Egypt By The numbers.
The oldest pyramids are five thousand years old. There are a hundred of them dotted along the banks of the Nile, which is four thousand miles long. The largest, the Great Pyramid has over 2,300,000 stones, the largest of which weigh 15 tons. The Kingdom lasted for over three thousand years, a thousand more than the time that separates our lives and that of the Christ. Imagine the cities, the mummies, the bones still buried under the dry protecting sand, awaiting chance discovery. Just more stuff for the Cairo Museum which already houses 120,000 items.
There are ten thousand known tombs and potentially ten million more.
Just dig!
The Journey
We stayed initially in Giza in a small, clean, nondescript hotel (the super-heroic sounding Marvel Stone) with an astonishing view of the pyramids. They were just there, outside our bedroom…touchably there. Every hotel in the small village that skirts the valley of the pyramids has a view of them. The further away the hotel, the higher the number of floors. You just can’t get away from the pyramids here.
The Great pyramid – the one that dominated our horizon – is not an exaggerated claim. It’s huge…a vast towering bulk of heavy stone…a massive presence of permanence and power (the central image is of the Great Pyramid. the image below is the pyramid of his son); and containing nothing. Everything has been looted; as if the poor had finally had their chance to wreck havoc on its god-like masters by stealing their pathways to everlasting rest. Oh, and all the gold too.
What they could not rob, from this world of temples and tombs were the stories and the reverence contained within.
Everywhere, every square inch of wall, column, ceiling, sarcophagi, stellar, plinth, pillar, obelisk and post is carved into. These walls do not have ears. They have eyes. They see. And they have mouths. They shout and pray and boast and lie and tell stories and give praise and offer hymns both of worship and propaganda and just never stop speaking. Hieroglyphics – a Greek translation of the Egyptian word meaning ‘in God’s word’- are everywhere. These pictographs grooved into stone speak thousands of gods’ words that no Rosetta can fully translate.
And even with a guide, so much remains, to us ignoramuses, opaque. The garrulous walls chatter in a language only few understand. We can simply gawp and submit to it all, like ancient peons, overwhelmed by their might, and the sense of being in the presence of a civilization, a species, arising out of muteness into song.
What the words fail to say, the multiple images convey. Images of smitings and fallen enemies, supplicants in hope of redemption; others without their heads (or, just to make sure, their penises too. The deep circumcision of captives)
There are images celebrating the bounty of the Nile with its abundant fish life; and peasants farming and hoeing the river-rich soil; Kings with vast erect phalluses and the pregnant harem that follow them; images of offerings and obeisance and golden boats that bear the sun on its daily journey. And gods, everywhere the gods: Anubis, Horus, Ra, Isis, Osiris and Set, the evil one from whose name we get Satan. These were not their images. These is no mimesis here. These were the gods themselves watching every passing observer. “You better watch out…”
And all that behind just one pillar.
The trip saw us go from Giza to Luxor where we stayed in a small cheery guest house (Beit Sabee) with a rooftop view of sandy coloured, undulating mountains, whose faces changed with every shift of the sun. In the mornings, hot air balloons with baskets of people would rise like giant bubbles.
Having learned our lesson from weeks in dry Kerala, we brought our vodka with us. This is a Muslim, generally alcohol-free country. But the staff were only too happy to provide us with ice and tonics. We were not alone; another like-minded soul had brought her gin. Cheers. We became friends
Luxor is the site of the tombs of the Valley of the Kings, where the actual body of Tutankhamun, with a ghostly black face, lies in silent stillness.
This dynasty, the Yul Brynner dynasty (aka Ramses II), aware of the ravages of treasure hunters, chose a mountainous site. No need to build the symbolic mountain of a pyramid (that shouts “Here lies treasure”), just dig a hole the ground; a really deep hole, with hidden passages and false directions. It didn’t work; their treasures remain only in the tall stories on the tall walls.
This is also the area of the temple of Hatshepsut. She reigned for 22 years as a man. Like all pharaohs, she wore a false beard. Go figure. Her pissed off step-son had his people chisel off all her images. Hell hath no fury like a step son scorned.
And there, by the side of the road, still guarding the twin kingdoms of the North and the South, sit massive potentates.
These places all (mostly) have black and white photos showing their initial, just discovered image. Archaeologists would need to dig and dig and dig, ten, twenty, thirty meters down to slowly reveal long buried monuments; and then, often enough, to rebuild collapsed colossi, carefully piecing together the jigsaw of scattered stones. At Edfu, where we met our boat, patient restorers were meticulously applying ammonia-soaked strips to the temple’s pillars, to remove three millennia of grime and to reveal the bright, happy colours beneath.
We travelled by boat; a dahabia, a small, perfect boat with a scant eight cabins, that gracefully sailed with the wind at our backs, against the current, up to Aswan.
Why would anyone want to journey up the Nile in one of those many ugly overcrowded vessels, when you can get around in these smaller, charming craft with superb meals and ever attentive staff?
The boat’s routine quickly set the rhythm of our days: breakfast (cheeses, toast, pancakes, jams, coffee, juices, ful, eggs, honey etc.) is followed by a few hours of leisurely sailing. This would lead to a mooring, either for a wander or to explore some less populated, equally astonishing ancient site (Our guide followed along invisibly by road to manifest himself at the appropriate moment). Lunch was always superbly prepared (meats, fish, delicate samosas, short grain rice, aubergines, pastas…) And then more gentle sailing where the slow flow of life on the bank always pulled you away from whatever book was fighting to keep your attention. Then as the hot day slipped into the cooler dusk, cocktails would merge into dinner (Never less than gourmet fare) and to easy conversation with eleven strangers who became friends.
The life that passed us by seemed Biblical, as if the pharaohs had woven a spell to freeze time around the area. People still travelled on donkeys, caravanserai of camels still plodded along invisible pathways on every-shifting dunes; ancient men in cotton robes, their designs unchanged since antiquity, galloped along cobbled streets on horses. You’d expect to see, hidden among the egret-rich bull rushes, a woven basket embracing a swaddled child.
Aswan, an ancient Nubian city was the end of our river journey. The Nubians were given a raw deal by the government. The dam submerged two hundred villages; whole communities were uprooted and relocated away from everything they knew. “We are Nubians,” one of the staff of our small, tastefully appointed guest house (Mango guest house) told us. “Not Egyptians”. You can see why.
This area is a scatter of small islands. We stayed on the large one, Elephantine island. It’s so large, it took us all of thirty minutes to walk its length. The island is a vast oasis of green threaded by a labyrinth of narrow dusty passageways (“streets” would be too grand a word). And here at the furthest reach of the navigable Nile, there is a constant presence of none other than that Nubian lord: Bob Marley.
And then Cairo. Give me Aswan. More so than many a big city, Cairo’s beauty – it’s filigreed minarets and British colonial offices – is hidden by thickets of ugly high rises, vulgar expensive hotels, and a modern architectural style unmoored from taste or style. And all covered with a patina of dust, car exhaust particulates and grime. The traffic is relentless and crossing the road is a game of chicken. Drivers here can only maneuver with one hand on the wheel and the other checking the phone; and the car horn here is really a navigational aid: a vehicular version of a bat’s clicks.
Usually, in a new city, I like to orient myself by studying a map. No such luck here. “Map?” one vendor asked me incredulously, “Noooo. No maps of Cairo”. It seems the. city feels it is too large to be contained in anything as pedestrian as a map. “Use your phone” I was advised. But who can afford to roam with roaming on? (We did find a map at the Museum. Its web of streets bore no resemblance to the same areas on either Google or Apple maps which don’t agree with each other either. I lost said map not long after the purchase. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway, as this is the original place where the streets have no names. We chose a surer directional device: taxis)
Despite the crappy impression the place gives, there’s a lot to see and “ooh” and “aah” about. With our limited time there, we were able to visit just a smattering of places.
The Citadel is a vast fortress built by Saladin against crusaders, wherein sits the city’s Islamic centre: the vast, beautiful Mohammed Ali mosque (no relation), a copy of the blue mosque in Istanbul.
Islamic Cairo really gets into its own in the old Islamic quarter. Here mosques dating to the eleventh and twelfth century jostle each other as well as with equally ancient dwellings with their distinctive cantilevered wooden lattice-work windows. Sometimes I felt as though I were in parts of purdah India. Here, the narrow streets were filled with narrow shops selling copper wares, along with the usual profusion of spice merchants with their overflowing barrels of exotica.
The government (apparently) insists that Christians and Muslims live together to avoid ghettoization. Wise move. So not that far from the Citadel is the Coptic Christian centre with its famous hanging church. It’s the church of St George – an Egyptian – who happens to be the patron saint of England. This (presumably) brown man has been whitened by some into a nativist icon.
Of course, the stellar attraction of Cairo is the grand voluminous museum of Egyptian treasures. Wisely, because the ongoing digs keep unearthing more and more treasures, these are being parcelled out to newer, more specialised museums. But this one, though thoroughly enjoyable, felt like a vast overcrowded warehouse, a junkyard of precious antiquities. The signage of the displays varied dramatically from none, to some, written so long ago that the paper had yellowed with age, obscuring the fading information. Several objects offered information only in braille. Huh? Blind people come to see the exhibits?
The crowning glory is the small room with the funerary remains of the boy king, Tutankhamun. It’s quite breathtaking. Every object, from the vast multiple tiered sarcophagi to the smallest jewelry takes your breath away. This was one of a few rooms treated with the curatorial care you’d expect.
We stayed in a place that was very clean, beautifully located (on el Tahrir Square) and with friendly, helpful staff (We have yet to meet an Egyptian who was anything less than helpful and friendly, even if the press of persistent hawkers was annoying). And I highly recommend the place to anyone under twenty-five on a belt-tightening budget who likes sharing a shower and finds the entranceway shown below as charming. I fear to write the name of the hotel down as it may induce flashbacks. Always read the fine print: make sure “hotel” does not have a straying “s” in the word. And never assume the words, “clean, large showers and toilets” include the word, “private”
Food
It’s very good. The only bad meal we had was at the restaurant of an expensive hotel that served what purported to be ‘international cuisine” . It was as tasteless as the hotel was characterless.
Egyptian food is great.
Abu Tarek is a specialist kushari restaurant. Crowded, busy, shared seating, great helpful waiters, cheap (about £3 for two!). “Kushari” is the traditional dish that seems to unite all of Egypt. It’s a heady, spicy mix of pasta, rice and pita. No carbs at all.
Felfelia is a beautiful traditional place that offers a wide menu of local treats. It’s a lot more expensive than Abu Tarek (about £35 for two including beer and wine. Yes they offer this decadent Western thrill) and crammed with tourists (as if we weren’t tourists too).
Cafe Riche was quite the find. The food is just OK, but founded 1908, it feels more the kind of place you’d find in Paris or Vienna. It serves alcohol and serves what seems to be a very arty crowd. What the food lacks, is absolutely compensated for by the atmosphere.
Gad is a fast food chain. But the service is slow and the food is good. Or should that be gad.
And, though there are many ATM’s all around, this is a cash society. Cash for the guides, cash for the waiters, cash for many restaurants, cash for the taxis, cash for the markets, cash for tips (including a tip for the security guard to place my bags on to the conveyor belt at Aswan airport). So, take note. Bring lots of them
In General
The iconography of ancient Egypt is present everywhere. On every school, government office, market or disposable brand, even -animated- on the emergency video of EgyptAir. The present Egypt clearly benefits enormously from this past, but you wonder whether the country hasn’t also been trapped, kidnapped, by it. Egypt of today is inseparable from Egypt of yesterday; it doesn’t seem to have found the ability – as have other ancient empires such as Mexico or Rome or Ming- to respect but also to unshackle the past and live proudly in the present.
The place crawls with police. Any short journey is punctuated by heavily armed roadblocks. “Makes us feel safe”, we were told. Perhaps so; I just found it unnerving. So many young men with such big weaponry, patrolling…spice sellers, men on donkeys, the Sphinx. There is so much ammo around, you feel you’re at an NRA convention…or downtown Texas. Everywhere there’s security. We had to scan our bags to enter a coffee shop (and pretty much everywhere else we went)
There is also a casual indifference to plastic and to litter. Rubbish, plastic bottles, crisp packets, crumpled cigarette packs, discarded shoes sully every site. The twinkling sun-kissed Nile froths at its banks with its own history of bobbing throwaway scum.
Most of the houses here have an unfinished look. Their roofs sprout with tangled metal struts like unruly weeds. They signify a future that awaits. These ‘unfinished’ dwellings are really edifices of hope; the hope that there will be more to come tomorrow; tomorrow new rooms will mushroom upward, and new family life will bloom.
Take lots of cash. ATM’s abound but these really are “cash points”. The key big expenses are OK for credit and debit cards, but we found ourselves constantly returning to these cash points for more cash. Cash for guides, cash for entrance fees, cash for tips, cash for meals, cash for the boat fares across the river, cash for souvenirs. Cash for this, cash for that…Egypt. Priceless.
In Conclusion
Really Egypt offers much more than we saw. We saw the old and the new. We found peace and quiet as well as exhausting, noisy, crowded big city life. We never saw the beaches. There are many. That wasn’t our thing. The prices are cheap. Pretty much everything is dramatically cheaper than the UK, even booze. We were constantly pestered to buy stuff (“Come see my shop. No charge. Where are you from? Nice to see you again (even if this was the first time). My girlfriend is from Liverpool (yea, right). I give you good price”) But this was minor league compared with the general friendliness and helpfulness of everyone; even in the crappiest of locations, we never felt concerned for our safety (naive?).
Will we go back? Probably not. There are more places yet to conquer before death and old age snatches us away. And we were so fortunate to find such group of likeable souls on our boat that we could never try to replicate the experience.
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