Mark Twain at the Pyramids...

While I often travel alone, I rarely feel alone. Always, some writer, some friend, has been there before—normally Mark Twain. The pyramids at Giza were no exception—Mark Twain was there and I saw them through his eyes.

The Pyramids at Giza

“We suffered torture no pen can describe from the hungry appeals for bucksheesh... Why try to call up the traditions of vanished Egyptian grandeur; why try to fancy Egypt following dead Rameses to his tomb in the Pyramid, or the long multitude of Israel departing over the desert yonder? Why try to think at all? The thing was impossible. One must bring his meditations cut and dried, or else cut and dry them afterward.”

Mark Twain, The Innocents Abroad

Panorama from the desert

Much has changed since Twain’s visit, but much remains the same. Today, instead of hauling tourists to the top of the Pyramids, the local tourist industry besets the wary and the unwary traveler with innumerable offers of camel rides, horse rides, “free” turbans, opportunities to climb a pyramid, and, of course, souvenirs. I had one guy, trying to get me to ride his camel, follow me around for an hour. And that was just one of many…

I longed to pause, to let my mind drift away to ancient Egypt, to the conquering pharaohs, the elaborate rituals, the pompous priests… to Akhetaten, Thebes, Bubastis… to Ramses II, Thutmose III, Cleopatra… Yet, it was impossible—to pause was to indicate weakness, a desire to be hectored into a camel ride, a Pepsi, a picture. So I walked. I walked around the Cheops, down to the Sphinx, up to the middle Pyramid, out into the desert, back to the pyramids, and on and on, trying to take in the beauty, the history, immensity of the place.

At first glance, the pyramids seemed less grand than I had imagined, but the longer I stayed, the greater, the more impressive they became. The sphinx likewise—once again, I defer to Mark Twain:

The Sphinx

“After years of waiting, it was before me at last. The great face was so sad, so earnest, so longing, so patient. There was a dignity not of earth in its mien, and in its countenance a benignity such as never any thing human wore. It was stone, but it seemed sentient. If ever image of stone thought, it was thinking. It was looking toward the verge of the landscape, yet looking at nothing -- nothing but distance and vacancy. It was looking over and beyond every thing of the present, and far into the past. It was gazing out over the ocean of Time -- over lines of century-waves which, further and further receding, closed nearer and nearer together, and blended at last into one unbroken tide, away toward the horizon of remote antiquity. It was thinking of the wars of departed ages; of the empires it had seen created and destroyed; of the nations whose birth it had witnessed, whose progress it had watched, whose annihilation it had noted; of the joy and sorrow, the life and death, the grandeur and decay, of five thousand slow revolving years. It was the type of an attribute of man -- of a faculty of his heart and brain. It was MEMORY -- RETROSPECTION -- wrought into visible, tangible form. All who know what pathos there is in memories of days that are accomplished and faces that have vanished -- albeit only a trifling score of years gone by -- will have some appreciation of the pathos that dwells in these grave eyes that look so steadfastly back upon the things they knew before History was born -- before Tradition had being -- things that were, and forms that moved, in a vague era which even Poetry and Romance scarce know of -- and passed one by one away and left the stony dreamer solitary in the midst of a strange new age, and uncomprehended 
scenes.”

Snagged tourists

Since Mark Twain’s day, the city of Cairo (technically Giza) has spread up to the very foot of the Pyramids: McDonalds, KFCs, shopping malls, and busy highways compete against the serenity of the place, but despite it all, something of the long-forgotten past hangs over the area, whispering of days, passions, and peoples long gone and forgotten… that is if you're left in peace long enough to think…

Additional Pictures from the Pyramids at Giza

The streets of Cairo: "Close your eyes and open your heart"

Traffic in Cairo is worse than most places I’ve visited. I’d rank it, along with Milan and Amman as one of the worst cities for driving. Cars cutting each other off, horns blaring, traffic at a standstill… Not a lot of fun. Nor is it all that great for pedestrians.

Venturing out into the city, I soon realized that to get anywhere, it was necessary to just walk through the traffic. A local told me that to cross a street in Cairo: “You must close your eyes and open your heart.”

Too true. Close your eyes to the oncoming traffic and walk, but prepare your heart to die—at least that was the gist I took from his advice. Not bad advice either—whether crossing the street or living life.

Often as not, life’s dangers prove to be imaginary, or at least more imaginary than the cars of Cairo. Those horns though… I wanted to hang the man who invented the car horn… The heat must have been getting to me…

Impressions of the Egyptian Museum

Upon arrival in Cairo, I opted to start easy and visit the Egyptian Museum and see a bit a bit of Cairo. With map in hand, I found Tahrir Square and the Egyptian Museum without much issue. The Egyptian Museum, indeed the whole of Tahrir Square lack imposing façades—nothing to live up to their fame.

But I bought my ticket and tried to enter the museum. At the entrance, however, I was turned back. I had a camera in my bag. Before entering, I had to stow it with at a special office for cameras. Pictures are permitted at the Louvre, the British Museum, the Pergamum Museum, but not even a camera was allowed at the Egyptian Museum.

The museum itself hosts an impressive collection of Egyptian antiquities. Sadly, however, it lacks a narrative—very little context is provided in which to evaluate the pieces. (Perhaps to force visitors to hire guides, but, in general, it looks like nothing has been updated or touched for at least fifty years—as if it was a product of some previous age.)

The most impressive exhibit at the museum was the tomb collection of Tutankhamun: the variety and richness of the articles caught my attention—from childhood toys to religious symbols,  and signs of authority, the tomb collection lived up to its hype.

The other artifacts were also good, particularly the model collection of scenes from Egyptian life, but nothing to make the museum stand out favorably when compared to either the British Museum or the Louvre. In fact other than the King Tut exhibit, I felt like I’d seen the same artifacts defused throughout Europe with one considerable difference—the European displays were more contextualized and contained more information.

After winding down my visit, I went to pick up my camera. On the way, I made a detour to try to get change for a tip. Movenpick has a couple concessionaires on the grounds selling regular cans of soda for 20 EL or nearly $3.00. I tried to split a 10 EL bill, but failing that, I ended up heavily over tipping the guys at the camera office. Such is life, I guess.

All in all, the Egyptian Museum ranks well down on my list of the world’s best museums (but is on the list) which is roughly as follows*:

1: Pergamum Museum, Berlin, Germany

2: Volk Museum, Oslo, Norway

3: Museum of Welsh Life, St. Fagans, Wales

4: Louvre Museum, Paris, France

5: The Terror Museum, Budapest, Hungary

6: British Museum, London, England

7: Turkish Archeological Museum, Istanbul, Turkey

8: Vatican Museum, Vatican City, the Vatican

9: Egyptian Museum, Cairo, Egypt

10: Viking Boat Museum, Oslo, Norway

11: Capitoline Museum, Rome, Italy

Note: other than the first three, my ranking fluctuates for the rest; additionally, I expect that if I was pressed, I’d be forced to add additional museums to this list.

*For the purpose of comparing museums, I’m omitting the Hague Sophia and other palaces/churches/castles where the historical structure is the main attraction to the museum. It could be argued that the Vatican Museum also falls into this category, but as I wasn’t a fan of the Sistine Chapel, I’m listing it as an ordinary museum.

EgyptAir MS 848: A flight like no other

Normally flights are uneventful, boring, even, especially if you get stuck on an aisle seat… Normally, that is… My flight to Cairo proved, at least for me, remarkably abnormal.

I arrived at the airport in Casablanca in plenty of time, so I chilled and waited for my flight, trying not to think of food, because the prices at the airport were through the roof, not just for Morocco, but for pretty much anywhere.

Finally boarding time arrived and I joined the queue to board the plane. So far nothing abnormal: but then, a fight broke out in front of me. Outside the UFC, I’d never seen an adult place such violent kicks—and this was on the boarding ramp. At length, the crew and several bystanders separated the gentlemen and I boarded the plane. I assume they cooled down and were permitted to fly, but I can’t vouch for it.

I worked my way back to my seat, only to find that an elderly guy in turban and gown had already firmly lodged himself there—so I took his middle seat.

We took off and life was normal—for a while: then a couple of the guys pulled out their musical instruments and started an impromptu concert. Other passengers joined in singing and clapping to the music. Then the dancing started, as young and old, male and female wedged themselves into the aisle to dance. (Actual number dancing was probably fewer than half a dozen, but the bystanders and photographers heavily inflated the number in the aisle.)

The whole thing was so unusual the stewards broke out extra refreshments.

Mount Sinai: Modern Pilgrims

Mt. Sinai: by connecting the scriptural narrative to a tangible spot, the story became for me less real but more beautiful.

Today I visited the traditional Mt. Sinai and the Monastery of St. Catherine. We left Dahab about 11:00 PM and arrived at St. Catherine about 2:00 AM to begin our trek to the summit.

It was an easy walk, except for the last bit, stairs nestled among the climbing boulders. The moon illuminated everything with a soft, white light. Many of the tourists carried flashlights and wildly flashed them around, appearing almost like old-time bands of pilgrims with their tapers.  The lights were completely unnecessary, however, and largely detracted from the soft grays and sharp silhouettes of the mountains.

The camels in particular proved picturesque, dark shadows against the evening sky, treading along the ridgelines above and threading their way toward the summit.

I caught myself several times imagining what it would have been like when Moses climbed it (if indeed this is same mountain)—the rugged path he must have followed (prior to the easy, well-worn one that I was climbing), the sights and sounds of the children of Israel spread out in the valleys below, the cloud hovering over the mountain... And then, there was the golden calf: Moses rushing down the mountain, wroth beyond measure and hurling the Ten Commandments to the ground. The stories flashed by, vivid, but disconnected from what I saw.

When I reached the top, the new day was beginning to defuse a red glow on the Eastern horizon. Slowly, the sky lightened; the peaks stood out black and sharp against the soft blue-grays of the valleys. And then, there was the sun, rising steadily and spreading light and warmth (it was cold on the peak) across the world and etching out the mountain tops in a golden light. That sight alone was worth the trip. Mountains spread out in all directions, brown, craggy rocks, given new life by the rays of the sun. On the peak, the light caught the church, highlighting the cross against the sky.

In that moment, all the sights and places I’ve visited in the past few weeks, the Pyramids, the massive Temple of Karnak, the Valley of the Kings, seemed strangely insignificant baubles.

And then it was time to go down. I’ll probably never revisit Mt. Sinai, but somehow I think the memory of it will remain etched in my mind. At least for today.

The Paradoxes of Egypt

Pyramids at Giza

When I’m travelling, I often find it hard to carve out the time to jot out my experiences.  Or, if there is the time, there isn’t always the electricity. And life flows by, quickly.


At some point, over the next couple weeks, I hope to fill in many of the blanks, etching, electronically, something of my memories—but not tonight.

Luxor Temple

Tonight I’d like to summarize Egypt, summarize it by a trio of paradoxes:

Egypt is peaceful, but unsettled. The events and promises of the last couple years have led to widespread disillusionment, economic and political. The present is calm, but the future uncertain. (Duh. Do you think I can get a job as a fortune-cookie writer?)

Egypt is very cheap, but considerably overpriced. Prices are low, but expect to pay two to three times what the locals do and maybe get cheated on the side.


Coptic Cairo

Egypt is a dream come true, but often, sadly, something of a living nightmare. Chilling at the Pyramids, romping though ancient temples, chasing bats in old graves… there is something of the classroom, something of the movies, something completely intangible about it… but the pickpocketing, the constant hectoring, the exorbitant prices sometimes make me forget that I’m on vacation…

A jot, a vision, a glimpse, a parting—farewell, Morocco

Morocco was far more Western than I expected, but, yet, it was a world of its own—at least compared to anywhere else I’ve travelled.

Atlas Mountains

There were the mountain women doing their laundry in the streams and spreading it to dry on bushes and rocks; there were the urban families (man, woman, and children) all crammed on one small motorbike; there were the city laundromats where wringers and steam presses escaped the hoary traditions of history to live in the present; there were the smiles (beautiful smiles—even on less than beautiful people—though there was plenty of beauty in Morocco); there were bikes loaded with five or six goat heads; there were piles, circular cones, of spices… the boats, the camels, the Charlie Chaplin movies… the crowds of people, bikes, motorbikes, and everything else trying to jostle their way through the narrow, old streets.

Wheat fields--often harvest manually

And the food: the tangines, the orange juice, the pureed-fruit drinks, the dates, the egg sandwiches, the chicken shawarmas (the one I ate in Tangier was the best I’ve ever eaten), the cakes, the… and on and on.

Atlas Mountains

There was something officious, something friendly to the country. There were things to buy, things to remember, things to forget.

Of the latter, the trash, the filth, the unhygienic practices—piles of trash here and there, food fallen on the street picked up and re-sold, food served on grubby dishes and with dirty flatware… Everywhere noble aspirations were apparent, but the lack of skill, oversight, or the maintenance made them empty mockeries of what could have been…

Small town in mountains

Underwriting it all, however, was a bustling vibrancy, the exuberance of life, an undercurrent of movement, glossing over and dignifying many faults.

(Note: I liked Morocco, but, for good or for ill, I cannot gloss over the overtly public urination scenes in parks, along roads, in cities, and pretty much everywhere... so be warned if you plan to travel to Morocco. 
 
Pictures from the Straits of Gibralter and the Moroccan countryside