I have readYusuf Idris, Al-Haram
Yusuf Ziedan, Azazeel Sayyid Qutb, A Child from the Village |
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I have written... nothing ...
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Finally, my travel to Egypt
January 2020
It was a long postponed journey. And finally, here I am, exposed to the chilling wind of the desert that I did not quite anticipate, hiding in a group of tourists, invisible in the crowd slowly penetrating the security gates at Luxor station to catch that legendary night train to Cairo. Legendary, because I remember have read about it in any Egyptian novel.
I have read several novels before this trip, cried over Al-Haram by Yusuf Idris. Together with the great Azazeel, by Youssef Ziedan, that I had read in a French translation when I was in Tours, they make the highest esteem that I have of Egyptian literature. I wish I could read more, hopefully this autumn in France once again. I left my Al-Aswamy, equally a French edition, in my storage space in Leiden. Never had time enough.
On the road, I had something quite different to read, In an Antique Land by Amitav Ghosh, a brilliant book for the circumstance.
So this is the taste of Egypt, and the experience of that banality of being a mere tourist in an antique and dusty land.
My journey started at the airport of Hurghada, and then I went down to Assuan, where my cruise down the Nile were to begin. Meanwhile, I also bought an additional bus trip to Abu Simbel, at 3 am, that brought me close to pneumonia and partially spoiled my journey. Or made it more difficult, with those difficulties I rarely experienced. I was never sick on any of my travels, except for two days in Armenia, where I ate one of these traditional preserves made with condensed grape juice. The nuts inside were mouldy, and I thought this is how they were supposed to be. Of course not. The mould caused some sort of acute hypotension, and at a given moment I heard the sound of duduk very far, very far from me...
The infection in Egypt was something else, shortness of breath, the sensation of missing the air, with the access of panic that comes with it. If only I could rest, I would probably overcome it easily, but I had to move from one place to another according to a chaotic, truly Egyptian planning. With a sleepless night over another sleepless night, I got as sick as I rarely was in my life. But still, the only thing I scratched from my schedule was to enter the great Cheops pyramid; I was afraid my breath might fail me while inside. I was very weak, had to stop after climbing just a few steps, panting heavily. But even though, I penetrated all the remaining holes.
Later on, it crossed my mind that my sickness could have been an early case of COVID-19, when no one heard about the disease yet. During the charter flight back home, a man from my group fainted and was given oxygen.
So, as I said, I came by bus from Hurghada to Assuan, and then, in the middle of the night, by bus to Abu Simbel, for an early morning visit of the temple. And then I spent three nights on the Nile cruiser, enjoying food, and drinks, and all sort of luxuries available to European working classes. Hansom cabs drawn by miserable horses took us to the main attractions, the temples I had read about as a child. I wandered through the Valley of the Kings after an unforgettable balloon flight and the sunrise on the Nile. Later on, as I've mentioned, we caught the night train to Cairo, and I was transported, as a ponderous touristic bulk, to the pyramids. And then to the Egyptian Museum, that was being moved, at that very moment, to new premises. I caught the last glimpse of its dusty, nostalgic aspect.
It was a long postponed journey. And finally, here I am, exposed to the chilling wind of the desert that I did not quite anticipate, hiding in a group of tourists, invisible in the crowd slowly penetrating the security gates at Luxor station to catch that legendary night train to Cairo. Legendary, because I remember have read about it in any Egyptian novel.
I have read several novels before this trip, cried over Al-Haram by Yusuf Idris. Together with the great Azazeel, by Youssef Ziedan, that I had read in a French translation when I was in Tours, they make the highest esteem that I have of Egyptian literature. I wish I could read more, hopefully this autumn in France once again. I left my Al-Aswamy, equally a French edition, in my storage space in Leiden. Never had time enough.
On the road, I had something quite different to read, In an Antique Land by Amitav Ghosh, a brilliant book for the circumstance.
So this is the taste of Egypt, and the experience of that banality of being a mere tourist in an antique and dusty land.
My journey started at the airport of Hurghada, and then I went down to Assuan, where my cruise down the Nile were to begin. Meanwhile, I also bought an additional bus trip to Abu Simbel, at 3 am, that brought me close to pneumonia and partially spoiled my journey. Or made it more difficult, with those difficulties I rarely experienced. I was never sick on any of my travels, except for two days in Armenia, where I ate one of these traditional preserves made with condensed grape juice. The nuts inside were mouldy, and I thought this is how they were supposed to be. Of course not. The mould caused some sort of acute hypotension, and at a given moment I heard the sound of duduk very far, very far from me...
The infection in Egypt was something else, shortness of breath, the sensation of missing the air, with the access of panic that comes with it. If only I could rest, I would probably overcome it easily, but I had to move from one place to another according to a chaotic, truly Egyptian planning. With a sleepless night over another sleepless night, I got as sick as I rarely was in my life. But still, the only thing I scratched from my schedule was to enter the great Cheops pyramid; I was afraid my breath might fail me while inside. I was very weak, had to stop after climbing just a few steps, panting heavily. But even though, I penetrated all the remaining holes.
Later on, it crossed my mind that my sickness could have been an early case of COVID-19, when no one heard about the disease yet. During the charter flight back home, a man from my group fainted and was given oxygen.
So, as I said, I came by bus from Hurghada to Assuan, and then, in the middle of the night, by bus to Abu Simbel, for an early morning visit of the temple. And then I spent three nights on the Nile cruiser, enjoying food, and drinks, and all sort of luxuries available to European working classes. Hansom cabs drawn by miserable horses took us to the main attractions, the temples I had read about as a child. I wandered through the Valley of the Kings after an unforgettable balloon flight and the sunrise on the Nile. Later on, as I've mentioned, we caught the night train to Cairo, and I was transported, as a ponderous touristic bulk, to the pyramids. And then to the Egyptian Museum, that was being moved, at that very moment, to new premises. I caught the last glimpse of its dusty, nostalgic aspect.
Hansom cabs drawn by miserable horses took us to the main attractions, the temples I had read about as a child.
It was Coptic Christmas, this is why we could move from Gizeh to the Tahrir Square and the Egyptian Museum so easily. But I could imagine how crowded the country actually is, that sea of miserable housing coming close to the very pyramids of Gizeh, greater than them. Nonetheless, I saw very few Egyptians, just the back of the cab driver, with whom I tried to exchange a few words in Arabic. The very fact that we took cabs, instead of walking, was a way of isolating the tourists from the natives. I could touch them on only one occasion: in the crowd swarming at Luxor train station, where every bag and package was scanned for arms and explosives. On the train, I asked the waiter to take my meal and give it to someone; certainly, I thought, there had to be a poor Muslim on that train; yet I saw none, did not come close to any, not as close as I used to come to poor Muslims in Morocco or Tunisia, where I couldn't possibly avoid giving a sadaka to a paralytic at the entrance of a mosque. I felt on my own skin that my former worries about going to Egypt were by no means exaggerated. It is a country living under a constant threat of terrorism, much more than we ever experienced in Europe. As low in the ranking of safety and democracy as a country could ever be. The tourists were separated from the natives to protect them, as carefully as possible, from participating in a fight and a destiny that was not theirs.
Not a place to spend reckless vacations, one might say. Nonetheless, it is a country where the European working classes will spend their vacations for many years to come, no matters what happens; with this uniquely numerous and uniquely miserable population, service will always be cheap, prompt, available. Myself, I spent two all-inclusive days in Hurghada, staring onto the sea during the day, participating in plebeian games and distractions in the evening. Wandering aimlessly among the bungalows, I spotted a true Egyptian falcon, just like on ancient depictions, with its iconic dark pattern under the eyes.
That sea of miserable housing coming close to the very pyramids of Gizeh, greater than them.
Nonetheless, I saw very few Egyptians.
To become a mere tourist is a metaphor, of course. A mere tourist does not appreciate that the little enterprise organising balloon flights had al-hud (the hoopoe) for the name. The mystical bird who led other birds through seven valleys. For much that I try, I will never become a mere tourist again.
Dawn over the Valley of the Kings
On the Nile
Yet another obligation of a mere tourist is to participate in the peculiar "throwing" trade: several small boats approach the cruisers immobilised at the Esna lock on the Nile. I acquired, for five dollars, one of those rough scarfs that the cab drivers wear (they must be made in China to become so common among such a numerous population).
The ride through temples
Abu Simbel
Philae
Kom Ombo
Edfu
Luxor
Madinat Habu
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Pre-modern vs modern fear
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