Month: March 2010

Although we fly to Cairo at an ungodly hour tomorrow morning, we have yet to take a carriage ride around the streets of Luxor. Our hotel is on a back street, adjacent an outdoor cafe, and we have seen off duty carriages parked while their drivers partake of a coffee and play some sort of a board game. It is 9:30 P.M. when we wander over to a lone horse and carriage. A sports game of some sort is blaring on the small T.V. and the men at the cafe are absorbed with it. We speak with one man, disinterested and obviously not the driver of the carriage. We walk away, disappointed when moments later, Mohammad catches up with us, only too willing to forego the game on T.V. and make us his game for the evening. We negotiate a 30 minute carriage ride for $13.00 and try to pay him the money. He waves his hands and tells us “later, later!” We climb aboard the back seat and he maneuvers the carriage along the pot holed surface of the side street onto the main avenue that runs adjacent to the Nile River. The reassuring clip clop of the horses’ hooves upon the pavement is nostalgic and we relax into being the tourists that we are. We pass the Luxor Temple, aglow with lights, then veer down an urban throughway. Although it is nearly 10:00 P.M. the shops are still open and I wish that there had been a free afternoon to explore the city. Mohamed turns off of the main drag and within a few blocks we are maneuvering the narrow streets of the local market place. The small shops are packed full of merchandise. Shoes and kitchenware spill onto the street and colorful abayas are strung high across the narrow street. We trot past bakeries, fruit and vegetable stands, spice shops and tiny cafes. The pungent aroma from the food vendors fills the air. I take jiggly and blurred photos from our moving carriage, hoping to capture the energy and magic of the moment. My friend Stephanie is certified in traditional Chinese medicine and nutrition. The many herb and spice shops we pass are of interest to her and she asks Mohammed about them. Before long he stops the carriage, helps us down and escorts us into a tiny shop crammed floor to ceiling with jars and baskets of spices and herbs. I am unfamiliar with many of the items that Stephanie requests but I remember her asking for hibiscus flowers, saffron and vanilla. The merchant weighs out her various requests, sealing each item in a plastic bag, eventually disclosing the total of her bill. Although I am not knowledgeable about the value of these items, the price seems excessive and Stephanie negotiates a lesser amount. Everyone satisfied we return to the carriage, and I realize that we have been on this ride much longer than the 30 minutes that we negotiated. I assume that Mohammad will now take us directly back to our hotel, but he mentions food for the horse and we veer down another side street where there is a wagon laden with horse fodder. Mohammad loads 5 or 6 bales into the front of the carriage; feeds some to his horse and continues on. I sense that it must be past 11:00 P.M. and again assume that Mohammad is taking us back to our hotel, but we have made many twists and turns throughout the evening and I am disoriented. Recognizing some landmarks, I feel assured that we are heading back, but he makes another turn away from our hotel. We have told him several times that we need to get up early in the morning and I’m not sure if I say something, or just think it; but he asks if we are ready to go home. Within a few more turns we are back in front of our hotel and it is now time to pay up. It is 11:30 P.M. and we have been naive in believing that the drawn out carriage ride was simply time getting away from us all. We offer him what we believe is a generous amount; considerably more than what we agreed upon, but he rejects it; seemingly offended. He asks if we enjoyed the ride? We agree that evening has been delightful and ante up another $10.00. I don’t have change and he takes my bill; the equivalent of $20.00 and stuffs it into the pocket of his robe. He fusses with the horse, expecting that I will forget about the change due me, but I am insistent and eventually he hands me the change. Stephanie and I return to our hotel, exhausted and exhilarated from the evening. We have only a few hours to sleep before our flight to Cairo in the morning.

We have visited many temples over the past two days and they are beginning to blend together. Karnak however, is impressive and glorious in both its scale and it’s complexity. The temple has been restored and hundreds of immense columns stand in what was the great hall. In times past, these columns supported the roof and are richly decorated with carved relief. It is cool within the great hall, the columns sheltering us from the sun and their mass absorbing the heat of the day. I try to pay attention to our guide, but my mind and eyes wander to the perimeter of the temple where clusters of palms trees grow, silhouetted against the clear blue sky, mini oasis surrounding this ancient temple.

The 4:00 A.M. wake up call is earlier than I wish. I make it downstairs by 4:30, gulp a cup of weak coffee and board the bus. Our convoy of three busses stops at a checkpoint on the outskirts of Luxor to wait for our police escort. Two police cars accompany our busses on the two hour drive, north, to Dendara Temple. We arrive at the temple just minutes after sunrise and well before any other tour groups. The official who is to grant us this private, early morning entry has not yet arrived and Gary Young, gives us an emotional accounting of the temples’ significant history. Mary, Joseph and Jesus took refuge in the temples’ crypt when Jesus was three years old and Harrods army was pursuing them. The high priestess removed the capstone from the crypt and hid the holy family within. The temple was attacked and pillaged and the priestesses killed. Two weeks later, the Holy family emerged safely from hiding and Jesus fulfilled his prophecy.

It is just our group to enter the temple site and the morning light imparts a golden glow on the impressive facade. There is magic in the morning and the 4:00 A.M. wake up call is a small price to pay for this private visitation. We divide into our three groups to explore this vast temple and the two other groups vanish into the immense halls and dark sanctuary of the main temple. We begin our visit at the Temple of Isis, a small and richly decorated chapel at the south end of the temple grounds. Our group gathers within pressing up against the cool walls, ornately decorated with bas relief carvings and hieroglyphics. I am surprised that we are allowed to touch the carving upon the wall, but there are no restrictions and I run my fingers along the groves of the hieroglyphics and images. Some in our group begin to chant, hands raised towards the ceiling where sunlight streams in from small windows, dimly illuminating the patterns upon the walls. Others lie prone on the floor, or sit meditatively. The acoustics resonate with the vibrations of the chanting and I too sense an immense energy resonating from this sacred space.

We spend nearly 30 minutes within the Temple of Isis, eventually moving on and into the main temple of Hathor, where Hathor supposedly gave birth to Horus’s child. Immense, Hathor-headed columns rise 50 or 60 feet above us, supporting the temple roof. The intricately carved columns and reliefs were once vividly painted and still retain much of their color. We enter a dark sanctuary and snake up a long, narrow, stone corridor, richly embellished with reliefs and leading to the roof top. The corridor maze winds back upon itself several times, eventually opening onto several chambers where sacred rituals were preformed. An astrological ceiling is within one of these chambers; an intricately carved relief of the constellations, coated an iridescent black with centuries of soot from candles and ritual fires. I am fascinated and intrigued by the surroundings, but I feel a dark presence within these corridors and rooms. We exit onto the rooftop with a 380 degree view of the surroundings. It is nearly 9:00 A.M; the early morning glow of sunrise is gone and I see other tourists entering the temple grounds.

Our group has been granted a private visitation to the crypt where the Holy Family took refuge. Only 7 people at a time are allowed entry down into the narrow crypt. Gary Young has been within the crypt since we arrived, speaking to each group of 7 individually. The immense stone capstone has been removed from the floor and our group of 7 are helped down the narrow stairway and passageway into the crypt below. There are two wings to the crypt; each wing about 15 feet long and only 4 or 5 feet wide. Gary stands in one wing and gathers the 7 of us closely together to tell us the history of this sacred space. As a Christian, I am deeply moved by the spirit of the place and try to imagine what it might have been like for the Holy Family, to hide in this small crypt for nearly two weeks.

Back on the busses, we return to Luxor for an early lunch. We will visit Karnak Temple this afternoon.

Those of us who arrived late last night, missed last nights visit to the Luxor Temple and we go there after dinner. It is dramatically lit and probably best visited at night. I wander off on my own, along the avenue of sphinxes, and commune with these ancient guardians.

It is late afternoon and I am extremely hungry, but lunch is still a long way off. We have another stop at Habu Temple. I like this temple better than Hatshepsut. It isn’t as crowded and the bas relief paintings and hieroglyphics are deeply etched and more colorful than Hatshepsut. The days itinerary finished, we return to the hotel for dinner having skipped lunch entirely.

We drive towards Hatshepsut Temple, through baron and crumbling sandstone mountains, arriving at our destination at 11:00 A.M. The sun is blinding and the air hazy with dust and heat. Hatshepsut sits 3/4 mile away, an impressive three level temple, built into the mountains adjacent to the Valley of the Kings. The immense parking lot is situated 3/4 mile below the temple and dozens of tour busses are spitting out tourists. Achmed, our guide, gathers his charges together and herds us towards a line of waiting trolleys. We are trolled up the hill, deposited into another waiting area and eventually worm our way through a ticket kiosk and a security check point and into the temple grounds. I am having doubts about my decision to travel to Egypt with this group. Hatshepsut itself is impressive and I try to pay attention to our guide as he explains the history of this particular site. Interestingly enough, Hatshepsut reigned as King for 21 years, but was female. At the time she took the throne, there was not a suitable male heir, and she dressed as a man, wore a beard and reigned strong for 21 years until turning power over to a nephew, who had come of age. The hieroglyphics and architecture is fascinating and I enjoy taking photos, but there are far too many tourists interfering with my compositions.

It is 1:00 P.M. before we are back on the bus, and begin our drive to the Valley of the Kings. Tutankhamum has just been returned to his tomb, after vacationing at the Cairo museum, where he was examined and it was determined that the young king had died of malaria. This site is not as crowded as the Hatshepsut Temple and I am anxious to see Tutankhamum tomb. It is a short hike up a dusty canyon to his tomb and our guide points to the ridge crest above. There is a formation that resembles a reclining pharaoh, hands crossed upon his chest. He tells us that the tomb site was chosen because of this formation, and I question him? I suggest that in 3500 years, erosion may have changed the topography. The adjoining gullies and washes are filled with crumbling sandstone boulders and although the image of a pharaoh can be imagined now, I doubt if this was the reason that the sight was chosen. So, Daddy…true or false? (My father has since answered my question. Apparently, 3500 years is nothing in geological time, making it quite possible that the reclining pharaoh was indeed discernible in the rocks some 3500 years ago.)

We descend into the tomb, and the chambers seem surprisingly small. The painting above the sarcophagus is a grid of 12 brightly painted baboons. The hieroglyphics and paintings are rich with gold paint and the famous sarcophagus, encrusted with lapis, enamel and gold, is entombed in a glass box. At the opposite side of the chamber, Tutankhamun, sleeps, under a cream cloth, his blackened mummified head and shrunken feet, protruding from the cloth. Remarkable.

Sixty two tombs have been discovered in the Valley of the Kings and we have just 30 minutes left at this location. Stephanie, Sandy and I hurry to visit the Tomb of Ramses VI. The corridor leading to the burial chamber and the vaulted ceiling of this large tomb are decorated with ornate hieroglyphics, symbolic accounts of the journey into the underworld. With a few minutes remaining we trudge up the dirt road to one more tomb, equally ornate and impressive with it’s splendid hieroglyphics and paintings.

It is nearly 11:00 P.M. when I arrive at our hotel in Luxor and Stephanie is relieved to see me. She knew that I was determined to go into Cairo on my own and has been slightly worried. We walk up to the roof top of our hotel and catch up on the days events before turning in for the night.

I am awakened from my short night’s sleep to the morning call to prayer. In my mind it is the hotel’s clever wake up call and I believe it to be 6:30 A.M. I get up quietly, only to discover 15 minutes later that it is only 5:00 A.M. I try to go back to sleep but am unable to drift off. Another call to prayer echoes in the grey dawn and I get up, tiptoe out of the room and take the elevator to the rooftop. I am still wearing my sleep t-shirt and my Bali lounge pants and I am a little embarrassed to find two other sunrise watchers already there. The Moser Hotel is 8 stories high and I look down on the flat roof tops of the surrounding buildings. Hundreds of dirty satellite discs, all with their faces raised to the satellite god, stand sentry on the rooftops. Skinny forlorn dogs wander amid the debris and trash that is scattered upon the rooftops. The unremarkable skyline is defined by several skinny spires and a salmon glow warms the dirty haze. A sliver of the sun pierces the grey and soon an orange ball floats fully round on the horizon.

Breakfast is at 7:00 A.M. and the weak coffee and sticky white rice and beans are less than appealing. I pass on the platefuls of pastries and wait in a long and inefficient line for a greasy omelet. Gary Young, the CEO of Young Living holds an orientation meeting and the 108 of us are divided into three groups, and then smaller groups of 10 each. (Unfortunately, the tour group has grown from 60 people to over 100.) We are identified by name tags and color coded cords. I hang my red corded name tag around my neck and join the red group on bus number 3.

As we drive towards the Khan-al Khalili, Ernesto asks if I would like to drink some Turkish coffee and smoke a water pipe? I tell him that that I would like that and he tells me that it will cost about $20.00 I tell him that I am out of money which is the truth, since I have only exchanged one hundred U.S. dollars. Between the $40 paid to the taxi kiosk in the hotel and what I have handed over to Ernesto for entrance fees and parking, I am tapped out. He contemplates that and we eventually pull over on a side street in the crowded Islamic district. He passes a folded bill to a man who takes the car and parks it at a tilt in an impossibly small space. I worry since my computer is in my back pack upon the back seat, but since it is broken and I don’t want to carry it into the souk, I trust to fate. The old souk is colorful and small open shops line the narrow passages. Cheap goods spill out into the walkways. Brass and tin lamps, pitchers and tea sets are crammed into tiny open shops. Other shops sell brightly patterned wall hangings, woven rugs and and tapestries. There are book shops as well as the usual array of cheap t-shirts and tourist junk. Some of the narrow walkways are paved with ornate Islamic tile and others with small cobble stones. There are many cafes in this district and Ernesto chooses one just off the main passageway and tells me he will treat me to the coffee. We sit across from each other, a small brass table between us. He orders two Turkish coffees and an apple flavored water pipe for us to share. Another man sits alone at the table beside us and it is instantly obvious to him that I am a tourist. He speaks to Ernesto in Egyptian and then to me in English. I learn that he is American and a distributor of water pipes within the U.S.A. We are served the Turkish coffee and it is thick, sweet and strong. The waiter next brings the water pipe and sets it on the floor beside our table and takes two sterile mouth pieces from sealed plastic wrappers and attaches them to the pipe. The American has determined that I am a novice and advises me to just take a couple of puffs from the pipe. I appreciate his advice and cautiously draw on the pipe. The smoke is cool and tastes of apple. Ernesto and the American converse in Egyptian while I sip my coffee slowly and breath in the exotic landscape surrounding me. Ernesto finishes the pipe and goes inside to pay the bill. In his absence, the American tells me that Ernesto thinks that I am a stubborn woman. I imagine that something was lost in translation, and I surmise that the coffee and hookah cost only a few dollars, not the $20.00 that Ernesto was lobbying for in addition to the the money I had previously handed him. Upon returning to the car, I am happy to find my back pack with all its contents intact. The return drive to the hotel seems to take longer than before, but perhaps it is just an illusion induced by an overly full bladder.

Stephanie and I wake at 6:45 A.M. and enjoy the hotels breakfast buffet. There are 4 flights to Luxor today and Stephanie is on the early one. My flight to Luxor leaves at 8:45 tonight, which gives me the entire day in Cairo. I simply need to escape the gilded cage of this luxury hotel. The powers to be on this tour seem intent on keeping us captive, and this morning, upon overhearing a woman in our group say that we are not allowed to leave the hotel, I slip away. There is a taxi kiosk within the hotel and I inquire about hiring a taxi and driver to take me into Cairo. Within 10 minutes, I have handed over $40.00 and am walking to the curb with Ernesto, my driver. He is 31 years old, handsome and I will learn that he is not as honest as his name implies. He maneuvers the taxi at break neck speeds through morning traffic; 45 minutes into the City. We slip in between lanes of cars with just inches to spare on either side. Horns honk and there are no distinct lanes. I reflect on morning drives to school with my 17 year old son John, and wonder which is the more stressful commute? Ernesto’s English is passable, and baring a traffic collision, I feel safe. He asks about my family and I regret that I don’t have photos of Alisha and Molly on my I phone. I do have photos of Art and John from our trip to the Galapagos and I share these with him. Ernesto uses his English, or lack of English to his advantage. He speaks of the entrance fees charged to enter the Citadel, the Mosques, and the cost of parking. He talked about the government shops and how their prices are fixed with no commission given to the guides; implying that he will give me a straight deal. I learn that there was an incident last night in Cairo and that there is protesting downtown that we must avoid. I am not interested in going downtown, unless it is to look for a computer shop, but decide that this will be impossibly complicated and dangerous. (not because of the protestors, but because I am certain that whatever computer decision I make will be the wrong one, and extremely expensive.)

The cityscape on either side of our speeding car is punctuated with spires and domes silhouetted in the bright morning haze of this immense and smoggy city. Our first stop is the Citadel, a glorious mosque perched atop a hill overlooking all of Cairo. Its smooth dome reflects the sunlight and its spires reach skyward. Ernesto asks me for $250 Egyptian pounds, the equivalent of $50. He tells me this will cover all of my entrance fees, his half price entrance fees and the parking for the day. I immediately know that I am about to be taken and reluctantly hand over $300 Egyptian pounds (lacking exact change.) The entrance fee to the Citadel for a tourist is just $50 Egyptian pounds and I watch as Ernesto slips bas-shish (tips) to parking attendants and gate keepers throughout the day. He buys me a requested bottle of water and a mango juice that I don’t want. There is a $25 pound charge into one of the mosques, but in the end, Ernesto keeps the change, giving himself a substantial tip. I am hesitant to write this, since I know it is making Art squirm, but I let it go and enjoy the luxury of being out and about with a private guide. The view from the Citadel would be breathtaking if not for the pollution. I have packed a cut velvet scarf with beading at both ends and cover my head when we enter the mosques. The scarf seemed to meet with Ernesto’s approval and he adjusts it upon my head and smiles. He insists on taking photos of me every few minutes, assuming that this was what I want. I am eventually able to make him understand that I don’t want photos of myself in front of every landmark but wish to take my own photos of the mosques, their ornate grills and their beautifully carved doors. The Citadel is a walled complex of mosques and museums and we spend the better part of two hours there. At one back gated entrance, security guards question Ernesto at length before admitting us. When we retrace our steps, he instructs me to say that he is a friend of my husband, should anyone ask. We return to the car and drive into a Christian district. A locked gate swings open, money exchanges hands and we drive into a Christian cemetery, crypts lining the narrow dirt road. Children play in the road and women wearing Hijaabs (head coverings) and Abayas (traditional long dresses) walk the narrow dirt labyrinths between the crypts. I learn later, that many of these people live there, for shelter and to watch over the graves of their ancestors. We park and walk into a Christian compound with a church honoring Saint George and the Dragon. The area is not particularly picturesque, and I am amused at the crude contemporary paintings and mosaics of St. George and the dragon. Ernesto seems disappointed that I am not more enthused, but I am anxious to move onto the Khan-al Khalili, the market place in old Islamic Cairo.

Last night, when I plug in my notebook computer, I hear a soft pop and a whine and the screen goes blank. I try several times to restart it, but it has suffered a brain aneurism. There is no green light when I plug in the charger, just an ominous yellow light. I am very disappointed that I will not have use of the computer during this trip and will have to write my blog when I return home.