Day 171: A Tale Of Two Cities (18/07/2011)

It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.

The streets of downtown Cairo are like canyons that soar a dozen stories above the wide boulevards in a uniform phalanx of faded art deco splendour.

We wandered three sides of the block from Talaat Haab Street, to find the Nasser metro station and paid one Egyptian pound each to ride the rails to the end of the line. Today we only needed five stops to Margiris and the Christian Quarter.

Over breakfast, Peter and Jessie from Washington DC expounded their World Bank portfolio with typically easy-going east coast charm. They had the joy ahead of them of the ride around the pyramids but we didn’t have the heart to warn them of Khaled’s plans for their libido. Being straight guys, there was every chance that Mr K was going to leave them all dressed up with nowhere to go.

The metro has a reputation for being Cairo’s cleanest place and while you might not want to eat your dinner off the spotless marble, the chaotic litterbug mentality that dominates the surface is thankfully left there. Mubarak’s personality cult, like that of any long in the tooth dictator, saw to the blanket posting of his likeness in every conceivable place. In turn, the Arab Spring saw to it that while he resides in Sharm El Sheikh, apparently unable to afford his own legal fees in the state action to recover the fortunes that he allegedly lifted from the Exchequer, his pictures have been torn down or defaced, causing the only untidiness that the metro will permit.

After refreshingly cold five stops, during which we piqued the curiosity of most of the Egyptian commuters in our carriage, we disembarked next to St George’s Greek Orthodox Church and monastery. As St Sergius to the Greeks, the church is built on the site of a former religious building that provided shelter to Joseph, Mary and the baby Jesus during their flight from Herod. The circular building is a welter of gold and silver with an enormous and elaborate crystal chandelier hanging pendulously from the huge dome on which Jesus is adorned on an enormous golden sphere. The air is thick with incense and only a little light filters in through the deep reds and blues of the stained glass windows. The walls are heavy with the iconography of St George slaying the dragon but Clare disapproved of the depiction of her patron, George’s lance protruding uncomfortably from its mouth.

All but next door is the Hanging Church. Curiously named, it is the home of the Coptic Christianity. Built as a replica of the upturned Ark of Noah, the roof is supported by eight pillars, one for each human occupant of the vessel. The walls are hung with priceless works of art. They depict the Coptic saints, from the mainstream St Mark the Evangelist - whose remains were stolen from the Turks in Alexandria by the Venetians in 828 – to the obscure such as St James The Swan Leader, pictured with his bloody sword astride a horribly dismembered body, rendered in visceral detail. All date from 10 to 20AD, guarded only by the elderly and heavily bearded parish priest.

Taking the eco-tourist mantra to heart, we had spent six months taking nothing but pictures and leaving nothing but footprints. Happening into an Aladdin’s cave of late 18^th century photos, we didn’t break the strict letter of the  law, when we left with sepia prints of the Sphinx when it was half buried in sand and images of the Nile when its floods ran within 100m of the pyramids.

Through the exceptionally friendly veg-market market we tripped, stopping for a moment to coo at the children with a cardboard box full of ducklings, before taking a lunch of cheese filled bread directly from the oven at the street side bakery, the price rising suspiciously between order and payment, when the father whispered conspiratorially in his son’s ear at the cash box.

Having prospered under the protection of Krishna and Vishnu in India, it seemed the natural choice to climb into Ramadan’s taxi for the journey across town to Saladin’s 12^th century Citadel and the magnificent Mosque within its imposing walls. Sadly, while we arrived safely, courtesy of his death or glory dash into the 8 lane highway that lay between us and the citadel, Ramadan’s car did not. A Turkish made Tallah, it overheated on the steep climb and refused to start despite a liberal dousing of the engine block from his water bottle.

No sooner than we had arrived than Ali fell upon our necks with promises of secret passages and private viewings. Scam bells were ringing but he was so charming that we fell under his spell in the mistaken belief that he truly loved us. To be fair, he was good to his word and we entered the mosque with a greater sense of appreciation than we might otherwise have done. Sadly, having parted with the baksheesh that is suggested with the slightest of gestures, he spoiled the deal by returning for more, later in the day.

Returning down the hill with a more taciturn driver, we climbed out at the Al Hussein mosque and dived into the maelstrom of the bazaar. Except that it was silent. Vendors outnumbered tourists by ten to one and the chaotic melee we had been expecting was replaced by a clean and orderly procession though the warren of side streets. Cairo has been temporarily abandoned by the tourists as a result of the unjustified fears that the Arab Spring has produced.

We listened to his call echo through the bazaar and watched the coffee seller dispense a thick, black, unctuous fluid from his twenty litre glass kettle, slung over one shoulder with a colourful strap before retreating into the cool refinement of the Khan Al Khali restaurant, a current haunt of Cairo literati including the winner of one Nobel prize for literature and one Booker.

After lunch we ventured into the extraordinarily different but equally stunning world of Islamic Cairo. Bordered by the intact city wall, it is a Dickensian maze of back streets and we meandered in and out of the gates and past dozens of stunningly beautiful mosques. Cairo is known as the city of a thousand minarets and while this sounds like an exaggeration, the view from the citadel confirms it beyond debate. From a distance, they merge into the city skyline but in the quarter they tower over the streets in an inescapable statement of Islamic dominance. When prayer time arrives, the streets boom with the competing ululations that emit from a hundred mosques within earshot.

As we wound down the final street to the last gate in the city wall, we came across a pair of mischievous junior police officers who were throwing fire crackers into the street. We laughed and pointed and suddenly one went off at our feet, blackening my shins and sending me diving for cover from what my senses screamed must be sniper fire. When I regained my composure, I had a momentary sense of humour failure and marched indignantly toward the two. In twenty yards I reconsidered the tenor of my approach in light of the tense security position and feigned heart problems, to which the blood drained from their faces and they pleaded for forgiveness. We shook hands and parted for the taxi, past the city mausoleum and home to Miami Cairo hostel.

The mausoleum stretches 5km across town and is as much a grave yard as the Red Sea is a fish tank. It is packed with elaborate tombs in which people live amongst the dead. A mosque, a school and basic amenities have sprung up and a thriving community exists in the giant necropolis that stretches block after block, alongside the Cairo overpass.

Finally, we fell back into the hands of Mr K, who drove us gratis to the Ramses railway station in time for the 7pm Sleeper train to Luxor. At 8.30, the train arrived and clutching our possessions we climbed aboard for the finest railway experience Egypt has to offer.