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Published: February 10th 2007
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Atef’s made all the arrangements from Command and Control in Cairo, working his cellphone with deft fingers while he flips through a stack of Egyptian pounds. Since signing ourselves over to him on Tuesday night, me and Paul have been full of second-guessing. What we’ve gained in convenience - the door-to-door shuttles, the hotel reservations, the seven-and-seventy virgins laid out like a cold-cut spread in the common room - is off-set by the fact that we’re being handled like the finest of china. Atef refuses to give us a detailed itinerary, lest our “heads get cluttered with different things”; in fact, most of our dealings proceed under the assumption that I can’t get through the day without dribbling all over my chin. When our driver comes to take us to the train station - corralling our bags and tickets and shooing us onboard - he all but tucks us into bed and sings a sweet lullaby. In the morning, after we’ve chugged along the Nile and woken beneath a fierce African sun, a fresh driver is waiting at the Aswan station with a broad, ingratiating grin. Bags are grabbed, doors are opened, elevator buttons pushed before I’ve even flexed a
finger. And so our time in Aswan unfolds.
We’re checked into a hotel that has the antiseptic air of mid-range hotels the world over: the tasteless upholstery, the inoffensive paintings, the bellboys shuffling around without a clear sense of purpose. Ahmed - a likable young guy with a clipped moustache and a serious-looking folder under his arm - greets us in the lobby. He lays out a busy itinerary of taxis and convoys, his hands stacking papers, his eyes scuttling like crabs. There’s a shifty air about him that suggests a ruthless hand behind the scenes - the message from Atef passed down like an imperial decree, to protect the foreigners at all costs.
For his part, Ahmed seems inclined to follow those orders like holy scripture. Our most innocuous questions are taken as a rebuke, as if wanting to know what time we’ll be back from Abu Simbel somehow implies his bewildering ineptitude. On our way to the Unfinished Obelisk he collects our money in the car, afraid of what horrors might befall us should we head to the ticket booth ourselves. Afterward, in one of the more ridiculous episodes of modern navigation, he drives us to
the cemetery across the street, the engine still running as he idles outside.
If there’s a theme to the tourist circus that whirls around Aswan, it’s born from the conviction that the best way to see Egypt is to steer clear of any actual Egyptians. Along the corniche in town, a dozen cruise ships are moored in the harbor, their great engines groaning, the strings of lights across their decks twinkling over the Nile. You can see the genteel old ladies and their stiff-lipped men taking a drink under the stars, as if the days of the British protectorate were as alive and kicking as the Queen. “Richard, these Egyptians are such a kind, noble people,” one might say. “Have you tried the potatoes?” One wary old couple’s made it as far as the promenade, their pink, nervous faces showing signs of unspeakable trauma as a group of rowdy young guys whistle at the passing girls.
In the morning a shuttle bus picks us up at half-past three; the town’s improbably coming to life already, men sweeping storefronts and taking wet rags to their windows. The trip to the Temple of Ramses II in Abu Simbel
- one of ancient Egypt’s greatest aesthetic achievements - is a high-speed cavalcade of comedy and breathtaking inanity. The convoy was started in the wake of the high-profile terrorist attacks of the ‘90s, when foreign tourists - the country’s lifeblood - were repeatedly targeted by extremist groups. Amid fears of an Islamist uprising on the banks of the Nile - a tough one to sell in the travel brochures, no matter how you spin it - the Egyptian government showed off its flair for heavy-handed ingenuity. Thus the convoy was born, sending dozens of tour buses barreling down the long, desolate desert road south of Aswan, a handful of soldiers providing the security that only heavily armed pubescents can offer. No one seemed to ask, at the time, if herding together all the tourists and offering a time table for their daily departure was really the best way to keep them safe. Nor do the drivers themselves inspire much confidence: our shuttle bus is nearly sideswiped - twice - before we’ve even pulled away from the curb.
It’s clear this is a budget operation from how they pack us in, the driver improbably folding down extra seats into
the aisle and all but strapping the last few stragglers to the roof. When we’re passed by a swank tour bus, the Golden Nile, we can see the passengers - their heads propped on plush pillows - staring with horror and grim forbearance. “Look at how these people live,” their eyes suggest. “Truly we have entered the dark heart of Africa.” At Abu Simbel, though, we’re democratically lumped together: the grubby backpackers and the ritzy retirees, all forced to elbow and shove our way through the sights before the convoy again makes tracks to Aswan. It’s a spectacle that seems to ensure the least amount of pleasure for the most amount of people. Not surprisingly, old Ramses himself - his four likenesses hacked into stone outside the temple - stares out to the Nile with a mischievous smirk on his face.
It’s a long way to go for such a short pay-off. Factoring in the trip from the capital, Paul reasons that we’ve spent thirteen hours on the train, three hours on the bus, and a few anxious minutes waiting for a free toilet in Abu Simbel, all for the sake of the same snapshots being sold by
the street vendors in Cairo. He forgets to mention that we’ve also gotten a couple of kidney punches inside the Temple of Hathor, free of charge, delivered by a stout old Japanese woman whose sweet face belies such sinister intentions.
But Aswan alone is worth the trip. The pick-up trucks sending clouds of dust over the dirt roads, the bright-eyed Nubian kids chasing us down the street in broken sandals. “Hello!” they call after us. The youngest chirp their English with obvious pride. “How are you? Nice to meet you.” The old men - grave and impassive over their
sheesha pipes - break into huge grins and wave. “Welcome to Egypt,” they say, lightly touching their chests. The creases around their mouths are deep, the folds of their foreheads broad enough for history itself to curl inside and take a nap. It’s the sort of greeting you see in all the brochures, as if a welcome mat were being rolled out from the very doorstep of antiquity.
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