I have readYusuf Ziedan, عزازيل | Azazeel (2009)
Amitav Gosh, In an Antique Land (1992) Yusuf Idris, Al-Haram (1959) Nagib Mahfuz, Zuqaq al-Midaq | Midaq Alley (1947) Sayyid Qutb, A Child from the Village (1946) |
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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 cheap housing coming close to the very pyramids of Gizeh, greater than them.
Nonetheless, I saw very few Egyptians.
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To become a mere tourist is a metaphor, of course. A mere tourist never appreciates that the little enterprise organising balloon flights has al-hud (the hoopoe) for its trademark. The mystical bird who led other birds through seven valleys, on their great journey in search of God. For much that I try, I will never become a mere tourist again. Too many references around my head.
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Dawn over the Valley of the Kings
on the Nile
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It was a beautiful cruise, in spite of the surprize: a chilling desert wind of January. I hide in my cosy cabin, observing the river from my bed. The food was overabundant, although it was lacking style: a mix of international delicacies with some doubtful local ones, such as the unavoidable foul mudammas (fava beans).
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, proposing to the tourists the acquisition of various "typical" textiles that they throw, with a great agility, right into the balconies and open windows on the ship; the money is equally to be thrown down in a plastic bag. 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). A curious "guarantee of origin" with a little woven gazelle persuaded me that it is the only authentic and original Egyptian product (beware of imitations). |
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Egyptian vulture (Neophron percnopterus).
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a ride through temples
Nubia
The first dam of Assouan was built by the English in 1898-1902. It was developed further in 1907-1912, and then 1929-1934, Already at that moment, many temples were under water:
Mais ceux des ainsi submergés, bien que noyés neuf mois de l'annéé, n'étaient pas complètement perdus. Ils resurgissaient de l'onde dès l'ouverture des vannes de la grande muraille en granite rose pour permettre à l'eau, enrichie des alluvions -- depuis les grands lacs et sur tout son percours -- de se répandre entièrement sur la terre d'Égypte.
Alors la Nubie reprenait un peu son aspect antique. On voyait réapparaître les palmiers, aux trois quarts noyés durant neuf mois, mais qui résistaient aussi, annuellement, en dressant leurs seules têtes touffues au-dessus de l'eau pendant l'inondation. Sur les rives, une végétation vert émeraude, poussée par miracle, donnait des récoltes riches et rapides, en même temps la population paraissait brusquement découplée, avec le retour des hommes valides, en congé d'été, venus faire connaissance avec leurs rejetons procréés à leur dernier passage.
Christiane Desroches Noblecourt, La Grande Nubiade. Le parcours d'une égyptologue, Paris, Stock/Pernoud, 1992, p. 197.
Abu Simbel | أبو سمبل
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The hypostyle hall (pronaos) of the Great Temple. Osirid pillars.
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The Great Temple of Ramses II
The Small Temple of Hathor and Nefertari
Ceiling of the Great Temple
Philae | فيله | Φιλαί | ⲡⲓⲗⲁⲕ
The Temple of Isis (7th - 6th c. BC)
The temple of Isis
Trajan's Kiosk
Modern inscriptions
Kom Ombo | Nubt | كوم أمبو | Ὄμβοι | Ⲉⲙⲃⲱ
The Temple of Sobek (180–47 BC)
Edfu - Temple of Horus
Luxor | الأقصر | ⲡⲁⲡⲉ | Thebes | Diospolis | ⲡϣⲟⲙⲧ ⲛ̀ⲕⲁⲥⲧⲣⲟⲛ | "the three palaces"
One of those fuzzy dreams of childhood, that should stand bold in my mind, yet for the adult tourist, tired of the world, inevitably merges with all the other columns, all the remaining Egypt. I suppose it was about this, the city of Thebes and Ramses II that the Bolesław Prus' Pharaoh was all about, and that movie of Jerzy Kawalerowicz where my interest in Egypt began, when I was eight. Yet now, on a rainy day when I return to my Egyptian trip and wish to finish my website, I can hardly disentangle my photos to see which actually one was that Temple of Luxor, its giant Ramses II statue and its hypostyle hall. That's the misery of being a tourist, that's the shame of not taking careful notes, the pity of not sketching, like the 19th-century travellers would do. Would it actually help?
Right now, I try to consolidate my memories, Internet coming to my aid, and to understand where I have actually been, and for what. What kind of wisdom did that travel bring to me. Trying to persuade myself that I actually deserved it, rather than to stay on one of those luxury boats on the Nile, consuming my crevettes.
Ah, here it is, it was the one we visited at night, perhaps the travel agency believed it will look more mysterious like this, or perhaps wished to avoid the heat, oblivious of the fact it was January. Or for no reason whatsoever, except the typical Egyptian chaos.
Right now, I try to consolidate my memories, Internet coming to my aid, and to understand where I have actually been, and for what. What kind of wisdom did that travel bring to me. Trying to persuade myself that I actually deserved it, rather than to stay on one of those luxury boats on the Nile, consuming my crevettes.
Ah, here it is, it was the one we visited at night, perhaps the travel agency believed it will look more mysterious like this, or perhaps wished to avoid the heat, oblivious of the fact it was January. Or for no reason whatsoever, except the typical Egyptian chaos.
Karnak, the "fortified village"
Valley of the Kings
The traveller exhausted by the emotions of a balloon flight at dawn arrives to the dusty Valley of the Kings, with I don't know how many tombs to visit. Not all of them open to the public, and the ticket, if I remember it correctly, only permits a choice of a certain number of them. Yet it is enough, again, to boggle my mind.
This is why I dutifully paid for the additional ticket permitting to take my own pictures, even if I certainly have many of those images reproduced in high resolution and under much better light in those many cumbersome albums about Egypt that I infest my flat in Kraków. I just wanted a bit of that climate, even if the place was, in the first place, so dusty, so crowded, so tiring, so overexploited, so emptied of any trace of mystery and romance.
This is why I dutifully paid for the additional ticket permitting to take my own pictures, even if I certainly have many of those images reproduced in high resolution and under much better light in those many cumbersome albums about Egypt that I infest my flat in Kraków. I just wanted a bit of that climate, even if the place was, in the first place, so dusty, so crowded, so tiring, so overexploited, so emptied of any trace of mystery and romance.
Medinet Habu - Temple of Ramesses III
On the West bank of Luxor, one of the highlights of my travel to Egypt, a charming mortuary temple of Ramesses III (the Ramesseum), related also with the defeat of the mysterious migrant wave, the Sea Peoples.
Deir al-Medina, the worker's village
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Those graves are small, many chambers are just a couple of square meters. They belong to simple people, many of them the workers employed on the great pharaonic endeavours, but they make a particular impression. Of a country that was for all, not only for the narrow privileged caste. In its shadow, average lives went on, and average dead found their way to the afterlife.
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Deir el-Bahari: Hatshepsut temple (15th c. BC, 18th dynasty)
a wandering 21st c. scholar tries to understand the greatness of Egyptian pyramids
Al-Qahira, arriving at the train station
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There is always something to return to. In my case, it would be Cairo, the old Cairo of mosques and bazars. The train from Luxor brought me, and my group of tourists, to a train station that gives a taste of the city, of its crowds, of its dangers. I don't believe in the least the efficiency of the gates that were supposed to discover explosives in all those volumes and packages that people were carrying in and out like giant ants. The bus was expecting us at the entrance, and the day corresponded to the Coptic Christmas. This is how we arrived to the Tahrir Square. And all what I saw of Cairo was a dusty jungle of housing, and the Egyptian Museum ready for some sort of reformation. I still saw it, partially packed, in its old form, lacking paint in various places, scratched and chaotic. In the Museum shop I spent the rest of my money on reproductions of early 20th c. lithographs of the old Cairo. Pity I didn't brought any book for my library.
I need to see this city with my own eyes, as well as Alexandria. Alone, risking my life, swollen by a country of too many. Perhaps after some new revolution, inshallah. Cairo, January 10th, 2020. |
my further readings in Egyptian literature
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Pre-modern vs modern fear
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