Luxor, Egypt
It is expected that tourists take the overnight train
between Luxor and Cairo. In typical Egyptian fashion, the rules are somewhat
interpretive. It is not possible for a tourist to purchase tickets for a
daytime journey, but they are allowed to ride the rails during the day if they
have a ticket. We had someone from the hotel purchase tickets for us so that we
could actually obtain them. The man behind the counter made a big deal about
how big a favour he was doing for us, breaking the rules and all, but we were
unconvinced of his personal risk. First of all, we had learned pretty quickly
the average Egyptian was not big on following rules. From the concept of lining
up to traffic signals, there was very little evidence of agreed-upon
parametres. We probably paid too much
money, and Eric was a little frustrated at the hotel staff’s shenanigans, but
all in all it was worth the effort.
The ten-hour train ride from Cairo to Luxor is worth the
time for the experience of seeing how modern Egypt functions. Instead of going
on a tour, you sit in your seats and the tour comes to you!
We started off with a frantic search for the correct car,
then we had to find our seats. Using our knowledge of Arabic numbers we
determined that someone had taken one of our places hoping nobody would notice.
Our research warned us that this was common and instructed us to be confident
as we approached the person to ask him to move on. We did this. I while tapping
him on his shoulder so he had to look up from his phone and Eric waving him off
in a firm and polite manner. He looked up at us in confusion, looked at his
seat number, and then regarded us with confusion. We did the “You are in our
seat, buddy. No matter but you gotta find another place to squat” mime routine
to which he responded with a shaking of his head, a pointing to his ticket, and
some vague pointing towards the other end of the car.
At this point we started to waiver. Eric looked at his
ticket again while I confidently opened up the curtain to regard the sign above
the window. As I frowned at the unhelpfulness of my bold, confident actions
Eric groaned and shook his head. We had the numbers backwards. We were
disturbing an innocent man. After apologizing in a profuse and completely
wavering and not-at-all bold manner to our friend, who was gracious in his
response, we made our way to our seats and sat down heavily.
As the day progressed, we watched the events unfold. We
witnessed a number of people being told to leave the first-class coach and make
their way back to either second or third class. These occurrences were usually
done without incident with the staff member moving on and the passenger
shrugging and leaving. Two young people were caught without a ticket and the
staff person was so upset that he called the armed security guard to come. It
became so heated at one point that one of them shut the door to the coach so
that they could proceed in private between the cars. This was not effective as
we could still hear everything. The incident had been unfolding for about fifteen
minutes when the two young men calmly walked back to their seats. This set off
another passenger and the two staff members and then it all began again. In the
end, the two boys were kicked out at the next stop and they glared at the
departing train from the platform.
Commuters left from Cairo and disembarked along the first
three or four stops, university students, at home for the recent long weekend,
returned to their studies at various spots along the way, and families large
and small paraded past us. All the while the landscape zipped by. Small
villages with children on donkeys and old men with canes walking slowly along
dusty tracks. Larger communities with tuk-tuks careening everywhere carrying
loads of packages, bags of produce and many, many passengers. Cities with
rushing people in suits and jeans and galabias. Fields with workers baling and
chafing and driving loads overfull with sugar cane. And the one constant,
winking in and out of sight along the whole route, the Nile. Herodotus called
Egypt ‘The Gift of the Nile’. This country, these people, this trip; none of
this would not be save for the existence of the Nile River. If she is not
within site, one of the canals feeding from her is. She is everywhere. In
everything. In every action.
It was complicated organising our way onto this first-class
train as tourists, but it was worth it. Not for the luxury that first-class
implies. Simply put, there is no luxury to be found. At all. But for the human
experience. It was chance for us to see the modern Egyptian on home soil. In
their comfort zone. We were the visible minority. Used to our white privilege,
it was good for us to not be able to rely upon it. We were the visitor. We were
the minority. We were the others. We felt it. It was not always comfortable.
But it was important.
It was a tsunami of people that met us at the train station
exit. Offers for taxis swarmed all around us as we tried desperately to get
through. We had been at the receiving end of insistent, even desperate,
attempts to offer services or receive money, but the crowds waiting for us to
disembark was like nothing we’d experience thus far. Some were quite
aggressive, standing in our way and refusing to let us pass until we forcefully
moved around them.
We made it through the crowd and made our way down the main
street. I took the lead and looked a big and as decisive as I could. Eric
trailed behind doing his best to make the rolling suitcase work on what could
only be loosely interpreted as a sidewalk. Eventually, we abandoned the
sidewalk and ventured forth on the side of the road with the rest of the
pedestrians. Soon we found ourselves in the largest collection of horse drawn
carriages we have ever seen. There must have been more than fifty in our
immediate area. Of course, every single one of them had the best horse, the
best carriage, the best driver that money could buy. They were as insistent as
our greeters at the road, but they could not stray too far from their horses.
It was while I was gesturing for a man to move away, that
standing in front of me with his arms up would not convince me to take a ride,
that I first saw the Temple of Luxor. Unlike other temples in Egypt, this one
was not built for a specific god, but to celebrate the eternal power of
pharaoh. Many think it was the traditional place for coronations for many
years. Alexander the Great claimed to have been coronated here even though it
is highly unlikely that he stepped much further south in Egypt than what is
present day Cairo.
The noise, the clamour, the waving arms of the man in front
of me all disappeared for a moment. I mentioned in a previous blog that while I
was impressed with the pyramids, they were not representative of my most
treasured connection with ancient Egypt. Luxor was. Truth be told, most of my
interest is based in the immediate geography of this place. Built over the
ancient capital of Thebes on the east bank and the nestling up against the
necropolis on the west bank, I was now in the focal point of the New Kingdom
which has held my heart for over forty years.
The moment was brief. The temple was located within a busy
portion of downtown Luxor and traffic, vendors, and time all hastened me to our
next hotel.
The Old Winter Palace Hotel was our home in Luxor. We would
be here for four days before we left for Aswan. We would then return again for
another stay. This was not by accident. While Eric and I went back and forth
about hotel choices in other cities, the Winter Palace was a guarantee. Past
guests include King Farouk and Winston Churchill. Agatha Christie stayed at
this hotel while she was in Egypt writing Death on the Nile. And Howard Carter
and Lord Carnarvon announced the discovery of the tomb of Tutankhamon here. And,
if that weren’t enough, it is featured in the 1981 movie Sphinx!
It is a Victorian bastion of colonial influence in Egypt,
and in this spirit it is a quiet refuge from the very hectic and tumultuous
outside. This is a blessing and a curse. While it is air conditioned and quiet
and safe from the constant requests for money, it is also insular, privileged,
and not a little self important. The clients. Not the staff. It is surprisingly
lacking in British patrons. Instead, the French seem to have taken prominence
here. This is reflected in the menus of the restaurant and the fluent French of
the staff. Eric tells me that the phrase I am really searching for is the
French “pète plus haut que le trou” which, translated literally, means “farting
above your asshole”. I believe this is an adequate descriptor.
When I entered the lobby none of these thoughts were
present. Instead I looked about the lobby, saw the information display on the
hotel’s history and wandered around staring up the grand staircase and at the
large chandelier. I was in Luxor. I was where I wished to be.
We had a late dinner, walked to the river and watched the
many boats floating and bobbing among the piers, and wandered through the
entire hotel looking at each of the historic photos. When we finally went to
bed we were exhausted. It had been a fulsome day yet again. And the next day
held great promise. Eric, as usual, was asleep soon after he laid down. I
stared in the darkness for awhile and thought about the journey so far. Aside
from the occasional honking of a horn the night was quiet. Quiet, at least, in
Cairo terms. I realised I was beginning to settle into the rhythm of this place. Eric’s steady breathing comforted me as I
rolled over and fell into a deep sleep.
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