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Showing posts with label egypt. Show all posts
Showing posts with label egypt. Show all posts
Thursday, 3 October 2024
Moody: the works
Essays
Glanglish - all with audio versions
Travel writings
Moody's Black Notebook Travels - new post
Novels
Friday, 15 May 2020
1990 Egypt IV: Alexandria, Wadi El Natrun, Suez
6.3.90 Alexandria
Up to look at the grey-green sea from my balcony. Too early for breakfast: so I start on "Balthazar" – the perfect way to begin an Alexandrian day… Breakfast is served in a small room off the main dining room, the same white, the same classical frieze, the high-backed chairs with their woven patterns.
A walk along the corniche west out to the fort, beside which I sit – gleaming white stone. It is sunny, with a soft blue sky, fringed by a few clouds – typical: I have put on my trusty vest, a t-shirt, checked shift, New Zealand pullover and jacket, and so now I am too hot… Lovely stiff breeze off the see: smells so clean – I must learn to sail this year… On the way here the concrete squares of the pavement show clearly where the sea habitually leaps the barrier: the gravel shows through as the binding is eaten away… An image from yesterday: as we pull out of Ramses Station, a man urinating against a wall. It reminds me of Canaletto's boy peeing against the Rialto bridge. It is good to smell and hear the sea again: my island roots betray themselves.
Along the corniche, the houses fronting the sea look very French, very Côte d'Azur, very (but how do I know?) Beirut before it became urban hell. Into the fort – a wonderful decrepit naval museum. Best thing is the sound of the wind whistling through the halls – just as it did in the Pharos… To Pastroudi's – an upmarket version of Groppi's. For some reason I sit outside under the awnings – even though it is thundering, with sporadic rain. Also, I am deafened by the bleedin' car horns passing.
Alexander does feel different. I keep wanting to speak Greek – I've seen one taverna elleniko already – along with a wonderful sign – for a doctor, presumably - offering "skin, VD and sex"… Sounds very Durrell. The which I shall read, appropriately enough. The sun has come out – and fortuitously I catch it between the awnings. Yellow and black, and orange and black taxis go by like huge wasps and bees, but for me their sting is in their horn. You can tell this is a commercial city by the ratio of cabs to private cars [damn these horns – they are like bloody children: one one starts, they all join in. I preferred it in Ligeti's opera.]
At least Durrell has told me what the ubiquitous clover-like fodder is called – confirmed by the encyclopedic Blue Guide. "Birsim/bercim" – aptly enough, Trifolium alexandrinum. I forgot to mention the huge conical piles of fruit near my hotel: two feet high of blood-red strawberries, oranges, impossible vertiginous shapes.
I have just eaten at Al Ekhlaas – very upmarket, very nice fish – excellent tehina and baba ghanoush. The room done out in Moorish style: perforated brass chandeliers, with extraordinary glass lamps – looking like enormous blue condoms, teat and all. Place practically deserted, even though it is 2pm – Alexandrians eat late. Interesting weather: sun, rain, clouds, wind – but the dust is my enemy, and reduces me to tears of blindness.
In a way, Alexandria is the New York of Egypt: a frenetic, cosmopolitan melting pot. There is a style of schmaltzy music that belongs to the 60s and the Pink Panther/Euro chic ambience, long lost. It was an era when playboys and their belles were 30-45 years old, and Europe was the height of chic. Could it come again? As the baby boomers age to 30-45, so Europe could again be fashionable – the spas, the old capitals of Eastern Europe. Perhaps the music will return too. Even I find an insidious charm in its sheer naiveté.
Dropped off by the taxi at Pompey's Pillar, I walk to Kom el Shoqafa – through very dodgy streets – they remind me of the backstreets of Palermo. Real poverty. Sheep tethered in the streets – general feel like Kathmandu. Now I sit in the banqueting hall of the catacombs – c-razy. Celebrating the dead with a meal. Name means "Mound of Shards", from the potsherds left over from the banquets.
In the Caracalla Hall: the young men said to be killed in revenge for an insult offered by them to the emperor in 215 AD. Lovely friable sandstone, with strata at 45 degrees. Easy to get lost… The stacked burial chambers like a huge honeycomb. To the side of the main chapel – long gallery of honeycombs – with planks across the water like Venice in flood: does Peter Greenaway know about this place…? Very precarious walking along these long planks – they bend so… it is like walking over the Styx. The silence is heavy, thick, claustrophobic. This mania for burial everywhere in Egypt, of hiding the dead. Walking stooped, the planks thudding as they rise and fall on the stones supporting them.
The main tomb quite crude – Greek and Egyptian elements, from behind, an eerie cool breeze. Crude Hathors, Horus – like maskers dressed up for a ball. Thoth looking like a toucan… And dressed in Roman soldier's garb. Turning around, yes, there are the ridiculous figures: Sabek and Anubis, holding spears, dressed as Roman soldiers, looking across the entrance to each other like some erstwhile Morecambe and Wise double-act.
Outside here, two other ghoulish statues, one a woman, one a curly-headed man with a furrowed brow and a Messerschmidt-like stare… I am quite alone here, the only sound the scratching of my failing pen across the paper as I awkwardly write standing up…
Back to Pompey's Pillar – large, and largely pointless. A couple of sphinxes, a few bits of rubble: it sums up Alexandria's attitude really… Real souk near here – lots of sunshades – just like Canaletto's Venice. As I learn a little more Arabic – a word here, a word there – I become conscious of the expansion of my empire. But language is an ambivalent tool: it is that of obedience as well as command.
Out for a walk in the dusk. Fine evening – but for the wind, easterly now, and its attendant dust. Lots of anglers along the coast – I always worry about the fly-back of their hooks in such circumstances. I walk east, turn, then back past the Cecil. Eastwards there are numerous forlorn-looking restaurants; westwards, forlorn-looking hotels; perhaps it all bucks up in summer. Now it has that pleasantly elegiac out-of-season feeling. For no reason, I think of America, and its lack of comprehension of this kind of charming seediness.
Past the war memorial, inland towards Tahrir Square. I have no map, but follow my feet and nose. I pass along bustling streets, wares brightly lit as ever. Some stalls a few pieces of sweetmeats, for a few piastres. How do they survive? And who are all these men in the cafés by day – what job do they do?
Ah, the muezzin again. Back in the dining room. Another full bottle of wine tonight – this time, a red: "Omar Khayyam". Rather nice. It seems appropriate to Alexandria and its hedonism. Omar slightly watery – I have drunk five glasses so far…
7.3.90 Alexandria
I am beginning to lose track of the days. After breakfast, out along the corniche, west again to Al Silsileh. The clouds of dawn had cleared, leaving a huge blue dome. The fort looked attractive around the harbour. I have booked a taxi – for which I wait in the Metropole – to go out to Wadi El Natrun: E£90. Probably a rip-off, but it is hard to get worked up over £10 – the wrong attitude, I know.
I feel like Proust with his driver – well, in some respects – touring Normandy. Talking of Proust, it is interesting to compare him with Durrell since both are obsessed with love. Where Proust takes a few key incidents and pores over them in infinite detail, building towards a coherent whole, Durrell seems content to pile on more details, more incidents, unworried by the contradictions or opacities. This is the thing about Proust: his striving for clarity, even – and hence – in his long, snaking sentences. They also differ from James's endlessly nested clauses, the product of a profoundly cautious man. His costiveness is a beautiful emblem of his art.
Opposite me, at the Strand Cinema, a garish poster for "RoboForce". Robocop, I presume. Last night, I saw several women in full veils, with only slits for the eyes. They looked like mummies or victims of terrible accidents. It sent a chill through me to meet them like this, so unexpectedly, in Alexandria of all places. Passing a shop last night, an image of a women with a tube of lipstick in her mouth, pointing outwards its great red bud. Surely an image impossible in the Freudianised West?
A stunningly attractive woman passes the window; but her pullover has tassels – two over her nipples: she has obviously never watched "The Graduate". She walks along with sublime innocence. An albino youth – tight curly white hair, bright pink skin – enters the hotel and takes the lift, a being from another planet. The receptionist in her little cubicle constantly repeats: "Hallo, aiwa, aiwa…"
We soon leave Alexandria behind, then cross Lake Mariout, surrounded by reeds and glistening water. Looks like East Anglia, Snape. Newspaper sellers in the middle of the road – but amidst roaring traffic. (NL), (S) and even (B) – upside down – (CH) nationality stickers on cars. Two wrecked cars in the middle of the road in the last ten minutes. The sea to my right has a puce tinge – pollution presumably. A dovecot like a huge clay pepper pot. The main Alexandria-Cairo road. For the first time, I see traffic cops pulling someone in for speeding – the maximum for cars is 100 km/h. In Asyut, there was the body of a man by the railway track. Onlookers gawped. Rather dull landscape, very flat, scrubby bushes, trees, odd village, a factory. Greenery half-hearted. Long, straight road. Real desert now, distant hills to the west. After 90 minutes and 100 kilometres. Wadi El Natrun is dusty and barren. Some of the water seems to show the salt.
To Anba Bishoy Monastery. 147 monks, 22 novices according to the monk who has been explaining things to me, dressed in black, with an embroidered head covering. Alas, no Coptic manuscripts – he gently suggested there might be some in Britain… Some painting by the door – 1977, done by bloke from Cairo. Small, enclosed feel. Twelfth-century keep, entered via drawbridge – the bleached and worn pulley still over the door. [Apparently Coptic is still spoken in some parts of Upper Egypt – near Qena, the man said.] The paintings had Greek characters, but it was Coptic. Next to the keep, the steeple (modern) and done with curious quintuple crosses – joined at base to form a pyramid of them.
Inside the main church, after removing shoes – to walk on rush mats or carpets. A beautifully simple interior, unadorned plaster walls, barrel vaulting. Wonderful old chandeliers, like something out of an old country house. Arabic graffiti scratched on the walls. Old wooden pulpit, worm-eaten. A simple hanging beneath it. To the main sanctuary with its iconostasis – the 12 apostles and others. Crude light bulbs on the wooden cross above. The body (covered) of Bishoy. From behind, the separating curtain a strange sound: they are vacuum-cleaning the main sanctuary. They offer visitors tea… No charge, but a donation…
To the Syrian Monastery – shut from 12noon to 3pm – because stricter here. Goats scrabbling around salty water – like Hunt's "The Scapegoat". Turn off is near the new Sadat City, for Monastery of Saint Macarius the Great. Long, straight road – looks like an army camp of citadel – big. Closed until Easter. I am sitting in the gatehouse, on beautiful blue chairs – with light-blue painted wooden arms – the rest house. An aircraft roars noisily overhead. Flies are everywhere. Cloudy sky, air quite cool. I eat the monks' bitter bread, and drink their tea (Ceylon) – a secular Eucharist. Also I am given a phial of holy oil...but I notice that it is in a Bayer tube…
This reminds me of Lake Dal.
The monk would accept no money. I've realised what the driving here reminds me of – with no signalling, overtaking left and right: go-kart racing, with similar tolerances for error.
Back in Alexandria, I rush to the bookshop – only to find it closed. And I notice that it is built over the position of the tomb of Alexander himself – the Soma. I sit now in the Roman amphitheatre – small but reasonably perfectly-formed. Reminds me of Epidaurus. Egyptian – and Indian – cinema posters are in a time warp: their heroes are in their 40s, and the heroines are ladies of ample charms in their 30s – really 1960s stuff. Pink Panther again. The trouble with the sea here is that it just sort of happens: corniche then harbour. No use is made of it as in English seaside towns. Even the seats are placed between the road carriageways. A glorious afternoon – sky nearly clear, the odd cloud galleon, air fresh.
Along to the Cecil for tea. What a waste of space. I sat there for 15 minutes – nothing; I left. Interestingly, so did two other visitors – young ladies there for pretty much the same reason as me, I would hazard. So to my trusty Metropole instead, watching from my window seat.
In opening and closing the high windows and shutters on to my balcony, there is that characteristic bang of wood and glass, followed by the squeak as the rods turn and the fastening hook engages.
It is very strange: I find it hard to connect now, being here in Alexandria, with my time in Upper Egypt; it is as if the latter were a previous, unrelated trip. And this is how I hoped it would fall out – the different Egypts subtly but hermetically separated.
It is an interesting experience reading Durrell here and in such concentration – I have just finished "Balthazar". He becomes almost oppressive with Darley's constant whinings and whimperings about "Love" and "Truth"; but the fluency of the writing impresses. It is a warning to me perhaps: against such archetypally "fine" writing, the striking image, the calculated metaphor.
Do the bobbles of wool that come off a jumper have an official name?
Curious: there is an aerial lead lying dead on the floor of my room, its wire vanishing out through the door; what happened to the TVs – referred to by old von Haag? Outside, a maid or attendant passes by in a splendid jingle of Keys (why the cap? - "The Keys"…) At the catacombs yesterday, some chappie asked me my profession: "writer" I said without thinking. I wonder… Perhaps Alexandria - and Durrell – are affecting me in this.
To dinner. I shall never be able to hear King Lear's "If she must teem, Create her child of spleen" without thinking of the local 7-up substitute "Teem" – and of Egypt. Another effect of Durrell: I have been thinking about my friends a lot, and looking forward to seeing them. Egypt has taught me one thing for sure: the indelible, terrifying stupidity of flies – they learn nothing – no matter how many times you flick them off, they return, indefatigable.
8.3.90 Alexandria
Even early in the morning, there are the horns. Their timbres and chords vary enormously. Some sound like samples: for example, I have heard the final chord of Prince's "The Cross", as well as the stabbing chord in Janet Jackson's "What have you done for me lately?" Again, I woke with a very present sense of the books to write in the next couple of years.
It is noticeable that no two people ever eat a boiled egg in the same way.
A dull, overcast morning. As the corniche sweeps round to the fortress it is swathed in a blurring mist. Quite attractive really. In the building opposite, hitherto apparently dead, a woman hangs out her smalls. Last night, after dinner, I took a long stroll through the streets. Half of Alexandria seemed to be out, taking their passeggiata. It felt quite festive. To the Museum of Antiquities today. The contrasts in weather here have been useful too in sealing it off from the rest of my Egyptian experiences. I feel that travelling is something you learn and improve at by practice: I feel Egypt is my first Dan… It is amazing the number of buildings here that are based Venetian palazzi in style.
What a palaver. I am losing my wonted composure. Primo: changing money. To the Bank of Alexandria, opposite the hotel – normally OK; but not this time: I must go to the main branch. Which I do – like something out of the 1930s, clerks everywhere, ledgers ditto. I must go upstairs. First to one window, then to another. Finally, for some reason best known to themselves, I must go to yet another branch. Which I do. To the ground floor, then upstairs. Finally someone changes the bleedin' money.
Secondo: I go along to the bookshop. It is closed, but two men turn up and begin unlocking it, smiling at me. First they take off the restraining bar, then the padlock, then unbolt the door – perhaps the Soma is here. Then one man enters, takes a package, and starts to lock up again. I remonstrate. They mutter some Arabic at me: "closed". They are still smiling as the walk off. Bastards. No bleedin' book, obviously.
Terzo: to the Graeco-Roman Museum, a classical facade painted a vague sort of Pompeiian colour. The swines won't let me take my bag with me – I have to carry all my junk. Swines twice over. I am not in a good mood.
The museum itself is pleasant enough – at first glance, any way. I feel immediately at home amidst these herms and torsos. 6: the Aris bull – very impressive. Serapis – a factitious god, made to consolidate an empire. 7: usurped (ha!) figure by Ramses II – the Moses connection is interesting – on the sceptre the Princess Hut-ma-ra – supposedly she found Moses. NB: for the Egyptians, the Israelites were just another minor tribe. But the Old Testament -through Judaism, Christianity and Islam - has shaped the world. 8: a horrible Ptolemaic coffin, grinning like something out of Lewis Carroll, a Pharaonic Tweedle-dum. Eerie plaster masks placed over Romans. Roman soldier's mummy – thick swaddling – but the toes peek out as if from a plaster cast. Very elaborate diamond criss-cross swaddling.
10: eerie X-ray of dwarf's mummy. Mummy of a baby – with weird miniature adult mask. 12: some odd but striking heads: Ptolemy VI – noseless, with hollow, melancholy eyes, his crown like a jar of water balanced on his head… Fine anonymous bearded head – the striations in the rock are picked up in the seep of the beard and in the leftward lines; he looks like a wanderer, out in the storm, enduring. I would like to nick this… Strange crumbling statue – Egyptian posture - of Ptolemy I – a surprised old man.
16: strange, detached forearm with ball, rising up like the Lady of the Lake with Excalibur. 16A: figure of Berenice and daughter – looking like a Henry Moore seated figure, the limestone beautifully craggy. 17: glorious piece of porphyry, smouldering like a dull, red-hot coal. It looks as if it is liquefying. I would like also this. Some of the exhibits here are wrapped in the typical plastic of restoration. Reminds me of Venice for some reason.
18A: a huge concrete repaired rent in the wall looks like the map of Italy. Lovely statuette of actor with tragic mask – a big nose like Mr Punch. Amazing collection of female heads show wide range of ancient hairstyles. Some look very 18th-century. It would be interesting (slightly) to chart the recurring cycles of hairstyles through history. 20: God Bes – of "fun" – who became god of war – ho-hum. Two flutes made of bone: re-construct them? Memories of the Getty… Treasure Room: a sad and hangdog figure, big nose and fat neck. The coins displayed in vertically swivelling cases. Lovely silver torso of Venus – very sensual, very callipygous…
5: clay sarcophagi like huge pairs of shoes. Christian stuff - so crude. A mummy with a black cross at the neck. Obscene relief of Leda and the swan – it looks as if she has a giant goldfish between her legs. Above, another one – with the swan pecking her nipple while she holds an egg… The god Bes – looking like an alien. The garden is quite pleasant in a jumbled soft of way – reminds me of the scene in "Belly of an Architect". And that is that.
Bleedin' bookshop definitely closed. Back to Pastroudi's – coffee and cakes – what the hell. The sky clearing; hot. The cakes are lethal; plastic cream unfortunately. One, a rum baba kind of affair, was good; the chocolate cake far too sickly. A man with a barrow-load of ice has passed, each pillar with a curious cross-section of diagonals.
There are noticeably more beggars here than elsewhere, especially cripples, just lying prone and helplessly. Also a boy the other day, with no legs, scooting around on a cart. Straight out of Breughel. At the next table, a late middle-aged man, wearing characteristically dusty brown pinstripes; his right hand wears a black glove. Pastroudi's is quite full out here now; Thursday, the day before the Muslims' Friday.
Just down from where I sit, a building split in two at ground level – one a shop named only in Arabic – and hence a mystery to me – the other three curtained-off windows. Between, the sad remains of a pediment and ornate ironwork canopy. The entrance is crudely bricked up, brown-black. At the level of the pediment, to the left, the triglyphs remain; to the right, above the be-Arabicked awnings, concrete and grills. Above both of these, stretching right across the whole facade, is a row of classical balustrades. Once they fronted balconies. Now they give onto a roof, doubtless piled with Egyptian debris, as I saw in Cairo. Between the balustrades are truncated round Doric pillars with simple bases. There are also four square pilasters, with more Corinthian capitals. Behind ruined walls, their scratched and grey faces like excavated frescoes of an ancient Roman palace.
A car horn quotes from Walton's first symphony – the first movement. I have been reading here at Pastroudi's for over an hour, watching the sky clear and cloud, reading about Mountolive. What could be more civilised? Did Byron ever visit Alexandria? I feel he should have done. I must re-read "Don Juan" – and get to know the letters.
Yesterday, from my windowed eyrie at the Metropole, I watched as a young man's gazed swivelled, spellbound, to follow the passage of a moderately-attractive young woman.
The more I use von Haag's book, the more I like it. I realise now that most guide books – even Lonely Planet – are too "objective" and impersonal. What you want is a kind of hyper-Lorenzetti crammed a diary of travel. You want the facts coupled with a personalisation of everything – a judgement that allow you to relate to the objects in a way that a "pure" comprehensive guidebook cannot.
Anyway, following von Haag, I sit in the Mustafa Darwish restaurant on the corniche. Not touristy – at least, not for Westerners – but they are where in Alexandria? No English menu. Also – the first time I've seen it – waitresses. Quite smart inside, if slight gaudy. Egyptian music just about winning against the traffic thundering by outside – and von Haag says sit outside, if nice… Hilarious plastic gladioli on the table, sick yellow and candy-floss pink. The head waitress has pantomimically heavy eye make-up – pink and blue, like war paint.
An amazing meal – god knows what it will do to my guts. First, a real vegetable soup. Then: tehina, baba ghanoush, tomato and onion, potatoes, beetroot, olives and peppers for salads, fish – a kind of trout, grilled with curry, rice with kidneys, a thin meat pasty, and chips. Sybaritic? Me? Tempted as I am by the fruit concoction, I shall be wise. Fish brilliant; tehina addictive; rest good. And so to coffee...and to "Mountolive". Coffee nutty and not too sweet or aromatic. Served in one of this little white cups and saucers – whose topology is odd in that the handle is blind, with no hole, but solid and filled in.
The other day I saw Stravinsky walking down the street, slowly, as frog-like as ever, dressed dapperly in a waistcoat and hat – not bad for his age – 100 odd? Alexandria seems filled with such cosmopolitans, traders from Smyrna, Sevastopol, old sea captains from Piraeus. Opposite me now is an old man, quite corpulent, smoking languorously, with a younger woman (50-ish), imperious in his orders to the waitress ("aiwa?" she answers quickly to his call). Meanwhile, the same female singer swoops and keens her augmented seconds…
Durrell's book – especially in "Mountolive" – does emphasise the extraordinary position of the Copts in Egypt – the true heirs, the Welsh, those who remained true to their heritage; whereas the Arab-speaking Muslims are the English, the invaders, those who have compromised with the imperialists…
A long walk three-quarters of the way around the corniche to the fort. I sit now just west of the mosque on the first seat by the sea – how poorly the Alexandrians use the sea front. Why seats here? True, the view is splendid: fort 90 degrees to my left, with the fleet of fishing boats in front. From in front of me to the right, the coast of Alexandria – my hotel neatly at 135 degrees, and in the sun. The sun lowers and catches the sterns – mostly green – of the boats. Gulls circle overhead. Just over the promenade walk (low), what looks like bleached ribs of an old boat. Plus litter – everywhere. Old car tyres lie at the sea's margin like mutant jellyfish. The wind is getting up, pulling waves off the surface of the sea like tufts of hair. The wind and its bad friend, dust: my enemies, the evil spirits that will drive me from Alexandria. I must have the only pair of contact lenses in the city.
The naval fort like a fairy-tale castle, crenellated, glinting white. Youth always takes to the new if only because there at least it is on equal terms with maturity. The city front like superior corrugated cardboard. Men standing in their boats as if to attention, waiting for the admiral's review.
I must get a copy of "A Partial India" bound when I do "The Weekly Essay" – both as presents to myself. The sky is clearing beautifully – the clouds being pulled back to the south like a curtain. Another Balinese revelation: there I understood the International Dateline; now I see why the Mediterranean has no high or low tides – even though it is as big as an ocean. Because it is closed.
A brisk walk back to the hotel, they sky tinged with orange. 6 o'clock strikes; I have just paid the bill of E£230 for four nights, including three dinners, and laundry. Pretty good. I now sit in my world-watching seat, hoping for a tea, about to plunge back into an older Alexandria.
A curious experience. One delight I have been looking forward to in re-reading "The Alexandria Quartet" was coming cross the word "nacreous" again – it was here that I first encountered it. Being on page 496, and not finding it yet, I flipped back to the beginning, half-convinced it was there. No luck. So I continue with my reading. Literally seven worlds later, there it is – ha! Another car-horn tune: the Smiths' "The Queen is dead"…
To the dining room for the last time – first there again. Freesias on the table. I smell them – the smell of childhood for some reason… Most of us build empires – through marriage, family, friends, work, etc. Perhaps writers and artists are the most megalomaniacal: they seek to colonise the hearts and minds of millions. Writing style might be characterised as wet or dry. Wet styles can be squeezed drier; dry styles fit words together like stones of the Great Pyramid: not even a knife could slip between them. Durrell is very wet; guess which I would like to be?
Although many poets have painted, and vice versa, there have been very few painter-musicians. Mendelssohn, Schönberg are the only two that spring to mind.
The bubbling smile and happiness of the Coptic monks…
The sight of big, butch men holding hands in the street like four-year-olds…
9.3.90 Alexandria
As I come down to breakfast for the last time here, a wonderfully steaming smell of youth hostels. I begin to tire of Durrell. I don't really care any more about the perennially-deceitful Hosnani et al. "The Alexandria Quartet" is perhaps too long, or needed to be read over years as it came out.
In the 7.50am train to Cairo, waiting… I thought I had a seat in the non-smoking car...it appears not. Perhaps that is the quintessential smell of Egypt: cheap cigarettes. Everybody smokes. And while many other countries have many smokers, they seem to have other, masking odours. Egypt is oddly odourless: no woodsmoke of India, no wet vegetation of Bali, no leather of Spain; just stale, choking cigarettes.
The Egyptians seem to smile quite readily – the women at least. Smiling is a bit like letting people in front of you when driving: it tends to propagate. Those to whom you do it seem more likely to do it to others. I suppose it is a measure of my optimism in people that I believe that the world may one day go smile-critical.
It is clear to me that I am not really interested at the moment in fiction, even in a novel: instead I simply want to re-work and preserve certain thoughts and experiences. It is why I never (almost) lie: I lack the imagination. "Mountolive" finished. It is definitely the great set pieces – the fish hunt, the scene at the monastery, the mourning of Narouz – that excel. The ruminations are over-fine – the writing too "wet" – though luxurious as you read it. It is all too exotic: you get the feeling that Durrell needed Egypt, the Greek islands, for his ideas. Of England he can say nothing.
On the outskirts of Cairo, we pass four huge industrial chimneys to the right. Each has two vibrant white lights – for aircraft, I presume – flashing, but synchronously – a huge 4x2 grid blipping menacingly. Hypnotic.
Well, what larks – and it's still only 3.30pm (I should be at the fête at the embassy, I know, but well…) Back in Cairo, which feels reassuringly familiar. Arguing with the taxis as ever – I get one, only to have him pile in two Germans. I remonstrate at length, demand a price reduction, threaten to leave. He gives in. The Germans admire – was I there on business? they ask. Strange, Cairo seems saner compared to Alexandria's traffic. To the old Cosmo. I march in, announce my reservation for two nights; they check: one night. I look, and can see that they have changed visibly the two to one; bastards. But no point arguing. They say (as ever) that they'll "try" tomorrow – but I've had enough of that.
So, off round the hotels. As it happens, I wanted to go to the Ramses Hilton to ask about "Fifi" – the which I felt right daft doing, furtive even. Eventually it transpired that old "Fifi" – apparently the best belly in the business – is at the Marriott. I also ask if the Ramses has a room for tomorrow – the hotel looks like a huge granary silo, but I was seduced by the name. They had. So I could always come here.
To the Marriott – some way away on Zamalek island. What was once a moorish palace, expanded into a huge maroon prison. I go there; "Fifi" is indeed around. I ask about rooms: no go. Once again, I feel really daft asking for what sounds like a poodle. I need to find the restaurant to reserve a table. I saunter along and notice a bookshop – I had already looked in the ones in Midan Talaat Harb for That Book; no luck. I thought I might as well look here.. They have it – but E£30 more at E£95. But I do not make the same mistake twice, and snap it up. So some good comes from a bad situation.
But I still need a hotel. Back to the Ramses Hilton to reserve. But when I do, the buggers discover that they're full. Pah. To the Shepheard Hotel, along the river: full. To the Semiramis next door: a room – they say - but at $130, it's a bit different from the Cosmo's $30. But I need it, and take it. I look around: it is rather flash – swimming pool etc. - and quite a tolerable gym, open 7am to 9pm. So, admittedly rather expensively, I shall be getting some unexpected exercise tomorrow.
If I can walk. For back to today. I had set my heart – certainly not my brain – on a gallop around the pyramids. God knows why. And indeed, as I drove out there, I felt an appalling sinking feeling, a foreboding. Things were not made better when, having spotted the great shapes moving in and out of the blocks of flats, close-up I saw two people descend Khufu's: damn.
My driver – a great big thug of a bloke, but an amazingly calm and unflusterable driver – got a ticket for the car to go in too, and we went round to near the boat of Ra, where the horses gather. We soon found some, good-looking animals, and agreed E£15-20 – to be decided later – for an hour's tour including gallops. Oh poor fool…
Mounting the horse, my guide immediately zoomed off over rocks and sand and stones. I kicked my beast, but to little effect. Cries from behind got it going, and I knew I was in serious trouble. Straight away my shoe slipped forward, and the stirrup caught behind the shoe's tongue – a lethal situation. Also, the horse was not responding to the usual aids. Things were not helped by the necessity of me holding on to the loop around its neck. Apparently, to get it going, you put the reins forward – giving it its head – while squeezing behind.
My main problem was the sheer dangerousness of my whole stance. As we thundered along, I could not use the reins properly since I was holding them in one hand. So I left the horse to its own devices – and it promptly headed for the rocks and stones and god knows what. I meanwhile was jerking all over the place, made worse by the horse's path. I visualised very clearly falling off, with my foot irremediably caught in the stirrup, dragged along at a gallop over the stones. All I could do was repeat to myself "I'm going to die, I'm going to die…" What little I saw of the landscape was magnificent: with the great sand dunes, the sand plains, and the unforgettable presence of the pyramids. But these were not my main concern.
I survived about 30 minutes of this, with three totally crazy gallops. I was almost relieved when my guide started taking me towards his perfume-maker friend. I was glad to be alive, and just wanted to get off the horse for a bit. But I was faced with a dilemma: the last thing I wanted was perfume, but I could hardly cheese off the only thing between me and certain death… What to do?
[A shower, then a long read of "Clea", which is winding the book down nicely. I needed the rest: my head is thrumming still, my thighs are seizing up slowly. Afterwards, a walk to the Nile – how magic that word is still – across the bridge, then back to the hotel, then to here. Where? Felfela's, of course, my penultimate night's treat…]
So, to the parfumier. His warm-up man insists – "no refusal" – I have a drink; I am too exhausted to argue. Hot tea seems safest. Then through to the innermost sanctuary for a "demo". Good patter, but I am not buying. Fortunately, I am wise to the ways of salesmen: I just act stupid, refuse everything, give them no purchase – if you do, you are done for.
I exit therefore as gracefully as I can. To horse – with trepidation. But bliss: we go by backstreets to the Sphinx – it's over – I'm alive. To hell with being ripped off (he wanted baksheesh – but I was inclined to give it to him not just to propitiate his/Egypt's gods, but also because he showed a real – as I imagine it – Arabic fire and pride, à la Omar Sharif in That Film).
But to backtrack. My feelings were very strange. I was clearly afraid – very afraid – and yet there was none of the normal physical symptoms in the guts, bowels, heart. Instead, my body was perfectly calm. And my mind was perfectly clear: I could see my death so close. But it is like being about to vomit: you either decide to, or you don't; and on this occasion I was able to refuse death's offer by not quite falling off. I suppose too I felt an elation – physical – in the mad gallop across the ancient sands – and mental – the stupid sense of daring to do this, of not chickening out…
Talking of chickening out, the chicken livers were fantastic. I also treated myself to tehina, baba ghanoush, nice and – inevitably – the om ali, which did not disappoint. The place is fair old a-buzz now – certainly the best value I've had in Egypt from all points of view. And good atmosphere.
It is also interesting to note how my pride operated through my horse-riding incident. My optimistic and wildly-inflated notion of flying through the desert, the cruel reality – always at its worst in terms of my incompetence when other westerners were around. And my pride forced me on, refused to let me crawl away in defeat. The Egyptian must have loved it – he made little effort to help – or even stay behind, racing away, leaving a spume of dust – another obstacle for me to avoid. He was also cruel to his animal – beating it not only about the flanks, but around the head and eyes too…
But very interesting, that sense of just clinging on – literally, and metaphorically. A turkish coffee now to finish.
10.3.90 Cairo
You go away for a couple of weeks, and everything changes – breakfast served in the dining room… In the car to Suez - E£90. The Koran sung achingly on a tone, the smell of petrol, driving through the outskirts of the city. Desmond Hogan is Durrell gone mad – the ultimate wet style. We have picked up a squaddie – which annoys me – and that I am annoyed is even more annoying…
After endless suburbs, the desert – lots of army camps. Nothing very attractive. But I can see why three monotheistic religions arose in the desert. With no animals, nothing, man is turned back on himself – to an anthropomorphic god… Near Suez, fine mountains to the south, great barren folds of brown. Hazy now, clouds coming in from the east. Closer, oil refineries – their flames like great Bunsen burners.
There is a corniche of sorts – except that it fronts onto what looks like a flattened rubbish tip. Nice hazy view of mountains to the south, and of Port Tawfik. And three Israeli tanks, stuck as souvenirs of war. Strange to see bent tanks, three of them, sitting on the promenade. Suez itself pretty ugly – concrete, much building. Dusty, fly blown. [Engineering office: "for erection and general contraction".]
Port Tawfik, to the end: good view of ships emerging from the Suez Canal, and of the mountains. Cairo about 130 km away. More tanks in Tawfik, and on the road back to Cairo, a troop carrier – the detritus of war. Amazing image: a tip-up lorry full of bitumen – alight – being fed with petrol. Great sheets of flame. Another memorial: two tanks – and that image of Ramses II.
Altogether, a very interesting failure. I wanted (he says, back at the Hotel Semiramis) to see the ships passing like camels of the desert (think about it). Instead, they were no more than distant images. But even as I tried to persuade my driver to go nearer the canal – which he did not understand, and when he did, and I had suggested going up to the tunnel under the canal, he refused as being too far away – I realised that this was the apt ending, that nature was already creating art.
As my bath runs after a massage here at the hotel, a glorious sunset for my farewell – Re himself. Not just the red globe, but the full array of pinks, purples, greys, even nacreous hues. A few light clouds are empurpled by it, the sky shades away to the blue, bled into by pink. The sun is swathed in growing clouds now – Osiris-like - and falling exactly between two skyscrapers. The Nile a sheet of light blue steel.
So, where did I get to? I sit now, after dinner, facing the same view as above, but it appears now as a christmas tree of orange lights. No lunch – only some tea up here – after all, I put on weight based on the premise I would lose it willy-nilly. But (happily) this ain't happened, so I need to knock off a few pounds. Then down by the pool – I may as well get my money's worth – to sunbathe. It is now a fine, clear day, but the wind is quite fresh, and I didn't feel very sunshined.
Which is just as well, as it forces me off my backside over to the Egyptian Museum – without guidebooks. I just wanted to look and remember – and discover. It was almost strange seeing the Pharaonic stuff again – I feel quite distant from it. But it was also delightful the way it meant more – both in terms of new facts, but also context. I also saw things I'd missed the first time. Like the ubiquitous Hathor, like the cuneiform tablets found at El Amarna, like Tut's trumpets. And all the names and places and times and shapes made sense. The old dinner bell went far too soon. So, nodding to the giant Amenhotep and Tiw, I spent the last few minutes in front of old fish-chisel – Narmer's tablet. I still could not get over it – or the miracle of its survival . And even here I noticed something new: tiny Hathor heads on the king's girdle.
So, a good ending. As was the rest of the day. Back here for a work out in the gym. I soon felt sick even though I'd not eaten anything. I was a little disconcerted talking to a bloke there with a crutch. Talking to him, it turned out he'd broken his neck in a motorcycle accident – two years ago – and was still recovering. I thought of yesterday, and what might have happened to me…
Then a quick sauna (in swimming trunks – pah) – and then a full body massage (a bloke, of course) which felt really good. Then a bath (as recommended), watching the sunset, dinner (at Felfela – weak, and indeed not as good as yesterday), then here to pack, prepare for tomorrow et al.
11.3.90 Cairo airport
Well, here we are then, drinking mango juice. A cloudy morning, red eye of Re again on the way here. Tragically, I didn't sleep well – far too hot and dehydrated. But otherwise hotel good. I've not written about it before: huge – around 600 rooms, like a small community, endlessly bustling – you can see why people set novels in them – they are a society writ small. Cost about £90 all told – including massage…
Sitting here, feeling immensely calm, worldly-wise and – just a smidgeon – above it all, I watch the people. I see the nationalities in the raising of the hand, the ageing of young women into sharp-faced hags. And in my eternal lip-reading, I see that the office (NB for "Doing the Business") is also a paradigm of life: those who command, those who obey, the tiny signs that indicate both. Thus in a young couple (married), the delightful wife looking a little Egyptian with her long wavy hair: she commands, she is stronger. And you can tell in the cant of her head: it is the angle I too adopt in the office. As "officer" (NB: office ↔ office – business and rank).
A passenger at the airport. A man, above average size, thickset, fattish, late 40s. His head shaved (today, judging by the cuts), nicely tanned, large and smooth. But at the neck, through the fat there, the skin had made a large, single fold, four inches across. As he moved his head, it opened and closed like a hideous mouth, or something leech-like. Horrible. Watching the married couples here, I am afflicted with a tremendous (patronising) tenderness for them in all their frailties. Like watching a stumbling, hopeful child.
I have never finished a holiday feeling so fresh: normally I have drawn heavily on my stored resources. In part this is because I have not been unwell: my guts have coped admirably. It also has to do with the size of Egypt: it is nothing compared to India. India exhausts by its vastness. Note too that Egypt is essentially one dimensional: the Nile. This makes its conquest - by invaders and tourist – far easier than two-dimensional lands.
I cannot stop "Egyptian Romance" pullulating in my head. My books are like children who demand attention: they don't want to wait. Flying up the coast of Italy, the country laid out like a papier-mâché model. A pool of shaving-cream cloud. We follow the highway: tracing the smeared snail-slime of an earlier plane. The Alps now fringe the horizon.
Final thoughts from Egypt: how pedestrians running among traffic would suddenly align themselves in bands – like electrons in quantum states. That smell of cigarettes. The other smell: horse dung. I really feel Egypt has given me Europe. Why? Egypt has been a constant presence to all European history – although colonised, it lay there, always waiting, always enduring longer than any empire.
Nearer the Alps: growing in my field of vision. The problem with Durrell – good as he is – is his claustrophobic limited vision. I longed for more than Alexandria…a warning to monomanes. Passing Matterhorn. I must learn to fly, too. Amazing how the Alps just stop.
1990 Egypt I: Cairo, Saqqarah, Giza
1990 Egypt II: Luxor, Aswan, Abu Simbel
1990 Egypt III: Asyut, Kharga, El Amarna
Up to look at the grey-green sea from my balcony. Too early for breakfast: so I start on "Balthazar" – the perfect way to begin an Alexandrian day… Breakfast is served in a small room off the main dining room, the same white, the same classical frieze, the high-backed chairs with their woven patterns.
A walk along the corniche west out to the fort, beside which I sit – gleaming white stone. It is sunny, with a soft blue sky, fringed by a few clouds – typical: I have put on my trusty vest, a t-shirt, checked shift, New Zealand pullover and jacket, and so now I am too hot… Lovely stiff breeze off the see: smells so clean – I must learn to sail this year… On the way here the concrete squares of the pavement show clearly where the sea habitually leaps the barrier: the gravel shows through as the binding is eaten away… An image from yesterday: as we pull out of Ramses Station, a man urinating against a wall. It reminds me of Canaletto's boy peeing against the Rialto bridge. It is good to smell and hear the sea again: my island roots betray themselves.
Along the corniche, the houses fronting the sea look very French, very Côte d'Azur, very (but how do I know?) Beirut before it became urban hell. Into the fort – a wonderful decrepit naval museum. Best thing is the sound of the wind whistling through the halls – just as it did in the Pharos… To Pastroudi's – an upmarket version of Groppi's. For some reason I sit outside under the awnings – even though it is thundering, with sporadic rain. Also, I am deafened by the bleedin' car horns passing.
Alexander does feel different. I keep wanting to speak Greek – I've seen one taverna elleniko already – along with a wonderful sign – for a doctor, presumably - offering "skin, VD and sex"… Sounds very Durrell. The which I shall read, appropriately enough. The sun has come out – and fortuitously I catch it between the awnings. Yellow and black, and orange and black taxis go by like huge wasps and bees, but for me their sting is in their horn. You can tell this is a commercial city by the ratio of cabs to private cars [damn these horns – they are like bloody children: one one starts, they all join in. I preferred it in Ligeti's opera.]
At least Durrell has told me what the ubiquitous clover-like fodder is called – confirmed by the encyclopedic Blue Guide. "Birsim/bercim" – aptly enough, Trifolium alexandrinum. I forgot to mention the huge conical piles of fruit near my hotel: two feet high of blood-red strawberries, oranges, impossible vertiginous shapes.
I have just eaten at Al Ekhlaas – very upmarket, very nice fish – excellent tehina and baba ghanoush. The room done out in Moorish style: perforated brass chandeliers, with extraordinary glass lamps – looking like enormous blue condoms, teat and all. Place practically deserted, even though it is 2pm – Alexandrians eat late. Interesting weather: sun, rain, clouds, wind – but the dust is my enemy, and reduces me to tears of blindness.
In a way, Alexandria is the New York of Egypt: a frenetic, cosmopolitan melting pot. There is a style of schmaltzy music that belongs to the 60s and the Pink Panther/Euro chic ambience, long lost. It was an era when playboys and their belles were 30-45 years old, and Europe was the height of chic. Could it come again? As the baby boomers age to 30-45, so Europe could again be fashionable – the spas, the old capitals of Eastern Europe. Perhaps the music will return too. Even I find an insidious charm in its sheer naiveté.
Dropped off by the taxi at Pompey's Pillar, I walk to Kom el Shoqafa – through very dodgy streets – they remind me of the backstreets of Palermo. Real poverty. Sheep tethered in the streets – general feel like Kathmandu. Now I sit in the banqueting hall of the catacombs – c-razy. Celebrating the dead with a meal. Name means "Mound of Shards", from the potsherds left over from the banquets.
In the Caracalla Hall: the young men said to be killed in revenge for an insult offered by them to the emperor in 215 AD. Lovely friable sandstone, with strata at 45 degrees. Easy to get lost… The stacked burial chambers like a huge honeycomb. To the side of the main chapel – long gallery of honeycombs – with planks across the water like Venice in flood: does Peter Greenaway know about this place…? Very precarious walking along these long planks – they bend so… it is like walking over the Styx. The silence is heavy, thick, claustrophobic. This mania for burial everywhere in Egypt, of hiding the dead. Walking stooped, the planks thudding as they rise and fall on the stones supporting them.
The main tomb quite crude – Greek and Egyptian elements, from behind, an eerie cool breeze. Crude Hathors, Horus – like maskers dressed up for a ball. Thoth looking like a toucan… And dressed in Roman soldier's garb. Turning around, yes, there are the ridiculous figures: Sabek and Anubis, holding spears, dressed as Roman soldiers, looking across the entrance to each other like some erstwhile Morecambe and Wise double-act.
Outside here, two other ghoulish statues, one a woman, one a curly-headed man with a furrowed brow and a Messerschmidt-like stare… I am quite alone here, the only sound the scratching of my failing pen across the paper as I awkwardly write standing up…
Back to Pompey's Pillar – large, and largely pointless. A couple of sphinxes, a few bits of rubble: it sums up Alexandria's attitude really… Real souk near here – lots of sunshades – just like Canaletto's Venice. As I learn a little more Arabic – a word here, a word there – I become conscious of the expansion of my empire. But language is an ambivalent tool: it is that of obedience as well as command.
Out for a walk in the dusk. Fine evening – but for the wind, easterly now, and its attendant dust. Lots of anglers along the coast – I always worry about the fly-back of their hooks in such circumstances. I walk east, turn, then back past the Cecil. Eastwards there are numerous forlorn-looking restaurants; westwards, forlorn-looking hotels; perhaps it all bucks up in summer. Now it has that pleasantly elegiac out-of-season feeling. For no reason, I think of America, and its lack of comprehension of this kind of charming seediness.
Past the war memorial, inland towards Tahrir Square. I have no map, but follow my feet and nose. I pass along bustling streets, wares brightly lit as ever. Some stalls a few pieces of sweetmeats, for a few piastres. How do they survive? And who are all these men in the cafés by day – what job do they do?
Ah, the muezzin again. Back in the dining room. Another full bottle of wine tonight – this time, a red: "Omar Khayyam". Rather nice. It seems appropriate to Alexandria and its hedonism. Omar slightly watery – I have drunk five glasses so far…
7.3.90 Alexandria
I am beginning to lose track of the days. After breakfast, out along the corniche, west again to Al Silsileh. The clouds of dawn had cleared, leaving a huge blue dome. The fort looked attractive around the harbour. I have booked a taxi – for which I wait in the Metropole – to go out to Wadi El Natrun: E£90. Probably a rip-off, but it is hard to get worked up over £10 – the wrong attitude, I know.
I feel like Proust with his driver – well, in some respects – touring Normandy. Talking of Proust, it is interesting to compare him with Durrell since both are obsessed with love. Where Proust takes a few key incidents and pores over them in infinite detail, building towards a coherent whole, Durrell seems content to pile on more details, more incidents, unworried by the contradictions or opacities. This is the thing about Proust: his striving for clarity, even – and hence – in his long, snaking sentences. They also differ from James's endlessly nested clauses, the product of a profoundly cautious man. His costiveness is a beautiful emblem of his art.
Opposite me, at the Strand Cinema, a garish poster for "RoboForce". Robocop, I presume. Last night, I saw several women in full veils, with only slits for the eyes. They looked like mummies or victims of terrible accidents. It sent a chill through me to meet them like this, so unexpectedly, in Alexandria of all places. Passing a shop last night, an image of a women with a tube of lipstick in her mouth, pointing outwards its great red bud. Surely an image impossible in the Freudianised West?
A stunningly attractive woman passes the window; but her pullover has tassels – two over her nipples: she has obviously never watched "The Graduate". She walks along with sublime innocence. An albino youth – tight curly white hair, bright pink skin – enters the hotel and takes the lift, a being from another planet. The receptionist in her little cubicle constantly repeats: "Hallo, aiwa, aiwa…"
We soon leave Alexandria behind, then cross Lake Mariout, surrounded by reeds and glistening water. Looks like East Anglia, Snape. Newspaper sellers in the middle of the road – but amidst roaring traffic. (NL), (S) and even (B) – upside down – (CH) nationality stickers on cars. Two wrecked cars in the middle of the road in the last ten minutes. The sea to my right has a puce tinge – pollution presumably. A dovecot like a huge clay pepper pot. The main Alexandria-Cairo road. For the first time, I see traffic cops pulling someone in for speeding – the maximum for cars is 100 km/h. In Asyut, there was the body of a man by the railway track. Onlookers gawped. Rather dull landscape, very flat, scrubby bushes, trees, odd village, a factory. Greenery half-hearted. Long, straight road. Real desert now, distant hills to the west. After 90 minutes and 100 kilometres. Wadi El Natrun is dusty and barren. Some of the water seems to show the salt.
To Anba Bishoy Monastery. 147 monks, 22 novices according to the monk who has been explaining things to me, dressed in black, with an embroidered head covering. Alas, no Coptic manuscripts – he gently suggested there might be some in Britain… Some painting by the door – 1977, done by bloke from Cairo. Small, enclosed feel. Twelfth-century keep, entered via drawbridge – the bleached and worn pulley still over the door. [Apparently Coptic is still spoken in some parts of Upper Egypt – near Qena, the man said.] The paintings had Greek characters, but it was Coptic. Next to the keep, the steeple (modern) and done with curious quintuple crosses – joined at base to form a pyramid of them.
Inside the main church, after removing shoes – to walk on rush mats or carpets. A beautifully simple interior, unadorned plaster walls, barrel vaulting. Wonderful old chandeliers, like something out of an old country house. Arabic graffiti scratched on the walls. Old wooden pulpit, worm-eaten. A simple hanging beneath it. To the main sanctuary with its iconostasis – the 12 apostles and others. Crude light bulbs on the wooden cross above. The body (covered) of Bishoy. From behind, the separating curtain a strange sound: they are vacuum-cleaning the main sanctuary. They offer visitors tea… No charge, but a donation…
To the Syrian Monastery – shut from 12noon to 3pm – because stricter here. Goats scrabbling around salty water – like Hunt's "The Scapegoat". Turn off is near the new Sadat City, for Monastery of Saint Macarius the Great. Long, straight road – looks like an army camp of citadel – big. Closed until Easter. I am sitting in the gatehouse, on beautiful blue chairs – with light-blue painted wooden arms – the rest house. An aircraft roars noisily overhead. Flies are everywhere. Cloudy sky, air quite cool. I eat the monks' bitter bread, and drink their tea (Ceylon) – a secular Eucharist. Also I am given a phial of holy oil...but I notice that it is in a Bayer tube…
This reminds me of Lake Dal.
The monk would accept no money. I've realised what the driving here reminds me of – with no signalling, overtaking left and right: go-kart racing, with similar tolerances for error.
Back in Alexandria, I rush to the bookshop – only to find it closed. And I notice that it is built over the position of the tomb of Alexander himself – the Soma. I sit now in the Roman amphitheatre – small but reasonably perfectly-formed. Reminds me of Epidaurus. Egyptian – and Indian – cinema posters are in a time warp: their heroes are in their 40s, and the heroines are ladies of ample charms in their 30s – really 1960s stuff. Pink Panther again. The trouble with the sea here is that it just sort of happens: corniche then harbour. No use is made of it as in English seaside towns. Even the seats are placed between the road carriageways. A glorious afternoon – sky nearly clear, the odd cloud galleon, air fresh.
Along to the Cecil for tea. What a waste of space. I sat there for 15 minutes – nothing; I left. Interestingly, so did two other visitors – young ladies there for pretty much the same reason as me, I would hazard. So to my trusty Metropole instead, watching from my window seat.
In opening and closing the high windows and shutters on to my balcony, there is that characteristic bang of wood and glass, followed by the squeak as the rods turn and the fastening hook engages.
It is very strange: I find it hard to connect now, being here in Alexandria, with my time in Upper Egypt; it is as if the latter were a previous, unrelated trip. And this is how I hoped it would fall out – the different Egypts subtly but hermetically separated.
It is an interesting experience reading Durrell here and in such concentration – I have just finished "Balthazar". He becomes almost oppressive with Darley's constant whinings and whimperings about "Love" and "Truth"; but the fluency of the writing impresses. It is a warning to me perhaps: against such archetypally "fine" writing, the striking image, the calculated metaphor.
Do the bobbles of wool that come off a jumper have an official name?
Curious: there is an aerial lead lying dead on the floor of my room, its wire vanishing out through the door; what happened to the TVs – referred to by old von Haag? Outside, a maid or attendant passes by in a splendid jingle of Keys (why the cap? - "The Keys"…) At the catacombs yesterday, some chappie asked me my profession: "writer" I said without thinking. I wonder… Perhaps Alexandria - and Durrell – are affecting me in this.
To dinner. I shall never be able to hear King Lear's "If she must teem, Create her child of spleen" without thinking of the local 7-up substitute "Teem" – and of Egypt. Another effect of Durrell: I have been thinking about my friends a lot, and looking forward to seeing them. Egypt has taught me one thing for sure: the indelible, terrifying stupidity of flies – they learn nothing – no matter how many times you flick them off, they return, indefatigable.
8.3.90 Alexandria
Even early in the morning, there are the horns. Their timbres and chords vary enormously. Some sound like samples: for example, I have heard the final chord of Prince's "The Cross", as well as the stabbing chord in Janet Jackson's "What have you done for me lately?" Again, I woke with a very present sense of the books to write in the next couple of years.
It is noticeable that no two people ever eat a boiled egg in the same way.
A dull, overcast morning. As the corniche sweeps round to the fortress it is swathed in a blurring mist. Quite attractive really. In the building opposite, hitherto apparently dead, a woman hangs out her smalls. Last night, after dinner, I took a long stroll through the streets. Half of Alexandria seemed to be out, taking their passeggiata. It felt quite festive. To the Museum of Antiquities today. The contrasts in weather here have been useful too in sealing it off from the rest of my Egyptian experiences. I feel that travelling is something you learn and improve at by practice: I feel Egypt is my first Dan… It is amazing the number of buildings here that are based Venetian palazzi in style.
What a palaver. I am losing my wonted composure. Primo: changing money. To the Bank of Alexandria, opposite the hotel – normally OK; but not this time: I must go to the main branch. Which I do – like something out of the 1930s, clerks everywhere, ledgers ditto. I must go upstairs. First to one window, then to another. Finally, for some reason best known to themselves, I must go to yet another branch. Which I do. To the ground floor, then upstairs. Finally someone changes the bleedin' money.
Secondo: I go along to the bookshop. It is closed, but two men turn up and begin unlocking it, smiling at me. First they take off the restraining bar, then the padlock, then unbolt the door – perhaps the Soma is here. Then one man enters, takes a package, and starts to lock up again. I remonstrate. They mutter some Arabic at me: "closed". They are still smiling as the walk off. Bastards. No bleedin' book, obviously.
Terzo: to the Graeco-Roman Museum, a classical facade painted a vague sort of Pompeiian colour. The swines won't let me take my bag with me – I have to carry all my junk. Swines twice over. I am not in a good mood.
The museum itself is pleasant enough – at first glance, any way. I feel immediately at home amidst these herms and torsos. 6: the Aris bull – very impressive. Serapis – a factitious god, made to consolidate an empire. 7: usurped (ha!) figure by Ramses II – the Moses connection is interesting – on the sceptre the Princess Hut-ma-ra – supposedly she found Moses. NB: for the Egyptians, the Israelites were just another minor tribe. But the Old Testament -through Judaism, Christianity and Islam - has shaped the world. 8: a horrible Ptolemaic coffin, grinning like something out of Lewis Carroll, a Pharaonic Tweedle-dum. Eerie plaster masks placed over Romans. Roman soldier's mummy – thick swaddling – but the toes peek out as if from a plaster cast. Very elaborate diamond criss-cross swaddling.
10: eerie X-ray of dwarf's mummy. Mummy of a baby – with weird miniature adult mask. 12: some odd but striking heads: Ptolemy VI – noseless, with hollow, melancholy eyes, his crown like a jar of water balanced on his head… Fine anonymous bearded head – the striations in the rock are picked up in the seep of the beard and in the leftward lines; he looks like a wanderer, out in the storm, enduring. I would like to nick this… Strange crumbling statue – Egyptian posture - of Ptolemy I – a surprised old man.
16: strange, detached forearm with ball, rising up like the Lady of the Lake with Excalibur. 16A: figure of Berenice and daughter – looking like a Henry Moore seated figure, the limestone beautifully craggy. 17: glorious piece of porphyry, smouldering like a dull, red-hot coal. It looks as if it is liquefying. I would like also this. Some of the exhibits here are wrapped in the typical plastic of restoration. Reminds me of Venice for some reason.
18A: a huge concrete repaired rent in the wall looks like the map of Italy. Lovely statuette of actor with tragic mask – a big nose like Mr Punch. Amazing collection of female heads show wide range of ancient hairstyles. Some look very 18th-century. It would be interesting (slightly) to chart the recurring cycles of hairstyles through history. 20: God Bes – of "fun" – who became god of war – ho-hum. Two flutes made of bone: re-construct them? Memories of the Getty… Treasure Room: a sad and hangdog figure, big nose and fat neck. The coins displayed in vertically swivelling cases. Lovely silver torso of Venus – very sensual, very callipygous…
5: clay sarcophagi like huge pairs of shoes. Christian stuff - so crude. A mummy with a black cross at the neck. Obscene relief of Leda and the swan – it looks as if she has a giant goldfish between her legs. Above, another one – with the swan pecking her nipple while she holds an egg… The god Bes – looking like an alien. The garden is quite pleasant in a jumbled soft of way – reminds me of the scene in "Belly of an Architect". And that is that.
Bleedin' bookshop definitely closed. Back to Pastroudi's – coffee and cakes – what the hell. The sky clearing; hot. The cakes are lethal; plastic cream unfortunately. One, a rum baba kind of affair, was good; the chocolate cake far too sickly. A man with a barrow-load of ice has passed, each pillar with a curious cross-section of diagonals.
There are noticeably more beggars here than elsewhere, especially cripples, just lying prone and helplessly. Also a boy the other day, with no legs, scooting around on a cart. Straight out of Breughel. At the next table, a late middle-aged man, wearing characteristically dusty brown pinstripes; his right hand wears a black glove. Pastroudi's is quite full out here now; Thursday, the day before the Muslims' Friday.
Just down from where I sit, a building split in two at ground level – one a shop named only in Arabic – and hence a mystery to me – the other three curtained-off windows. Between, the sad remains of a pediment and ornate ironwork canopy. The entrance is crudely bricked up, brown-black. At the level of the pediment, to the left, the triglyphs remain; to the right, above the be-Arabicked awnings, concrete and grills. Above both of these, stretching right across the whole facade, is a row of classical balustrades. Once they fronted balconies. Now they give onto a roof, doubtless piled with Egyptian debris, as I saw in Cairo. Between the balustrades are truncated round Doric pillars with simple bases. There are also four square pilasters, with more Corinthian capitals. Behind ruined walls, their scratched and grey faces like excavated frescoes of an ancient Roman palace.
A car horn quotes from Walton's first symphony – the first movement. I have been reading here at Pastroudi's for over an hour, watching the sky clear and cloud, reading about Mountolive. What could be more civilised? Did Byron ever visit Alexandria? I feel he should have done. I must re-read "Don Juan" – and get to know the letters.
Yesterday, from my windowed eyrie at the Metropole, I watched as a young man's gazed swivelled, spellbound, to follow the passage of a moderately-attractive young woman.
The more I use von Haag's book, the more I like it. I realise now that most guide books – even Lonely Planet – are too "objective" and impersonal. What you want is a kind of hyper-Lorenzetti crammed a diary of travel. You want the facts coupled with a personalisation of everything – a judgement that allow you to relate to the objects in a way that a "pure" comprehensive guidebook cannot.
Anyway, following von Haag, I sit in the Mustafa Darwish restaurant on the corniche. Not touristy – at least, not for Westerners – but they are where in Alexandria? No English menu. Also – the first time I've seen it – waitresses. Quite smart inside, if slight gaudy. Egyptian music just about winning against the traffic thundering by outside – and von Haag says sit outside, if nice… Hilarious plastic gladioli on the table, sick yellow and candy-floss pink. The head waitress has pantomimically heavy eye make-up – pink and blue, like war paint.
An amazing meal – god knows what it will do to my guts. First, a real vegetable soup. Then: tehina, baba ghanoush, tomato and onion, potatoes, beetroot, olives and peppers for salads, fish – a kind of trout, grilled with curry, rice with kidneys, a thin meat pasty, and chips. Sybaritic? Me? Tempted as I am by the fruit concoction, I shall be wise. Fish brilliant; tehina addictive; rest good. And so to coffee...and to "Mountolive". Coffee nutty and not too sweet or aromatic. Served in one of this little white cups and saucers – whose topology is odd in that the handle is blind, with no hole, but solid and filled in.
The other day I saw Stravinsky walking down the street, slowly, as frog-like as ever, dressed dapperly in a waistcoat and hat – not bad for his age – 100 odd? Alexandria seems filled with such cosmopolitans, traders from Smyrna, Sevastopol, old sea captains from Piraeus. Opposite me now is an old man, quite corpulent, smoking languorously, with a younger woman (50-ish), imperious in his orders to the waitress ("aiwa?" she answers quickly to his call). Meanwhile, the same female singer swoops and keens her augmented seconds…
Durrell's book – especially in "Mountolive" – does emphasise the extraordinary position of the Copts in Egypt – the true heirs, the Welsh, those who remained true to their heritage; whereas the Arab-speaking Muslims are the English, the invaders, those who have compromised with the imperialists…
A long walk three-quarters of the way around the corniche to the fort. I sit now just west of the mosque on the first seat by the sea – how poorly the Alexandrians use the sea front. Why seats here? True, the view is splendid: fort 90 degrees to my left, with the fleet of fishing boats in front. From in front of me to the right, the coast of Alexandria – my hotel neatly at 135 degrees, and in the sun. The sun lowers and catches the sterns – mostly green – of the boats. Gulls circle overhead. Just over the promenade walk (low), what looks like bleached ribs of an old boat. Plus litter – everywhere. Old car tyres lie at the sea's margin like mutant jellyfish. The wind is getting up, pulling waves off the surface of the sea like tufts of hair. The wind and its bad friend, dust: my enemies, the evil spirits that will drive me from Alexandria. I must have the only pair of contact lenses in the city.
The naval fort like a fairy-tale castle, crenellated, glinting white. Youth always takes to the new if only because there at least it is on equal terms with maturity. The city front like superior corrugated cardboard. Men standing in their boats as if to attention, waiting for the admiral's review.
I must get a copy of "A Partial India" bound when I do "The Weekly Essay" – both as presents to myself. The sky is clearing beautifully – the clouds being pulled back to the south like a curtain. Another Balinese revelation: there I understood the International Dateline; now I see why the Mediterranean has no high or low tides – even though it is as big as an ocean. Because it is closed.
A brisk walk back to the hotel, they sky tinged with orange. 6 o'clock strikes; I have just paid the bill of E£230 for four nights, including three dinners, and laundry. Pretty good. I now sit in my world-watching seat, hoping for a tea, about to plunge back into an older Alexandria.
A curious experience. One delight I have been looking forward to in re-reading "The Alexandria Quartet" was coming cross the word "nacreous" again – it was here that I first encountered it. Being on page 496, and not finding it yet, I flipped back to the beginning, half-convinced it was there. No luck. So I continue with my reading. Literally seven worlds later, there it is – ha! Another car-horn tune: the Smiths' "The Queen is dead"…
To the dining room for the last time – first there again. Freesias on the table. I smell them – the smell of childhood for some reason… Most of us build empires – through marriage, family, friends, work, etc. Perhaps writers and artists are the most megalomaniacal: they seek to colonise the hearts and minds of millions. Writing style might be characterised as wet or dry. Wet styles can be squeezed drier; dry styles fit words together like stones of the Great Pyramid: not even a knife could slip between them. Durrell is very wet; guess which I would like to be?
Although many poets have painted, and vice versa, there have been very few painter-musicians. Mendelssohn, Schönberg are the only two that spring to mind.
The bubbling smile and happiness of the Coptic monks…
The sight of big, butch men holding hands in the street like four-year-olds…
9.3.90 Alexandria
As I come down to breakfast for the last time here, a wonderfully steaming smell of youth hostels. I begin to tire of Durrell. I don't really care any more about the perennially-deceitful Hosnani et al. "The Alexandria Quartet" is perhaps too long, or needed to be read over years as it came out.
In the 7.50am train to Cairo, waiting… I thought I had a seat in the non-smoking car...it appears not. Perhaps that is the quintessential smell of Egypt: cheap cigarettes. Everybody smokes. And while many other countries have many smokers, they seem to have other, masking odours. Egypt is oddly odourless: no woodsmoke of India, no wet vegetation of Bali, no leather of Spain; just stale, choking cigarettes.
The Egyptians seem to smile quite readily – the women at least. Smiling is a bit like letting people in front of you when driving: it tends to propagate. Those to whom you do it seem more likely to do it to others. I suppose it is a measure of my optimism in people that I believe that the world may one day go smile-critical.
It is clear to me that I am not really interested at the moment in fiction, even in a novel: instead I simply want to re-work and preserve certain thoughts and experiences. It is why I never (almost) lie: I lack the imagination. "Mountolive" finished. It is definitely the great set pieces – the fish hunt, the scene at the monastery, the mourning of Narouz – that excel. The ruminations are over-fine – the writing too "wet" – though luxurious as you read it. It is all too exotic: you get the feeling that Durrell needed Egypt, the Greek islands, for his ideas. Of England he can say nothing.
On the outskirts of Cairo, we pass four huge industrial chimneys to the right. Each has two vibrant white lights – for aircraft, I presume – flashing, but synchronously – a huge 4x2 grid blipping menacingly. Hypnotic.
Well, what larks – and it's still only 3.30pm (I should be at the fête at the embassy, I know, but well…) Back in Cairo, which feels reassuringly familiar. Arguing with the taxis as ever – I get one, only to have him pile in two Germans. I remonstrate at length, demand a price reduction, threaten to leave. He gives in. The Germans admire – was I there on business? they ask. Strange, Cairo seems saner compared to Alexandria's traffic. To the old Cosmo. I march in, announce my reservation for two nights; they check: one night. I look, and can see that they have changed visibly the two to one; bastards. But no point arguing. They say (as ever) that they'll "try" tomorrow – but I've had enough of that.
So, off round the hotels. As it happens, I wanted to go to the Ramses Hilton to ask about "Fifi" – the which I felt right daft doing, furtive even. Eventually it transpired that old "Fifi" – apparently the best belly in the business – is at the Marriott. I also ask if the Ramses has a room for tomorrow – the hotel looks like a huge granary silo, but I was seduced by the name. They had. So I could always come here.
To the Marriott – some way away on Zamalek island. What was once a moorish palace, expanded into a huge maroon prison. I go there; "Fifi" is indeed around. I ask about rooms: no go. Once again, I feel really daft asking for what sounds like a poodle. I need to find the restaurant to reserve a table. I saunter along and notice a bookshop – I had already looked in the ones in Midan Talaat Harb for That Book; no luck. I thought I might as well look here.. They have it – but E£30 more at E£95. But I do not make the same mistake twice, and snap it up. So some good comes from a bad situation.
But I still need a hotel. Back to the Ramses Hilton to reserve. But when I do, the buggers discover that they're full. Pah. To the Shepheard Hotel, along the river: full. To the Semiramis next door: a room – they say - but at $130, it's a bit different from the Cosmo's $30. But I need it, and take it. I look around: it is rather flash – swimming pool etc. - and quite a tolerable gym, open 7am to 9pm. So, admittedly rather expensively, I shall be getting some unexpected exercise tomorrow.
If I can walk. For back to today. I had set my heart – certainly not my brain – on a gallop around the pyramids. God knows why. And indeed, as I drove out there, I felt an appalling sinking feeling, a foreboding. Things were not made better when, having spotted the great shapes moving in and out of the blocks of flats, close-up I saw two people descend Khufu's: damn.
My driver – a great big thug of a bloke, but an amazingly calm and unflusterable driver – got a ticket for the car to go in too, and we went round to near the boat of Ra, where the horses gather. We soon found some, good-looking animals, and agreed E£15-20 – to be decided later – for an hour's tour including gallops. Oh poor fool…
Mounting the horse, my guide immediately zoomed off over rocks and sand and stones. I kicked my beast, but to little effect. Cries from behind got it going, and I knew I was in serious trouble. Straight away my shoe slipped forward, and the stirrup caught behind the shoe's tongue – a lethal situation. Also, the horse was not responding to the usual aids. Things were not helped by the necessity of me holding on to the loop around its neck. Apparently, to get it going, you put the reins forward – giving it its head – while squeezing behind.
My main problem was the sheer dangerousness of my whole stance. As we thundered along, I could not use the reins properly since I was holding them in one hand. So I left the horse to its own devices – and it promptly headed for the rocks and stones and god knows what. I meanwhile was jerking all over the place, made worse by the horse's path. I visualised very clearly falling off, with my foot irremediably caught in the stirrup, dragged along at a gallop over the stones. All I could do was repeat to myself "I'm going to die, I'm going to die…" What little I saw of the landscape was magnificent: with the great sand dunes, the sand plains, and the unforgettable presence of the pyramids. But these were not my main concern.
I survived about 30 minutes of this, with three totally crazy gallops. I was almost relieved when my guide started taking me towards his perfume-maker friend. I was glad to be alive, and just wanted to get off the horse for a bit. But I was faced with a dilemma: the last thing I wanted was perfume, but I could hardly cheese off the only thing between me and certain death… What to do?
[A shower, then a long read of "Clea", which is winding the book down nicely. I needed the rest: my head is thrumming still, my thighs are seizing up slowly. Afterwards, a walk to the Nile – how magic that word is still – across the bridge, then back to the hotel, then to here. Where? Felfela's, of course, my penultimate night's treat…]
So, to the parfumier. His warm-up man insists – "no refusal" – I have a drink; I am too exhausted to argue. Hot tea seems safest. Then through to the innermost sanctuary for a "demo". Good patter, but I am not buying. Fortunately, I am wise to the ways of salesmen: I just act stupid, refuse everything, give them no purchase – if you do, you are done for.
I exit therefore as gracefully as I can. To horse – with trepidation. But bliss: we go by backstreets to the Sphinx – it's over – I'm alive. To hell with being ripped off (he wanted baksheesh – but I was inclined to give it to him not just to propitiate his/Egypt's gods, but also because he showed a real – as I imagine it – Arabic fire and pride, à la Omar Sharif in That Film).
But to backtrack. My feelings were very strange. I was clearly afraid – very afraid – and yet there was none of the normal physical symptoms in the guts, bowels, heart. Instead, my body was perfectly calm. And my mind was perfectly clear: I could see my death so close. But it is like being about to vomit: you either decide to, or you don't; and on this occasion I was able to refuse death's offer by not quite falling off. I suppose too I felt an elation – physical – in the mad gallop across the ancient sands – and mental – the stupid sense of daring to do this, of not chickening out…
Talking of chickening out, the chicken livers were fantastic. I also treated myself to tehina, baba ghanoush, nice and – inevitably – the om ali, which did not disappoint. The place is fair old a-buzz now – certainly the best value I've had in Egypt from all points of view. And good atmosphere.
It is also interesting to note how my pride operated through my horse-riding incident. My optimistic and wildly-inflated notion of flying through the desert, the cruel reality – always at its worst in terms of my incompetence when other westerners were around. And my pride forced me on, refused to let me crawl away in defeat. The Egyptian must have loved it – he made little effort to help – or even stay behind, racing away, leaving a spume of dust – another obstacle for me to avoid. He was also cruel to his animal – beating it not only about the flanks, but around the head and eyes too…
But very interesting, that sense of just clinging on – literally, and metaphorically. A turkish coffee now to finish.
10.3.90 Cairo
You go away for a couple of weeks, and everything changes – breakfast served in the dining room… In the car to Suez - E£90. The Koran sung achingly on a tone, the smell of petrol, driving through the outskirts of the city. Desmond Hogan is Durrell gone mad – the ultimate wet style. We have picked up a squaddie – which annoys me – and that I am annoyed is even more annoying…
After endless suburbs, the desert – lots of army camps. Nothing very attractive. But I can see why three monotheistic religions arose in the desert. With no animals, nothing, man is turned back on himself – to an anthropomorphic god… Near Suez, fine mountains to the south, great barren folds of brown. Hazy now, clouds coming in from the east. Closer, oil refineries – their flames like great Bunsen burners.
There is a corniche of sorts – except that it fronts onto what looks like a flattened rubbish tip. Nice hazy view of mountains to the south, and of Port Tawfik. And three Israeli tanks, stuck as souvenirs of war. Strange to see bent tanks, three of them, sitting on the promenade. Suez itself pretty ugly – concrete, much building. Dusty, fly blown. [Engineering office: "for erection and general contraction".]
Port Tawfik, to the end: good view of ships emerging from the Suez Canal, and of the mountains. Cairo about 130 km away. More tanks in Tawfik, and on the road back to Cairo, a troop carrier – the detritus of war. Amazing image: a tip-up lorry full of bitumen – alight – being fed with petrol. Great sheets of flame. Another memorial: two tanks – and that image of Ramses II.
Altogether, a very interesting failure. I wanted (he says, back at the Hotel Semiramis) to see the ships passing like camels of the desert (think about it). Instead, they were no more than distant images. But even as I tried to persuade my driver to go nearer the canal – which he did not understand, and when he did, and I had suggested going up to the tunnel under the canal, he refused as being too far away – I realised that this was the apt ending, that nature was already creating art.
As my bath runs after a massage here at the hotel, a glorious sunset for my farewell – Re himself. Not just the red globe, but the full array of pinks, purples, greys, even nacreous hues. A few light clouds are empurpled by it, the sky shades away to the blue, bled into by pink. The sun is swathed in growing clouds now – Osiris-like - and falling exactly between two skyscrapers. The Nile a sheet of light blue steel.
So, where did I get to? I sit now, after dinner, facing the same view as above, but it appears now as a christmas tree of orange lights. No lunch – only some tea up here – after all, I put on weight based on the premise I would lose it willy-nilly. But (happily) this ain't happened, so I need to knock off a few pounds. Then down by the pool – I may as well get my money's worth – to sunbathe. It is now a fine, clear day, but the wind is quite fresh, and I didn't feel very sunshined.
Which is just as well, as it forces me off my backside over to the Egyptian Museum – without guidebooks. I just wanted to look and remember – and discover. It was almost strange seeing the Pharaonic stuff again – I feel quite distant from it. But it was also delightful the way it meant more – both in terms of new facts, but also context. I also saw things I'd missed the first time. Like the ubiquitous Hathor, like the cuneiform tablets found at El Amarna, like Tut's trumpets. And all the names and places and times and shapes made sense. The old dinner bell went far too soon. So, nodding to the giant Amenhotep and Tiw, I spent the last few minutes in front of old fish-chisel – Narmer's tablet. I still could not get over it – or the miracle of its survival . And even here I noticed something new: tiny Hathor heads on the king's girdle.
So, a good ending. As was the rest of the day. Back here for a work out in the gym. I soon felt sick even though I'd not eaten anything. I was a little disconcerted talking to a bloke there with a crutch. Talking to him, it turned out he'd broken his neck in a motorcycle accident – two years ago – and was still recovering. I thought of yesterday, and what might have happened to me…
Then a quick sauna (in swimming trunks – pah) – and then a full body massage (a bloke, of course) which felt really good. Then a bath (as recommended), watching the sunset, dinner (at Felfela – weak, and indeed not as good as yesterday), then here to pack, prepare for tomorrow et al.
11.3.90 Cairo airport
Well, here we are then, drinking mango juice. A cloudy morning, red eye of Re again on the way here. Tragically, I didn't sleep well – far too hot and dehydrated. But otherwise hotel good. I've not written about it before: huge – around 600 rooms, like a small community, endlessly bustling – you can see why people set novels in them – they are a society writ small. Cost about £90 all told – including massage…
Sitting here, feeling immensely calm, worldly-wise and – just a smidgeon – above it all, I watch the people. I see the nationalities in the raising of the hand, the ageing of young women into sharp-faced hags. And in my eternal lip-reading, I see that the office (NB for "Doing the Business") is also a paradigm of life: those who command, those who obey, the tiny signs that indicate both. Thus in a young couple (married), the delightful wife looking a little Egyptian with her long wavy hair: she commands, she is stronger. And you can tell in the cant of her head: it is the angle I too adopt in the office. As "officer" (NB: office ↔ office – business and rank).
A passenger at the airport. A man, above average size, thickset, fattish, late 40s. His head shaved (today, judging by the cuts), nicely tanned, large and smooth. But at the neck, through the fat there, the skin had made a large, single fold, four inches across. As he moved his head, it opened and closed like a hideous mouth, or something leech-like. Horrible. Watching the married couples here, I am afflicted with a tremendous (patronising) tenderness for them in all their frailties. Like watching a stumbling, hopeful child.
I have never finished a holiday feeling so fresh: normally I have drawn heavily on my stored resources. In part this is because I have not been unwell: my guts have coped admirably. It also has to do with the size of Egypt: it is nothing compared to India. India exhausts by its vastness. Note too that Egypt is essentially one dimensional: the Nile. This makes its conquest - by invaders and tourist – far easier than two-dimensional lands.
I cannot stop "Egyptian Romance" pullulating in my head. My books are like children who demand attention: they don't want to wait. Flying up the coast of Italy, the country laid out like a papier-mâché model. A pool of shaving-cream cloud. We follow the highway: tracing the smeared snail-slime of an earlier plane. The Alps now fringe the horizon.
Final thoughts from Egypt: how pedestrians running among traffic would suddenly align themselves in bands – like electrons in quantum states. That smell of cigarettes. The other smell: horse dung. I really feel Egypt has given me Europe. Why? Egypt has been a constant presence to all European history – although colonised, it lay there, always waiting, always enduring longer than any empire.
Nearer the Alps: growing in my field of vision. The problem with Durrell – good as he is – is his claustrophobic limited vision. I longed for more than Alexandria…a warning to monomanes. Passing Matterhorn. I must learn to fly, too. Amazing how the Alps just stop.
1990 Egypt I: Cairo, Saqqarah, Giza
1990 Egypt II: Luxor, Aswan, Abu Simbel
1990 Egypt III: Asyut, Kharga, El Amarna
More destinations:
Friday, 8 May 2020
1996 Torino
23.2.96 Torino
Waiting outside the hall where the rehearsal for Monteverdi's "Orfeo" is taking place. Surrounded by singers – half-loving, half-hating each other. Bitching, gossiping, trying to gain the advantage. Torino, a city I've been to once – a press trip for 36 hours, staying up to 2am, and rising at 5am to walk through the silent city. Typically, I can't remember the company that took me, but I presume it was Olivetti. Torino, the rectilinear city (I have memories of a de Chirico vista of facades). To Gozzano's Café - Caffè Baratti & Milano for obscene cakes (and fine pizzette).
To the La Capannina – excellent food, atrocious people – well, not really. Very atmospheric – saxophones on the wall, clocks in the cabinets, walkie-talkies. What looks like a group with three Indonesians to our left.
24.2.96 Torino
Museo Egizio. Like an abandoned film set the entrance – parts closed off, drapes – leading to an apology of a museum. For the first time, I feel the injustice of exposing mummies to the gawping eyes of the world. Typically Italian, alas, the neglect of these resonant objects. Most worryingly, the collections from the intact tombs – perfectly preserved objects – are surely rotting even as we speak. So little explanation, so little grandeur coming through. A parody of a dusty dull museum.
Scappiamo, and walk through the freezing backstreets, under the galleries (like Bologna), to the Mole Antonelliana – what is perhaps the most ridiculous building I know. It looks simply as if five or six constructions have been piled on top of each other, with no thought to harmony (including two Greek temples). But I like it, for some reason.
More destinations:
Waiting outside the hall where the rehearsal for Monteverdi's "Orfeo" is taking place. Surrounded by singers – half-loving, half-hating each other. Bitching, gossiping, trying to gain the advantage. Torino, a city I've been to once – a press trip for 36 hours, staying up to 2am, and rising at 5am to walk through the silent city. Typically, I can't remember the company that took me, but I presume it was Olivetti. Torino, the rectilinear city (I have memories of a de Chirico vista of facades). To Gozzano's Café - Caffè Baratti & Milano for obscene cakes (and fine pizzette).
To the La Capannina – excellent food, atrocious people – well, not really. Very atmospheric – saxophones on the wall, clocks in the cabinets, walkie-talkies. What looks like a group with three Indonesians to our left.
24.2.96 Torino
Museo Egizio. Like an abandoned film set the entrance – parts closed off, drapes – leading to an apology of a museum. For the first time, I feel the injustice of exposing mummies to the gawping eyes of the world. Typically Italian, alas, the neglect of these resonant objects. Most worryingly, the collections from the intact tombs – perfectly preserved objects – are surely rotting even as we speak. So little explanation, so little grandeur coming through. A parody of a dusty dull museum.
Scappiamo, and walk through the freezing backstreets, under the galleries (like Bologna), to the Mole Antonelliana – what is perhaps the most ridiculous building I know. It looks simply as if five or six constructions have been piled on top of each other, with no thought to harmony (including two Greek temples). But I like it, for some reason.
More destinations:
Friday, 1 May 2020
1990 Egypt II: Luxor, Aswan, Abu Simbel
22.2.90 Luxor
Classic early morning sunrise – or what I take to be one. Durrell's nacreous sky, with palm trees silhouetted against it. Cloudy, textured sky, the Nile not visible. Apparently the train is to arrive on time at about 7am – for the first time (ever?). Still no breakfast. The sunrise turned from rosy haze to the dark red eye of Re – huge and monstrous – then soon turned yellow, then white. The sun does seem a very basic fact already. The north-south dividing line of the Nile probably helped in the sense of journey, of rising and falling, of a mid-point, of cycles. Inevitable that in this land of the sun it should dominate. The clouds burn off.
Off the train, to the Savoy Hotel and – they have a room, or a bungalow at least, although I haven't seen it yet, and can't until noon. So, off for a wander. Along the Nile corniche. Magnificent view across to the Valley of the Kings; I can imagine it does get very hot. Weakly, I am now sitting in Luxor – I should wait, but who could resist? I am trying not to "do" it now, just be. My legs are amazingly tired.
One thing: I feel my interest in the Savoy Hotel was piqued by old van Haag's references to it. This convinces me that a more personalised kind of travel guide/book can succeed. Remember that the exhibits of most museums are the spoils of war/conquests of empire: the Rosetta Stone, for example, passing from France to the British Museum. Note if English were written without vowels – phtgrphr – there would be little loss – mostly neutral vowels. Ancient Egyptian may have been simplified because of collapse from proto-ancient Egyptian – like English.
At the end of the Avenue of Sphinxes – no tourists; just the muezzin. The obsessiveness of the builders of them. The pylon at the end, massive still, the obelisk, the Ramses statues (the bloody flies, ho-hum). The colonnade beyond.
Now on the hotel's terrace beside the Nile – windy, the sun hotter than it seems – fearing a hot time. My room good – not facing the Nile, but south facing around the pool – looks tempting. Everything else usual tacky/non-functioning. Back to the Luxor temple – not Karnak as I erroneously thought, making my task here long. I see now that early morning is the best for reading the Battle of Kadesh – of which I have the transcription. Old Greek graffiti abound. In the first court I have a sense of how it must have looked when complete. Beautiful papyrus columns, calyx tops.
After lunch – if that was a goulash, I'm a Chinaman – out to Karnak, hiring a hantour for E£5 (shades of Andy Warhol). How to formulate an adequate response to this place? I made no attempt to write while I was there – it was enough of a job orienting myself. The first pylon pretty damn impressive. Indeed I was struck throughout by a sense of awe that mere mortals must always have felt upon seeing these godly works. They make Stonehenge look pretty sick. [Ah – Turkish coffee – yummy.] The forecourt too: I could reconstruct the Kiosk of Taharqa with its huge swooping columns. It must have acted as a huge visual brake. The triple shrine of Seti II was interesting – if only because of the thoroughness with which the first hieroglyphs – Set – had been erased. Bad vibes re Osiris?
The Temple of Ramesses III, though small, was powerful. The famous Bubastite Portal a nice reminder of synchronous events – [The sun has turned gold, Re on his way down. Fragrances in the air, the birds' dusk chorus. Liquid yellow now.] – Shoshenq I's victories over the Palestinians – Rehoboam, son of Solomon.
An orange tincture now. In the after image, I have hundreds of Res in my eye/retina. The west bank looks like a Cadbury's Flake – I'm sorry, but it does. Another Turkish coffee… For some reason, there is something about the sinking sun that reminds me of Peter Greenaway… - very European. The first pinks in the evening air; birds going nuts. Perhaps peach-coloured now; an artist [Monet] could study the effects for years. Re is slipping behind the hills, changing boats for his nightly voyage – as Thoth?/moon – it's all so confusing…. Red leaking out along the horizon, an unlookable-at segment. Re is dead. Feluccas serene on the Nile – I must try one… A falcon hovering low over the river – no wonder they took it for a god – Horus, too. No spectacular sunset further, alas.
On the way to Karnak – probably a 15 minute walk – I could make out Hatshepsut's mortuary complex across the Nile: looks pretty damn good. I could also see a few pylons – modern ones… The cab driver beat his poor nag occasionally; my moderations to little effect. No baksheesh. Perhaps I'm unfair. [Parenthetically, try as I might, I could not find Rimbaud's graffiti; annoying.] The Nile very beautiful at dusk, the golden-pink sky reflected in its waters like a sheet of silver.
Now at dinner – seem to be mostly French and Germans here – few Brits, Yanks or Ozzies. So back to my day at Karnak. The hypostyle hall is one of the most impressive things in its sheer massiveness. And still those words. It is so hard for us to look at these buildings in the right way. For the literate, every surface would have been alive, a huge billboard, with the king's name shouted, shouted, shouted. Perhaps Piccadilly Circus or Japanese cities with their neon lights, Las Vegas, are the only equivalents. Our ads the same: except we habituate to those, and many are ugly. Here words use pictures too – a unique fusion - and are mixed with literalistic portrayals. For the uneducated, this double nature must have come through: they were recognisable images, and yet magic – words – too, but mysteries. Perhaps some could have been spelt out – the obvious transliterations. But otherwise it could only have increased the oppressiveness of the ensemble, emphasising the distance between gods and men. In a sense these huge structures justified themselves, praising the godhead that was invoked for their construction.
Moving among the papyrus pillars – papyrus again the foundation for their architecture, as for their later writing and ultimate heritage – I felt a pygmy, wandering among a huge bed of papyrus stalks. The fact that the central rows were roofed must have gob-smacked the proles, as the clerestories would have done. Their surfaces covered with large, rather crude hieroglyphs, the walls too. The perspective varies, constantly shifts as I shifted, a vision of eternity and infinity.
Perhaps the obelisks are appropriate, the only possible follow up. Hatshepsut's is soaring, a simple inscription – plus the Sut health warning at the bottom, staking a claim: "I built this, O ye of the future". Interesting effect that things get smaller as you go in – typically Western art tries to cap what goes before sequentially. Here you feel that you are entering the inner sanctum – like the heart of the pyramid. It is very effective, not at all an anti-climax. More smiting of heathens – lists of the battle of Megiddo – Armageddon. Again, that shock of recognition, of ancient knowledge crystallising as reality on the face of a rock.
I forgot to mention: the colours on the upper parts of the columns and links in the hypostyle hall. At several points colours survive – noticeably in the wall of Hatshepsut – colours 3000 years old. We see the surfaces as covered in pictorial scratches: in fact, they would have been blazes of strong colours – red, green, blues, blacks – another instance of our misreading, our wilful misapprehension of the reality. [Parenthetically, it is rather neat that Ryman's have already entitled this book "Ruled".] The size and single-mindedness of the design, the central axis, are noteworthy. [I am trouble by a trifle: I cannot remember what or where the hotel was in Jodhpur. I can remember the fort, the market, the museum – but not the hotel. Hmm…]
23.2.90 Luxor, west bank
Up at 5.30am, the Nile misty. Down to the public ferry (20 Egyptian piasters) – a cold crossing. Then I hire a bike for E£8. To the ticket office to buy around 10 tickets (ever the optimist). Riding through the lush countryside, the air cool, the sky clear blue, reminds me of Nepal. Hot air balloons circle overhead. Long, long, ride – hard work on the still sore quads. But worth it. I pass the Colossi of Memnon, solitary, shattered guardians. Signs to other antiquities, but I have only one goal: Hatshepsut, where I now sit, facing this extraordinary (albeit reconstructed) building, and its even more extraordinary (unreconstructed) backdrop.
I take a shortcut across a moonscape of rubble and holes. Then it all hove into sight. The huge yellow-grey curtain of rock, shaped as if statues were emerging from it. Below, the strata of rock; then rubble. To the first colonnade. Nice pic of Hatshepsut's obelisk being transported – a bigger boat than I've seen represented elsewhere. I also find unexpectedly, but perhaps unsurprisingly, the cartouche of Ramses II.
Up the ramp. This is the first Egyptian place that used the third dimension – Karnak is stupendous, but all two-dimensional; this is stupendous in a more developed way. Nice to see Anubis getting a chapel for a change. Birth room not as good as at Karnak. I saw the most appalling thing: this bloody Frenchman first rubbed a coloured hieroglyph, and when that proved insufficient, then licked his finger and rubbed. Bastard. Hathor temple good; Hathor head very archaic – like the Narmer tablet. Lots and lots of tourists now it's Ramadan. Punt reliefs a little anti-climactic. Best thing is the overall concept and setting; that wall…
The tomb of Ramose - lovely creamy-white stone, fine reliefs – full of life and its joys. Tomb of Nakht – beautiful, intimate, his glorious wife "chantress of Amun" – the famous singing girls – so casually sensual. High in the hills among the Tombs of the Nobles. Looking for Sennefer. But the view is great – I can understand the village and tombs better – also see the alluvial plain stop dead, sand all around. The sun is high. A haze hangs over Luxor. This place is just honeycombed with openings of tombs.
I find it hard dealing with all the touts and trish-trash pushers – the tiny kids trying to sell their crummy dolls, or else a foreign coin. A tiny sum to me is a huge sum to them; one hit per day could make all the difference. But it would become impossible.
I sit now in the Ramesseum, in the shade of one of the standing Ramses. Deep and cool – I am dreaming of my Turkish coffee back at the Savoy already. The tombs are fascinating for their (post facto) integration into the village. A pit, a door, a tomb. The weather is perfect: the air cool enough to wear a jacket and long trousers. The ground is so white here – and so friable. One of the nice things about hieroglyphs is that as the sun swings around, the etched lines change according to where the shadow falls. At this moment, I sit by the throne that Belzoni (1816) inscribed; the relief of Thoth, old Ibis-head himself, is beautifully clear.
I like the Ramesseum. Partly because it has a very personal feel to it – here, all the cartouches and images of Ramses II make sense. Also its forlornness, its failure in the face of time – Ozymandias and all that (it is a superb piece of statuary – or was once). I suppose too the proportions are right: first pylon (Kadesh again), second pylon (ditto), the Osiris pillars, the great hypostyle hall. Nice to see it covered, it gives a good feel for the earlier actuality of it. The papyrus columns mostly with their two types of capitals, are very elegant. Trees too – junipers (?) - lend pleasant shade and scents – and of course the setting: the great amphitheatre of the hills.
It's funny how a famous graffito – Belzoni, Rimbaud – redeems itself; perhaps I should leave one…. The blue of the sky is unreal: hard and unbroken. It leeches the colours out of everything else, stones especially. Mosques with the Koran, a cathedral with words, are the nearest equivalent to these real books in stone.
Valley of the Queens – hot and desolate – real desert, and doubtless a foretaste of the Valley of the Kings. Prince Khaemwaset II – vibrant colours, such clarity and confidence of form. Queen Tyti less exciting – quite faded. This should remind me again how multicoloured all the temples would have been – huge orgies of colour.
In front of the massive first pylon of Ramses III temple. The hieroglyphs like a shimmering chattering, a sheet of mysteries. The initial impulse behind all these temples was to keep the king alive: because he was the nation – keep him alive, keep the nation alive. Alongside the Colossi of Memnon. Shattered, faceless images, watching nonetheless. The constant backdrop of the hills. They look crippled; one is covered in gaudy red and blue scaffolding, the colour of hieroglyphs.
[Note: the marks on the cover of this book: they can also be found on my Nepal notebook and for the same reasons. They come from the back wheel carrier clamp on the bike – a necessary adjunct to travel, since my perfected equipment has at its heart a Samsonite carrying bag.]
One of the pleasures of travelling is establishing miniature routines. They offer a double delight: that of familiarity, of safety, and of a paradoxical novelty – these are not real routines. For me, these often centre around tea – for example, at Pokhara, at the Imperial Hotel in Delhi, and now here, in Luxor. I am on the patio of the Savoy, the dying sun blah-blah-blah, waiting with trepidation for my (first) Turkish coffee. This after a tiresome and humiliating jog around the town looking for some choccy bickies.
A long day: I arrived on the West Bank around 7.15am, and left about 4.15pm. In the sun most of the time, but body doing well. Ramses III temple in some ways better than the Ramesseum in terms of its completeness; but ultimately a rather different building, hollow at its heart. The battles, impressive as they look, are a sham. Old Ramses III fought few of them. At least Ramses II – for all the he may have fudged the result – did fight at Kadesh, and Tuthmosis at Megiddo. What battles: the fact that we have their accounts – form 3,500 years ago… [My chocolate bix are called "Ramsis".]
These mighty battles fought so long ago - except that they were probably not so mighty – see the poem of Kadesh and its limited captives et al. But even so, the thought of what at the time, to their combatants, doubtless seemed like world wars. But against that, consider the might of Egypt: the greatest civilisation the world had ever known, perfectly poised and balanced; and yet they ultimately lost their empire and their freedom. All the civilisation counted for nothing…
But the temple of Ramses III was superficially a wonder: the whole of the outer walls covered in text and images – apparently the south side has the longest extant hieroglyph inscription. The grooves in the walls: caused by believers extracting dust for potions. Walking back round to the first pylon, I was struck by the sense of size: if I had been rabble coming up to it, I would have felt so inadequate, so worthless compared to this.
Inside, passing through the still standing gate, soaring high above with inscriptions – to the first court. Vivid scenes – including a priest tallying the enemies' willies in a mound – charming. The papyrus columns as impressive as ever – I realise that the swelling at the bottom helps. There is so much colour left – it is hard to imagine this as three thousand or more years old. Also the covered parts – though unfortunately the final hypostyle hall is a wreck, with only fractions of the shafts left.
Perhaps because of its "completeness", Ramses III feels far more repetitious than others – for example the Ramesseum. Endless images of Ramses III smiting this, that, and the other, of him being touched on the lips with the ankh of Atum. Interesting that the palace was mud-bricks: still there, but crumbling – as at the Ramesseum, friable history. And so into the second court, more heads rolling, but a beautiful sight. And such a perfect sky, I can hardly believe it.
In the dining room – only half full – groups have moved on. A long walk along the Nile – a glorious evening – warmer than last night. I pass up to Luxor temple, then all the way back. The ferries cross without lights, the big cruise ships are berthed, preparing for supper. It may be heretical to say so, but I feel that it must be fairly dull way to travel. The boats are doubtless attractive enough, but there is little variety, and you are stuck with a schedule. And the people…
The day is odd here: everyone up early, to bed early. The mornings are very special: the mist over the Nile, the air. I hope to rise with the dawn again tomorrow, out to Karnak.
Back to my visit of the Ramses III temple. I was content just to be there, surrounded by the very strong sense of how it was. Plus the bonus of relatively few tourists. How they must habituate – as I run the risk of doing. I must say that the Egyptian guides seem very thorough – and fluent in their respective languages. For some reason, I was particularly impressed by the bloke spouting in Japanese – shows culturally biased I am.
Going back to the Queens' tombs: it was odd, seemed a lunar landscape. Holes in the earth, into which you plunged to find photographs, almost of other times. Strange to think they were sealed up in the hope that nobody would find them again. And the Tombs of the Nobles too: especially on the hillside, a warren of the dead. I am glad that I found the three musicians in Nakht's tomb: as it happens, I am staring at them now – they adorn my bedroom curtains, a rather bright lilac. I find them very attractive; I keep on imagining them in the flesh, so to speak, or their modern equivalents. The tomb was beautiful, especially Nakht's wife.
A slow cycle ride back to the ferry, passing intensely bright green sugar cane – even a sugar cane railway, as in Fiji. The Memnon Colossi, as above. The Nile plain is very lush: you can see what a miracle it must have represented 4000 years ago, plants from the desert, and how regulation, through the priests and king, was central. The air clearing surprisingly, with the opposite bank's hills visible. I wonder what happened to the balloons?
After handing in my bike – which served me well enough – to the ferry. On it a young woman clearly in pain, and bloodied hither and thither. As I correctly guessed, she had come off her bike, using the loose stones as sandpaper (I sympathise: I did something similar on Santorini, with an impressive motorbike skid on gravel…). When we got over, I offered what assistance I could, but other Ozzies help out. The ferry load was pure Egypt: rural men and women, darkly sitting there, the cake-seller ensconced in the middle of the deck, strange bundles to-ing and fro-ing.
It was a great day, reminding me very strongly of Nepal and Pokhara. Cycling along, the sun pouring down, the wind streaming past, ascending to Hatshepsut's temple, to the Queens' and Nobles' places, discovering the unexpected glory of Ramses III – these memories will live with me while I have any. And yet: there is still something escaping me, the sense of the past – a paradoxical consequence of the excellent state of preservation. I must try harder, feel my way around…
24.2.90 Luxor, Dendera
Up early (5.30am ish). Walk along the Nile to Karnak Temple. Hot air balloon out again. West bank glorious. I enter Karnak, the sun low, cutting through the first pylon; I feel part of a priestly procession. I enter the hypostyle hall: I have it to myself.
Groups have begun to arrive, but the place is still nice (my fingers are cold, I can hardly write – shades of Walks with Lorenzetti). Hatshepsut's obelisk, the side pylons seen through arches – all a bit (?) like Trinity College and its courts – rather grander… In the far distance, the train's huge diminished fifth bellow, a forlorn cry. The hot air balloon floats into view.
Hieroglyphs always seem to fit perfectly, there is never a gap or suggestion of crowding. In St Alban's Cathedral I seem to recall, there is a manuscript – about 10 feet by 8 feet – of the requiem mass. Each part is written larger or smaller; this is the nearest I can think of to hieroglyphs in the West. For example, Hatshepsut's obelisk – such balance, especially the single line of hieroglyphs from halfway. A strange, thundering sound, roaring about: the gods return? I look up – there is the balloon, its burner making monstrous noises. Amazing sight – view must be great – but probably fails to capture the majesty I see – you need the peasant's-eye view. Finally the crowds arrived – so I left, at about 9am. Amazing that I had it so long. The old horse carriage drivers wanted ridiculous money, so I walked.
Then sat in the sun for a while, an early lunch on the terrace, watched the clouds roll in, haggled for a taxi to Dendera – E£40 – and after a fairly hairy drive at 60mph all the way, along the widening Nile valley – impressive hills in the west, more distant on the east – passing through the tip of Qena, I find myself sitting comforted by the majestic pile of Dendera temple itself. And the sun is out.
Roman Mammisi – definitely decadent, the Romans assimilated, not vice versa. Inside dark, like something out of The Magic Flute – which begins to feel more real in its symbolism having seen all this. On the north side, a staircase to the roof: brilliant view of the temple in its blocky harmoniousness and above all the great wall of hills behind, lit up and craggy. To the east I can see the other hills. The Coptic church alongside looks footling. But best of all was the ascent: the turning staircase wall was covered in shallow reliefs, hieroglyphs, but all rather old and grimy – again, perfect Magic Flute stuff. Coptic church also has grooves in its side – holy stone again…
Dendera is a gem. I write now up on the roof, blowy, but a brilliant view. To the west the hills; huge sand mounds, then stratified rocks, yellow turning to pink. A vast string of pylons lope from horizon to horizon, a wonderful lesson in perspective. From up here, you can see the brick walls particularly clearly, girdling the place four-squarely. An excellent sense of the Nilotic plain here, wide enough to support an empire. A curious sunken court – the sacred lake – with six swaying palm trees. Rubble all around the place like a huge rubbish dump.
So, the temple itself. What is striking of course is that it is dark. We are too used [the bronchitic squeals of a poor donkey rend the air: what abject lives they lead] to ruins, open to the glorious sky. But temples were usually covered – this was part of their majesty: they were secret, closed-in places. Dendera is closed in, it retains the mystery. Perhaps this is why it keeps reminding me of Die Zauberflöte: that is, about dark mysteries, about secrets.
The outer hypostyle is majestic, but the inner, because darker, and within the outer, even more powerful. The decorations are frankly unexciting: poor workmanship, feeble hieroglyphs. Interesting to note that most of the figures have been chipped away by the bleedin' Copts – vandals – but they left the hieroglyphs: why? Respect, ignorance? The Hathor heads that do survive – notably in the temple on the roof – tap straight into the Narmer tablet – 3000 years before them – longer than the entire christian era. Things turn full circle…
But generally the images repeat listlessly, in enervation, the tradition burnt out. Perhaps it was ripe for the Arabs with their fire and their new religion [I am being left alone on the roof – again, that feeling of abandonment, as if cast back through the centuries.]
The central sanctum is one of the most atmospheric of the holy places I've been to here. Again, because it is dark, because it really is the holy of holies, hidden away. You can imagine Hathor herself residing here, with her great wise eyes (how primitive all these animal-gods are).
On the east side, another mysterious staircase: long and straight, a steady ascent with knobbly hieroglyphs; on the west, a turning staircase past several rooms/chambers. A great mini-Hathor chapel on the roof, hidden away. Then modern stairs to the raised front. As ever, no protection: a sheer drop. Retro me sathana… It really is quite cloudy now, though the sun has just broken through. No great tragedy – I need to be moderated, but I hope the weather is better in Aswan.
At the front, by the edge, were more graffiti than usual; mostly Brits: James Mangles, Charles Inby (May 1817); T Sproat, CP Parker (1827); John Gordon (1804); and John Malcolm (1822), Holroyd (1837), DW Nash (1836), EK Hume (1836). As I descend, the sun's rays break through the clouds – and form a perfect pyramid…
Downstairs, I am clobbered by one of the guards – who shows me the crypts – beautiful carvings, and fine picture of Hathor – unmutilated. The mutilated stones are pock-marked, as if with a disease. Down in the crypt – down a creaky stair, crouching on all fours – the stench of cigarettes on the guide's breath.
The sanctuary forms a complete room within the building.
Between the first and second hypostyles: light and dark. Hathor has a cheery face. The half-screen at the front works really well, letting in light, but maintaining privacy. The locks of Hathor – blue – hang down like drapes. There is no real awe here, but occult power. The stones on the stairs: worn right down. I find Cleopatra – but no matching cartouche.
Crazed drive back. On the terrace. Though the sun is not setting yet, it is already golden-yellow with the haze. Very high above, swifts careen around. The odd falcon. Dinner is not yet served, and so – at 7pm – along to Luxor Temple. I am sitting in front of the Kadesh text, garishly illuminated by sodium, making the stone look like a huge orange ice lolly. The whole place is ghostly. A clear night now, stars spangling it brilliantly. To the south wall of the first court: where I find the ancient representation of the temple itself, flags a-flutter. Ramses II is so clearly the key – no wonder Mailer based "Ancient Evenings" around him. In retrospect it does convey the details well and painlessly. I think it fails to capture the majesty, the sheer sense of empire.
25.2.90 Luxor, west bank
Up early again, across to west bank. Hire bike, but along to Seti I temple this time. Nice – though nothing impressive like the others. No other tourists – but there are archaeologists, and lots of fellahin digging holes, wheeling barrows. It's gonna be hot today, methinks. Up to the crest of the hill between Valley of the Kings and west bank. The Valley itself is scorched rock, a barren, dry Lake District.
Ramses I: simple but good. Each god's attributes are like the iconography of saints. I find Osiris, his skin green/blue from death, wrapped in a mummy's shrouds, the most affecting. Tuthmosis III – a real warren. At the end of a defile, up stairs, down stairs, along corridor. To the antechamber – strange, quickly-drawn images – a list of hundreds of gods. Total silence. In the tomb chamber, more line drawings rather than paintings. Eerie. Some of the text slants very oddly. Tawsert and Setnakh – a nice contrast: long with gentle gradient. Again, Osiris memorable. Seti's tomb – beautiful low reliefs – and walls of hieroglyphs – including rough sketches – still waiting for the chisel. A light red. Looking to the entrance, the light catches the hieroglyphs – like a crazy wallpaper. An unknown mummy, dried to a crisp. The white stone just begs to be caressed – or touched – it is almost sensual. It is strange standing outside: looking down a huge black shaft; bright rock all about, brilliant blue sky above.
Horemheb – not a name one meets often – unusual cartouche. Great scene with Ma'at, Anubis, Hathor, Horus, Osiris. Tomb very long, very very deep; Other side has Isis – with throne on head. Beautiful in her white dress to the breasts. Amenhotep II: deep, very spare design inside, blue tonality. Very austere. Ramses VI – the most impressive in size. Lots of unusual drawing – occult stuff. It seems appropriate to finish with Tutankhamun – which in some ways is about tourists – the queues to get in are ridiculous. Fine wall coverings – but all so small – footling really. Enough.
In the rest house, I think I am getting addicted to 7-Ups. Tutankhamun was amazingly feeble, one room, and the sarcophagus and a few walls nothing compared to the other tombs. This place must be a real cauldron of god in summer. The heat from the bodies in the tombs is oppressive too – must be ruining the paintings. Generally, here and throughout Egypt, the sites have been very well preserved and restored – but not protected from us, alas.
Valley of the Kings looks like a huge quarry, with an odd causeway of white winding through it. Before the tombs were disturbed it must have been theoretically an extraordinary place: stuffed with the good and great of hundreds of years – a Westminster Abbey au naturel. [It is such bliss to put my deeply pretentious/expensive Ray-Bans back on.] One thing Tutankhamun does emphasise is what a tip it must have been when discovered. The room so small, so many items. The position of Tutankhamun is certainly rather drole: right under Ramses VI – no wonder it was lost.
I sit now perched high on the crest between Valley of the Kings and the west bank. A plane is coming into land; the Nile stretches out in one enormous straight band; I can see the opposite hills for miles. The great temples – Ramesseum and Ramses II are before me like child's building models. The Colossi of Memnon are dolls.
Halfway down to Hatshepsut's tomb – the dust is playing havoc with my eyes – the wind is getting up and a few clouds are appearing again. The rock face behind Hatshepsut's looks like a literal curtain with folds; also I can see lots of Dantesque squirming figures as if struggling to emerge. Grit in my mouth, too.
In the Ramesseum after the worst bike-ride of my life – blinded by grit. As well as the Battle of Kadesh, there is the story of Dapur. In fact the seizure of a city by storming must have been fairly innovative. In Ramses III, second court. The osirid columns, in different stages of disrepair, look like Matisse's sequence of female nudes from behind: meditations on a theme.
I have been sitting staring mindless at the outside south wall, the huge hieroglyphic poem, the distant hunting scene, the sheer – still ungraspable for me – immensity of this achievement. There are worse things to do on a Sunday afternoon in February…
Coffee on the terrace – then out on a felucca – haggled down from E£30 to E£8 plus E£2 baksheesh – still too much. On "Rendezvous"… Sun sinking, wind "stiff". Two on the boat, talking in Arabic – that coloniser/colonised again. Best sunset yet – Aten a golden liquid globe as we pull across to the west bank. The hills I climbed today now turning blue – a Leonardoesque chiaroscuro. River very quiet now – a few feluccas upstream. Honking madness on the east bank. Aten turns orange behind palm trees. Now deeper red, the cloud back to pink – the light reflected in cabin windows of the moored Nile cruise boats. I should think travelling by boat – of whatever size – gets rather limiting after a while – this time period is far more satisfying for me. The wind is up again, the ropes creak – I can see the attraction of sea writing – all that evocation. Aten gone – the sky like a washed bandage, sun-dyed and faded, the colours turning grey.
No birds – but this morning, a flight flew over – long and almost straight – just the odd straggler spoiling the line. A huge diagonal. In the Nile – here as in Cairo – the odd piece of floating greenness – it looks like some lily. It gets caught around the docked ships, stagnant with flotsam and jetsam, trapped with it all.
26.2.90 Esna, Edfu, Kom Ombo
Up early, then along to Karnak for a quick farewell. What a place. Then hire taxi down to Aswan. First stop Esna – dusty, fly-blown place. But in the middle of the souk, a huge pit – and a miniature Dendera. Amazing. But the sense of degradation of style inside – coarse hieroglyphs as if they no longer meant anything. Nice flowery capitals to the columns, though.
Beyond Esna, the desert really asserts itself. The road on the east bank is the boundary between it and greenery. The Nile's inundation must have seemed truly miraculous to the ancient Egyptians, life from death. Everything would revolve around it. We pass some mounds that could be crumbling mud pyramids, plus ugly factories belching smoke unceasingly. The rocks of the surrounding cliffs beg for tombs.
Edfu. Impressive, even in its late (only 2000 years old) Ptolemaic trappings. Interesting that hieroglyphs have gone into the background. Now images dominate – shift of emphasis. In the court of offering: the hieroglyphs look almost Chinese – they have lost their precision. Entering the outer hypostyle is very like Dendera – gradual descent into darkness, into mystery. But, my word, how depressingly bad the hieroglyphs are…
To Kom Ombo, the Nile narrowing greatly, the vegetation losing its greenness, everything drier. OK, a good ruin. Also for its location – not some squalid circus pit, but on the promontory by the Nile. Perhaps that is the main difference – the aesthetics of the site. This late style reminds me of High Victorian Gothic – all gilt and fiddly bits.
What a day, which I am trying to redeem with a turkish coffee at a restaurant on the Nile – on a pontoon to be exact – every time people move, the whole thing rocks.
Anyway, my worst nightmare fulfilled. I get to the hotel – Abu Simbel – only to be told that the last room had just – one minute ago – been taken – the offenders were still filling in the form. Then a hunt around – to about five others – none could offer more than two days – even tried Kalabash Cataract – full and surly. So two days it is. After that...well, there was one other, too grubby to contemplate, but they may have a better room later. Ho-hum. Aswan itself looks pleasant enough – a long corniche giving a Mediterranean feel.. The sun is descending behind Elephantine, the feluccas are out.
Driving through the arid desert today made me long for Cornwall. Perverse, me?
The sun catches the Aga Khan's mausoleum high on the hill opposite. At least I have a flight booked for Abu Simbel tomorrow, out at 1.30pm and back at 4.15pm. I thought I should try all modes of transport to get the context. It will be nice to see the desert from above. The Oberoi Hotel in front of me is an ugly construction, like a water tower – Greenaway would like it. There is Euro pop in the background; how can I say it? Nice. I'm obviously getting homesick. The elegant ballet of the feluccas. Lovely synths – I'm so tempted to get one.
Along the corniche, trees with huge red blossoms like rhododendrons that fall heavily with a dull squelch. The pavement is littered with this prodigality. Today's situation reminds me of Udaipur – when I read "Ancient Evenings" – and was rather ill. Nice effect as the feluccas' sails curtain the sun briefly. The almost-view – if I stick my head out – reminds me of the hotel in Queenstown. Because of its resort air, this doesn't really feel like the end of an empire/land/country. The sun hits the hills, liquid gold. Re is gone for me. A flock of birds, far away, like a changing dust cloud, peppering the sky.
Hell's bells – a kingfisher just dived in – and came out with a fish. Mosquitoes out. Watching now, as I watched last night: the felucca sailors climb the mast and pack the sail away (technical term needed). A long walk back through the souk – the best I've came across in Egypt – lively, real – with smells: incense, spices. Forms again – the pyramids of oranges, the subtle variation in dates, the baskets of deeply-coloured spices. Nearest to India yet.
27.2.90 Aswan, Abu Simbel
Up to a slightly unsettled day: where will I be tomorrow? Yesterday evening I bought a ticket for Friday to Asyut – so I need two more nights somewhere. To Abu Simbel at 1.30pm, so a quick trip here first.
A walk along the corniche, the public ferry to the island – I get lost in a maze of narrow streets – then to the old town. Not much to see. Nilometer, Temple of Khnum. Good to see the Ramses II cartouche even here. Lovely view of Aswan, Cataract Hotel etc. Also of Elephantine rocks at the water's edge.
Still nothing fixed – though lots of "come back laters". It is strange how the aspect of a tour is transformed according to whether you have or do not have somewhere to stay. Yesterday, as we drove around, the place was nothing but a hot unfriendly place, without form or beauty. Sitting at the Saladin floating restaurant again, I could – for a moment – savour the sun and the tranquillity.
To Aswan airport early, to get a good seat. But thwarted by bureaucracy – no seat allocated. In other words, a mêlée. I sit now in the deep shade of the outside cafe, waiting to get in line. On the way here, via the old dam – the Brit one. Fine lake to the left, straggly water to the right. Then into desert – the airport is a long way out for some reason. Real desert, terrifying. A forest of pylons carrying electricity from the dam away into the shaking distance. It's gonna be hot in Abu Simbel.
Travelling freely really is about the will: I wish it, and it happens; with tours, you are without volition – you just do as you are told. The two could not be further apart.
Well, this is Egypt – a delay of one hour – at least. I stood for 45 minutes – yo – and now sit down, and will probably lose my window seat.
Amazing flight. It confirms my worst fears about the desert: utterly implacable – definitely Empire's End. Pure sand – just a tiny road, the Nile a distant presence. A few dunes, later, strange rocks – this is how the world will end – dust, sand, heat, nothing. This is how Egypt ends. How all empires end. Nearer Lake Nasser – huge, but drying up – there were clear signs of old mud – former levels – this last imperial folly too is a failure. As we fly in, I see the temples – looking like sand castles made by a child – pretty one side, nothing the other – a strange jelly mould. The statues stare pointlessly at the lake, face east to the rising sun. Sitting in the coach – the sun is pitiless – at 3.30pm – deadly rays.
Temple of Nefertari. Striking facade – the striding king and queen – last rays of light still catching it. Inside, good Hathor heads on pillars. Strange: even though the work throughout is rather crude, it has far more vigour than any Ptolemaic stuff. Colours partly preserved. Good to see queens represented so much. Striking too the pose of the king smiting sundry baddies – the power of the legs' fulcrum (a triangle, the straight line of the arms, the twist of the hips – pure karate).
Outside, a smile plays across his features. To the big one, where Ramses seems not to be smiling so much. Lovely baboons up top. The poor man is covered with scratched graffiti, mostly Westerners – what a humiliation. Hittite marriage stela – practically indecipherable.
Inside, powerful effect of osirid columns – some Upper Egypt, some Upper and Lower. That same pose: smiting the enemy. The king attacks a Syrian fort – and he does with a lively image of what it looked like. But what an immense distance to travel – the penalty of empire. Something I realised looking at the Syrians: they are bearded; ancient Egyptians never (?) are. And today, you rarely see bearded Egyptians.
In the side chamber, I feel the first stirrings of that ancientness I sought. Perhaps because it is crudely lit. Everything else is too well-preserved and looked after – I have lost their ancientness. They need to look more like the caves of Lascaux, or old castles. I need some of their fear, their awe: electric lights banish this. Torches – flaming light – would be better. Also the unevenness (in castles) of the walls and ceiling helps. I feel their uncertainty in the world. Perhaps I need the junk of Tutankhamun's tomb. I can relate these side chambers to my idea of the Philistines/Assyrians stuff of the same era; but not the others. The fact is, the battles live more for us than offerings to Amun. Therefore Ramses II lives more than any other.
Superb effect as you emerge from the innermost: bright light, the sky, a glimpse of the water. Designed to catch the early sun, February 21/October 21. To illuminate the four statues. The Battle of Kadesh; again. But reversed in direction – whatever the reality, one of the most powerful scenes in all Egypt. The mighty king, the confusion of war, the great city portrayed in some detail. I read the "Battle of Kadesh" text in its presence. In the bottom right hand side the signature of its author, his own pleas for immortality. Which he has.
Outside. Unfortunately the building blocks look very silly – like some child's construction set. The hills on the opposite side of the lake: huge wind-blasted cones, moonscapes.
Window seat again: real blood-red sunset – sinking in the haze, a huge red band swathing the sky. The desert as frightening as its shadows lengthened.
1990 Egypt I: Cairo, Saqqarah, Giza
1990 Egypt III: Asyut, Kharga, El Amarna
1990 Egypt IV: Alexandria, Wadi El Natrun, Suez
More destinations:
Classic early morning sunrise – or what I take to be one. Durrell's nacreous sky, with palm trees silhouetted against it. Cloudy, textured sky, the Nile not visible. Apparently the train is to arrive on time at about 7am – for the first time (ever?). Still no breakfast. The sunrise turned from rosy haze to the dark red eye of Re – huge and monstrous – then soon turned yellow, then white. The sun does seem a very basic fact already. The north-south dividing line of the Nile probably helped in the sense of journey, of rising and falling, of a mid-point, of cycles. Inevitable that in this land of the sun it should dominate. The clouds burn off.
Off the train, to the Savoy Hotel and – they have a room, or a bungalow at least, although I haven't seen it yet, and can't until noon. So, off for a wander. Along the Nile corniche. Magnificent view across to the Valley of the Kings; I can imagine it does get very hot. Weakly, I am now sitting in Luxor – I should wait, but who could resist? I am trying not to "do" it now, just be. My legs are amazingly tired.
One thing: I feel my interest in the Savoy Hotel was piqued by old van Haag's references to it. This convinces me that a more personalised kind of travel guide/book can succeed. Remember that the exhibits of most museums are the spoils of war/conquests of empire: the Rosetta Stone, for example, passing from France to the British Museum. Note if English were written without vowels – phtgrphr – there would be little loss – mostly neutral vowels. Ancient Egyptian may have been simplified because of collapse from proto-ancient Egyptian – like English.
At the end of the Avenue of Sphinxes – no tourists; just the muezzin. The obsessiveness of the builders of them. The pylon at the end, massive still, the obelisk, the Ramses statues (the bloody flies, ho-hum). The colonnade beyond.
Now on the hotel's terrace beside the Nile – windy, the sun hotter than it seems – fearing a hot time. My room good – not facing the Nile, but south facing around the pool – looks tempting. Everything else usual tacky/non-functioning. Back to the Luxor temple – not Karnak as I erroneously thought, making my task here long. I see now that early morning is the best for reading the Battle of Kadesh – of which I have the transcription. Old Greek graffiti abound. In the first court I have a sense of how it must have looked when complete. Beautiful papyrus columns, calyx tops.
After lunch – if that was a goulash, I'm a Chinaman – out to Karnak, hiring a hantour for E£5 (shades of Andy Warhol). How to formulate an adequate response to this place? I made no attempt to write while I was there – it was enough of a job orienting myself. The first pylon pretty damn impressive. Indeed I was struck throughout by a sense of awe that mere mortals must always have felt upon seeing these godly works. They make Stonehenge look pretty sick. [Ah – Turkish coffee – yummy.] The forecourt too: I could reconstruct the Kiosk of Taharqa with its huge swooping columns. It must have acted as a huge visual brake. The triple shrine of Seti II was interesting – if only because of the thoroughness with which the first hieroglyphs – Set – had been erased. Bad vibes re Osiris?
The Temple of Ramesses III, though small, was powerful. The famous Bubastite Portal a nice reminder of synchronous events – [The sun has turned gold, Re on his way down. Fragrances in the air, the birds' dusk chorus. Liquid yellow now.] – Shoshenq I's victories over the Palestinians – Rehoboam, son of Solomon.
An orange tincture now. In the after image, I have hundreds of Res in my eye/retina. The west bank looks like a Cadbury's Flake – I'm sorry, but it does. Another Turkish coffee… For some reason, there is something about the sinking sun that reminds me of Peter Greenaway… - very European. The first pinks in the evening air; birds going nuts. Perhaps peach-coloured now; an artist [Monet] could study the effects for years. Re is slipping behind the hills, changing boats for his nightly voyage – as Thoth?/moon – it's all so confusing…. Red leaking out along the horizon, an unlookable-at segment. Re is dead. Feluccas serene on the Nile – I must try one… A falcon hovering low over the river – no wonder they took it for a god – Horus, too. No spectacular sunset further, alas.
On the way to Karnak – probably a 15 minute walk – I could make out Hatshepsut's mortuary complex across the Nile: looks pretty damn good. I could also see a few pylons – modern ones… The cab driver beat his poor nag occasionally; my moderations to little effect. No baksheesh. Perhaps I'm unfair. [Parenthetically, try as I might, I could not find Rimbaud's graffiti; annoying.] The Nile very beautiful at dusk, the golden-pink sky reflected in its waters like a sheet of silver.
Now at dinner – seem to be mostly French and Germans here – few Brits, Yanks or Ozzies. So back to my day at Karnak. The hypostyle hall is one of the most impressive things in its sheer massiveness. And still those words. It is so hard for us to look at these buildings in the right way. For the literate, every surface would have been alive, a huge billboard, with the king's name shouted, shouted, shouted. Perhaps Piccadilly Circus or Japanese cities with their neon lights, Las Vegas, are the only equivalents. Our ads the same: except we habituate to those, and many are ugly. Here words use pictures too – a unique fusion - and are mixed with literalistic portrayals. For the uneducated, this double nature must have come through: they were recognisable images, and yet magic – words – too, but mysteries. Perhaps some could have been spelt out – the obvious transliterations. But otherwise it could only have increased the oppressiveness of the ensemble, emphasising the distance between gods and men. In a sense these huge structures justified themselves, praising the godhead that was invoked for their construction.
Moving among the papyrus pillars – papyrus again the foundation for their architecture, as for their later writing and ultimate heritage – I felt a pygmy, wandering among a huge bed of papyrus stalks. The fact that the central rows were roofed must have gob-smacked the proles, as the clerestories would have done. Their surfaces covered with large, rather crude hieroglyphs, the walls too. The perspective varies, constantly shifts as I shifted, a vision of eternity and infinity.
Perhaps the obelisks are appropriate, the only possible follow up. Hatshepsut's is soaring, a simple inscription – plus the Sut health warning at the bottom, staking a claim: "I built this, O ye of the future". Interesting effect that things get smaller as you go in – typically Western art tries to cap what goes before sequentially. Here you feel that you are entering the inner sanctum – like the heart of the pyramid. It is very effective, not at all an anti-climax. More smiting of heathens – lists of the battle of Megiddo – Armageddon. Again, that shock of recognition, of ancient knowledge crystallising as reality on the face of a rock.
I forgot to mention: the colours on the upper parts of the columns and links in the hypostyle hall. At several points colours survive – noticeably in the wall of Hatshepsut – colours 3000 years old. We see the surfaces as covered in pictorial scratches: in fact, they would have been blazes of strong colours – red, green, blues, blacks – another instance of our misreading, our wilful misapprehension of the reality. [Parenthetically, it is rather neat that Ryman's have already entitled this book "Ruled".] The size and single-mindedness of the design, the central axis, are noteworthy. [I am trouble by a trifle: I cannot remember what or where the hotel was in Jodhpur. I can remember the fort, the market, the museum – but not the hotel. Hmm…]
23.2.90 Luxor, west bank
Up at 5.30am, the Nile misty. Down to the public ferry (20 Egyptian piasters) – a cold crossing. Then I hire a bike for E£8. To the ticket office to buy around 10 tickets (ever the optimist). Riding through the lush countryside, the air cool, the sky clear blue, reminds me of Nepal. Hot air balloons circle overhead. Long, long, ride – hard work on the still sore quads. But worth it. I pass the Colossi of Memnon, solitary, shattered guardians. Signs to other antiquities, but I have only one goal: Hatshepsut, where I now sit, facing this extraordinary (albeit reconstructed) building, and its even more extraordinary (unreconstructed) backdrop.
I take a shortcut across a moonscape of rubble and holes. Then it all hove into sight. The huge yellow-grey curtain of rock, shaped as if statues were emerging from it. Below, the strata of rock; then rubble. To the first colonnade. Nice pic of Hatshepsut's obelisk being transported – a bigger boat than I've seen represented elsewhere. I also find unexpectedly, but perhaps unsurprisingly, the cartouche of Ramses II.
Up the ramp. This is the first Egyptian place that used the third dimension – Karnak is stupendous, but all two-dimensional; this is stupendous in a more developed way. Nice to see Anubis getting a chapel for a change. Birth room not as good as at Karnak. I saw the most appalling thing: this bloody Frenchman first rubbed a coloured hieroglyph, and when that proved insufficient, then licked his finger and rubbed. Bastard. Hathor temple good; Hathor head very archaic – like the Narmer tablet. Lots and lots of tourists now it's Ramadan. Punt reliefs a little anti-climactic. Best thing is the overall concept and setting; that wall…
The tomb of Ramose - lovely creamy-white stone, fine reliefs – full of life and its joys. Tomb of Nakht – beautiful, intimate, his glorious wife "chantress of Amun" – the famous singing girls – so casually sensual. High in the hills among the Tombs of the Nobles. Looking for Sennefer. But the view is great – I can understand the village and tombs better – also see the alluvial plain stop dead, sand all around. The sun is high. A haze hangs over Luxor. This place is just honeycombed with openings of tombs.
I find it hard dealing with all the touts and trish-trash pushers – the tiny kids trying to sell their crummy dolls, or else a foreign coin. A tiny sum to me is a huge sum to them; one hit per day could make all the difference. But it would become impossible.
I sit now in the Ramesseum, in the shade of one of the standing Ramses. Deep and cool – I am dreaming of my Turkish coffee back at the Savoy already. The tombs are fascinating for their (post facto) integration into the village. A pit, a door, a tomb. The weather is perfect: the air cool enough to wear a jacket and long trousers. The ground is so white here – and so friable. One of the nice things about hieroglyphs is that as the sun swings around, the etched lines change according to where the shadow falls. At this moment, I sit by the throne that Belzoni (1816) inscribed; the relief of Thoth, old Ibis-head himself, is beautifully clear.
I like the Ramesseum. Partly because it has a very personal feel to it – here, all the cartouches and images of Ramses II make sense. Also its forlornness, its failure in the face of time – Ozymandias and all that (it is a superb piece of statuary – or was once). I suppose too the proportions are right: first pylon (Kadesh again), second pylon (ditto), the Osiris pillars, the great hypostyle hall. Nice to see it covered, it gives a good feel for the earlier actuality of it. The papyrus columns mostly with their two types of capitals, are very elegant. Trees too – junipers (?) - lend pleasant shade and scents – and of course the setting: the great amphitheatre of the hills.
It's funny how a famous graffito – Belzoni, Rimbaud – redeems itself; perhaps I should leave one…. The blue of the sky is unreal: hard and unbroken. It leeches the colours out of everything else, stones especially. Mosques with the Koran, a cathedral with words, are the nearest equivalent to these real books in stone.
Valley of the Queens – hot and desolate – real desert, and doubtless a foretaste of the Valley of the Kings. Prince Khaemwaset II – vibrant colours, such clarity and confidence of form. Queen Tyti less exciting – quite faded. This should remind me again how multicoloured all the temples would have been – huge orgies of colour.
In front of the massive first pylon of Ramses III temple. The hieroglyphs like a shimmering chattering, a sheet of mysteries. The initial impulse behind all these temples was to keep the king alive: because he was the nation – keep him alive, keep the nation alive. Alongside the Colossi of Memnon. Shattered, faceless images, watching nonetheless. The constant backdrop of the hills. They look crippled; one is covered in gaudy red and blue scaffolding, the colour of hieroglyphs.
[Note: the marks on the cover of this book: they can also be found on my Nepal notebook and for the same reasons. They come from the back wheel carrier clamp on the bike – a necessary adjunct to travel, since my perfected equipment has at its heart a Samsonite carrying bag.]
One of the pleasures of travelling is establishing miniature routines. They offer a double delight: that of familiarity, of safety, and of a paradoxical novelty – these are not real routines. For me, these often centre around tea – for example, at Pokhara, at the Imperial Hotel in Delhi, and now here, in Luxor. I am on the patio of the Savoy, the dying sun blah-blah-blah, waiting with trepidation for my (first) Turkish coffee. This after a tiresome and humiliating jog around the town looking for some choccy bickies.
A long day: I arrived on the West Bank around 7.15am, and left about 4.15pm. In the sun most of the time, but body doing well. Ramses III temple in some ways better than the Ramesseum in terms of its completeness; but ultimately a rather different building, hollow at its heart. The battles, impressive as they look, are a sham. Old Ramses III fought few of them. At least Ramses II – for all the he may have fudged the result – did fight at Kadesh, and Tuthmosis at Megiddo. What battles: the fact that we have their accounts – form 3,500 years ago… [My chocolate bix are called "Ramsis".]
These mighty battles fought so long ago - except that they were probably not so mighty – see the poem of Kadesh and its limited captives et al. But even so, the thought of what at the time, to their combatants, doubtless seemed like world wars. But against that, consider the might of Egypt: the greatest civilisation the world had ever known, perfectly poised and balanced; and yet they ultimately lost their empire and their freedom. All the civilisation counted for nothing…
But the temple of Ramses III was superficially a wonder: the whole of the outer walls covered in text and images – apparently the south side has the longest extant hieroglyph inscription. The grooves in the walls: caused by believers extracting dust for potions. Walking back round to the first pylon, I was struck by the sense of size: if I had been rabble coming up to it, I would have felt so inadequate, so worthless compared to this.
Inside, passing through the still standing gate, soaring high above with inscriptions – to the first court. Vivid scenes – including a priest tallying the enemies' willies in a mound – charming. The papyrus columns as impressive as ever – I realise that the swelling at the bottom helps. There is so much colour left – it is hard to imagine this as three thousand or more years old. Also the covered parts – though unfortunately the final hypostyle hall is a wreck, with only fractions of the shafts left.
Perhaps because of its "completeness", Ramses III feels far more repetitious than others – for example the Ramesseum. Endless images of Ramses III smiting this, that, and the other, of him being touched on the lips with the ankh of Atum. Interesting that the palace was mud-bricks: still there, but crumbling – as at the Ramesseum, friable history. And so into the second court, more heads rolling, but a beautiful sight. And such a perfect sky, I can hardly believe it.
In the dining room – only half full – groups have moved on. A long walk along the Nile – a glorious evening – warmer than last night. I pass up to Luxor temple, then all the way back. The ferries cross without lights, the big cruise ships are berthed, preparing for supper. It may be heretical to say so, but I feel that it must be fairly dull way to travel. The boats are doubtless attractive enough, but there is little variety, and you are stuck with a schedule. And the people…
The day is odd here: everyone up early, to bed early. The mornings are very special: the mist over the Nile, the air. I hope to rise with the dawn again tomorrow, out to Karnak.
Back to my visit of the Ramses III temple. I was content just to be there, surrounded by the very strong sense of how it was. Plus the bonus of relatively few tourists. How they must habituate – as I run the risk of doing. I must say that the Egyptian guides seem very thorough – and fluent in their respective languages. For some reason, I was particularly impressed by the bloke spouting in Japanese – shows culturally biased I am.
Going back to the Queens' tombs: it was odd, seemed a lunar landscape. Holes in the earth, into which you plunged to find photographs, almost of other times. Strange to think they were sealed up in the hope that nobody would find them again. And the Tombs of the Nobles too: especially on the hillside, a warren of the dead. I am glad that I found the three musicians in Nakht's tomb: as it happens, I am staring at them now – they adorn my bedroom curtains, a rather bright lilac. I find them very attractive; I keep on imagining them in the flesh, so to speak, or their modern equivalents. The tomb was beautiful, especially Nakht's wife.
A slow cycle ride back to the ferry, passing intensely bright green sugar cane – even a sugar cane railway, as in Fiji. The Memnon Colossi, as above. The Nile plain is very lush: you can see what a miracle it must have represented 4000 years ago, plants from the desert, and how regulation, through the priests and king, was central. The air clearing surprisingly, with the opposite bank's hills visible. I wonder what happened to the balloons?
After handing in my bike – which served me well enough – to the ferry. On it a young woman clearly in pain, and bloodied hither and thither. As I correctly guessed, she had come off her bike, using the loose stones as sandpaper (I sympathise: I did something similar on Santorini, with an impressive motorbike skid on gravel…). When we got over, I offered what assistance I could, but other Ozzies help out. The ferry load was pure Egypt: rural men and women, darkly sitting there, the cake-seller ensconced in the middle of the deck, strange bundles to-ing and fro-ing.
It was a great day, reminding me very strongly of Nepal and Pokhara. Cycling along, the sun pouring down, the wind streaming past, ascending to Hatshepsut's temple, to the Queens' and Nobles' places, discovering the unexpected glory of Ramses III – these memories will live with me while I have any. And yet: there is still something escaping me, the sense of the past – a paradoxical consequence of the excellent state of preservation. I must try harder, feel my way around…
24.2.90 Luxor, Dendera
Up early (5.30am ish). Walk along the Nile to Karnak Temple. Hot air balloon out again. West bank glorious. I enter Karnak, the sun low, cutting through the first pylon; I feel part of a priestly procession. I enter the hypostyle hall: I have it to myself.
Groups have begun to arrive, but the place is still nice (my fingers are cold, I can hardly write – shades of Walks with Lorenzetti). Hatshepsut's obelisk, the side pylons seen through arches – all a bit (?) like Trinity College and its courts – rather grander… In the far distance, the train's huge diminished fifth bellow, a forlorn cry. The hot air balloon floats into view.
Hieroglyphs always seem to fit perfectly, there is never a gap or suggestion of crowding. In St Alban's Cathedral I seem to recall, there is a manuscript – about 10 feet by 8 feet – of the requiem mass. Each part is written larger or smaller; this is the nearest I can think of to hieroglyphs in the West. For example, Hatshepsut's obelisk – such balance, especially the single line of hieroglyphs from halfway. A strange, thundering sound, roaring about: the gods return? I look up – there is the balloon, its burner making monstrous noises. Amazing sight – view must be great – but probably fails to capture the majesty I see – you need the peasant's-eye view. Finally the crowds arrived – so I left, at about 9am. Amazing that I had it so long. The old horse carriage drivers wanted ridiculous money, so I walked.
Then sat in the sun for a while, an early lunch on the terrace, watched the clouds roll in, haggled for a taxi to Dendera – E£40 – and after a fairly hairy drive at 60mph all the way, along the widening Nile valley – impressive hills in the west, more distant on the east – passing through the tip of Qena, I find myself sitting comforted by the majestic pile of Dendera temple itself. And the sun is out.
Roman Mammisi – definitely decadent, the Romans assimilated, not vice versa. Inside dark, like something out of The Magic Flute – which begins to feel more real in its symbolism having seen all this. On the north side, a staircase to the roof: brilliant view of the temple in its blocky harmoniousness and above all the great wall of hills behind, lit up and craggy. To the east I can see the other hills. The Coptic church alongside looks footling. But best of all was the ascent: the turning staircase wall was covered in shallow reliefs, hieroglyphs, but all rather old and grimy – again, perfect Magic Flute stuff. Coptic church also has grooves in its side – holy stone again…
Dendera is a gem. I write now up on the roof, blowy, but a brilliant view. To the west the hills; huge sand mounds, then stratified rocks, yellow turning to pink. A vast string of pylons lope from horizon to horizon, a wonderful lesson in perspective. From up here, you can see the brick walls particularly clearly, girdling the place four-squarely. An excellent sense of the Nilotic plain here, wide enough to support an empire. A curious sunken court – the sacred lake – with six swaying palm trees. Rubble all around the place like a huge rubbish dump.
So, the temple itself. What is striking of course is that it is dark. We are too used [the bronchitic squeals of a poor donkey rend the air: what abject lives they lead] to ruins, open to the glorious sky. But temples were usually covered – this was part of their majesty: they were secret, closed-in places. Dendera is closed in, it retains the mystery. Perhaps this is why it keeps reminding me of Die Zauberflöte: that is, about dark mysteries, about secrets.
The outer hypostyle is majestic, but the inner, because darker, and within the outer, even more powerful. The decorations are frankly unexciting: poor workmanship, feeble hieroglyphs. Interesting to note that most of the figures have been chipped away by the bleedin' Copts – vandals – but they left the hieroglyphs: why? Respect, ignorance? The Hathor heads that do survive – notably in the temple on the roof – tap straight into the Narmer tablet – 3000 years before them – longer than the entire christian era. Things turn full circle…
But generally the images repeat listlessly, in enervation, the tradition burnt out. Perhaps it was ripe for the Arabs with their fire and their new religion [I am being left alone on the roof – again, that feeling of abandonment, as if cast back through the centuries.]
The central sanctum is one of the most atmospheric of the holy places I've been to here. Again, because it is dark, because it really is the holy of holies, hidden away. You can imagine Hathor herself residing here, with her great wise eyes (how primitive all these animal-gods are).
On the east side, another mysterious staircase: long and straight, a steady ascent with knobbly hieroglyphs; on the west, a turning staircase past several rooms/chambers. A great mini-Hathor chapel on the roof, hidden away. Then modern stairs to the raised front. As ever, no protection: a sheer drop. Retro me sathana… It really is quite cloudy now, though the sun has just broken through. No great tragedy – I need to be moderated, but I hope the weather is better in Aswan.
At the front, by the edge, were more graffiti than usual; mostly Brits: James Mangles, Charles Inby (May 1817); T Sproat, CP Parker (1827); John Gordon (1804); and John Malcolm (1822), Holroyd (1837), DW Nash (1836), EK Hume (1836). As I descend, the sun's rays break through the clouds – and form a perfect pyramid…
Downstairs, I am clobbered by one of the guards – who shows me the crypts – beautiful carvings, and fine picture of Hathor – unmutilated. The mutilated stones are pock-marked, as if with a disease. Down in the crypt – down a creaky stair, crouching on all fours – the stench of cigarettes on the guide's breath.
The sanctuary forms a complete room within the building.
Between the first and second hypostyles: light and dark. Hathor has a cheery face. The half-screen at the front works really well, letting in light, but maintaining privacy. The locks of Hathor – blue – hang down like drapes. There is no real awe here, but occult power. The stones on the stairs: worn right down. I find Cleopatra – but no matching cartouche.
Crazed drive back. On the terrace. Though the sun is not setting yet, it is already golden-yellow with the haze. Very high above, swifts careen around. The odd falcon. Dinner is not yet served, and so – at 7pm – along to Luxor Temple. I am sitting in front of the Kadesh text, garishly illuminated by sodium, making the stone look like a huge orange ice lolly. The whole place is ghostly. A clear night now, stars spangling it brilliantly. To the south wall of the first court: where I find the ancient representation of the temple itself, flags a-flutter. Ramses II is so clearly the key – no wonder Mailer based "Ancient Evenings" around him. In retrospect it does convey the details well and painlessly. I think it fails to capture the majesty, the sheer sense of empire.
25.2.90 Luxor, west bank
Up early again, across to west bank. Hire bike, but along to Seti I temple this time. Nice – though nothing impressive like the others. No other tourists – but there are archaeologists, and lots of fellahin digging holes, wheeling barrows. It's gonna be hot today, methinks. Up to the crest of the hill between Valley of the Kings and west bank. The Valley itself is scorched rock, a barren, dry Lake District.
Ramses I: simple but good. Each god's attributes are like the iconography of saints. I find Osiris, his skin green/blue from death, wrapped in a mummy's shrouds, the most affecting. Tuthmosis III – a real warren. At the end of a defile, up stairs, down stairs, along corridor. To the antechamber – strange, quickly-drawn images – a list of hundreds of gods. Total silence. In the tomb chamber, more line drawings rather than paintings. Eerie. Some of the text slants very oddly. Tawsert and Setnakh – a nice contrast: long with gentle gradient. Again, Osiris memorable. Seti's tomb – beautiful low reliefs – and walls of hieroglyphs – including rough sketches – still waiting for the chisel. A light red. Looking to the entrance, the light catches the hieroglyphs – like a crazy wallpaper. An unknown mummy, dried to a crisp. The white stone just begs to be caressed – or touched – it is almost sensual. It is strange standing outside: looking down a huge black shaft; bright rock all about, brilliant blue sky above.
Horemheb – not a name one meets often – unusual cartouche. Great scene with Ma'at, Anubis, Hathor, Horus, Osiris. Tomb very long, very very deep; Other side has Isis – with throne on head. Beautiful in her white dress to the breasts. Amenhotep II: deep, very spare design inside, blue tonality. Very austere. Ramses VI – the most impressive in size. Lots of unusual drawing – occult stuff. It seems appropriate to finish with Tutankhamun – which in some ways is about tourists – the queues to get in are ridiculous. Fine wall coverings – but all so small – footling really. Enough.
In the rest house, I think I am getting addicted to 7-Ups. Tutankhamun was amazingly feeble, one room, and the sarcophagus and a few walls nothing compared to the other tombs. This place must be a real cauldron of god in summer. The heat from the bodies in the tombs is oppressive too – must be ruining the paintings. Generally, here and throughout Egypt, the sites have been very well preserved and restored – but not protected from us, alas.
Valley of the Kings looks like a huge quarry, with an odd causeway of white winding through it. Before the tombs were disturbed it must have been theoretically an extraordinary place: stuffed with the good and great of hundreds of years – a Westminster Abbey au naturel. [It is such bliss to put my deeply pretentious/expensive Ray-Bans back on.] One thing Tutankhamun does emphasise is what a tip it must have been when discovered. The room so small, so many items. The position of Tutankhamun is certainly rather drole: right under Ramses VI – no wonder it was lost.
I sit now perched high on the crest between Valley of the Kings and the west bank. A plane is coming into land; the Nile stretches out in one enormous straight band; I can see the opposite hills for miles. The great temples – Ramesseum and Ramses II are before me like child's building models. The Colossi of Memnon are dolls.
Halfway down to Hatshepsut's tomb – the dust is playing havoc with my eyes – the wind is getting up and a few clouds are appearing again. The rock face behind Hatshepsut's looks like a literal curtain with folds; also I can see lots of Dantesque squirming figures as if struggling to emerge. Grit in my mouth, too.
In the Ramesseum after the worst bike-ride of my life – blinded by grit. As well as the Battle of Kadesh, there is the story of Dapur. In fact the seizure of a city by storming must have been fairly innovative. In Ramses III, second court. The osirid columns, in different stages of disrepair, look like Matisse's sequence of female nudes from behind: meditations on a theme.
I have been sitting staring mindless at the outside south wall, the huge hieroglyphic poem, the distant hunting scene, the sheer – still ungraspable for me – immensity of this achievement. There are worse things to do on a Sunday afternoon in February…
Coffee on the terrace – then out on a felucca – haggled down from E£30 to E£8 plus E£2 baksheesh – still too much. On "Rendezvous"… Sun sinking, wind "stiff". Two on the boat, talking in Arabic – that coloniser/colonised again. Best sunset yet – Aten a golden liquid globe as we pull across to the west bank. The hills I climbed today now turning blue – a Leonardoesque chiaroscuro. River very quiet now – a few feluccas upstream. Honking madness on the east bank. Aten turns orange behind palm trees. Now deeper red, the cloud back to pink – the light reflected in cabin windows of the moored Nile cruise boats. I should think travelling by boat – of whatever size – gets rather limiting after a while – this time period is far more satisfying for me. The wind is up again, the ropes creak – I can see the attraction of sea writing – all that evocation. Aten gone – the sky like a washed bandage, sun-dyed and faded, the colours turning grey.
No birds – but this morning, a flight flew over – long and almost straight – just the odd straggler spoiling the line. A huge diagonal. In the Nile – here as in Cairo – the odd piece of floating greenness – it looks like some lily. It gets caught around the docked ships, stagnant with flotsam and jetsam, trapped with it all.
26.2.90 Esna, Edfu, Kom Ombo
Up early, then along to Karnak for a quick farewell. What a place. Then hire taxi down to Aswan. First stop Esna – dusty, fly-blown place. But in the middle of the souk, a huge pit – and a miniature Dendera. Amazing. But the sense of degradation of style inside – coarse hieroglyphs as if they no longer meant anything. Nice flowery capitals to the columns, though.
Beyond Esna, the desert really asserts itself. The road on the east bank is the boundary between it and greenery. The Nile's inundation must have seemed truly miraculous to the ancient Egyptians, life from death. Everything would revolve around it. We pass some mounds that could be crumbling mud pyramids, plus ugly factories belching smoke unceasingly. The rocks of the surrounding cliffs beg for tombs.
Edfu. Impressive, even in its late (only 2000 years old) Ptolemaic trappings. Interesting that hieroglyphs have gone into the background. Now images dominate – shift of emphasis. In the court of offering: the hieroglyphs look almost Chinese – they have lost their precision. Entering the outer hypostyle is very like Dendera – gradual descent into darkness, into mystery. But, my word, how depressingly bad the hieroglyphs are…
To Kom Ombo, the Nile narrowing greatly, the vegetation losing its greenness, everything drier. OK, a good ruin. Also for its location – not some squalid circus pit, but on the promontory by the Nile. Perhaps that is the main difference – the aesthetics of the site. This late style reminds me of High Victorian Gothic – all gilt and fiddly bits.
What a day, which I am trying to redeem with a turkish coffee at a restaurant on the Nile – on a pontoon to be exact – every time people move, the whole thing rocks.
Anyway, my worst nightmare fulfilled. I get to the hotel – Abu Simbel – only to be told that the last room had just – one minute ago – been taken – the offenders were still filling in the form. Then a hunt around – to about five others – none could offer more than two days – even tried Kalabash Cataract – full and surly. So two days it is. After that...well, there was one other, too grubby to contemplate, but they may have a better room later. Ho-hum. Aswan itself looks pleasant enough – a long corniche giving a Mediterranean feel.. The sun is descending behind Elephantine, the feluccas are out.
Driving through the arid desert today made me long for Cornwall. Perverse, me?
The sun catches the Aga Khan's mausoleum high on the hill opposite. At least I have a flight booked for Abu Simbel tomorrow, out at 1.30pm and back at 4.15pm. I thought I should try all modes of transport to get the context. It will be nice to see the desert from above. The Oberoi Hotel in front of me is an ugly construction, like a water tower – Greenaway would like it. There is Euro pop in the background; how can I say it? Nice. I'm obviously getting homesick. The elegant ballet of the feluccas. Lovely synths – I'm so tempted to get one.
Along the corniche, trees with huge red blossoms like rhododendrons that fall heavily with a dull squelch. The pavement is littered with this prodigality. Today's situation reminds me of Udaipur – when I read "Ancient Evenings" – and was rather ill. Nice effect as the feluccas' sails curtain the sun briefly. The almost-view – if I stick my head out – reminds me of the hotel in Queenstown. Because of its resort air, this doesn't really feel like the end of an empire/land/country. The sun hits the hills, liquid gold. Re is gone for me. A flock of birds, far away, like a changing dust cloud, peppering the sky.
Hell's bells – a kingfisher just dived in – and came out with a fish. Mosquitoes out. Watching now, as I watched last night: the felucca sailors climb the mast and pack the sail away (technical term needed). A long walk back through the souk – the best I've came across in Egypt – lively, real – with smells: incense, spices. Forms again – the pyramids of oranges, the subtle variation in dates, the baskets of deeply-coloured spices. Nearest to India yet.
27.2.90 Aswan, Abu Simbel
Up to a slightly unsettled day: where will I be tomorrow? Yesterday evening I bought a ticket for Friday to Asyut – so I need two more nights somewhere. To Abu Simbel at 1.30pm, so a quick trip here first.
A walk along the corniche, the public ferry to the island – I get lost in a maze of narrow streets – then to the old town. Not much to see. Nilometer, Temple of Khnum. Good to see the Ramses II cartouche even here. Lovely view of Aswan, Cataract Hotel etc. Also of Elephantine rocks at the water's edge.
Still nothing fixed – though lots of "come back laters". It is strange how the aspect of a tour is transformed according to whether you have or do not have somewhere to stay. Yesterday, as we drove around, the place was nothing but a hot unfriendly place, without form or beauty. Sitting at the Saladin floating restaurant again, I could – for a moment – savour the sun and the tranquillity.
To Aswan airport early, to get a good seat. But thwarted by bureaucracy – no seat allocated. In other words, a mêlée. I sit now in the deep shade of the outside cafe, waiting to get in line. On the way here, via the old dam – the Brit one. Fine lake to the left, straggly water to the right. Then into desert – the airport is a long way out for some reason. Real desert, terrifying. A forest of pylons carrying electricity from the dam away into the shaking distance. It's gonna be hot in Abu Simbel.
Travelling freely really is about the will: I wish it, and it happens; with tours, you are without volition – you just do as you are told. The two could not be further apart.
Well, this is Egypt – a delay of one hour – at least. I stood for 45 minutes – yo – and now sit down, and will probably lose my window seat.
Amazing flight. It confirms my worst fears about the desert: utterly implacable – definitely Empire's End. Pure sand – just a tiny road, the Nile a distant presence. A few dunes, later, strange rocks – this is how the world will end – dust, sand, heat, nothing. This is how Egypt ends. How all empires end. Nearer Lake Nasser – huge, but drying up – there were clear signs of old mud – former levels – this last imperial folly too is a failure. As we fly in, I see the temples – looking like sand castles made by a child – pretty one side, nothing the other – a strange jelly mould. The statues stare pointlessly at the lake, face east to the rising sun. Sitting in the coach – the sun is pitiless – at 3.30pm – deadly rays.
Temple of Nefertari. Striking facade – the striding king and queen – last rays of light still catching it. Inside, good Hathor heads on pillars. Strange: even though the work throughout is rather crude, it has far more vigour than any Ptolemaic stuff. Colours partly preserved. Good to see queens represented so much. Striking too the pose of the king smiting sundry baddies – the power of the legs' fulcrum (a triangle, the straight line of the arms, the twist of the hips – pure karate).
Outside, a smile plays across his features. To the big one, where Ramses seems not to be smiling so much. Lovely baboons up top. The poor man is covered with scratched graffiti, mostly Westerners – what a humiliation. Hittite marriage stela – practically indecipherable.
Inside, powerful effect of osirid columns – some Upper Egypt, some Upper and Lower. That same pose: smiting the enemy. The king attacks a Syrian fort – and he does with a lively image of what it looked like. But what an immense distance to travel – the penalty of empire. Something I realised looking at the Syrians: they are bearded; ancient Egyptians never (?) are. And today, you rarely see bearded Egyptians.
In the side chamber, I feel the first stirrings of that ancientness I sought. Perhaps because it is crudely lit. Everything else is too well-preserved and looked after – I have lost their ancientness. They need to look more like the caves of Lascaux, or old castles. I need some of their fear, their awe: electric lights banish this. Torches – flaming light – would be better. Also the unevenness (in castles) of the walls and ceiling helps. I feel their uncertainty in the world. Perhaps I need the junk of Tutankhamun's tomb. I can relate these side chambers to my idea of the Philistines/Assyrians stuff of the same era; but not the others. The fact is, the battles live more for us than offerings to Amun. Therefore Ramses II lives more than any other.
Superb effect as you emerge from the innermost: bright light, the sky, a glimpse of the water. Designed to catch the early sun, February 21/October 21. To illuminate the four statues. The Battle of Kadesh; again. But reversed in direction – whatever the reality, one of the most powerful scenes in all Egypt. The mighty king, the confusion of war, the great city portrayed in some detail. I read the "Battle of Kadesh" text in its presence. In the bottom right hand side the signature of its author, his own pleas for immortality. Which he has.
Outside. Unfortunately the building blocks look very silly – like some child's construction set. The hills on the opposite side of the lake: huge wind-blasted cones, moonscapes.
Window seat again: real blood-red sunset – sinking in the haze, a huge red band swathing the sky. The desert as frightening as its shadows lengthened.
1990 Egypt I: Cairo, Saqqarah, Giza
1990 Egypt III: Asyut, Kharga, El Amarna
1990 Egypt IV: Alexandria, Wadi El Natrun, Suez
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