January 6, 2008 6:22am

Christmas Eve

We’re on our way to Western Thebes now, and I’m still behind days in my accounting.  When I last left off, we had finished lunch and were headed out to shop.   Most everyone went off in their own directions, but Nancy and I stayed with Dr. Gabra – which meant that I did acquire my fez (which is actually a tarboosh, as I should have remembered), a drum, and a beautiful galabeeyah, the most practical of my purchases as it had been bourne in on us that morning that our evenings’ activities were much more formal than I had originally understood.  For the most part we actually achieved the half price point – certainly not a feat I could have managed on my own, as I was jumping out of my skin with excitement.

Later, after a nap and a quick clean-up, we got on the bus to our audience with the Pope.  As we walked in, a line formed and we shuffled past more icons by Isaac Farnous and each of us shook hands with a bishop.  He was a nice, sturdy man with a hat that looked like a pleated black silk cream puff, rising about 8 inches off his head.  We all figured that was it – and were certainly surprised at the number of photographers, camerapersons, and suit-clad journalists wielding microphones.

Apparently, we were an event – and soon discovered why.  Rather than exiting, we were escorted through the papal palace to a carved and gilded office, where two rows of thronesque chairs waited for us – the central throne remained empty.  After we were all seated, the journalists busied themselves arranging mics and camera angles, and a reminding buzz went around that we were to stand when the pope entered.

Soon a little procession of plump bishops was arranged, and we all rose as a tiny man with a grizzled silver beard and gilded robes entered.  He seated himself between Salaama Shakur, the former Ambassador to Canada and a large man in a cream coat.  These two then were flanked by Karen and Dr. Gabra.

Formal greetings were exchanged and Karen asked for a blessing on the new Coptology chair.  We then settled in for an open forum of questions and comments – deeply surprising because they were unvetted and unedited.  Although the atmosphere was free, the questions were polite and Shenouda’s answers were both hopeful and humerous.  All the while, gilded goblets full of coke were passed around. I may begin to drink my own soda this way at home.

As the audience concluded, books and icons were passed around to each of us, depicting the holy family in Egypt.  The pope then had his etymology joke and gave blessing.   Primarily we noticed how deeply he is able to laugh, and how extensively he has worked to encourage cooperation between religions.  I strongly suspect that I would disagree with many, if not most of his solutions, but it is  hard to dislike a peacemaker, and that does seem to be his preoccupation.

continued 11:32am

Dr. Gabra is now announcing the opening of international exchange programs between our university and those in Egypt, particularly the American University – basically a dream come true.

Certainly I was realizing last night, thinking of my conversation with Magda, just how vast my field is – and how even my politics (especially my politics) affects my goals.  I am here as tourist, scholar, diplomat, and as in this record, journalist (certainly at least in being one who journals or records).

After the audience and the frenzy of photographers as we exited, it was straight on to the diplomatic (or diplomats) club – grand, colonial, lush.  Servants at every corner bearing goblets of fresh juices (I chose lime and melon, which was delicious but still could not compare to the guava juice at the bazaar).  I am moved to note yet another example of my ignorance, as I am reminded that just as there are varieties of apples, so too there are varieties of mango and guava with both subtle and dramatic differences in taste and texture.  Back at the club, the dinner was course upon course, served by waiters like soldiers, trained to appear in perfect tandem.  The main table was in the circular chamber surmounted by a fresco like a sunrise, all delicately shaded clouds in sherbet colors.  The other tables, weighed down by Limoges and crystal and heavy linen, were in the rose colored chamber.  Only the food surpassed the decor – stuffed artichoke hearts, tomato salad, lamb, whitefish, and ending with Milk of Ali pudding and fresh fruit.

We thanked the various dignataries and Salaama gave an impassioned speech on behalf of the university, then we walked the five blocks back to the hotel, exhausted.  I am once again moved to prayer and gratitude for the wisdom to give up high heels.  We packed, slept, and woke prepared to make the flight on the Air Egypt Express to Thebes (modern Luxor).  The plane was lovely, spacious and clean, and looked from the outside like a pregnant dragonfly. Inside it was 2 seats deep on each side, with plenty of leg room.  I sat next to Karen and was able to discuss passing geographical features (primarily the Red Sea) and Hatshepsut.  The view from the plane was a study in contrasts – stark deserts, lush fields, outlines of sites and old waterways.

We landed and went straight to Karnak, a description of which can be found in any guidebook.  That said, no guidebook quite prepares you for the beauty, the sense of recognition, or the sheer scale, all of which in combinaton conspired to make me tear up.  Well, that and the sense of what I was missing.

January 7, 2008 9:05am

Happy Christmas!

From Karnak we went to the Sofitel hotel, which turned out to be a resort. We walked into the bar to organize ourselves and were awed. By the time we made our way to the posh suite, we’d completely suspended disbelief, and opening the balcony and window to see the perfect blue of the pool was as surreal as a dream. We had about an hour so Nancy and I walked out, found the Nile, and in attempting to reach it found an ampitheater ribbed with planters of daisy, hibiscus, and various greenery. We sat there for a bit, feeling privilaged and out of place, then made our way out to the grassy knoll scattered with lounge chairs, minature tables, umbrellas, and damp Europeans sunning or displaying themselves. I’ve never seen quite so many innappropriately chosen speedos. Taking our cue from them, we stretched out, I on the grass and Nancy in a chair, and napped, snacked, and watched the setting sun from under half-closed eyes. It finally sunk in, the realization that we were in Egypt, on the Nile, and thoroughly relaxed.

 

Nile and ampitheater at Sofitel Luxor

Within the hour, as our colleagues began to stir, we gahered our belongings and headed off to Luxor Museum. It’s a well laid out design with smartly organized exhibits that are reasonably accessable within a normal length visit. Without a doubt, my favorite piece was the statue of Taweret, the hippopotamous goddess of childbirth (the lovely statue of Mut and Amun notwithstanding). I do admire the setup of the Luxor Cachette exhibit, as it allows visitors to walk all the way around most pieces – the better to appreciate the delicasy with which relationships are expressed. The women in these pieces have one arm around the back of their male counterparts, and their other hand on the male arm, both supporting and protecting. Equally, the minature pharaoh approaching the god Amun raises his face and eyes as a beloved son approaching an affectionate father.

Indeed, the only complaint I might level against the museum is that the display cards lack dates, material identification, and thorough transcription of texts. Important, of course, but if you’ve done your homework, not devastating.

Stopping on the way back at a grocery for water (and thank goodness, because the hotel wanted more than I’d pay american for water), I gave just a bit of money away to two boys, who approached me with the expression I’d been waiting all this time to hear: “baksheesh?”. They were handsome lads, and I’d had a perfect day. How could I refuse?

Back at the hotel, after dinner, Jackie, Lauren and I walked out to the Nile, having discovered that they had no idea what was out there. We chatted and strolled and admired the view, although we could no longer see Deir el Bahri because of the dark, when we finally looked up. The sky was incredible, and even without Lauren’s star chart we identified Orion, the Big dipper, six of the Pleiades, and poor, upside-down Cassiopeia. Being tired and all too aware of our 5am wake up call the next day, we said our goodbyes and went to bed.

The next morning we woke to the most ferocious telephone ringing, and given both the hour-long timeframe and our punishing schedule for the day, even I forewent a shower. As I rinsed off and brushed my teeth, I heard the soft, lovely, pre-dawn call to prayer. Unfortunately for my colleagues on the other side of the hotel, he’d been calling since about 4;30 in the morning. They were not amused (apparently he was loud).

continued 12:28pm

After the last stragglers had finished breakfast at about 6am, we loaded the bus for the 20 minute drive to the west bank, towards the Valley of the Kings. I was very grateful then for my studies, as I had a clear idea of just how punishing the day ahead would be. I had not read the guidebook description of the entrance (if indeed there is one), but fell rather in love with the 3-D interior/exterior map of the valley, and the layout of the tombs (they don’t call me ‘mapgrrl’ for nothing). Having seen even very detailed drawings of the plans, and photographs of the exterior, I still felt a different kind of comprehension to see them merged like that.

As we were loaded onto the tram I had my first really tempting commercial experience, desperately wanting a map of the valley and trying to negotiate down from 50 L. E. before we drove off entirely. I left, and my map remained at the bottom of the road. Our tickets were valid for entry to three tombs, with the option to purchase another for that of Tutankhamon. As I am all too familiar with the contents and photographsof the last, and have no desire to waste my precious 45 minutes on a small, minor tomb, I decline. Instead I got to see the masterpieces in Ramses IX, and have a leisurely tour around Twosret and Setnakht, and best of all the magnificent tomb of Thutmoses III.

T he corridors and chambers got hotter (much, much hotter) the farther down we went – actually, less down than in. From a nice, if sarcastic Swiss tourist who was eiting as we entered, Jackie and Lauren and I learned that one could bribe the interior guard to shine his flashlight into the sarcophagus to see images of Nut and Isis. Additionally, I found out that my map could be had from the young man at the bottom of the stairs for 10 LE.

continued 4:49pm

We are back on the bus now, having visitied Deir el Macarius and Deir el Syriani, and the grumbling has started up again. Adults acting like spoiled children about bus times and hotel quality and opportunity to shop. Because we’re ugly Americans and cannot live without shopping. Warm buttered Moses on toast.

Mi pauvre Nancy has aquired a head cold – actually a good half or more of our company has done so – and thus the bus is now a symphony of sniffs, snuffles and assorted sneezing and blowing. Companerea behind me says she is losing IQ points, although personally I think she is cleaning out her ears. Wax is looser than cerebral matter (except for the morning after any major writing is finished – although she did bring Hebrew to parse. On traveling vacation. Perhaps she has got some loose effluvia floating around in her head.)

Before I work my way through today’s relaxing if edifying activities, I want to record our remaining time inThebes. from the Valley we already lost time from our schedule – a potential disaster on a trip like this – because the allure of the paintings convinced us that missing Yalla yalla group members were, in fact, lost (and because of the complete inability of a few souls to resist street vendors). I do, that said, realize that Wendy and Susan have both now purchased items which I could have afforded and would be quite pleased to have. Perhaps theirs is the greater wisdom.

Already Betty has reminded me that even the space of a day takes a toll on memory – I have forgotten the Collassae of Memnon, which was the opening of our day. The air there was crisp and fresh (brisk, even) and the tour groups were at a minimum as we arrived so early. Sadly, we did not beat the birds, so I had to content myself with the left hand monument (although fortuntely it was the better preserved of the two). My excitement at recognizing the symbols overcame some of my apprehension, and I was the first to approach admittely the far left side. I could see the pleats of the kilt, and the lovely female figure at the side, and even the strands of the queuethat gathered the back of the wig.

The more heiroglyphs I see, the greater my desperation to remember. Here, I lose my shame at my own ignorance because: how can anyone possibly know all of this? Never fear, I reaquire it quickly.

We pass from the Valley through the tombs of the nobles and past various temples and copious alabaster factories in el Gurnah to Deir el Bahri, or the mortuary temple of Hatshepsut, and I’ve got excitement pouring out of my skin, worse even than sweating my way through Thutmoses III, aka the tomb of the thousand steps (known to me, anyway. I didn’t count, but it sure felt like it!) The bus is parked and we are given precisely 30 minutes from the tram to look and be back, or it’s a taxi for stragglers (fair enough, as our hotel has a strict – and expensive – check-out policy). I decide to forgo both the lecture and even Dr. Gabra’s expertise and head straight for he source of my excitement, the description of the expedition to Punt, and the adjacent mural of Hathor as a full cow suckling the Pharaoh Hatshepsut. The latter is just as touching as I’d hoped, and the former is a wealth of beauty piled upon wonder.

I manage to find the image of the Candace directly, and from there identify various fish, including squid, and trees and barks and so many images that I desire nothing more than to caress the pictures (a thought which repeats itself later at Luxor Temple where the seated statue of Amun and Mut lures me to sit in her lap and cuddle her. I do actually restrain myself in both instances, but just barely).

Accompanied again by Lauren and Jackie, I hauled myself up to the third level to see what I could in the five minutes remaining – including some of the remenants of the monastary – but it was such a whirlwind that I’ll have to look at pictures later to remind myself of what I’ve seen. We make it back on the bus – late, actually, because we walked back instead of taking the tram – and headed to our last stop of the morning, the tomb of Sed nedjm at Deir el Medina.

Here we are privilaged to have Dr. Gabra escort us in small groups to the tomb of this artisan, and explain the vision and concept of paradise, despite the general policy against lecturing inside the tomb. What I hope was a slight joke went around at the end that the guard who allowed Dr Gabra to speak was fired on the spot. I know for sure that we didn’t tip enough to cover the loss of his job (anyway, I didn’t – if i recall correctly, Marirose pushed me out of the tomb before I had a chance to pass along the pound note he requested). As I was in the first group down, when i emerged there was just time to clamber into the exceedingly steep neighboring tomb of the royal scribe. Possessing an antechamber, it was slightly more impressive in scale, but nowhere near as well preserved as the first, although there was a particularly fine lion in the burial chamber proper.

It was high sun and quite warm by this time – about 11:30 am in fact – and we were all sweaty and dusty and tired in both muscle and sleep deprivation. I felt fabulous, but we all looked and smelled disgusting. Fortunately we made it back to Sofitel Luxor in time for a quick shower before checkout.

Many of us – Regina, Pat, Steve and Mary, Jackie and and Lauren and I – then sat out near the Nile again for the hour of relaxation, claiming a group of lounges and spreading out books and ipods and orange peels and discussed feminism and travel and the effect of expectation on enjoyment. We had a nice bite of lunch near the Suk and then had a rushed and crowded hour at Luxor Temple. The birds pervaded and I grew paler and more startle-ready the farther in we wandered.

I could see there were great scenes, but my discomfort got to be too great and I had to be escorted out by Dr Gabra, who took the time to ease my fear once he realized its extent, and we discussed the niche mural which our tour guide claimed was christian. The elements were all wrong though – four figures instead of three or five, and facing the wrong direction – and we were able to dismiss it as Roman and move on.

Down by the avenue of the Sphinxes, Nancy and I got into a good natured but loud “my dick is bigger than yours” Egypt versus Rome debate. Arguement. Whatever. I maintain that I won, because she decended to the “Hello? the size of the Roman Empire?” tack, which is the historian’s equivalent of the Reducio ad Hitlerum arguement.

Although there was some mention of time to shop in the suk, we finally ran out of time and had to head off to the airport. In the long run, I’m quite grateful, because, it being Christmas Eve, the plan was to check in, rinse off, have dinner and then off to midnight mass. I managed a short nap, and thank goodness, because that service was long and most of it was standing. At 9:30 pm, then about seven of us met at what was now the redicuously huge bus (Karen had planned for twenty seven of us) in our best duds. Ironically, the people who reqested to go to the service were among those not present.

We arrived at a massive crush and met the young men and women who had been asked to escort and guide us. Although I swtiched occasionally between Phoebe and Mina, I felt so coddled and welcomed – even more so when I realized that they were announcing us from the pulpit and had some of the mass in english strictly for our benefit (as were the handbooks of the St. Basil liturgy and the projection screen). As I watched both the formal service and the rowdy children on the khorus steps, I felt like a child myself as I was guided through a service I didn’t understand. I learned when to bow (because the moment the bread is transferred to the holy plate is the moment that God appears in the sanctuary). The ritual of incense and the sound of the songs filled the church top to bottom, so that lights and voices seemed to reflect and attach to a solid, expanding presence.

January 8, 2008 11:06am

Have been on the bus for about an hour now, and determined to get completely caught up today – travel writing may be the only kind you can’t get ahead in.

It seems to me that I’ve said as much as I can about the service – at least, I haven’t at all, actually, but a whole book could be dedicated to the complex intersections, and I simply don’t want to go there.

Just as communion started, we were escorted back out, as there were 45 minutes left of the service, non of which non-Coptics could participate in.  Having sent the bus away, two taxis were hailed for us, and as we said our goodbyes I got to see just how full we could cram those taxis.  With the de regueir hired gun in the front, center seat, someone’s back would be fully pressed up against the passenger window.  Have I mentioned yet just how small Egyptian cars (particularly Cairene taxis) are?

We came back and crashed – some for just five hours, some until 10am or so, depending on whether the individual was sticking to the itinary or taking the day off to revisit Giza and the Egyptian Museum and Khan el Kahlili – all of us beyond exhausted, but very satisfied.

The next morning,  Nancy and I were up a 7:30 so we could prepare for what looked to be a very long day of both driving to Wadi el Natrun (Scetis) and visiting monasteries.  We both wanted additional time at the bazaar, but had (quite happily) resigned ourselves to living with what we had rather than missing the day’s sites.  Actually, I was sorrier to lose the opportunity to negotiate on my own than I was about the actual scarves.

We began, then, at San Marcarius, which is notable both for the protected archaeological sites within the new enclosure wall (the monastary only fully reopened about 30 years ago) and the acres upon acres of organic farming carried on there.  The road is lined with oleander, hibiscus, pine and date palms – quite closed in and so different from the way around Luxor, with its vast open sugarcane fields, or the serpentine farm plots outside of Cairo.

Inside we see a covered gazebo blocked at the corners by planters of basil, and apparently the adage about basil warding off flies is true, which we will apreciate later in the day.

continued 3:33pm

Back on the bus after the second stop of the day, and we are running with the Red Sea (beautiful, choppy, and smelly) and a very strong sun at my back, and the mountains of Sinai ahead.  it is barren, golden, and serene.  The guidebooks (and Mary, our travel writer) seem to agree that this is one of the most dangerous areas.  Given the size of the guns at the checkpoint towers, I’m inclined to throw my opinion in with theirs.  The tower windows are about the same height as those one the bus, so I’ve had the disquieting experience of staring into the barrel of one gun and knowing that from behind another was ponted at the approximate region of my head.

continued 4:38pm

I have now mooched my second pen of the trip, and this diary is in daily jeopardy.  I wish to somewhat amend my earlier statement about Sinai, because honestly my first thought on looking around was (and is), “Drop me off here”.  I want to stay and walk and just be here.  The sense of solitude matches and enhances the expansive freedom.  Mary pulls me over to a back alley and we watch goats – the adults hobbled with their right front and left back legs tied together – cavort in a fertile entertainment, as the tiny, tiny kids run over to their mother and head butt her groin to get her milk to drop, then latch on.  They rub heads in their enthusaism for their meal, and their tails wag just as a puppy’s might.

Yesterday’s amusements were more esoteric and less earthy than watching Youss ef teach Edvard and Andrew to tie a khafyia, or seeing Edvard’s (surprisingly good) attempt at belly dancing with Sabrina, who keeps trying to buy one of the costumes and almost succeeded at the last rest stop.

It has become quite clear now that once we establish a group dynamic, our experience comes to depend greatly on the mood of the group.  We are friends, in whatever fashion.  Steve and Mary have invitied us to their house in New Orleans (and invitation I fully intend on accepting), some are planning to host dinners when we get back to the US, others of us have concieved joint projects to undertake.  We have a sense of who will enjoy different jokes or stories or arguements.  We know that Jackie likes to take pictures of bizarre signs and Christine likes bucolic scenes, Marirose likes to discuss Mary as pagan, as Mother of god, as feminist.  We know to tread lightly around Richard and Prinny, who are expecting heir first child and thus are being extra-cautious.  I myself like oddities, very stark beauty, alone time, and mystic expressions: “Rest in the holy oasis”.

We know that as appallingly outspoken as Marirose and Patty were to both priests yesterday, on discovering that women could still not enter the sanctuary (an outrage exacerbated by the fact that the men went straight in without a second thought of showing some solidarity), they express opinions which all the women here share on principle.  It is wrong.  I, personally, was angry and frustrated at being excluded.

That said, it is not my personal fight to take up.  Those were private churches belonging to a religion not my own.  My right to protest only extends so far, particularly as a visiting scholar and an honored guest.  At any rate, we were invited into spaces much more exciting and meaningful to me – the rare books preservation rooms of the libraries, which were jewels.  That made me feel incredibly privilaged.  Well, that and the newly uncovered Mary and Christ enthroned in the left-hand niche of the khorus.  The colors, the technique, and the expressions were absolutely unique to my experience.  Probably 8th century and unrestored (and unpublished, so I’m a bit worried about using the images we took).

Afterwards, after all the icons and all the architecture, after the claustraphobia of the 18th (19th?) century monk’s cells and oratories, with their tiny doors and windowless rooms, the monks gave us excellent tea and opened the bookshop so we could get silver crosses, cards of the holy kiss and the black Mary, and pamphlets on the Rights and Obligations of Women in the Coptic Church (Betty got a copy for the library, and I’ll have to review it when we get back).  The priest had a coptic cross tattooed on the inside of his right wrist.

Heading back to Cairo, everyone seems to be sick in one way or another, and most of us figured we had one activity left in us, so after dinner , Nancy, Betty and I caught a taxi back to Kahn el Kahlili (Yea!!) where I negotiated so hard and so well that the shopkeeper said I bargained like an Egyptian rather than an American.  So.  Fucking.  Cool.

As an aside, Nancy just observed that, “there is a surprising lack of cactus and a surprising perpondernace of guns in this desert.  If there were, as there should be, cactus, then when Aaron made the golden calf, God could simply have whacked him on the head with a suguaro arm and be done with the whole thing right there.”  Yes, that is how Nancy thinks.

continued 8:46 pm

We’ve arrived at the “hotel” for St. Catherine’s, a place so spartan it makes the Cosmopolitan look luxurious.  We are so cold we’ve not only turned on the heater (and it only took an hour to go from ‘cold’ to ‘approaching room temperature’) and have resoted to piling on sweaters and and scarves, and draping  jackets over the alloted 1(one) blanket each. Thank God we’re sharing a room rather than trying to go it alone.  Extra bodies mean extra heat.

The food is also deeply questionable – how does a place manage to ruin the potato (Jackie: “If you can’t respect the potato, don’t ‘cook’ the potato”) and pasta (food even I can manage) and the baklava (it’s pastry, almond, and sugar for Moses’ sake – Steve: “It tastes like dampened paper.  Damp paper in the same room as a cook *thinking* about honey.  It’s not aquainted with honey. It hasn’t even been briefly introduced to honey.”).  The pre-dinner entertainment, however, was fantastic.

Dean Susan, Patty, Sabrina (and briefly Andrew – Edvard: “Now there’s a man in love”) learnt belly dancing from a fantastically lithe man, whiile the rest of us gathered about the fire, Robin at the drum with a very good rhythm, Edvard smoking a hookah, and others taking incriminiating photos.  The whole area was set up like a Bedouin camp, hanging rugs forming tents and cushioned floors and benches.

Have to get up at truly god-awful in the morning for the hike, sohave set out clothers and checked alarm and am off to sleep.

January 9, 2008 1:55am

It is cold.  Still.  I left Nancy with my blanket and jacket, trying to warm up.  Everyone here on the bus is about twice their normal size with all their layers.

We are a jovial group, and everyone laughs at the camels on each side.  Do we know what we’ve gotten into?

continued, 2:01pm

It turns out that the answer is a nearly unequivical NO.  We were naive little puppies heading blindly into a 7km (each way), 5-star hike – topped off with more than 750 “stairs” (actually loose rocks and boulders arranged in a shape suggestive of stairs.

The walk at the beginning seemed punishing, but we were all fresh and filled with enthusaism, and Lauren and I set a very slow pace.  The group really wanted to stick together, but it became apparent pretty quickly that that was simply not going to be possible – particularly considering the number of people who decided (most wisely) to take camels up to the stairs.  At $18 american, it was too expensive for me, but in retrospect a camel would have been cheap at any price.

Fortunately for everyone involved, Youss ef took the precaution of hiring a Bedouin guide, Ahmed, who has been making this trek 5 days a weeks for the past 25 years.  At 45, he claims to feel like an old man – and has 4 grown children to prove it – but he has the lung capacity of a deep sea diver (and broke into song occasionally) and the stride of a very active 11 year old.  He is quick and confident, and when we realized that Edvard and Youss ef would be fully occupied taking care of Lauren and me (primarily me, actually), he was able to take charge of a very difficult group and get them all up and down the mountain.

It was extraordinarily dark, which seemed like a curse (but was actually a blessing – for reasons I’ll describe later), and the trail consisted of loose rock fill and giant boulders covered in very coarse sand, so the trail was quite dngerous.  Partiularly for those who had not taken the precaution of bring or buying a flashlight (I believe they were something like 25 pounds egyptian, including batteries, at the surprisingly fantastic minimart which was the last rest stop on the way into Sinai).

Eventually my knees weakened to the point that I could barely move, even after the rest stops both in and out of the clever little shacks which partly lined the way.  Youss ef then offered me his hand, and Edvard too the rear as a precautionary measure, and they essentially hauled me up the mountain, step by excruciating step.  About halfway up the stairs, Lauren fell prey to a combination of cold and altitude (we had about 3000 feet beyond the 4000 foot head start to make up in altitude, and we’re all accustomed to nearly sea-level altitude at home), and began to breathe in gasps and starts.  Between the two of us, the pace fell to: climb 30 seconds, rest 30 seconds.

Perhaps fifteen or so vertical feet from the first summit, I very nearly gave up, telling the others to just head up themselves and collect me on the way back.  Youss ef simply would not allow me to quit, and Edvard said that if I stopped, he stopped.  I knew his wife was already arrived – and that I’d been crippling him all morning – so I let myself be pulled up those final few steps.  (Also, I did want to see the sunrise properly, and eat my breakfast someplace warm.)

We arrived just as the first strips of coral began to appear on the horizon, and I put my sweaters and bits back on.  The hike is so grueling that one should estimate removing a layer of clothing at least every forty five minutes or so, but the summit is bone-peneratingly cold (and the air so painfully thin that even warmer temperatures would feel chilly).

One look at the sunrise and you feel like a different person, baptized in your own sweat and bottled water, and tested by trust and pain.  It it almost a promise of paradise, and you can’t help feeling both grateful and overwhelmed.  The higher the sun rises, the more you can see what you’ve just accomplished: the light displays vistas of apparently sheer cliffs and startling heights.

On the way back down, Youss ef again escorts me along, adjusting my path towards the safer, shallower steps and the more reliable rocks.  We decide that the reason you make the climb in the dark (rather than coming up the previous afternoon and camping out) is that if one could see what they were doing – or about to do – they’d never do it.  even going downhill we must stop to rest, and are astounded at the treachery of the trail.

continued 6:52pm

We are about an hour from the resort at Ain Sukhna, and we are briefly stopped at the Suez Governate, and the blue stars painted there rather remind me of Stars of David, which is most intriguing considering the events of 1973.

continued 10:34pm

We’ve moved into the Shangri la of hotels, and I am supremely comfortable (and Nancy seems happily unconscious).  Look up the Stella Sea Club (Stella di Mare – Star of the Sea) in a guidebook and you’ll see precisely why.

To finish my day’s accounting of activities, we did make it to both the summit and the bottom.  Apparently the sining that I heard off and on during the descent was the Bedouin response to my holding Youss ef’s hand – they thought we were in love.  Now, I adore him for all his help and patience, but he is happily affianced and I am not exactly alone either, so sadly we have to disappoint our seranaders.

Directly after the hike we were meant to go to St Catherine’s monastary (and since we ended up there, it was not entirely inconvienent), but I ached in ways that defy description – and desperately needed a shower.  Also, my second pair of tights had migrated, in a deeply uncomfortable manner, to about mid thigh, and there was nothing to be done about it until I got back to the hotel.  Therefore I got onto the bus that was to pick up the non-hikers and figured that I would catch another back to the monastary later and meet up with the group.  Alas, it was not to be, as due to a variety of circumstances the timeline failed, but for me it was almost inconsequential.  I climbed back into bed and slept, occasionally waking to see the mountains through the open curtains before muttering “beautiful” and turning over to conk out again.

Apparently the monastary and library were beautiful, and at least a few people (Edvard and Sabrina for sure) got samples of the burning bush, for which the monastary was first named.  The evolution of the name, in fact, is facinating, as it started out dedicated to the burning bush as the site of the manifestation of God, was changed to the Church of the holy Virgin (apparently this worked nicely because the burning bush is a symbol of Mary – just as it burned yet remained green, so she gave birth yet remained a virgin.  Perhaps we should rename it the church of the holy paradoxes?), and upon the angelic disposition of the remains of St. Catherine there, finally became the monastary we know today.  It is an intense place, truly international – it’s current patron is, I believe, the Prince of Wales – and truly ancient, a site dedicated to both faith and self-protection for thousands of years, and I look forward to exploring it next time.

What reamins of this  loong day, then, are the overhearings on the bus:

~Steve and Cameron both were headbutted by camels within five minutes of each other (much to Cameron’s dismay, I had to tell him that Lauren and I were simultaneously butted by camels between our shoulder-blades.  Camels have remarkably strong skulls).

~In discussing quitting smoking and/or drinking, Edvard said there was some proverb (probably american) ‘Never trust a man who doesn’t drink’ and Youss ef replied, somewhat out of the blue, with an Arab proverb ‘For a woman to trust a man is like storing water in a net’.  Regardless, I rather think he has a point.

Before we left Morganland, Dr. Gabra invited me to lunch, but having my arms full of happy cat for the first time in over a week, I declined, asking for dinner instead.  This evening when we arrived, dinner was all I could accomplish, so we had a lively conversation and then he rescued me when I couldn’t find my hotel room.  It wasn’t in the main buiding at all, but was in one of the villas down the road.  I might never have found it on my own.

Tommorrow I have to be ready to visit the monstaries of Anthony and Paul. Aiee!

January 10, 2008, perhaps 11am

We are driving along the Red Sea coast just past Porto Sukhna and a new hotel (or at least the skeleton construction of it) has prompted a spate of fury from both Dr. Gabra and Youss ef. Someone has pulled down the natural mountains and attempted to replace them with mountains of concrete. Someone with a lot of money and no taste, but much influence, who thinks he is harmonizing with the natural landscape but is, in fact, spoiling the view.A luxurious shower this morning and delicious breakfast have restored my equilibrium and Youss ef’s music on the overhead speakers is making me want to dance.

I am pleased to see both the water conservation sign in the hotel and the wind farm here. Unexpectedly, environmentalist efforts move along.

All that’s left, then, are the Stop(tabboganing) signs and the smooth but life-threatening passing habits of vehicles along this on-lane, 90km per hour highway.

continued, 2:39pm

The desert here looks like the sea, flat and vast. the clouds mask hills with shadow and contribute to the impression of a place outside of time. Inside St. Anthony’s, the wind is brisk and sweeps the sky open enough to illuminate the vines, roses, and palm and pine trees. Apparently the monks sell their wine, and I almost want to buy some – just for the sake of comparison, of course!

The church is beautiful and uniquely complete, although for once my favorite parts are not the older scenes, but the Archangels who guard the soffit (archway) of the khorus, and the variant circled crosses scattered below the murals.

I had thought I liked the library at the monastary of the Syrians the best, but this one, with its domed ceiling and careful lighting enchants me even more. The monks have texts for the history of art, business and accounting mangement, and pamphlets laid about the table of the rare books room. Near the entrance, music is playing and 2 monks are sitting together, comparing notes.

As we exit, we see on the left monks’ cells, looking unavoidably picturesque, falling gently to ruin.

continued 3:30(ish) pm

The light approaching St. Paul’s is blinding, and the wind even harsher, the eucalyptus bending almost in half in demonstration. We go up between two heights of crumbling rockface which glow a peachy gold, and see ahead the new church – which sticks out like a sore thumb.

continued 4:50ish pm

The church we came to see, the cave church, is clearly still functional as a shrine and we seem to interrupt a devout group (the children of which will later cluster around Wendy, who has the the best skills among us at drawing children to her and eliciting information from them).

Ihe Rough Guide describes the art inside as “primitive” – a gross misrepresentation on their part, as actually it represents the 18th Century revival of Coptic art. The murals depicting female saints and martyrs are deeply unusual (and almost hidden in one corner is a unique 13th or 14th century depiction of an angel rescuing John the Baptist from the massacre of the innocents). As we exit the monastary we stop at a bookshop that is actually a masterpiece of kitsch – white plastic crosses with blinking red lights, holy photos in 3D, with interposed “serene” backgrounds and often a rough sketch of Christ, and glow in the dark crucifixes. In this, I am sorry most that Nancy missed today.

The image of the sea appearing between mountain walls as we leave is one I’ll not soon forget – the water seems almost to pour towards us, opening the ground. The rock and soil are rosy, and the water is fantastically striped from light turquoise to robin’s egg, to a sort of midnight version of cornflower. Finally I realize that the major source of my disorientation is the sun setting behind the mountains, instead of behind the sea.

We’ve been in a land where military checkpoints are sponsored by Coca Cola, and the sunsets go beyond a mere dramatic glow, and actually seem to set the horizon on a quite neon fire. Here is the place where people learned how to retreat from the world, yet remain part of the community, and where respectable hotels have nightclubs in the basement. The ordinary police are for tourists (whether in protection or prosecution I leave to your judgment), yet you’ve shopped poorly if you’ve paid the price asked. Here, yes, we are foreigners, but not strangers – we are welcomed, and befriended, and assisted – even as we are swindled. Or are we? We shop here and come back with beautiful scarves and jars, and fantastically tacky blowup Anubis dogs – and then we calculate the price and worry that nine dollars (45 pounds Egyptian) was too much to pay for something that was originally offered at fifteen dollars or 75 pounds Egyptian, and for which we would have happily paid one hundred dollars (550 pounds Egyptain) at home. Who is swindling whom?

We marvel at driving styles which combine panache and bravery, relying as they do on common courtsey and judicious use of the horn. It terrifies us because we cannot really comprehend trusting our neighbors that well or widely.