, university students, at home for the recent long weekend, returned to their studies at various spots along the way, and families large and small paraded past us. All the while the landscape zipped by. Small villages with children on donkeys and old men with canes walking slowly along dusty tracks. Larger communities with tuk-tuks careening everywhere carrying loads of packages, bags of produce and many, many passengers. Cities with rushing people in suits and jeans and galabias. Fields with workers baling and chafing and driving loads overfull with sugar cane. And the one constant, winking in and out of sight along the whole route, the Nile. Herodotus called Egypt ‘The Gift of the Nile’. This country, these people, this trip; none of this would not be save for the existence of the Nile River. If she is not within site, one of the canals feeding from her is. She is everywhere. In everything. In every action.

It was complicated organising our way onto this first-class train as tourists, but it was worth it. Not for the luxury that first-class implies. Simply put, there is no luxury to be found. At all. But for the human experience. It was chance for us to see the modern Egyptian on home soil. In their comfort zone. We were the visible minority. Used to our white privilege, it was good for us to not be able to rely upon it. We were the visitor. We were the minority. We were the others. We felt it. It was not always comfortable. But it was important.

It was a tsunami of people that met us at the train station exit. Offers for taxis swarmed all around us as we tried desperately to get through. We had been at the receiving end of insistent, even desperate, attempts to offer services or receive money, but the crowds waiting for us to disembark was like nothing we’d experience thus far. Some were quite aggressive, standing in our way and refusing to let us pass until we forcefully moved around them.

We made it through the crowd and made our way down the main street. I took the lead and looked a big and as decisive as I could. Eric trailed behind doing his best to make the rolling suitcase work on what could only be loosely interpreted as a sidewalk. Eventually, we abandoned the sidewalk and ventured forth on the side of the road with the rest of the pedestrians. Soon we found ourselves in the largest collection of horse drawn carriages we have ever seen. There must have been more than fifty in our immediate area. Of course, every single one of them had the best horse, the best carriage, the best driver that money could buy. They were as insistent as our greeters at the road, but they could not stray too far from their horses.

It was while I was gesturing for a man to move away, that standing in front of me with his arms up would not convince me to take a ride, that I first saw the Temple of Luxor. Unlike other temples in Egypt, this one was not built for a specific god, but to celebrate the eternal power of pharaoh. Many think it was the traditional place for coronations for many years. Alexander the Great claimed to have been coronated here even though it is highly unlikely that he stepped much further south in Egypt than what is present day Cairo.

The noise, the clamour, the waving arms of the man in front of me all disappeared for a moment. I mentioned in a previous blog that while I was impressed with the pyramids, they were not representative of my most treasured connection with ancient Egypt. Luxor was. Truth be told, most of my interest is based in the immediate geography of this place. Built over the ancient capital of Thebes on the east bank and the nestling up against the necropolis on the west bank, I was now in the focal point of the New Kingdom which has held my heart for over forty years.

The moment was brief. The temple was located within a busy portion of downtown Luxor and traffic, vendors, and time all hastened me to our next hotel.

The Old Winter Palace Hotel was our home in Luxor. We would be here for four days before we left for Aswan. We would then return again for another stay. This was not by accident. While Eric and I went back and forth about hotel choices in other cities, the Winter Palace was a guarantee. Past guests include King Farouk and Winston Churchill. Agatha Christie stayed at this hotel while she was in Egypt writing Death on the Nile. And Howard Carter and Lord Carnarvon announced the discovery of the tomb of Tutankhamon here. And, if that weren’t enough, it is featured in the 1981 movie Sphinx!

It is a Victorian bastion of colonial influence in Egypt, and in this spirit it is a quiet refuge from the very hectic and tumultuous outside. This is a blessing and a curse. While it is air conditioned and quiet and safe from the constant requests for money, it is also insular, privileged, and not a little self important. The clients. Not the staff. It is surprisingly lacking in British patrons. Instead, the French seem to have taken prominence here. This is reflected in the menus of the restaurant and the fluent French of the staff. Eric tells me that the phrase I am really searching for is the French “pète plus haut que le trou” which, translated literally, means “farting above your asshole”. I believe this is an adequate descriptor.

When I entered the lobby none of these thoughts were present. Instead I looked about the lobby, saw the information display on the hotel’s history and wandered around staring up the grand staircase and at the large chandelier. I was in Luxor. I was where I wished to be.

We had a late dinner, walked to the river and watched the many boats floating and bobbing among the piers, and wandered through the entire hotel looking at each of the historic photos. When we finally went to bed we were exhausted. It had been a fulsome day yet again. And the next day held great promise. Eric, as usual, was asleep soon after he laid down. I stared in the darkness for awhile and thought about the journey so far. Aside from the occasional honking of a horn the night was quiet. Quiet, at least, in Cairo terms. I realised I was beginning to settle into the rhythm of this place.  Eric’s steady breathing comforted me as I rolled over and fell into a deep sleep.

Pyramids, The Sun Disc, and The Forgotten Capital

Pyramids, The Sun Disc, and The Forgotten Capital

Cairo, Egypt

The approach to the pyramids is not as grand as you would expect. At least not at the beginning. After driving at breakneck speeds racing against heavily modified VW vans (i.e. no windows or doors either present or in working order) ferrying passengers up and down the boulevard, you pass a building and behind it emerges a pyramid. You are more surprised than awe-struck, like finally finding your keys where they should have been all along.

After that, they never leave your line of sight. As we approached the UNESCO site I was transfixed. Once, when I glanced his way, Eric jokingly asked me to resist bursting into tears. That was not going to happen. Not to say that the structures did not impress me, they did, but my main interests in ancient Egypt lay elsewhere. If I was to burst into any tears, it was going to happen in Luxor.  With that said, however, do not underestimate the grandeur and timelessness of the pyramids of Egypt.

Like many grand structures, the closer you get to these man-made mountains the larger they seem. When faced up against one, all you see is the flat terrain of stone ending at a blue horizon. The very blocks it is built with are about four feet high and when you line up to enter the great pyramid, you are dwarfed by the sheer immensity of this place.

Not that I had any intention to entering the pyramid. I found the Leaning Tower of Pisa to be a disturbing experience (the passageway and the end of the winding corridor leading immediately up to the roof is quite narrow) so there was no convincing me of entering a place that requires an adult to crawl for the sole purpose of finding an empty, unadorned room. I’d rather eat a live scarab beetle while he was still pushing his ball of dung.

While Eric waited in line, Mahamoud, our guide for the day, and I sat and talked. It was a comfortable morning. As predicted, the temperatures of northern Egypt remained in the twenty to twenty-two degrees area with a brisk wind that sometimes begged for a light jacket while in the shade. I was grateful for this, for I knew that while we were still in the late winter months, it was still going to be hot in Luxor and Aswan.

Mahamoud eventually asked me why a Canadian would be so interested in ancient Egypt. We discussed what it took to be become and Egyptologist and how far along the path I went before my poor talent in languages eventually encouraged me to choose another path. His path was very different. I lot less academic and much more practical. This is not to say that he did not know his stuff, he certainly did. But, like in Greece and Italy and other countries, a licensed guide is required to maintain his or her credentials in order to work. They need to keep up with the latest information and developments and they must be able to prove their knowledge and competencies every five years in order to renew their license.  His education was Egyptology to know, understand, and teach knowledge rather than to explore concepts and deduce the human passions behind historical events. Not better, not worse, just different.

By the time Eric returned, I could tell Mahamoud was still somewhat befuddled by my interest, but he was too polite to push for more information. We wandered the Giza plateau ignoring the vendors and camel rides and marvels at the 5000 year old structures. Mahamoud was thorough in his descriptions and his relaying of how and why these structures came to be.

At one point, when we stopped at the “panorama view” spot where you can see all three with the desert behind them, I stared at the only survivor of the seven wonders of the ancient world and finally felt the realisation that I was, indeed, in Egypt. It wasn’t an emotional moment. In fact, I felt quite separate from the reality, like I was outside the experience and looking on from a distance. I suspect I was overwhelmed at the thought. It took me a long time to get here. Now that I’m here, now what?

We moved on to Dashur where most people do not visit because they are unaware of it. This is too bad as I find it much more interesting than Giza. It is also less crowded. In fact, we were almost the only ones there. Dashur is home to three pyramids. The brick pyramid, a first attempt at a pyramid structure made of mud bricks that simply could not survive under its own weight. The bent pyramid is, well, bent. When it was determined that the angle of the structure was too sharp, it was decided to complete the top half of the pyramid with a more direct route to the apex.  I feel it gives it a bit of character. When the bent pyramid proved to be insufficient, the red pyramid was constructed. It’s names comes from the colour of the brick used in its construction.

I really love this site. When you stand in the mostly empty parking lot among these buildings you are witness to the human mind calculating and recalculating the specific requirements to bring reality to spiritual thoughts. The trial and error of our ancestors have been preserved for five thousand years in this place. You look around you and you see the development of the famous pyramid form we all see at Giza. This is the drawing board of the ancient Egyptian Old Kingdom. And most people don’t know about it.

After a stop at the ancient capital of Memphis, or Menofer, in which we saw the colossal statue of Ramses II, we made our way to the Step Pyramid. With this final visit we have completed our backwards journey of the development of the pyramid in Egypt. From Giza to Dashur to Saqqara we can backwards trace the line of thought behind the eternal houses of the Old Kingdom pharaoh. Designed by Imhotep, a man so revered he is the only know non-royal individual to be worshipped as a god, the first pyramid of Egypt is a staircase to the heavens. It is an expansion of the flat platforms called mastabas that covered the shaft graves of the nobility at the time. The High Vizier would receive one platform, so Pharaoh would receive five. It is the oldest monumental structure built by man on earth and it is spectacular. Being a part of the usual Giza tour package, it is well attended, but it is a part of a larger historic site consisting of eleven points of interest. I was to visit one other.

The Serapeum is a complex structure underground that housed many bulls sacred to the god Apis, or Serapis. I presented my ticket and I was welcomed as an old friend. Before I knew it I was being led down the corridor and presented in dramatic fashion the glories of the archaeological site. The problem was that this site was quite simple in its design. It was magnificent, to be sure, but it really consisted of a long and short corridor connected by a short passageway and room after room of giant sarcophagi. There were no elaborate carvings on the wall. No statuary. Nothing.

Nevertheless, my new-found brother would have none of my cynicism. I once watched Jack Layton work up a room full of loyal followers into such a lather that he could have been auctioning off air and stale farts and would have made a bundle in fundraising. This “guide” was in that calibre. When he offered me a secret, tell-no-one, just-this-time entry past the barricade and into one of the chambers holding a sarcophagus I hesitated. He would definitely want a tip after this. I sighed and lifted myself up and over the barrier. I did get to examine that chamber thoroughly, but I wouldn’t be making any contributions to the latest issue of Archaeology Magazine.

As we left, I gave him some Egyptian pounds. Not a lot, but not too little either. He wanted American money. This was not going to happen. First of all, I only had twenties in American. While I was grateful for the opportunity to feel like the plunderer Belzoni for five minutes, it’s not like he opened the door to the Ark of the Covenant for me.  I had given him a decent tip, but he wanted more.  He kept insisting and I began to ignore him. He never touched me. He was never angry. But it was more aggressive than I had yet experienced. As we left and I had stopped speaking to him, our guide gave him a tip that seemed to appease him somewhat.

Our next day was a day trip to see the ancient capital city of Akhetaten. Located at Tel El Amarna, just next to El Minya, this was the chosen location of the pharaoh Akhenaten. After undermining the power of the priests of Amon-Re for years, the decision was made to move the capital and institute a monotheistic religion by replacing all of the ancient gods with the sun disk Aten. Akhenaten was a radical in many respects. He was a proponent of peace, a perplexing and threatening concept to many of his subjects. He let the strict stylization of art relax, allowing artists to create works of art within a span of less than two decades that are rare in their intimacy and charm. Few of these pieces survive, being  a mere spark in three thousand years of Egyptian history, but they are compelling in their ability to help us find ourselves within the intimacy of our daily interactions with each other, the living out of our daily lives, and the passions that drive us. You will see charming intimacy between Tutankhaten and his Queen Akhsenpaaten on the back of his small throne. Akhenaten, instead of an imposing figure towering over everyone, is pictured with his wife Nefertiti and their daughters climbing over them in a charming family portrait. And, of course, there is the mesmerising bust of Nefertiti that is now in the British Museum.

Our first stop was in at Beni Hasan where tombs of the nobles were located. Walking in and seeing Amarna art on the walks was jarring for me. Like everything else in Egypt, I have seen many photos of many things many times. Seeing these objects and places in real life is surreal for me.  It takes my brain a moment to process. But Amarna art is different. For me it is special because, while I enjoy all of ancient Egyptian history, my main love has always been between Hatshepsut and Akhenaten. Tutankhamon was my first introduction, but these two figures have always spoken to me. I believe now it is because they were boldly going against the norm. They were subversive, rebellious, and confident in their differences. There, of course, many ways to read their actions; political, personal, spiritual. But for the young boy growing into manhood with an innated and unnameable understanding that he is different that his peers, that he somehow looks at the world around him in a way that his peers do not, this was very appealing.

For Akhenaten the dream was short lived. This is reflected in the tombs we visited as they were unfinished and abandoned. While Aten may have been universal, his prophet pharaoh was not. Nothing makes this profound than the state of his capital city. Aside from a few stones restored into some semblance of a brief structure there is nothing but some tombs and a vast desert.

It wasn’t hot. In fact, the cool winds of winter still blew around us keeping the temperatures around the twenty degree mark. But looking about at the wasteland, Eric and I could feel the desolation. The city was destroyed thoroughly and completely after Akhenaten’s death and the place was abandoned. There are stories of the land having been salted, a dramatic demonstration of condemnation in a desert country. Looking around I believe it. We are in the valley, not the rocky foothills where the tombs are, and there is nothing growing. The rebuke of Aten and his follower remains.

As we drove back to Cairo I sat back and listened to our guide and our driver chat in Arabic to each other. Eric was on his phone already posting some pictures on social media. I looked out the window and thought of Akhenaten. While some Nile cruises stop at Beni Hasan, very few come to the capital city of his dream. To be sure, tourists were not even allowed here until recently. For the most part, this place has been forgotten. This saddens me. Sometimes, when you are the bold outlier like Hastshepsut, you will surpass your failings and achieve recognition for your tenacity. But if you are Akhenaton, your wish to change the status quo, your radical new way of looking at the world, results in personal destruction and your erasure from history.

A risk I believe that kid in Kamloops, with his early thoughts and explorations of who he really was, was, deep down, already aware.