Trains heading out of major cities never show their best faces. This train out of Cairo was no exception. We trailed a canal filled with rubbish. Here and there a man a fisherman resting under the palms. Donkeys, squatting farmers. It wasn't long before rural scenes opened up, rear projection for the next ten hours. Villages again and again, and the fellaheen in the spaces between. fellaheen, a word that always reminds me of Kerouac, but Jack's idea about the "fellaheen feeling about life, that timeless gayety of people not involved in great cultural and civilization issues," didn't necessarily jibe with the hard labors I saw from the window, punctuating the endless green. I knew from the map that the Nile was on the left side of the train, but I only saw it for a brief few moments. But we never left this fertile strip that she had midwifed.
Luxor Temple sat impressively on the banks of the Nile. Napoleon's theft of its obelisk gave birth to Europe's fascination with things Egyptian, was the initial catalyst for all of us coming to stand here. From this vantage point there was somewhat of a theme parky feel, partly due to the fact that it was surrounded completely by the city. But upon entry, the details began to wow you. The whole place was a study in the history of architecture, as subsequent dynasties kept adding to the place, the ultimate DIY hand-me-down. Though they never fail to impress me, I tend to find heiroglyphic art to be like the simple drawings of children, an innocent entity coming into maturity. But these parallel walls served as terrific example the contrast between the high level of carving that the Egyptians could do, with the less skilled Greeks of a millennium later. And it wasn't until later that I found that I'd missed Rimbaud's graffiti altogether, carved here during his rambles. Another problem with group tours, as I like to go beyond the schoolbooks to lateral history, how these places played out in music, literature, cinema. A reminder to read ahead, seek those details on my own.
Had I been on my own I'd have been tempted to walk the boulevard flanked by sphinxes, which had recently been unearthed beneath centuries of habitation. But I know that in being over three kilometers long, it would grow rather tedious after a while. Karnak at the far end would have proved sufficient reward. I was taken with it immediately, for unlike Luxor, it stood alone at the edge of town, backed by the desert. A place to stumble across rather than being led to by tidy roads. Pillar after pillar was ornately decorated, a delight to wander beneath as you explored the labyrinth of her pathways and open courtyards. The softening of the evening light and the call to prayer completed the mise-en-scene.
The Valley of the Kings across the Nile was of bucket list material, but luckily we got there before the full rush of crowd. Tut's tomb was of course a must visit, but it was relatively spartan as most of its decorations now rested in the museum in Cairo. Seti I was the real stunner, the wall paintings alive with color, the most beautiful I saw in Egypt. We popped into a few other tombs, including the Tomb of Merenptah, which was real Indiana Jones material. Most tombs open into multiple side chambers, but this one bore steeply and diagonally toward the center of the earth, its length measure by the sweat and labored breathing of visitors coming back up.
There were other visits on the West Bank. Hatshepsut, whose 1997 massacre never left my mind. The Valley of the Queens which I loved for its quiet, near absence of visitors. This must be how the Victorians experienced things here. Nefertari's tomb is supposedly the best in Egypt, but has been sadly off-limits for a number of years. And the Amenhotep III Sun Temple, looking like a film set at the edge of the desert.
Sailing the Nile in a convoy of cruise ships. It was comedic somewhat, like Wacky Racers, each ship honking and jockeying for position. After things thinned out a bit, it was wonderful to sit and read under the canopy, riverside scenes pulling attention from the page again and again. There was lunch one deck, and a pair of visits to riverside temples, and despite the impressiveness of Edfu and Kom Ombo, I'd have preferred more time just to sit quietly with life on the Nile.
Aswan and its Isis Temple island of Philae, her squared windows perfectly framing the adjacent islands, the small craft cutting the most upper waters of the Nile. (Yet again my attention being pulled from the surroundings of man-made glory to the natural world outside.) A shopping spree spontaneously opening up on our small water-craft, followed quickly by a slower Felucca cruise. The design on our sail proved the our teenage Nubian crew's affinity fro Bob Marley, but they were no sailors, skilled more in the art of tack. Again and again we'd race toward the steel wall of a moored cruide ship, to zig away at the last moment. Two boys on surfboards latched themselves to our boat in a Frère Jacques serenade for tips. Kichener island wasn't much, and how I longed to climb the dunes up to the towering ruins across water. The ride back was better, the current pulling us steadily through a lesser cataract, upon whose banks grazed water fowl, under the haunting gaze of the Aga Khan Mausoleum. The setting sun again perfecting the scene.
As expected Abu Simbel was the jewel of the Nile. Its grandeur made it easy to forget that it had been relocated here, and I wondered why more Egyptians aren't set designers. It must have been incredible to stumble across such places accidentally, from the back of a horse. In that spirit, I wish we'd sailed here, jumping another ship the other side of the dam. I'm glad we didn't undertake the monotonous four-hour drive like the pair of Australian guys I'd had beers with on board a couple of evenings, but there was something absurd about flying down for 20 minutes, visiting for an hour or so, then jetting back.
The latter flight eventually led back to Cairo, tracing the green strip of land that marked the Nile. This aero technology was a direct result her life-giving waters, which shaped her people, her culture, her civilization, and by extension, Western civilization itself.
On the turntable: Bob Dylan, "Desire"
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