Gilf Kebir and Jebel Uweinat - the Trip of a Lifetime

Bear with me - there is so much to tell. I have done so many other things since I last wrote. I have taught in Bangkok in Thailand, stood on top of a mountain of ten million ounces of gold down near Marsa Alam at Sukari - the Centamin gold mine, been to teach at the mecca of quilters - Quilt Festival at Houston in Texas, and now I have done something I have been burning to do since I came to Egypt.

Gilf Kebir was made famous by the book and movie, The English Patient. In an opening scene a Bedouin wanders into a cave and is spellbound by the images on the walls. Later the hero takes the heroine there too, and it is here that she dies, surrounded by images of Swimmers. From the moment I realised that the Cave of the Swimmers existed, and was in Egypt, I have wanted to go there.

Now I have been. Of all the things I saw the only thing that was a real disappointment was the Cave of the Swimmers - but more later on that. Blame Hollywood for going for evocative imagery rather than the truth!

Day One

On 10th November a group of three Swiss, two Germans, and one Australian left the International Hot Springs Hotel to go to Gilf Kebir and Jebel Uweinat. With us went a guide, and two other drivers, and a young Captain from the Egyptian Army, and two Italians in their own vehicle. We faced fourteen days of travel, twelve in the desert with desert camps, not toilets or showers for twelve days. Wet Ones, I was quietly told, were the secret of desert hygiene. I stocked up in Houston - or rather, two friends bought them for me. We had agreed over Texas barbecue in Goodes that panti-liners might be good too, as we were only allowed one small bag each and a small rucksack for stuff that needed to be with us in the cars. I packed camera equipment, watercolours, in hope, and a small diary.

Meet Marita, Jean Daniel, Irene, Helena, Heide, Mahmoud, our guide, Peter and Miharu, the organisers from the Hot Spring International Hotel (who did not come) and me. Alberto and Yvonne must have been packing their car and will appear later.

From my diary.

Dipping into the first drop into the Bahariya Oasis we left the sun above us and while it still picked out the gilded tops of the mesas above us our world dropped into mauves and lilacs with the abruptness of diving underwater.

Diary.

In a car redolent with the heavy perfume of guava, the light freshness of orange rinds and the orange leaves which are crushed under the green gold fruit we left for Dakhla. The desert seems featureless and pale, washed clean and over-bleached. Shadows of the white wind-formed shapes in the desert are coppery on the sand dunes, and and indigo against the cobalt winter sky. Fingers of pale sand have crept across the road, and can be a jolt like an abrupt road hump if you hit them unexpectantly.

... mud domes, smokey taupe against the pale sky, and the sky afloat with black crows, seven then nine. 'Seven for a secret that will never be told', but I cannot remember nine.... The Farafra Oasis wraps more along the road that Bahariya with sudden stretches of vegetation, more vegetables and market gardens, and less dates. There are farmers with donkey carts, children with donkeys, farmers with hand carts - all type of carts, pulled by people or animals or other vehicles. There are bright ochre box-shaped houses with bright green doors tucked under eucalyptus so green and perfect that they could not possibly be growing in Australia where insects chew every second leaf.

There are men with guns, in galabeyiahs, and in police and army uniform. We pull up before the checkpoint and the drivers hand out the licences, IDs and permission slips for the desert.

There is a hitch. The drivers pull the cars to the shade of the trees and wander inside the small check point office. We are supposed to have our escorting officer, but have arranged to collect him in Dakhla and they do not like it.

Our driver, Hani, comes out and starts the car and whirls into the small and dusty township of Farafra. We are puzzled as the others have not joined us. He jumps from the car, moving from one shop to another. He is asking for something but shopkeepers are all shaking their heads. He drives the car further along and starts the same thing, We are puzzled but decide while he is hopping to climb out and buy cigarette lighters. None of us smoke but it seems that we need to carry a plastic bag for used toilet paper and wet ones (how basic can you get?), which we keep till the end of the day then burn. We have all agreed that a lighter would work better than matches in a breezy desert landscape.

While asking at one shop for our lighters Hani rushes past and says "I come back', then took off in a cloud of dust. This is really odd and we cannot work out what is going on. We stand uneasily at the side of the road and after about five minutes later he returns and the tale unfolds.

Mahmoud, our guide, has had his licence confiscated. In many countries this would mean an immediate halt to the expedition. Here, he pays 20 pounds Egyptian for a piece of paper to cover him for one week. In fact we will be in the desert for twelve days, but that is a problem for later.

The officer checking the paperwork had asked for tea. Mahmoud politely told him that we had some but that it was at the bottom of all the packing and he was sorry, but it was too hard to get it out. The officer said he was willing to wait while they unpacked. Mahmoud said he was not willing to unpack or to keep the group waiting. The officer said that he was willing to wait and that he could keep the group waiting anyway. Then the officer said it was a pity then that he had too much on top of his car. In fact - the other cars were all packed higher! Mahmoud made the mistake of pointing out three other vehicles that had just gone through the checkpoint with much higher loads.

It was at this point that Hani had rushed out saying he would find tea. The officer only gave him ten minutes and the town was three minutes drive away - and the town was, it seems, out of tea.

So - Mahmoud's licence was taken. Hani was muttering under his breathe as we left the oasis and I recognised 'sharmouta' - very rude in Arabic, and basically meaning slut! It is quite a popular name for female cats.

We had lunch under date palms somewhere past Farafra. The drivers flipped a striped rug out on the ground and set up thick sliced tomato - it is incredible in Egypt - with salty white cheese spread on it, and stuffed cabbage leaves with a spiced rice filling, small eggplants fried whole and split and spread with a pounded mix of peppers, both hot and the capsicum variety, and garlic, with lemon and oil and salt and pepper. With it we had rough brown oasis bread - it was a feast. It was followed by sliced guava which we also ate with the bread.

By the time we drove into Dakla it was night and dozens - hundreds probably - of donkeys were trip-trapping home. Loads varied - huge loads of fodder reached from one side of the road almost to another with cars squeezing past and a driver perched on top, and loads of wood caught against the oncoming headlights like a lattice of black lace. A trailer, badly loaded and driven, veered from side to side, effectively blocking the road. I once, in Africa, faced an angry male elephant with a similar sway, but he was facing us. Our driver squeezed past with some risk to both the trailer and our vehicle and got a rude sign from the driver - funny how those are almost universal. And Hani again shouted 'Sharmouta'.

We checked into the Oasis Hotel and Camp and it was the last night in a room, with a shower, or with a toilet. Dinner was in the restaurant of the hotel - with the small disadvantage that my legs were seen as a smorgasbord for about twenty hungry mosquitoes.

I washed my hair very well next morning knowing it was the last time for twelve days.

A walk from Khan El Khalili to the North Wall

I loved opening my mail this morning! Look what a good friend sent me!

With instructions - print, shred, and add milk!

I have been chuckling for hours!

We went for a walk yesterday. Cairo is cooling down now and it is bearable to walk longer distances, and pleasant to meander. Mind you - the temperature did not really stop me going out before, but there was a sense of girding up my loins and bracing myself as I walked into the wall of heat. There is nothing elegant about being sweaty and I hate it.

The papers, for some time, have been printing stories about 'Thoroughfare' - a walk which many of us have been doing for ages, but which Cairo has been putting real work into. the road has been dug up completely, new drains inserted, and repaved! Usually in Cairo these things get about halfway through and stay that way so for the next few years people are avoiding large mountains of earth which become the dumping ground for garbage.

Anyway, we took the morning to have a look. It was inferred that lots of things which have been closed all of the time I have been here are now open. Well - most of them weren't, though they are undoubtedly cleaner and clearer to look at the outside. I have been looking forward to such to the Textile Museum, but now it seems that there will be no hope - it is still firmly closed for reconstruction and when I complained that they had had three years the girl smiled and said "Maybe another two?"

Anyway - this is a photo essay! Long essay - longish walk and I could not decide what to cut out! I cannot believe I have not even talked about Libya and Tunisia either!

It is early, and a Friday morning, and most of the shops are still closed in Ramadan at 9.30am

This door was on an old Wikalat behind the little gold souk off to the side of the main walk. We were wandering down quiet alleys, delighting in the fact that people were few and those out still looked sleepy. These little doors inside a big one allowed camels to be kept inside and people to move in and out.

A junk shop was putting out is treasures, and I loved the little blue bedhead. Oddly enough we saw another one later.

I liked the pattern in this grill on the mosque at the beginning of the walk. I know swastikas have such unfortunate connotations now - but liked the way they reverse in this pattern. Note the name of Allah repeated in the centre.

Another grill, with the bars plastic wrapped, Christo style!

And a really stunning door, brass clad. This mosque was closed. I have heard it is the most beautiful of all - the most spectacular internal space - so I have my fingers crossed that the two weeks they assured us was the opening date will not stretch into six months.

This is the minaret for the Mosque, madrasa and mausoleum mentioned above - Al-Nasir Mohamed (built 1304). The detail is the little bit to the right of the base - simply blown up from a shot I took from the other side of the road and about three storeys lower! It is stunning carved fret-work.

Door of the next mosque and a detail - to show the beautiful silver inlay

...the shelter over the pool

.. and another beautiful door off the courtyard

...lamps and shadows

...the window over the door

...looking out from inside

...and up!

...lamps in the entrance

Tired, and Ramadan is hard - detail is just enlarged from the original

The sabil-kuttub where the street divides - these beautiful buildings are distinctive for Old Islamic Cairo - the well below, the school for young children above. Mothers can bring their children and take water for the home, then return to collect them and another load of water.

Big door to a large wikalet, now mostly gone - and a detail

Apartments

...home among the onions

Copper tips for minarets, and blood on the wall from the last Eid

Hessian bags from the supplier

The tinsmiths

...people and produce

...sweet potato roaster and onions

and still more onions

A tiny gem of a Fatimid Mosque - note the curling grapes and leaves on the text, and these shapes are distinctive for Fatimids.

Because I liked the compositions

More junk

Sidecar in front of another sabil-khuttub and shadows on stone

Stacked cardboard boxes for shoes

Doors -and windows

That is it for now. In the interests of all of us I edited - a lot - from the 187 photos I took. It is so hard to take a bad photograph in Cairo. Well done if you made it this far.

I wish - that there was a website which offered a service to print off an entire blog and mail it to me!

I want mine, and my son's! I would love to have both bound as books!

Check out Sam's - now finished but a great read.

http://tourbilon.blogspot.com/

I have searched but cannot find such a thing.

I wish also that the business I have considered starting - called www.faults on me.com or www.meaculpa.com - was being operated somewhere.

This business will mail gifts, or send flowers to those you have loved and forgotten. When you contact them in panic they will organise the gift along with a very apologetic note that claims the flowers (or gift) was actually ordered two weeks ago and went missing in their computer system - or an employee was on leave and no-one checked his mail - or whatever - but THEY take the blame.

Wouldn't that be a terrific internet business??

But - I really really want the printing service. I am scared Blogger will die one day and I will lose a lot of the early posts that I did not copy to my mail as I didn't know how then!

Jenny

Goha and the Donkey Walk.

There are stories all over the Middle East bout the 'wise fool' - a man portrayed as a rather dull and bumbling character with a huge store of wisdom. In Egypt he is Goha, in some countries he is Mullah Nasruddin.

One of the pieces I took with me to France with the tentmakers was a Goha children's story. I have just had an email from a friend asking me to send an image to someone who wrote to her about it, knowing that she was the reason we were invited to France.

I have written it up, and thought I would blog it since I am in heavy-blogging-mode today.

Goha decides to teach his son something of life. He tells his boy that they will take a walk withthe donkey.

Goha rides, and the little boy walks behind. They meet a man (represented only in the bottom corner - but you need to imagine him in every image) who is horrified. "It is shocking," he says, "that such a lazy father could exist - that you would allow such a little boy to walk while you selfishly ride the donkey." It reads as a circle clockwise!

Goha is embarrassed and gets off so the little boy now rides while he walks behind.

Another man is shocked that the father should walk while such a little boy adds almost no weight to the donkey. He points out, "the donkey is a very strong animal and both can ride on it. What is the point of owning a donkey if you insist on walking?"

Both get on. The donkey's head is down and he is puffing.

They meet another man who is very shocked that they should risk exhausting such a brave and honourable animal. "Get off and give him a rest," he says. "He is so tired."

They get off and as they walk away the man calls out - "by rights, you should be carrying that wonderful little animal for all the good service he has done for you in the past. Then you will understand what it is to carry a burden all your life."

Goha picks up the donkey and carries him the rest of the way home. The donkey is smug and smiling.

When they reach home Goha says to his son, "I hope you learned a lesson from this."

"Yes", says his son, "I learned that it would save a lot of changing places if we just carry the donkey in the beginning."

"No, says Goha - "You learnt not to listen to anyone, but to make up your own mind, and to do things in the way you wish to do them without the interference of others. Listening to everyone and trying to do what they all want will make no-one happy except a donkey."

Tiny Shoes

I have the most exquisite new shoes. Perhaps I should say I have the most exquisite old shoes.

My husband gave them to me for my birthday, and I cannot believe how well he knows me, and what a perfect gift they are, and that a man who will eat weevils with his breakfast rather than throw out perfectly good breakfast cereal (see the last blog) would spend so much on such a fanciful and evocative and useless gift.

They are Syrian wedding shoes, almost eight inches long and made of wood, and camel bone, and inlaid with mother of pearl and low grade silver metal. The soles are raised above the ground - not just at the heel, but at the toe and the heel. This was to make the bride taller and more visible. In somewhat more recent pairs the shoes are bigger and the stilt sections are very high. My tiny shoes are only two inches higher.

They are held on with a single strap, which was deep red velvet, rich and lush, It is embroidered in couched gold thread, now worn and dull, and the red velvet has faded to a soft greyed ashes-of-roses pink. The sequins look like celluloid, and are curled with age, each attached with a single stitch through a tiny clear bead. Under the sequins in a few places is one jewel-like spot of red.

They are the most endearing shoes. The little bride must have been all of eleven years old, pre- pubertal, innocent and a child. My grandchildren at the same age probably know more about sex and marriage than she did.

For one day she must have been so special. She would have been dressed up, put into the most beautiful clothes and shoes and fussed over. Her younger sisters might have envied her. She might have had every hair taken from her body, and the hair on her head washed and scented with rose water or orange-flower. Her mother would have brushed it, proud of her daughter and perhaps given her some advice on marriage and the handling of husbands. She probably advised her daughter on how to cope with him once she was ready for a marriage bed, because I have been amazed in the past about how explicit advice on such matters are in the Middle East. Perhaps her mother cried.

The little bride probably, like the child-wife of the Prophet, was not expected to share her husband's bed until after she hit puberty. She probably married a cousin - as he would be known to the family, and also it was a way to keep the large amount of money and jewelery that the groom had to pay to her, and her parents, in the family. From that day on she lived with her husband and his family, and was possibly an unpaid servant and kitchen hand to his mother. I hope her mother-in-law was kind and patient to such a young girl, but that was not always the way.

I do not actually know any of this, but I can hold those shoes in my hand and there is a lump in my throat for the little girl who wore them.