The Nile rises somewhere deep in Sudan and picks up tributaries all the way until it reaches the sea in Cairo.
It doesn’t matter whether it is the longest or largest. What is impressive is to see it in full speight, roaring through the desert in a life giving ribbon of blue water that defies the searing heat and barren sands.
Watching the Nilie from the 6th floor balcony of St Josef’s is so beautiful. The river is clean and clear as there is little to pollute it upstream from Luxor which is a tourist town and possesses no heavy industry to harm the clarity of the water. Beyond the river is a strip of lush greenery that stretches 3km on either side, supported by a network of canals and irrigation projects. Millions of gallons are taken from the river every day at thousands of points along its flow and the mighty current doesn’t even seem to flinch.
Beyond the growth comes the harsh golden desert. The greenery doesn’t peter out as you might imagine. It stops suddenly. On one side of a small track there is thick alluvial soil supporting rich and varied crops. On the other is the empty-quarter where nothing grows. The line is a demarcation of territory. On one side is life, on the other is death.
And it was to the side of death that we were taken by Hussein in his old but smartly maintained Fiat when we visited the Valley of the Kings. The desert quickly rises from a sandy, rocky plain to towering cliffs of sandstone in which cracks and mighty fissures have grown over millennia. In a valley, hidden from view lies the final resting place of several hundred Pharaohs, consorts and senior administrators of the thirty-one dynasties to rule ancient Egypt. More are being discovered; the valley conceals them perfectly and their presence is not advertised.
Down a tunnel we walked into each. Two hundred metres and more they penetrate into the solid rock, at an angle of 20 degrees. The air is cool and dusty. The walls are delicately lit and festooned with hieroglyphs, cartouches and depictions of Pharaohs walking hand in hand with Anubis the jackal headed god and Horus with the head of a falcon. In some places the colours are faded and the plaster on which the work is cast, has fallen away. In others the carving is directly into the stone and the images are as vibrant as the day they were created. Pause for just a moment and the Pharaoh has just been interred and the portal has been sealed behind you.
Cameras are strictly prohibited but it is hard to be cynical when the ‘No Flash Photography’ sign at the entrance has been altered with a biro and some of the tomb attendants actively seek baksheesh in return for illicit photos. But some do not and in the confusion, two burly Egyptian men conducted a stand up row in Menotpah’s tomb as the attendant tried to confiscate their camera.
The strict line is evidently a recent policy change.
In 1799 Alexander left his name in perfect copperplate on a small patch of unadorned stone. Twelve inches away Zeonixy did the same a mere 36 years later. They are dead and gone but their names will live on for eternity.
In the 45 degree heat we forsook the kitsch toy train and hiked to the temple of Hapshetsut. From all but the closest inspection, its three pillared layers are too precise and too well preserved to be anything other than the latest footstep in the relentless march of the Hilton Empire. Close up the crow’s feet begin to appear and the old girl starts to show her age. A bitter rival vandalised the temple as soon as it was consecrated but the pillars and statutes have largely survived the 4,000 year interval. The stunning rampart gives a clear view of Karnak, several kilometres across the river.
On the way back we stopped at the massive twins statues of the Colossi of Memnon, so named by the arriving Greeks in 300BC, when the statues were already older than time, as they thought they depicted Agamemnon, having successfully escaped Achilles at Troy.
Finally, Hussein dropped us, somewhat unwillingly at the Alabaster Museum. We demurred and protested but the pincer movement of fine wares and Egyptian hospitality seduced me and left Clare helpless to resist as I mooned like a teenager at the white Alabaster pots that lined the shelf.
The coup de grace, however was at the hands of that seasoned pro, Alabaster Ali, who lowered a light into the translucent vase and seeing the effect, I was sold. We haggled, even to the point that Ali started to show signs of fatigue. Through the night we wrestled like Jacob and the Angel and when the sun’s first rays topped the mountains behind us, an unmentionable price, marginally lower than the asking, was agreed. The fragile pot was wrapped in a Heath-Robinson assortment of paper and broken polystyrene and I left the shop in the sure knowledge that I would reach England the proud owner of several shards of Alabaster that used to be a handsomely over-priced holiday souvenir.
Before dinner, Clare succumbed to her own love affair and found herself at the reins of a carriage drawn by Rambo, the chestnut Arab. Ali, the driver had spotted her unique affinity with his horse and trusted the reins to her in a way that he had never done before and would never do again.
Until we saw a fat six year old reprising the role an hour later.
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