How about those Pyramids
May 2nd, 2006Leaving Hamburg we arrived in England and spent November and December exploring Scotland, Wales, Yorkshire, Northumbria, Cumbria, Cheshire and Manchester. There’s loads to tell but no time to tell it. Instead lets jump ahead to January. We needed to escape the winter blahs and chose an unexpected destination. After considering the Canary Islands, Morocco and Turkey we rolled the dice and went with Egypt. Without a doubt, it was the right choice!
Best two weeks ever! Egypt absolutely rocks. We cruised the Nile, rode a donkey and saw the pyramids. In fact, there isn’t a major pharonic site we didn’t stumble through. From the Valley of the Kings to the Temple of Karnak to the Obelisk of Luxor and most things in between, it was some serious sight seeing at a Turkish coffee fuelled pace. For adventure, history and culture I can’t imagine anywhere that competes. Egypt is a bit like three vacations in one. You’ve got all the treasures of antiquity, worth any price to see once in your life. Then you’ve got a healthy dose of medieval Muslim caliphate, particularly the huge mosques and ancient markets of Cairo. On top of that you’ve got modern Egypt, the cultural heart of Islam, which provides a fascinating view of modern Arab society. It’s absolutely nuts. Especially Cairo.
Cairo has about 16 million inhabitants, 16 billion old polluting cars, skyscrapers, slums, and a 40 acre graveyard known as the city of the dead, cause poor folk make homes amongst the tombs. It has been the seat of power for Arab dynasties for most of the middle ages and the wealth funnelled into architecture is as impressive as any major European centre I’ve seen. Yet at the same time most modern buildings are sketchily constructed from mud brick and rebar, providing some creepy post apocalyptic vistas of skeletal structures with sharp rusty rebar fingers poking into the sky. It’s made the more spooky by the perpetual haze that hangs over everything. It’s hot and dirty in Cairo. Every colour is subdued by dust and pollution. But the bold dreams of greatness are still visible underneath the grime. Palm trees line many grand boulevards once designed by Colonial French Architects bankrolled by despotic playboy sheiks. Broad arching bridges cross wide expanses high above the Nile, leading to lush palatial Islands that were once home to Arab Caliphs. For a couple pounds you can enter the grounds of King Faruk’s temple, admire the brightly coloured birds flying amongst the tropical plants, then wander into the Kings hunting exhibit, where 99 dead antelope gaze down through fake glass eyeballs. Beneath the lifeless herd, a long wall of dusty display cases holds all manner of creatures, always two per species, a sort of formaldehyde Noah’s Ark. Storks and lizards and rhino, even a pair of lion lounge in a cardboard savannah. I was particularly impressed by the butterfly cupboard, donated by the president of Venezuela, who must have been chummy with old Faruk. Those butterflies were the shiniest thing I saw in Egypt. The other top attraction, as cleverly explained by our semi-literate Egyptian guide, was the hermaphrodite goat. Did you know that the universal sign for hermaphrodite requires such incredible finger dexterity that only fourteen people on earth have mastered the technique? Well, I think that’s what the guide meant, or else he wanted more Baksheesh. I tipped him handsomely.
The same urban planners who conceived Cairo’s modern centre neglected to add pedestrian crossings, so absolutely everyone wanders amongst the traffic. On first arrival it’s frightening. You can barely move for fear of being pounded by passing traffic. After a day or two you adapt and watch what the locals do, soon finding your step out amongst the blaring horns and belching buses. Soon enough, you’re a true traffic renegade, dancing between bumpers with dash and daring. The other notable characteristic of Egyptian traffic are the horns. Those horn bleeps are the heart beat of the city, steady and reliable day and night. Drivers will let rip at the slightest hint of impediment. It could be a long empty road with miles of space between you and passing traffic, but whether it’s out of courtesy or the joy of watching a tourist jump drivers will invariably sound a bleep on the way by. Egyptians don’t take a great deal of pride in their vehicles, most are complete shitboxes, but I’ll say this, the horn always works. A favourite aftermarket upgrade is the musical horn, which chirps out some classic tunes, such as It’s A Small World and The Macarena.
It might sound a little off-putting, being awash in noise, heat and pollution, but you’ve gotta accept the human soup and get on with it. Stepping out the door becomes an event, a simple walk is an adventure, and you soon you find a comfort zone. Amazingly, Cairo is not a dangerous city. There is almost no crime, particularly assault on tourists. I have a hunch that it’s because Sharia law dictates some serious punishment for criminals, like death by stoning or decapitation. Or maybe it’s just the social mores of the nation, violence is not tolerated by everyday people. And you get the impression that if something untoward was to occur a simple call for help would bring plenty of everyday people running to your aid. Rescue may cost a few coins in baksheesh, but so does everything else.
The main thing a tourist need worry about is business dealings. When Egyptians see your white skin they think $$$. They’ll sell you whatever trinkets or goods on offer at a price inflated to 10 or 20 times what a local would pay. This is the rule, not the exception. Prices are not marked, you haggle for everything, even food at the corner market. If a price is marked it’s likely at a shop for tourists where the stress of bargaining is removed in favour of constant theft. This type of economy is unlike anything you’ve ever come across, imagine having to argue for everything, as a consumer you’re always on the defensive. Thankfully there is a sliver lining. One British Pound is worth ten Egyptian. At that rate, 14 days accommodation, souvenirs, attractions and food is easily had for under 200 pounds. It’s no wonder western tourists are targeted, basic economics makes the poorest westerner a wealthy Egyptian.
As for the people themselves, it’s a bit of a mixed bag. Men dominate the workforce. Most shops and stalls will feature an elder man surrounded by a handful of underlings with seemingly little to do besides keeping the shopkeeper company. Whatever the venue, whether restaurant, train station or government office, there always seems to be 5 men for every one job, though only one will actually perform a given duty and usually at a very relaxed pace. Maybe the peaceful movements are to avoid sweating in the desert heat. The hangers-on enjoy a good stare and occasionally chirp in with some Arabic banter. In a good shop, the banter will result in laughter and broad grins. In a bad shop, the banter appears to have a more cutting edge, and elicits flourishes of dramatic gestures and excited Arabic babble. At the train station, I’m sure curses are invoked from everyone involved, though I just keep smiling. One day, a taxi driver told me that unemployment runs about 30%, which seems conservative. 
Women are not always kept hidden away, though they are all conservatively dressed by western standards. Only teenage girls in Cairo seem risqué enough to fashion western dress, the most daring sport blue jeans, boots and flowing silk blouses with head scarves. Lisa was more impressed by traditional styles. Bright colours and shimmering fabric make for attractive ensembles, though never in a suggestive manner. I don’t think I saw a single Arab woman with exposed forearms, and not many men. It was their winter though.
By far the most impressive aspect of public life is the obvious affection shown for children. Kids of all ages laugh and play without restraint, mixing with the crowds but never causing trouble. A father will walk Cairo’s posh shopping district with a daughter on his shoulders, a son on one side and wife on the other, proud as can be. The children are never isolated or coddled, they are exposed to the busy streets and often seem to run about on their own at a very young age (by our standards). A great many of the kids must live without material luxuries and possibly without a substantial diet (again by our standards). And yet, in all the time I was there, I never once saw a whiney crying child, even in the slums. They all seemed to smile. So what the hell are we doing to our kids that makes them such over dependent, manipulative lazybones? 
When you leave the busy streets of Cairo the landscape immediately changes. The same is true with all the settlements we passed through. Desert starts as soon as the irrigation ends. Green fields of sugarcane run right up against lifeless sand that stretches beyond the horizon. The river is all that sustains Egypt’s agrarian peasantry, as it has for 4000 years. It’s a window opn the past; you see donkey carts loaded with farm produce driven by shoeless children into town. Chickens and goats and dogs run loose between mud brick homes no bigger than a shed. Without the shade from tall palms it would be impossible to function, but the children don’t seem to mind the midday heat.
Tourism seems to be the only other industry of note. On the Red Sea Coast, foreign money has built thousands of resort hotels in the past 20 years, though you can’t really call it a real estate boom as sandy coastline is rather easy to come by. The sprawl is shocking in places, but it’s empty desert on the whole. We rode a bus from the port town of Safaga through Hurgahda and north to Suez. In 5 hours the view never changed, aside from the different pastel tones of each passing resort complex. Look right at the sparkling azure of the Red Sea, look ahead to a endless road on a flat desert plain, or look left to the old brown mountains that wall in the Arabian desert. It’s easy to imagine St. Francis coming hear 1800 years ago to live a monastic life high in the hills; if it’s emptiness and isolation you’re after there’s no better place.
We were both tired and ready for the comforts of home by the end of our fortnight. I won’t burden you with the awful details of our airport experience, let’s just say we won’t be flying Thomson Air anymore. But we’re back in England now. Sadly the tan dissappeared after a couple weeks. But I’m still finding sand in the strangest places. End of post.
ps: Egypt has come under attack from terrorists a number of times in the last decade. The most recent came a few days ago and killed or injured over 150 people, but most of which were domestic tourists. Prior to my Egyptian trip I would have lumped this bombing with those in London, Madrid and New York, but not now. I see it not as an attack on foreigners but on Egyptians themselves, principally their government. The damage done to their tourism industry will be massive, and for every lost tourist another citizen goes without a job. They can’t afford it, unemployment is much too high already. We complain about softwood lumber and pine beetles back home, buut it is laughable when compared to the poor peasentry I’ve seen wandering around Egypt. So I hope they can make it safe for travelers. The world doesn’t need more impoverished Arab nations. Don’t be scared away, it’s worth the effort, go see the pyramids.
First things first, arrive at the central fairground before 8:00am to beat the lineups. There are 10 massive tents to choose from, each representing a local brewery and each trying to outshine the next. Like choosing from a lineup of portapotties, one must carefully survey the competition, inspect the premises, sniff around a bit. And when you find the stall to your liking, plant yourself down and stay awhile. In our case, roughly 12 hours. Now you may be thinking, `12 hours at the same bench? that seems awfully long´ which is what I initially thought. But this is a time honoured tradition that dates back to the 1870´s, who am I to question? Thus we assumed our stations and introduced ourselves to Edith, the lovely Bavarian bar maid who would serve us, humour us, and catch us when we´re falling over the course of the day. Edith (pronouced E-Dit) is about 45 by our reckoning and was once a real beauty. She´s a bit grizzled these days, but her fitness is unmatched. I can´t imagine lugging 6 to 10 litres back and forth through a raucous beer hall without a break. Edith was the bomb.
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