Then the captain puts out the gangplank – a piece of wood about eight inches wide, with a few strips of wood nailed across it – at a precarious angle and anchored equally precariously. I do not scruple to grab at any hand offered me. (Every time I come back from Egypt I think, "Well, I’ve done that forty or fifty times, and I haven’t fallen into the Nile yet.") Once in the boat you are standing on the seat, which is about a yard from the floor. I do not descend gracefully.
There were six of us in the Land Rover – John and Debbie and me, their inspector, the driver, and a guard. The guard is de rigueur for those going into remote areas. It’s remote, all right – I never know where I am, anyhow, but this terrain would baffle most people. There are some roads of sorts, but a good deal of the time one bounces over rocks the size of toasters, up and down slopes and into and out of small wadis. John and Debbie are doing some extraordinary work out here; they’ve added whole new chapters to parts of Egyptian history, and I’d suffer worse than a sore bum to see some of their sites. However, I did bring along a pillow from the hotel to sit on! Here’s an entry scribbled at the time:
"I sit high on the gebel at the Place of Horses – a defile at the top of a steep climb. How I got here, I don’t know; with great difficulty is the right answer. Remains of crude workmen’s huts at the base of one cliff, graffiti over a stretch of the rock face. (The barking dog is cute – Arabic words meaning ’woof woof’ come out of its mouth. But its implication isn’t so cute, since it represents a watchdog and was scratched there by modern locals who resent archaeologists messing around in their territory.) There are many spirited, if crude, sketches of horses and a prayer to Amon, Lord of the Silent, who saved the writer from drowning. Some so faint, hardly visible to the naked eye – with modern Arabic and older Coptic scribbles on top."
Dec. 24. Christmas Eve. Had a fancy dinner at the restaurant in the Old W.P., having made our reservations a couple of days before. It was all tarted up with electric candles in holly rings on the tables. Lots of cutlery. (I had a knife left over.) Music by a blonde, French chanteuse with silver sequins down her front, mostly Beatles and Elton John. Then Santa Claus in a tacky red suit, very dark face framed (sort of) in strips of dangling cotton wool. From his red bag he presented each guest with a few chocs wrapped in red cellophane. He was adorable. Stumbled off to bed at eleven, having eaten too much and drunk just enough wine.
Dec. 25. Hard to believe it is Christmas Day, with the shutters wide open and the sun shining on the western cliffs, and palm trees along the corniche. The gardens are bright with flowers – tall poinsettias, roses, coral vine, jasmine, bougainvillea, and other tropical blooms. The Winter Palace has a number of Christmas trees, in front and in the lobbies; nicely decorated ones, too. Everyone wishes us Merry Christmas. Ramadan is almost over; nobody seems quite sure whether it’s tomorrow or the next day. Lesser Eid, a three-day celebration, starts the following day. Happy Ramadan is Ramadan karim. Xmas dinner at Chicago House.
Dec. 26. I leave for Cairo this p.m. on the third of eight flights I will be taking this trip. The Expedition arrives tomorrow, and I want to be there to greet them. I’m sitting on my balcony, eating breakfast. What a way to live. The western cliffs form what appears to be a single massif directly across from Luxor. Paler paths winding up and across the face, clefts like parallel vertical strokes of a gray pencil. (Will I ever be able to describe it accurately?)
What must the Winter Palace have been like in Amelia’s day? No taxis, no paved road, but still directly below the terrace paved with ornamental tiles; to the right, the balcony of the Khedival suite; beyond it, the pillars of Luxor Temple and the minaret of the mosque. The British flag would have been flying instead of the red, white, and black of Egypt. Tour boats certainly, though perhaps not as many, and the office of Thomas Cook at the end of the curved arcade on the first level, where it has been for over a century.
The newspaper that is delivered most mornings is The Egyptian Gazette – gives me a kick to be reading the same paper the Emersons read back in 1914. Admittedly the service is erratic; energetic attendants keep taking things like glasses and laundry lists away, and never bring them back. (In fact most people don’t stay longer than a few days; my two-week stays throw everybody off base. They look astonished every morning to see me still there.)
The plane left an hour and a half late.
Cairo. Arrived at the Mena House Hotel (where Amelia and Emerson and Ramses dined with Howard Carter before the Master Criminal stole Ramses from off the top of the Great Pyramid) at about eight (Giza is a long way from Heliopolis) to find I had been upgraded to the Churchill suite. This place must be seen to be believed. Takes five minutes to walk from the living room to the bedroom, through dining and dressing rooms. The terrace is about the size of my whole downstairs at home, with the Great Pyramid looming. Bougainvillea in pots, including the white one I so admire. Over the living room couch is a huge circular mirror; the head of the bed is an equally immense gilded sunburst that reaches to the ceiling. Anything made of wood is carved; lamps are antique pierced brass; antique oriental rugs are laid over wall-to-wall carpeting. Bowls of red roses and baby’s breath in every room, plus huge arrangements of glads, etc; two plates of sweeties and fancy chocs, fruit bowl. The fittings in the bathrooms (one is really only a powder room) are gilded, swans and stuff. Marble floor and surrounds. I seem to have a personal butler, or so his card describes him. It’s pretty heady stuff for a girl who grew up in a small town in the Midwest.
Dec. 27. It was very foggy this a.m. Strange how guilty one feels about loafing. I swore I’d take it easy today but it has been something of an effort to stretch out on a lounge chair on the terrace and just lie there. (I think I’m getting the hang of it, though.) I can see the Great Pyramid from where I recline. Twelve noon and it is still foggy; the Great Pyramid remains a featureless silhouette, gray blue against a pale sky. A row of tour busses at its base. There is a yellow canopy over me and birds are flitting in and out. Every room on this side has a balcony, dark carved wood and pleasantly asymmetrical. This is the "Palace," the old part, which must look from the outside much as it did in A’s day.
Dec. 28. The Expedition arrived last evening, but I didn’t get a chance to greet them since they didn’t come into the lobby of the Palace and I was, er… in the bar with several friends who had dropped by. This a.m. they went to Giza. Reclining on my elegant terrace, I watched the buses roll up the hill, starting before eight. Dozens of them. It was understood that I wouldn’t accompany the group on all their trips; by the time I leave Egypt I will have been away for a solid month, and I am forcing myself to take it slow. I am now sitting on a balustrade outside the hotel waiting for my friends Salima and Nick.
Later. A super day. We went to Kerdasa, a suburb a few miles north, noted for its fine weavers. Many shops have been replaced by more modern establishments selling galabeeyahs and the inevitable t-shirts, but we found one place (after making a few minor purchases elsewhere) that was great. The owner had the jolliest laugh. Listening to Salima and the owner bargain in Arabic was wonderful; at one point she lowered her hand, indicating that the price was too high, whereupon the man instantly squatted. So did Salima. Big whoops of laughter from everybody.
He had nice woven stuff, beautiful rugs and some sensationally gaudy gowns and capes. Lots of gold. I like lots of gold. Bought two genuine black dresses like the ones I had seen proper Egyptian ladies wearing – was told later that they are Nubian, but I saw them in Luxor and elsewhere. They have long sleeves and a yoke, embroidered or trimmed, from which the gown hangs, with a flounce at the bottom. Both fit perfectly, since I am the same shape as many Egyptian ladies – round and short. The dresses are old, charming, and probably very dirty.
When the bargaining was completed the jolly chap wound round me a lovely woven scarf I had rejected – a present. (This is often done.) I thought the overall price was dirt cheap, but I suppose it represented a good day’s take. Foreign tourists don’t com
e here often. They were intrigued by my interest in the genooine dresses. One middle-aged lady in a similar frock and a close-fitting black headcloth (I haven’t seen a face veil since I got here, but all except "mod" city ladies wear the headcloth) darted out and came back with another – maybe she took it out of her closet, or her mother’s.
Then on to Abu Roash, for a day that combined frivolity (shopping) and Egyptology in exactly the right balance. The site is about five miles north of Giza, the northernmost of the pyramid sites. We bounced off into the desert, along bumpy tracks, back and forth and around and around. If I were only sixty again we could have taken a shorter route, climbing up the escarpment, but my dear buddies didn’t want to send me home in a cast or with terminal shortness of breath, so we finally found ourselves on top, right at the base of the pyramid. I had never been here before. The archaeologists (French-Swiss) weren’t working, so we had the place to ourselves. The pyramid, of which most is gone, belonged to Djedefre, Khufu’s son and successor. Why he moved here nobody knows; theories of dynastic infighting and religious differences are only speculation. Maybe he just liked the view. Or didn’t want to put his little bitty pyramid next to dad’s great monument. It’s very high up and a long way from the river. The causeway, whose line can be seen, but of which nothing remains, must have been very long and steep. Went halfway down the shaft to the burial chamber, which now lies open and exposed, since the greater part of the superstructure has been quarried away. Had I been sixty again I’d have gone all the way down, but it was steep and a bit slippery from there on.
We walked round the structure and then I managed to get to the top, with a lot of help from my friends. We had a picnic lunch atop the "pyramid" and then headed back, since I had to clean up for my first meeting with the Expedition members, drinks and dinner at one of the Mena House’s excellent restaurants. I went round from table to table, trying to say a few words to everyone. It will take me awhile to get to know them all, though there were a few old friends among them.
Dec. 30. I am fading, Egypt, fading. I am back in Luxor, but can’t remember how I got here. I must have arrived yesterday. When I got to the dear old Winter Palace I found Dennis and Joel awaiting me, as well as Bill and Nancy – who were wondering if I’d get there in time to make my second appearance at five that evening. I made it. Bill does things very elegantly; the reception was in the lovely old Victorian "tearoom" of the Winter Palace, where I circulated some more and had nice chats with people. Dinner in the fancy restaurant.
Dec. 31. Dennis and Joel and I were to meet Petty and the group at Deir el Bahri at one. We left the hotel about ten and took the ferry across. I like the ferry – it’s more than a bit grubby and more than a bit crowded, but there are no eight-inch gangplanks!
Stopped by Medinet Habu, where the Epigraphic Survey works. The manager of the restaurant across the street from the temple is an old buddy; we’ve had many a cup of tea and coke and several good meals there. He insisted on giving us a farewell cup of tea. Then we went on to Deir el Medina, where the boys started up the long slope to the path that leads to the Valley of the Kings. It’s steep, but not precipitous – just too long. Steps have been built, but everybody says they are harder on the legs than just climbing. Some day I may make it, but I am saving myself for the Expedition.
Ali, our driver, and I went on to Deir el Bahri after a brief stop at the Bedouin shop near the colossi. It’s owned by Ali’s daddy. Everybody on the West Bank is related to everybody else. After browsing a bit, on to Deir el Bahri, where I visited the restroom (someday I must write an article on Egyptian toilets). It’s in a building that was the old Cook’s rest house; I do hope they will restore it one day, since it’s a historic building and was well known to Amelia and Emerson.
Before long Ali let out a shout and pointed, and there they were, descending after the hike across the hill. The walk takes about an hour. Coming down looks trickier than going up, if not as hard on the lungs. Certain slopes are fairly steep, with only pebbles and debris underfoot.
There are three terraces at Deir el Bahri, Hatshepsut’s lovely temple. The lower two are open to the public, but the third is still being reconstructed. Bill had gotten permission for some of us to swagger past the barrier and go up all the way. They have done a lot since I was there two years ago – more of the Osiride colossi of Hatshepsut in place, some of the paving laid, some of the little shrines nicely cleaned. Much Egyptological gossip, then we went down and found Ali and dropped Bill and Nancy at the taftish (checkpoint) before stopping at the shop, where I bought a few little things.
I was a mess by then, hair all over the place, but managed to tidy up before Dennis and Joel arrived for our last sunset ritual – watching the sun go down from my balcony while sipping various beverages. They went away to dress and I slipped into my extravagant, ostentatious, beaded robe from "Miss Egypt," in which I daresay I looked rather like a Japanese pagoda, but who cares. The boys called for me, elegant in tux and dark suit, and we swept down the grand staircase of the Old Winter Palace in fine style. Cab to Chicago House, drinks, dinner, etc. Almost all of us stuck it out till midnight, when we put on funny hats and blew horns and everybody kissed everybody.
Jan. 1, 2001. Slept in (and did I need it) while the group went to the West Bank (good for them). No, I tell a lie. It was Luxor Museum and a free afternoon. Dennis and Joel left this morning but I did not see them off. Prolonged goodbyes are foolish. Went shopping with a couple of friends from Chicago House; I only bought a camel’s hair shawl, and some amulets for my "book covers" chain: Sobek, Set (so what if he looks like Anubis – I can call him Set if I want), Sekhmet, and Horus. Then kisses and "see you this summer" and I cleaned up a bit and went to Sabri’s lecture.
I’ve known Sabri el-Aziz slightly for years; have spent many boring hours sitting in his office at the taftish. A formal call at the taftish is part of the ritual when one arrives in Luxor. We had made ours a few days earlier, on Sabri’s successor as Director of the West Bank sites. He’d been bumped up since then, to be in charge of all the Upper Egyptian sites.
So I greeted Sabri with an Egyptian kiss (a chaste salut on each cheek), which almost made him faint with surprise. He’d fairly tall and thin, with receding hair and regular features and charming manners. He gave us a slide show "tour" which lasted exactly the proper time, though he had been late because of an appointment with some big shots from the SCA. His English is delightful, larded with favorite words that give it flavor. "Guys," for one. "These guys" who built the tombs and "other guys" who are archaeologists. He was funny, witty, and very informative. Began and ended with a moving statement that the monuments are the heritage of the entire world, not just Egypt. He is in charge of all the monuments of Upper Egypt, and he makes about $7,000 a year.
Jan. 2. One of the reasons why Luxor feels like my hometown is that I keep running into old friends. Yesterday it was Bob B; he was coming into the hotel as I was leaving it, both of us on our way to different places, so he and his wife and I agreed to have dinner this evening.
It’s misty tonight. The western cliffs are almost invisible behind a cloud, and the sun was white before it sank behind said cloudbank, with no pyrotechnical display. Now the lights are coming on along the west bank, including two lonely stars that mark the location of the guard posts high on the hill. Must be a lonely job – and a cursed long climb. What a contrast below, in the twilight. A tourist steamer heads south, lit up like a multi level parking lot (these boats really are awfully homely). Half a dozen feluccas, with their graceful triangular sails, glide by, and the little motorboats chug back and forth. They are gay with bright paint and (rather grubby) cushions and funny insignia.
Tour busses whiz past (well, they go fairly slowly; in fact, the traffic on the corniche includes bicycles, taxis, and carriages); two caleches filled with Egyptians singing and chanting and beating a drum; the muezzin’s "Allahu Akhbar." I do so love this place. This is the last night in Luxor for this trip.
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bsp; Later. Had a good time with the B’s this evening; they came to my room at six, with a bottle of wine. Rather than call room service, who had stolen the glasses again, I washed my tooth glasses.
Jan. 3. I seem to have gotten a slight second wind lately, partly because I haven’t done much except sit around, and partly because I am looking forward to spending more time with the Expedition. I will be on the boat with them from Assuan to Luxor, and then we have one more day in Cairo before flying out. (From then on it’s going to be grim – that grisly one-thirty a.m. flight home. All in all I have eight flights on this trip. Have I mentioned that before?)
Had lunch with some of the ladies from the tour and then wandered over to the arcade by Abouti’s to look for a slip. (I lost mine in Cairo – don’t ask how.) No luck of course.
Abouti’s is the best bookstore in Luxor for Egyptological stuff, but its selection of fiction is pretty limited. Have seen my French editions at two places in Luxor, plus one German. None of the English. Transitions are a pain – packing, looking for missing articles, cashing travelers’ checks, paying bills, tipping everybody. The first part of the trip was fine – I even got a smile and a handshake from the grumpy guy at the bank. It isn’t surprising that he is grumpy; some of his customers are rude and unreasonable. He’d been very nice since the time during Ramadan when I walked in to find him reading from the Koran; I immediately stepped back and told him to finish his chapter or whatever, that I could wait. I was rewarded when he asked if I would like him to read aloud. It was beautiful – sung rather than read, in a sonorous baritone. He had studied to be a muezzin.
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