A CURIOUS VISIT TO EGYPT IN 2009: Cairo, the pyramids, the Sphinx, Saqqara & a dodgy boat ride on the River Nile...

 A Curious Visit To Egypt In 2009: 

Cairo, the pyramids, the Sphinx, Saqqara & a dodgy boat ride on the River Nile…

Lights like serpents on posts greeted the arrival at Cairo Airport but to spot two signs displaying my name was rather disconcerting. One operator, snake-smooth, dealt with the visas and the international visitor cards, almost like he was rushing through a drugs deal. He was so slick. The other chap was confused, as were all of the passengers. Papers were checked, phone-calls were made, not in English and we all stood gaping like idiots, before being asked in which of the two waiting vehicles we would like to be transferred to the Meridien Hotel. 

It was simpler to choose the representative who had secured our visas in truth, whilst the other fellow merely asked us to photocopy our papers when we arrived at the hotel and thus we were whisked away into the night. 

The driver sped through the late evening traffic on Cairo’s ring-road and we immediately became aware of the honking horns of the Cairo School of Motoring. Driving there lacked the bigotry and rage, hesitancy and carelessness of England, the land of Give Way, Stop and, er, a Highway Code… Drivers in Cairo appeared to slide into the sinewy lines of traffic like serpents slipping between stones and despite the constant blaring of horns, no vehicle, uncannily, collided with another. This was quite amazing. 

NEATLY IN THREE LANES.
NOT...

Lane markings were just ignored spillages of white paint and sometimes five rows of vehicles filled three lanes, many honking, many cutting across others, honking again, not giving way and honking once more. Negotiating a crossroads was like team-gymnasts criss-crossing, en route to their vaulting horses and yet, despite the constant honking, nobody appeared to make an obscene gesture, shake a fist, raise an ugly finger, bellow, or even curse. And the traffic, fascinatingly, just like those displaying gymnasts, never seemed to end up colliding. 

Many vehicles, often battered, mostly scratched, especially many of the black and white taxis and police motors, looked like fibre-glass stock cars with repaints. Volkswagen Transporters, the kind associated with surfing and long-haired visitors to Newquay, Cornwall were in abundance on Cairo’s streets, masquerading as taxis or buses and it was a regular occurrence to see one flagged down to a stop on a fast-moving freeway and pick up some miserable looking Egyptian local. 

Often a driver displayed an alarming lack of care for his passengers’ safety and paid little attention to other drivers. Yet as there was no Highway Code, it was Dodgems at a travelling fairground on virtually every road. Motor-cycles which weaved and scooters which oozed, both made reasonable progress but not so the donkey-hauled carts, which looked so totally out of place, it was like watching cattle relaxing on a leather sofa. The Neapolitan mixture of veteran, recycled and unroadworthy concoctions, which loosely passed as vehicles then had to avoid meandering pedestrians, too.

The most successful pedestrian I saw was a one-legged man on crutches, who was actually on a pedestrian crossing but as crossings were actually just ignored pieces of artwork on the road, nobody really took much notice of them. This fellow negotiated the tide of traffic like a surfer on Fistral Beach catching a wave and he disappeared smoothly through the honking hoards, slaloming like a one-legged skier.

Tips were irksome facets of life for a tourist in Cairo and Giza. One tipped a porter who took one's suitcase from the taxi, one then tipped a porter who brought it to the room, after tipping the porter who had unnecessarily accompanied one to one’s room moments before. One tipped the waiters, the Hertz drivers and the lavatory assistants, who basically ripped a few rectangles of toilet tissue from a roll and handed them to one for use as a hand-drying aid.

Those attendants were usually smoking, often wearing an unbelted ex-Selly Oak Hospital full-length nurse’s uniform from the 1940s. I never did tip the lift attendant, who simply smiled inanely as if he had recently noticed how smart his uniform looked, reflected in a mirror but then he probably thought that I was slightly crazy and he left me well alone.

OUT OF BOUNDS...

The lad who steered an adult’s boat for us on the River Nile really ought to have been at school. He appeared to know three English words: ‘bananas’, ‘fish’ and ‘tips’. Yeah, that’s ‘fish and tips’… Very helpful on a sightseeing tour of a Cairo section of the River Nile… He looked about twelve years old, or possibly nearly forty-nine and was totally useless at charades. I was trying to inform him that I was looking out for birds, especially the famed ibis but despite my rather skilful flapping of arms, he merely frowned at me and verbally mused, “Bananas?” Several imitations of a black kite, a brambling, a coot and a red-backed shrike failed to shake his puzzlement and he simply replied again, “Bananas?” He steered the boat around a small clump of vegetation, moored, climbed from the boat and, exhilarated, stated, “Bananas!” And there they were… Growing bananas… His boss must have taken so many tourists to that small plantation, that the boy had taken the name on board, literally. The bananas were remarkable, however…

READY FOR THE BOAT TRIP...

The boy also pointed to a small boat in the river and said, “Fish…” Yes, I understood that one. As the lad reversed the boat, the engine cut out and we began to drift towards the vegetation. We were panicking at this point but I remained calm and began to deliberate which fist I would strike the boy with first, should we have to take a swim. I decided I would hold the boy under the surface for a moment or two, before punching his gawping eyes out. I would later visit him in hospital and shove The Observers’ Book Of Birds’ down his throat, whilst deciding on somewhere to deposit a banana…

BEACHED...

The boy was visibly shaken by the dead engine, attempted to whip the motor into action with a rope but only after tying a new knot for grip did the near wreck of a vessel splutter into action. It sounded like the death throes of a Tiger Moth and we were almost beached. “Bananas…”, I thought. The lad wanted money. The trip was poor but at least I saw a magnificent bird: a pied kingfisher… And what a bird it was. It hovered, curled in sleek, predatory fashion and dived to the surface of the river… Wow… 

The steering boy delayed mooring to add time to the ‘cruise’ but was singularly unimpressed with his tip. “Ah, go fish yourself…” I wanted to say. The fishing boat we did see was small, a basic rowing boat and a family of four manned it. A woman was standing and bodging into the waters with an oar. Was she catching fish? Or perhaps hitting fish over the gills with a blunt instrument? I mused and was amused… I believe she was pushing at the nets however and then I lost interest for the lad was practising his English again. “Tips…” he bleated. I decided not to imitate a sheep. “Bananas?” I retorted…

AT LAST: BANANAS...

The living conditions of the poorer classes ought not to have but truly did fascinate me. The outer-ring highway, which led to the airport was smart enough, contained government buildings and stadia along its length, plus the fine Mohammed Ali Mosque, from which the panoramic view of Cairo was stunning with Giza’s pyramids beyond. These roads were reminiscent of some Dubai roads but from the overview of the city, it looked remarkably like it had just been bombed. It looked in partial ruin. Sand and dust covered junk-strewn roofs and damage to other buildings gave the scene a morbid fascination. Elsewhere, washing hung dully from untidy, discoloured window-balconies, children and goats scrabbled in squalid conditions and many dwellings were no more than hovels. I just thought it was all so amazing and I wanted to investigate, something I was unable to do. 

Policemen stood behind individual barricades, often sheltered from the sun by angled wooden boards. They were armed, sometimes asleep but access to many places, such as hotels, official buildings, even the Coptic area were subject to sluggish, rigorous and painstaking scrutinies of taxis and other vehicles. Drivers’ papers were checked thoroughly and I really didn’t think access to the expensive Mena House Hotel, where Howard Carter and Sadat had once stayed was going to be easy. It wasn’t. It was a stunning hotel however and lunch was taken there on the last full day of the holiday. It was situated close to the pyramids and to sit in a restaurant just a couple of hundred metres from wonders of the ancient world was a marvellous feeling. The food was reasonably priced, tasty, well presented and amicably served. 

LUNCH AT THE MENA, WITH PYRAMIDS LOOMING...

Languid police officers would lean, lounge, smoke or doze but rarely they would stretch and take a stroll into the traffic at roundabouts, which were so congested that they reminded me of exiting the NEC in Solihull. The uniformed official would then blow a whistle and the flow of traffic would be interrupted from one direction, whilst other lanes crowded away like ants diverted by the advent of boiling water from a kettle and the policeman would then return to his portable barricade for a smoke… Dust and sand from coated vehicles and buildings found their way into one’s mouth, eyes and hair, so wearing sunglasses was a must and thus one felt an insatiable thirst.

I had removed my footwear at the Mohammed Ali Mosque, marvelling at its domed opulence, yet I was relieved that it contained so little of the Papal reliquary found in other Catholic cathedrals and churches. Despite the apparent error of removing my trainers, it was interesting that several women did not have their heads covered inside the Mosque…

THE FINE MOSQUE...

 

The views afforded from the height of the mosque were quite shocking, for the city really did look like it had been bombed recently… Houses appeared to have suffered heavy destruction but it was how it was and I became transfixed once again.

THE VIEW OVER CAIRO, WITH THE PYRAMIDS VISIBLE...

The Coptic area was again strictly policed but both the Catholic and Greek Orthodox churches were interesting to explore. That area was one street really, blocked at each end by police-guarded gates and I was made to feel rather intimidated, seemingly watched and spied upon during my hour in the vicinity, much as I had been whilst walking along the street from the hotel during the evening after arrival. 

THE COPTIC AREA...

Confrontations with brazen characters were quite hairy, some attempting to lure us towards a dismal hut selling snacks, others towards a couple of dodgy catering establishments and there was even harassment by a young girl, who begged for money, presumably in aid of her brother, uncomfortable in a wheelchair, controlled by a hag of a parent, who looked at least eighty years old. We were even escorted by a fellow holding a cellphone, who assured us that he was ‘security’, nodding at his mobile phone and no doubt expecting a tip for our safe passage. We continued to ignore him and like a dog, which had lost the scent of a thrown tennis ball, the chap exited, stage right. It was like a ‘Monty Python’ sketch, being accompanied by a refugee from the Cairo Revolution and Reclamation of Artefacts Party and I wanted to look him in the eyes and say, “What have the Egyptians ever done for us?” We headed for the safety of the hotel, ignoring the lurid smiles of moustachioed lurkers and slimy outriders.

Typically, the bazaars were as unpleasant, if also as fascinating as the Dubai souks. Spice produce was eye-catching and full of exotic aromas but too many ornaments were cheap, very cheap, as were t-shirts and shoes. Regular tables overflowed with brassieres, through which bizarrely, women were openly delving, aided by eager, drooling male vendors. I was intrigued by some small, stocky women, laden with heavy bags on their heads, swaying through crowds, barely grimacing, yet offering an explanation as to why they were so vertically challenged. 

A BIZARRE BAZAAR...

Lads carrying wooden rods attached to boxes on their heads, piled high with large pretzels reminded me of a sequel to deck quoits on a cruise and still the guides guided, adder-like in their quest for tips, still the pedlars interfered, often with the usual, “Where from? English? Lovely jubbly…” and still I attempted to ignore them but mumbled anyway that I was from Moscow. 

However, the hotel staff members were generally polite and pleasant on the surface but it was probably the sickening welcoming plot of ‘Sleaze, Smile and Be Tipped’, Cairo’s one weakness…

The weddings in the hotel were brilliant though. So regular were they, that I truly believed that it was just role-play for the benefit of the hotel guests, who needed to be encouraged to buy more drinks, more snacks and still more drinks from the bars in Reception.  Three nights running, brides in white with their smarmy grooms, plus active male relatives like Lords a-Leaping appeared, lots of obese folks flaunted themselves in coats of many disparate colours and the magnificent musical band played on… 

ONE OF THOSE WEDDINGS...

Bored drummers forced enigmatic enthusiasm from the depths of their tambours, encouraging the wedding participants to impromptu knees-ups at the foot of the staircase and also on the landings and those were memorable but their leader, a bespectacled bag-piper, a veritable Muslim Albert Steptoe, stole each show. An Arabic ‘Donald, Where’s Your Kaftan’ rifled through my mind as he cued the festivities, lacking only a totem pole, as the wedding party exploded from mutual admiration to adults bouncing on pogo sticks, whooping and wailing, expensive clothing straining on well fed buttocks. 

WHAT I DID MOST EVENINGS...

VIEW FROM THE OUT OF BOUNDS SWIMMING POOL, MERIDIAN HOTEL...

More pipers appeared, dressed in Pharaonic garb at the Sound and Light Show at the Giza pyramids. I felt like tossing the obelisk… The light show amused me when just as a scholarly English Shakespearian voice announced and dramatised the laser-beam funerary procession of King Amenhotep, a line of cars and taxis, transporting workers home appeared in silhouette, bar their headlights, from behind the Great Pyramid of Cheops, probably only stopping at the behest of an embarrassed official but certainly the drama was added to by the intrusion…

POOLSIDE.
NO WATER THOUGH...

The pyramids were remarkable to view for the first time. Just remarkable. Ancient perfection. Glorious. I crouched, baboon-like to enter Khefu’s memorial but that meant little, for the enormity was everything. Impressive, certainly. Awe-inspiring, doubtless. The Sphinx was like a sand-sculpted liner with a gigantic figurehead, lying in a dry-dock. 

THE BODGING LOOKS UNCOMFORTABLE BUT I GUESS IT'S BECAUSE I HAVE A TEA-TOWEL ON MY HEAD...

Pigeons roosted upon the large, disfigured face but the immensity was breathtaking. Saqqara’s step pyramid of Djoser was incredible too and we stepped inside two mastaba tombs there, containing neat wall-art but the entrance to the tomb of Titi was simply rubble surrounding a hole. The Imhotep Museum at the site was excellent, which contained artefacts from Djoser’s tomb, plus marvellous jewellery and they were well exhibited, compared to the Victorian-style display cabinets in the main Egyptian Museum of Cairo, which contrasted dully and starkly with the beauty within.   

The Egyptian Museum was more than satisfying though, despite it being impossible to take everything in and we were forced, really to concentrate upon the more lauded features, including the royal mummies, Tutankhamun’s artefacts, the intriguing Solar Boat, the model funerary boats, the wooden model army of Nubian archers and a similar display of Egyptian infantrymen. 

YOU CAN'T BEAT A STEP PYRAMID...

SAQQARA...

The royal mummies were stupendous; one of them might well have yawned if I had watched it for long enough but the fascination of looking into the faces of people who died so long ago and attempting to figure out their traits, was mesmerising. The statues of scribes, couples and gods were as wondrous as I had expected and the splendid mummified beasts, including two enormous crocodiles, various baboons, snakes and a gazelle, made Birmingham Museum’s mummified crocodile seem like a tadpole in a tank of piranhas. There were no badgers, however… 

Tutankhamun’s section was exhilarating, to my surprise. I had seen so many pictures and films of the famous death-mask, the chariot and other notable belongings that I expected to feel indifferent about actually seeing them. Wrong… The chariot, the chairs, golden cases, stands and amulets stunned me to awe, as did the jewellery. But the mask… Gods! Outstanding. 

THE SPHINX LOOKED LIKE A LARGE BEACHED VESSEL...

The two coffins, also bearing gilded masks were as astonishing. Finally though, the statue I had searched for was revealed in the penultimate room explored. The seated scribe with no name was a limestone figure which had been the focal point of my teaching sessions for many years, squatted inside a display case, unheralded. I stared into his kindly, almost smiling eyes and thanked him silently for the pleasure and instruction he had sparked in thousands of Birmingham schoolchildren. A sad, yet fulfilling final find in Cairo’s jumbled, fascinating collection… I had been humbled by the simplistic beauty of the figure. I had named him Tiye, oddly the name of the aircraft, which had flown us to Cairo… 

THE SEATED SCRIBE...

And the ibis? We saw none, just egrets in the stinking drainage of a central reservation as one of our two decent taxi-drivers took us along a filthy duel-carriageway to Saqqara...

DOZING STRAYS...

Beautiful and white, the birds feasted like royalty at a roadside café… 

Lovely…