Love works in funny ways. In 1632, Shah Jahan had the Taj Mahal made for his favourite wife, Mumtaz Mahal. However, an age ago, in 1244 BC, King Ramses II had the temple of Abu Simbel made for him and his favourite wife, Nefertari. Both monumental in their appearance, eccentric in their creation, tributes to love. For thirty years workers toiled on carving the great temple of Abu Simbel while legend has it that Shah Jahan had the hands of his architect cut off after the Taj was built so that such beauty could never again be replicated. Yes, love works in funny ways.
It’s about 3am as we hurry into the van to drive the three hundred miles to Abu Simbel in southern Egypt. In the thick fog of sleep, the sodium vapour city lights of Aswan burn without grabbing my attention. The seats are comfortable and all my body wants to do is snuggle up in the cosy warmth of the seat and sleep the elastic hours away. But my mind, that’s another story. Quick and alert stimulated by anticipation, it keeps me awake. Within ten minutes the convoy of buses and vans has broken the perimeter of the city and we’re heading for the thick sandy desert of Hollywood’s Egypt. The world outside the window becomes alien as the pregnant bumps of sand dunes break the flat monotony of the horizon. With not a light in sight, now is when the stars show their value. A million clustered constellations caught in the web of the deep night. Each star cosmically spit shined to perfection.
Sunday, 17 January 2010
Edfu and Aswan
The temple of Edfu is a story book of graphic history. Every surface of the walls, pillars and bases are covered by hieroglyphics. There is no room for the walls to even breathe. A tattooed temple telling the travellers to take the time to think twice. The dedication it must have taken for the ancients to inscribe every block, their need to preserve their culture through words, astounding. Two thousand two hundred years ago they stood in the very footprints I’m creating and marvelled at their collective efforts and wit. Edfu is a carved mountain of writing talking about ancient gods and of kings and queens and of great battles between different lands. A tabulated time capsule screaming into the future.
The city of Aswan is a city of two halves divided by the charming Nile. One side shows off a busy city life with warm orange lights incubating its streets and soft Arabic music floating out from small shop radios. Old Peugeots line up a dime a dozen, horses clip and clop their ways down the tarmac streets dragging in their carriages bedazzled tourists. All this happens while the stars wink down and the Nile gently smiles out a curve around a lone hill. On the other bank is that hill, semi arid and alone. Only a few lights burn there and the top seamlessly blends into the night sky like a masterpiece of a renaissance period painter.
The city of Aswan is a city of two halves divided by the charming Nile. One side shows off a busy city life with warm orange lights incubating its streets and soft Arabic music floating out from small shop radios. Old Peugeots line up a dime a dozen, horses clip and clop their ways down the tarmac streets dragging in their carriages bedazzled tourists. All this happens while the stars wink down and the Nile gently smiles out a curve around a lone hill. On the other bank is that hill, semi arid and alone. Only a few lights burn there and the top seamlessly blends into the night sky like a masterpiece of a renaissance period painter.
Nile Crocodile
The waves of the Nile pulsing like memory through the synapses. These are the same passages where the merchants of ancient Egypt brought the limestone and granite boulders that built the pyramids and temples to appease their pharaohs and queens. These are the same waters that have been the life blood of the people for thick centuries dripping wet with history. These are the same tired banks that have witnessed the insignificance of human endeavour. These are the same satisfied trees that have drunk out of the life blood and are strong and tall. The trees dancing with the Mediterranean breeze and whispering secrets of the ancient. These are the same bored mountains choking with sand and baked with sunlight, looking down thirstily at the blue waters.
During the days as the ship lazily swims through the coolness of the Nile, a school of a hundred thousand fish of pure sunlight break and shimmer through the surface. During the evenings, the sun burns the blue sky black and leaves behind the constellated embers of stars. At night the reflection of the moon surfs along the wavy surface of the Nile, keeping up with our pace. Egyptian night skies become a range of shooting stars. In the backdrop, the steady hum of the engines provides the bass and the swish swosh of the waves play the treble for the Nile’s night song. Indeed, a scribe does not have to look far to find inspiration in Egypt.
During the days as the ship lazily swims through the coolness of the Nile, a school of a hundred thousand fish of pure sunlight break and shimmer through the surface. During the evenings, the sun burns the blue sky black and leaves behind the constellated embers of stars. At night the reflection of the moon surfs along the wavy surface of the Nile, keeping up with our pace. Egyptian night skies become a range of shooting stars. In the backdrop, the steady hum of the engines provides the bass and the swish swosh of the waves play the treble for the Nile’s night song. Indeed, a scribe does not have to look far to find inspiration in Egypt.
Christmas in Cairo
Christmas day breakfast in an Egyptian hotel is like one of my lecturers; too short and very boring.
I try to imagine the first explorers who came across the pyramids and how they must have felt in the moments they first saw the pointed tips rising out from the sand dunes like a gigantic angular spectre. From a distance it must have felt like it was some strange mirage condensing from the desert heat. Then the disbelief striking in waves, the rabid confusion must have set into their educated minds. Carved limestone mountains did not just grow out of the ground. What were these limestone beasts?
I saw them today. I got my first glimpse while we were in the town of Cairo. The anticipation almost felt wet. And heavy. There I was, in a fairly developed city, in a luxurious air conditioned four wheel drive car, two gigabytes of memory on my camera another three on my cell phone and eighty more on my iPod. There I was, with expensive time sitting on my wrist and a mind freed by existentialist de-programming and all of a sudden I’m faced with more than five thousand years of limestone history. A seed of insignificance burrows deeply into my mind. And stays there. The tips of the pyramids rise above the city buildings, dwarfing them both in stature and age. The juxtaposition of contemporary life and the dawn of civilization is strangely odd. Disconcerting. The hustle and bustle of everyday life in the shadow of the pyramids, the local people not acknowledging them whatsoever. Liminal lifestyles that eclipse these great mountains of memory. The same time that makes the pyramids so legendary also makes them lose their splendour.
So here I am, forget my eighty five gigabytes of memory. Here I am faced with more than two million limestone blocks each holding more than five thousand years worth of stored memories. Here I have facing me the dawn of architectural civilization, superstructures that have survived the centuries having earned the right to stand here and boast about their own brilliance. Here is the manifestation of the ingenuity of vision. Here it is, right in front of me. I’m touching the cold sleeping blocks with the flat of my palms, the surge of excitement holding at bay all the other thoughts in my mind. A connection is being built; no impact, just an acknowledgment.
The Great Pyramid of Giza in the palm of my hands. The Great Pyramid of Giza where the great pharaoh Khufu once lay in his mummified skin and golden sarcophagus. The Great Pyramids, here they are, patiently waiting in all their glory. Here they are, waiting to be abused, defaced. Here they are, waiting to be spat on and littered on. And the hoards of people that visit it, they duly oblige. A thick film of greasy epithelials covers its base. Small crevices dug out in the blocks by the winds and droplets of time serve as ashtrays for cigarettes. Bluish plastic bottles and bright red aluminium cans decorate the base like a Christmas tree pyramid. The desecration of the tombs in such a fashionable manner, so nonchalant in its approach. Wave upon wave of destructive men have crashed upon the base only to bounce of and once again merge with their own, the Great Pyramids remaining indifferent to their plight.
At night the Pyramids are degraded even further as the sound and light show begins. Green lasers and oddly coloured lights pour onto the great tombs making the pharaohs probably turn in their sarcophagi. When the show ends and darkness drops on the pyramids is when their beauty can be seen. These stone tents pitched up against the backdrop of the starlit sky.
I try to imagine the first explorers who came across the pyramids and how they must have felt in the moments they first saw the pointed tips rising out from the sand dunes like a gigantic angular spectre. From a distance it must have felt like it was some strange mirage condensing from the desert heat. Then the disbelief striking in waves, the rabid confusion must have set into their educated minds. Carved limestone mountains did not just grow out of the ground. What were these limestone beasts?
I saw them today. I got my first glimpse while we were in the town of Cairo. The anticipation almost felt wet. And heavy. There I was, in a fairly developed city, in a luxurious air conditioned four wheel drive car, two gigabytes of memory on my camera another three on my cell phone and eighty more on my iPod. There I was, with expensive time sitting on my wrist and a mind freed by existentialist de-programming and all of a sudden I’m faced with more than five thousand years of limestone history. A seed of insignificance burrows deeply into my mind. And stays there. The tips of the pyramids rise above the city buildings, dwarfing them both in stature and age. The juxtaposition of contemporary life and the dawn of civilization is strangely odd. Disconcerting. The hustle and bustle of everyday life in the shadow of the pyramids, the local people not acknowledging them whatsoever. Liminal lifestyles that eclipse these great mountains of memory. The same time that makes the pyramids so legendary also makes them lose their splendour.
So here I am, forget my eighty five gigabytes of memory. Here I am faced with more than two million limestone blocks each holding more than five thousand years worth of stored memories. Here I have facing me the dawn of architectural civilization, superstructures that have survived the centuries having earned the right to stand here and boast about their own brilliance. Here is the manifestation of the ingenuity of vision. Here it is, right in front of me. I’m touching the cold sleeping blocks with the flat of my palms, the surge of excitement holding at bay all the other thoughts in my mind. A connection is being built; no impact, just an acknowledgment.
The Great Pyramid of Giza in the palm of my hands. The Great Pyramid of Giza where the great pharaoh Khufu once lay in his mummified skin and golden sarcophagus. The Great Pyramids, here they are, patiently waiting in all their glory. Here they are, waiting to be abused, defaced. Here they are, waiting to be spat on and littered on. And the hoards of people that visit it, they duly oblige. A thick film of greasy epithelials covers its base. Small crevices dug out in the blocks by the winds and droplets of time serve as ashtrays for cigarettes. Bluish plastic bottles and bright red aluminium cans decorate the base like a Christmas tree pyramid. The desecration of the tombs in such a fashionable manner, so nonchalant in its approach. Wave upon wave of destructive men have crashed upon the base only to bounce of and once again merge with their own, the Great Pyramids remaining indifferent to their plight.
At night the Pyramids are degraded even further as the sound and light show begins. Green lasers and oddly coloured lights pour onto the great tombs making the pharaohs probably turn in their sarcophagi. When the show ends and darkness drops on the pyramids is when their beauty can be seen. These stone tents pitched up against the backdrop of the starlit sky.
Touching down in Cairo town
I went to Egypt and, rather unexpectedly, I fell in love. Everyone wants that one holiday romance. To fall in love on holiday accentuates everything. Love at first sight is not something I usually believe in but I fell in love the moment I experienced her, the moment I breathed her in, the moment I touched her. Ancient Egypt, the Queen of the Nile.
As the moon hangs low in the midnight Egyptian sky, the desert dust paints it a Mars-ish red and the city beneath is still alive with all the charm of a heap of stones. A city of midnight moons and ancient tombs. The day was as long as the night is short and as we cruise down the highway I’m in a state of surprising indifference.
Cities from passenger seats in cars are just cities just like all airports are just airports and carpets are just glorified rugs; nothing special. After all, a hundred thousand blurry lights are still just blurry lights. After about a hundred mosques, a scattering of palm trees and massive industrious signs, we are finally pulled into the tractor beam of our hotel.
What you need to know is that a five start hotel in Africa is at the very most a three star hotel in the rest of the world. However, you also have to know that I grew up in Africa and a three star hotel to me is a five star hotel. Simple logic. You also need to know that you cannot possibly enjoy the perks of a five start hotel when you inadvertently fall asleep as soon as you get to the room. Simple physics.
As the moon hangs low in the midnight Egyptian sky, the desert dust paints it a Mars-ish red and the city beneath is still alive with all the charm of a heap of stones. A city of midnight moons and ancient tombs. The day was as long as the night is short and as we cruise down the highway I’m in a state of surprising indifference.
Cities from passenger seats in cars are just cities just like all airports are just airports and carpets are just glorified rugs; nothing special. After all, a hundred thousand blurry lights are still just blurry lights. After about a hundred mosques, a scattering of palm trees and massive industrious signs, we are finally pulled into the tractor beam of our hotel.
What you need to know is that a five start hotel in Africa is at the very most a three star hotel in the rest of the world. However, you also have to know that I grew up in Africa and a three star hotel to me is a five star hotel. Simple logic. You also need to know that you cannot possibly enjoy the perks of a five start hotel when you inadvertently fall asleep as soon as you get to the room. Simple physics.
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