Sorry about the overly-long wait. I've been working on doing a comprehensive edit of the past 20 chapters, and I only got around to putting up a new one this weekend.
Part 21:
Khalida Maalouf leaned back in her chair, sipping coffee slowly. She remained silent for a few moments.
“Congratulations, Samira,” she said finally. “That's quite an opportunity. What are you writing about?”
Samira twisted her lips as she searched for an answer. “That's the problem, ustaaza. I don't know yet. I think the editor assumed I'd hit the ground running, you know? Have contacts, have a story. I don't have anything. There are kiosk vendors who are more connected than I am.”
“And so you're here, is that right?”
Samira nodded ruefully. “I'd sort of hoped that you could put me onto a lead.”
Khalida rose from her chair, her measured movements betraying some frailty of age. She pottered about the room for a moment, searching through yellowing papers and clippings. Samira watched her in silence.
“You were here, what...eight, nine years ago?”
“Eleven this winter.”
Khalida grunted. “Well, things may different than you remember. In fact, they will be – I assume you're not living in that rambling old thing on Zamalek?”
“No, I have a hotel room.”
“Well, that's no good. You need to get out into the city, staying up in some old palace like the Hilton isn't worth a damn.” Khalida settled back into her seat and placed a stack of articles by Samira, shoving some others aside and causing a small avalanche of rustling paper across the desk. “I'm going to be honest with you, Samira. This city might not have been the best place for you. You have the wrong instincts here – your mother, your father, that history – it's not going to help you as a reporter. You have to start fresh.”
Samira felt an unexpected wave of indignation at the professor's words. “What are you talking about?”
“I'm trying to say that you were very sheltered.”
“That doesn't mean...”
“It means you might have a perspective that makes it hard to see what's really going on sometimes. You went to university in England, yes?”
“Yes. Oxford, Trinity College.” Samira felt flushed, frustrated. “But I went to work at newspaper in Manchester, straight afterwards. Court reporting, digging in the gutters, all that kind of thing.”
“The worst street in Manchester is still a bit more posh than almost any block here. Remember that. Look, Samira. I'm not saying that you're a bad reporter. If I remember, you were always a dedicated writer.”
“Then what's the problem?” demanded Samira.
“The problem is that you might be the wrong kind of reporter.”
Samira rose, snatching the articles off of the professor's desk. “You're the first person I visit after 10 years, and you meet me with this?”
“Samira...”
“Never mind. I can see what you think of me – spoiled little rich girl playing reporter? Is that about it?” She swiveled on her heel, stumbled slightly and stalked out the door, trying to wrap what remained of her dignity around her.
Showing posts with label AUC. Show all posts
Showing posts with label AUC. Show all posts
Sunday, March 22, 2009
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Triumphant Sun, Pt. 20
Part 20:
Samira leaned heavily on the door of the main campus building. The wooden doors opened with a grudging squeal of hinges into the dim, arched stairway, rows of marble steps illuminated with shafts of lighting cutting through the dust filled air. It was quiet; the sounds of the city faded into a a distant hum. She padded softly up the steps, footfalls echoing under the arched ceiling. She'd always loved the High Orientalist drama of the building's architecture, particularly the high arches that absorbed sound like a vault.
A back door hidden in an out of the way nook led her out on to the roof of the building, overlooking the courtyard with its fountains and spreading trees providing pools of shade. The top of the AUC building was a strange and somewhat random mess of worker's shacks, air conditioners, skylights and a peculiar, winding path that traced its way around the entire complex. She followed it now, ignoring the bemused looks of a few of the university's laborers taking time off for a smoke. Finally, she found the door she'd been looking for and slipped inside.
She found the office without trouble. The door was ajar, still plastered in yellow, curling clips from the Times of London, Al-Akhbar, and a dozen other papers. The nameplate had fallen at an alarming angle, held on by a single rusted screw, and a folder bulging with students papers listed at a similarly perilous slant. With a light knock, she pushed the door open.
“Yaa ustaaza!” she cried. Her voice raised itself louder than she'd meant to, and Professor Khalida Maalouf started, nearly knocking over a cup of coffee. She peered at Samira over gold, half-moon reading glasses. “Remember me, ustaaza?”
Professor Maalouf blinked. “Samira? What are you doing here?” She raised herself out of her chair, brushing away the hand Samira offered in support and grasping her head for a firm kiss on each cheek. Samira felt a wave of nostalgia at the sandalwood scent of her imported perfume and the firm, dry sensation of her palms. “My god, how many years....” The diminutive woman rushed about the room moving papers and books, clearing a space in the encroaching chaos that had only reached new heights since Samira had last seen the office. A line of gilt-edged bone china coffee cups marched across an Alpine range of scholarly journals and essays like Hannibal's elephants, and she had to steady a few as Khalida shuffled paper aside.
“Sit down, sit down,” she insisted. “Here, I'll call Mehmet for some coffee.”
“Sayyida, that's not...”
“Oh, don't call me sayyida, please, it's absurd. I'm not Methsuelah,” the professor cut her off. “Mehmet!” she cried through the open door.
A tall, somewhat absurdly good-looking young man appeared at the door, the almost feminine angles of his face marred only by a patchy beard and the rough zebiba that came from excessive devotion during daily prayers. He wore a pair of ancient trousers, cuffed high in the style of devout Muslims, and, incongruously, a faded Hard Rock Cafe t-shirt. “Two coffees for Samira and myself, please,”she asked in English.”
“Yaa, sayyida.” He padded away silently on a pair of battered leather slippers that seemed to be held together more by faith than thread. “Incorrigible,” growled Khalida. “He's a nice enough boy, although I don't think he approves of my clothes.”
If he was as orthodox a Muslim as he appeared, thought Samira, she'd have to agree. Though the professor was almost seventy, she still dressed with the same cosmopolitan, European flair she'd always displayed – a product of the monarchy and the Nasser years, her elegantly draped shawl and skirt-suit bespoke the kind of expensive, international refinement that had once defined Cairo's elite.
“So, Samira – of all the people I'd expect to see, you are definitely one of the most surprising.”
“I only just arrived this week. I'm taking the Cairo desk here,” she said, pride slipping into her voice despite her best efforts.
Samira leaned heavily on the door of the main campus building. The wooden doors opened with a grudging squeal of hinges into the dim, arched stairway, rows of marble steps illuminated with shafts of lighting cutting through the dust filled air. It was quiet; the sounds of the city faded into a a distant hum. She padded softly up the steps, footfalls echoing under the arched ceiling. She'd always loved the High Orientalist drama of the building's architecture, particularly the high arches that absorbed sound like a vault.
A back door hidden in an out of the way nook led her out on to the roof of the building, overlooking the courtyard with its fountains and spreading trees providing pools of shade. The top of the AUC building was a strange and somewhat random mess of worker's shacks, air conditioners, skylights and a peculiar, winding path that traced its way around the entire complex. She followed it now, ignoring the bemused looks of a few of the university's laborers taking time off for a smoke. Finally, she found the door she'd been looking for and slipped inside.
She found the office without trouble. The door was ajar, still plastered in yellow, curling clips from the Times of London, Al-Akhbar, and a dozen other papers. The nameplate had fallen at an alarming angle, held on by a single rusted screw, and a folder bulging with students papers listed at a similarly perilous slant. With a light knock, she pushed the door open.
“Yaa ustaaza!” she cried. Her voice raised itself louder than she'd meant to, and Professor Khalida Maalouf started, nearly knocking over a cup of coffee. She peered at Samira over gold, half-moon reading glasses. “Remember me, ustaaza?”
Professor Maalouf blinked. “Samira? What are you doing here?” She raised herself out of her chair, brushing away the hand Samira offered in support and grasping her head for a firm kiss on each cheek. Samira felt a wave of nostalgia at the sandalwood scent of her imported perfume and the firm, dry sensation of her palms. “My god, how many years....” The diminutive woman rushed about the room moving papers and books, clearing a space in the encroaching chaos that had only reached new heights since Samira had last seen the office. A line of gilt-edged bone china coffee cups marched across an Alpine range of scholarly journals and essays like Hannibal's elephants, and she had to steady a few as Khalida shuffled paper aside.
“Sit down, sit down,” she insisted. “Here, I'll call Mehmet for some coffee.”
“Sayyida, that's not...”
“Oh, don't call me sayyida, please, it's absurd. I'm not Methsuelah,” the professor cut her off. “Mehmet!” she cried through the open door.
A tall, somewhat absurdly good-looking young man appeared at the door, the almost feminine angles of his face marred only by a patchy beard and the rough zebiba that came from excessive devotion during daily prayers. He wore a pair of ancient trousers, cuffed high in the style of devout Muslims, and, incongruously, a faded Hard Rock Cafe t-shirt. “Two coffees for Samira and myself, please,”she asked in English.”
“Yaa, sayyida.” He padded away silently on a pair of battered leather slippers that seemed to be held together more by faith than thread. “Incorrigible,” growled Khalida. “He's a nice enough boy, although I don't think he approves of my clothes.”
If he was as orthodox a Muslim as he appeared, thought Samira, she'd have to agree. Though the professor was almost seventy, she still dressed with the same cosmopolitan, European flair she'd always displayed – a product of the monarchy and the Nasser years, her elegantly draped shawl and skirt-suit bespoke the kind of expensive, international refinement that had once defined Cairo's elite.
“So, Samira – of all the people I'd expect to see, you are definitely one of the most surprising.”
“I only just arrived this week. I'm taking the Cairo desk here,” she said, pride slipping into her voice despite her best efforts.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Triumphant Sun, Pt. 9
Samira realized that there might be more old mansions like her father's, crumbling slowly under the endless sun. So many of the old families had moved on, to new, fortress-like homes, or out of Egypt entirely. Some day in the far future, their residences might be the object of study, like the ruined temples of Karnak and Aswan. She imagined sand creeping in the shattered windows, while whole tribes of feral cats prowled the grounds. The trees might be slowly reduced to ash and swept away in the endless wind.
The poignancy of the idea saddened her – but she realized that in it lay a potential spark of creation. There might be a feature in the idea – a profile of the noble houses of Cairo, laid low by time and neglect. She could imagine her father’s rage and disapproval, and smiled. She did not remember him spending much time in the house itself, but his presence had lingered even when he left.
She particularly remembered the dressing table where he kept a small castle of decanters and bottles, a wooden humidor for cigars and various other trappings of Western decadence. No one touched it – not her mother, and not the servants, devout Muslims that they were.
Occasionally he would take it upon himself to clean the tray off, clouds of dust floating up from the crystal and glass in the afternoon sun. As a little girl she used to sneak up and lift the heavy tops to smell the exotic, alcoholic scents of the amber and ruby liquids glittering within. Later, once she was older, she used to sneak a nip or two, praying that he wouldn't notice the dusty fingerprints on the side.
A small cluster of students crossed the street towards her. She remembered that the American University dorms were only a few blocks away, and she began wandering towards them. One of the stray cats scrambled up onto the dividing wall and paced for a while above her head, threading through the overgrown wire before leaping down and scurrying off into the maze of streets.
She stopped across the road and watched for a while as students, some foreign but many Egyptian, filtered in and out through the glass doors. Though she had never attended, Samira had fond memories of lounging in the main quads and courtyards of the University; and other, more vibrant memories of a young Irishman on his semester abroad who had so assiduously courted her. His piercingly grey-green eyes stood out vividly in her memory, along with the crooked smile he would flash at her.
With a shake of her head, she tore away the cobwebs of years past and turned towards home. The sun had sunk low and the full weight of her fatigue began to press down on her. The students continued their boisterous laughter as she turned on her heel and headed away.
Wednesday, May 2, 2007
Voyage to the Hidden City, Pt. 2
Sorry I've been gone for so long - I try to put something down every two days, but the past week has been crazy. Anyways, last I wrote we had just got to the town of Wadi Musa, which occupies the valley outside Petra.
Our first decision was also our best one - Joe and I decided to get up and over to Petra as early as possible, and we arrived about half an hour after it opened, at 7:30. There was still a greyish early-morning glow and as we walked down the road to the entrance of the Bab Al-Siq(literally Door of the Shaft), the Bedouin were just bringing out their horses so they could try to get tourists to ride them. But we passed on that and headed into the narrow valley that leads into Petra. The Siq is a narrow, winding passage of crimson sandstone warped into bizarre whorls by some ancient stream.
We walked down, taking pictures, and the walls of the canyon began to close in. Then, after at least a kilometer, we saw a crack of light. As we approached, we saw the classic shot that any photo-series on Petra has - the facade of the Treasury gleaming in the sun as we walked down the path. You know, the Indiana Jones thing. But it comes at you as a surprise, and it really is breathtaking.
We admired it for a while, having the place almost to ourselves aside from a few camel, two tourists and some Bedouin. It was really amazing - the peace and quiet, the solitude all contributed to the majesty of the sight. It wasn't nearly the same at the end of the day when it was swarmed with people - much less stirring. Anyways, we moved on - we were planning to do the Lonely Planet guide's two-day itinerary in about eight hours.
We walked down the valley, passing more tombs and carvings on either side. There are almost no buildings as such in Petra - just magnificent Classical Greek-style facades that the Nabateans carved for their tombs, store-rooms and palaces. They actually lived in tents, and I can't blame them - I wouldn't want to live in those artificial caves. The more I thought about it, the more I realized things haven't changed that much in 2000 years. There are still Bedouin with their camels and goats, still open-air markets in the middle of the city, still people coming from a long way to see the tombs and temples.
We passed the Ampitheatre and the Tombs of the Kings, all of which were almost entirely abandoned. There were a few other people walking around taking pictures, and lots of goats. Then we set off down the old Roman rode that runs down to the only free-standing structure in the area, the Qasr al-Bint: literally, Palace of the Girl. I have no idea why. Really, it's not all that impressive -although from an engineering standpoint, it's more difficult, the cliff-side facades just look so much cooler. And over time, the soft sandstone from which they were built has slowly eroded, leaving them with a weirdly melted look.
After a quick stop in the Nabatean Museum, we set off down the Wadi al-Deir, the long canyon at the end of the Petra valley. At the entrance to it their was a sign warning "Danger! Do Not Go Beyond This Point Without A Guide", in English. We were skeptical, and looking around, we didn't see any guides! So off we went. The climb was really nice, winding up through the sandstone valley, with a little side hike to a hidden, forested glade with the "Lion Tomb." We wound up further and further, catching glimpses of stunning vistas and marvelous sandstone formations, and making more than a few wrong turns. I guess if we had been blind and stupid, we might have been in some danger - there were a couple of paths that dead-ended into sheer drops. But it was no more perilous than your average hike.
Finally, we saw the summit of the climb in sight, with a tent set up to serve tea, coffee and hookah. It looked interesting, but not all that great - the view had been better further down. A British guy who had climbed the last five minutes with us quipped "I've half a mind to write to Lonely Planet about this."
Then we turned the corner. And there it was, "The Monastery", another facade easily the equal of "The Treasury"(both those names are misleading, they are neither!), but with a much more commanding view. We rested at the summit for a while, snacking on bread and peanut butter(a cheap traveler's best friend!) As we headed back down we ran into two of our travelling companions sipping tea and shisha, and talked to them for a little while. Their plan was even more ambitious than ours to go overland to Amman and then Damascus!
As we descended, we began to see more and more tourists. Then the donkeys laden with overweight Latino tourists - as well as other AUC students(not overweight, though) - started passing us, hogging the whole narrow stone path. By the time we got the bottom, the Wadi was flooded with tourists heading up to the site that we had enjoyed in relative peace and solitude. And of course, there were "guides" and touts offering to lead people up what was essentially a totally linear hike now filled with people going both ways, and offering the "official" warning sign as evidence of the danger!
We made our way against the stream and then headed for our final destination, the High Place of Sacrifice. This was essentially a cliff in the middle of the Petra valley with a long, long series of steps leading up to it. We made our way up, the sun now blazing down on us, and probably drank a good .75 litres of water apiece making it to the top. By the time we got there, 45 minutes of stair-climbing later, we were pretty beat, so we decided to make the High Place of Sacrifice the High Place of Lunch. Yeah, you guessed it - pita and peanut butter! And the best part - we'd done the Lonely Planet's two-day itinerary before lunch.
The view of Petra was pretty spectacular, but unfortunately the haze made it a lot less photo-genic than it could have been. I guess the valley kind of traps the hazy moisture. Finishing our lunch and finding ourselves surrounded by Russian tourists, we made our way down the other side of the cliff through another little valley with smaller, more finely-carved tombs and relics, including the house of the man who controlled the water cistern for pilgrims on the pilgrimage route.
Reaching the bottom, we had walked over 12 miles. We had to plow our way through tour groups to get out, and some Arab film company was even setting up a film shoot in front of the Treasury facade! It was utter madness getting out, and then we had to walk another mile to the town center to get money from the ATM. The fudgesicle thing I had on the way up was the best food I have ever tasted!!
We were so tired, the evening was pretty low-key: nap, wake up, eat dinner, have drinks in a 2000-year-old Nabatean cave tomb, a bit of al-Jazeera and then bed.
Our first decision was also our best one - Joe and I decided to get up and over to Petra as early as possible, and we arrived about half an hour after it opened, at 7:30. There was still a greyish early-morning glow and as we walked down the road to the entrance of the Bab Al-Siq(literally Door of the Shaft), the Bedouin were just bringing out their horses so they could try to get tourists to ride them. But we passed on that and headed into the narrow valley that leads into Petra. The Siq is a narrow, winding passage of crimson sandstone warped into bizarre whorls by some ancient stream.
We walked down, taking pictures, and the walls of the canyon began to close in. Then, after at least a kilometer, we saw a crack of light. As we approached, we saw the classic shot that any photo-series on Petra has - the facade of the Treasury gleaming in the sun as we walked down the path. You know, the Indiana Jones thing. But it comes at you as a surprise, and it really is breathtaking.
We admired it for a while, having the place almost to ourselves aside from a few camel, two tourists and some Bedouin. It was really amazing - the peace and quiet, the solitude all contributed to the majesty of the sight. It wasn't nearly the same at the end of the day when it was swarmed with people - much less stirring. Anyways, we moved on - we were planning to do the Lonely Planet guide's two-day itinerary in about eight hours.
We walked down the valley, passing more tombs and carvings on either side. There are almost no buildings as such in Petra - just magnificent Classical Greek-style facades that the Nabateans carved for their tombs, store-rooms and palaces. They actually lived in tents, and I can't blame them - I wouldn't want to live in those artificial caves. The more I thought about it, the more I realized things haven't changed that much in 2000 years. There are still Bedouin with their camels and goats, still open-air markets in the middle of the city, still people coming from a long way to see the tombs and temples.
We passed the Ampitheatre and the Tombs of the Kings, all of which were almost entirely abandoned. There were a few other people walking around taking pictures, and lots of goats. Then we set off down the old Roman rode that runs down to the only free-standing structure in the area, the Qasr al-Bint: literally, Palace of the Girl. I have no idea why. Really, it's not all that impressive -although from an engineering standpoint, it's more difficult, the cliff-side facades just look so much cooler. And over time, the soft sandstone from which they were built has slowly eroded, leaving them with a weirdly melted look.
After a quick stop in the Nabatean Museum, we set off down the Wadi al-Deir, the long canyon at the end of the Petra valley. At the entrance to it their was a sign warning "Danger! Do Not Go Beyond This Point Without A Guide", in English. We were skeptical, and looking around, we didn't see any guides! So off we went. The climb was really nice, winding up through the sandstone valley, with a little side hike to a hidden, forested glade with the "Lion Tomb." We wound up further and further, catching glimpses of stunning vistas and marvelous sandstone formations, and making more than a few wrong turns. I guess if we had been blind and stupid, we might have been in some danger - there were a couple of paths that dead-ended into sheer drops. But it was no more perilous than your average hike.
Finally, we saw the summit of the climb in sight, with a tent set up to serve tea, coffee and hookah. It looked interesting, but not all that great - the view had been better further down. A British guy who had climbed the last five minutes with us quipped "I've half a mind to write to Lonely Planet about this."
Then we turned the corner. And there it was, "The Monastery", another facade easily the equal of "The Treasury"(both those names are misleading, they are neither!), but with a much more commanding view. We rested at the summit for a while, snacking on bread and peanut butter(a cheap traveler's best friend!) As we headed back down we ran into two of our travelling companions sipping tea and shisha, and talked to them for a little while. Their plan was even more ambitious than ours to go overland to Amman and then Damascus!
As we descended, we began to see more and more tourists. Then the donkeys laden with overweight Latino tourists - as well as other AUC students(not overweight, though) - started passing us, hogging the whole narrow stone path. By the time we got the bottom, the Wadi was flooded with tourists heading up to the site that we had enjoyed in relative peace and solitude. And of course, there were "guides" and touts offering to lead people up what was essentially a totally linear hike now filled with people going both ways, and offering the "official" warning sign as evidence of the danger!
We made our way against the stream and then headed for our final destination, the High Place of Sacrifice. This was essentially a cliff in the middle of the Petra valley with a long, long series of steps leading up to it. We made our way up, the sun now blazing down on us, and probably drank a good .75 litres of water apiece making it to the top. By the time we got there, 45 minutes of stair-climbing later, we were pretty beat, so we decided to make the High Place of Sacrifice the High Place of Lunch. Yeah, you guessed it - pita and peanut butter! And the best part - we'd done the Lonely Planet's two-day itinerary before lunch.
The view of Petra was pretty spectacular, but unfortunately the haze made it a lot less photo-genic than it could have been. I guess the valley kind of traps the hazy moisture. Finishing our lunch and finding ourselves surrounded by Russian tourists, we made our way down the other side of the cliff through another little valley with smaller, more finely-carved tombs and relics, including the house of the man who controlled the water cistern for pilgrims on the pilgrimage route.
Reaching the bottom, we had walked over 12 miles. We had to plow our way through tour groups to get out, and some Arab film company was even setting up a film shoot in front of the Treasury facade! It was utter madness getting out, and then we had to walk another mile to the town center to get money from the ATM. The fudgesicle thing I had on the way up was the best food I have ever tasted!!
We were so tired, the evening was pretty low-key: nap, wake up, eat dinner, have drinks in a 2000-year-old Nabatean cave tomb, a bit of al-Jazeera and then bed.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Sandstorm
Well, I hear Boston has been having thoroughly wretched weather for the past couple of weeks. I'm sorry to say that we've got that beat over here in Cairo - yesterday it was 35 degrees in the shade while a sandstorm raged through the streets. It was a truly surreal experience.
On the bus to school, I could barely see the far bank of the Nile over the bridge, and everything was cast in the weird yellowish-grey light of the storm. There's a statue at one end of the bridge and it was nothing but an eerie silhouette.
And the sand gets into everything. You open your mouth and it gets stuck between your teeth. I found it pooled in the bottom of my bag after walking outside for only a few minutes. But the city rolls on, just like it would after a rainstorm in Boston. It's a commonplace event, I guess, and for all its bizarreness no-one really seemed to notice or care that much. I did feel envious of the veiled women, for once, as they could just wrap their scarves tighter and not breath in the sand. The kaffiyeh really does make sense over here - keeps off wind, rain, sand and sun, and can be used as a pillow or a towel in a pinch.
In other unrelated news, our friend Nick departed yesterday, leaving the Egyptian Museum to go back to the States and then to study German in Hamburg or Frankfurt - I can't remember which. That time of the semester is fast approaching when we will all have to say our goodbyes, unsure of whether they are final or not. It is easy to make promises to visit, stay in touch, etc. In truth, very few of these friendships survive the distance barrier. I only hope we can all keep in touch after the semester ends.
On the bus to school, I could barely see the far bank of the Nile over the bridge, and everything was cast in the weird yellowish-grey light of the storm. There's a statue at one end of the bridge and it was nothing but an eerie silhouette.
And the sand gets into everything. You open your mouth and it gets stuck between your teeth. I found it pooled in the bottom of my bag after walking outside for only a few minutes. But the city rolls on, just like it would after a rainstorm in Boston. It's a commonplace event, I guess, and for all its bizarreness no-one really seemed to notice or care that much. I did feel envious of the veiled women, for once, as they could just wrap their scarves tighter and not breath in the sand. The kaffiyeh really does make sense over here - keeps off wind, rain, sand and sun, and can be used as a pillow or a towel in a pinch.
In other unrelated news, our friend Nick departed yesterday, leaving the Egyptian Museum to go back to the States and then to study German in Hamburg or Frankfurt - I can't remember which. That time of the semester is fast approaching when we will all have to say our goodbyes, unsure of whether they are final or not. It is easy to make promises to visit, stay in touch, etc. In truth, very few of these friendships survive the distance barrier. I only hope we can all keep in touch after the semester ends.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
On The Pedestal These Words Appear...
Took a trip to Luxor this weekend, and it was really a hell of a trip. There was lots of everything: the good, the bad, and the ugly. Luxor is quite a place, but it's been overrun by the modern world in ways both interesting and frustrating. (N.B. Luxor is actually an anglicization of the Arabic word "Al-Uqsur", the palaces. The Greeks called the place Thebes, and the Pharaohs had some name that sounded like "Niwt.")
We left Thursday night on a train to Luxor. The five girls I was with(Emily, Lindsay, Kim, Tara, and Victoria) were in the 2nd-class car but I somehow ended up in one of those traditional "compartments", with the two facing rows of seats and three middle-aged Egyptian men. They were talkative and friendly, like most Egyptians, and we had some interesting discussions about football and education. I thought it was amusing when, as the sun rose, they had to take turns praying because there wasn't enough space in the center of the compartment.
We stumbled out into the hazy, blinding Luxor sun and sorted ourselves out. I had somehow failed to get a round-trip ticket so I was forced to try and get another. They told me to return the following day. So we headed to drop our luggage off at our hotel, the "HappyLand Hostel." It's actually a very nice, charming little place in the center of town, and after a satisfying breakfast we set out to see the East Bank of Luxor.
The hustle in Luxor is intense. The town survives on tourism, and every corner sells papyrus scrolls, alabaster statues, kitschy souvenirs and overpriced water and food. It makes Cairo feel positively calm and contained despite being a fraction of the size. Sales pitches, catcalls and utterly baffling comments are the norm. Emily got so sick of being asked where she was from that she took to replying "CHINA!" despite her blonde, Nordic complexion. Got some funny looks from that one...
A microbus took us through the chaotic streets to the Karnak Temple complex, the largest and most impressive Pharaonic relics in Egypt after the Pyramids. The pictures will probably look oddly familiar to most of you, since these ruins are the iconic images of "Ancient Egypt." The part that throw you is the hordes of tourists. Even in the off-season, which we are well into, the ruins are swarmed with European, American, and Asian tour groups, and it takes some creative framing and a bit of flexibility to get pictures that don't incorporate fat women in denim cutoffs and Japanese with 4-ft. sun hats and germ masks.
The ruins themselves are really spectacular, but of course it's almost impossible to capture their majesty. Sometimes the small things are what really catch your eye, and give the whole thing that touch of nostalgic verisimilitude. The problem of course, is that the whole thing is desperately cliche. Everything is unsettlingly like walking through the soundstage of a movie you've seen many times. But sheer awe-inspiring ambition - and hubris - of the men who built these temples leaves one breathless. In hidden corners I glimpsed the original paint that once coated the pillars and walls from floor to ceiling. In their time, these structures would have been blinding, vari-colored spectacles probably visible from hundreds of kilometers away, just as the pyramids were once pure white alabaster from foundation to capstone. One can only imagine...
We then took another bus to Luxor Temple, which is situated literally in the middle of the town next to the main midan, or square. It's the same idea as Luxor, but generally smaller and less breathtaking. At this point, we were falling over from hunger and so we split up - half of us ate at a local fast-food chain and the other half had McD's...needless to say I was in the local contingent.
After retiring to the inn to rest up, we headed out once more for a Felucca ride down the Nile. Basically, it's just a lateen-rigged sailboat, and since there was no wind, we moved under a combination of rowing, towing and drifting. Our destination was Banana Island, a quaint little island village with, well, bananas. It was interesting to see village life up close and personal, but still felt a little bit like a show was being put on. Since bananas don't particularly interest me...
Anyways, our captain was an amusing man whose name escapes me. Mahmoud I believe - but in any event, he had these stacks of notes and postcards from his previous tourist clients dating all the way back to the 1980s, and a long repertoire of confusing riddles. We were pretty stumped by most of them, partly because of the lazy-vacation attitude and partly because of his thick accent. He managed to get me and Tara thoroughly entangled in that string-handcuff puzzle that I have done so many times and can never remember the solution to!
By the time we got back, I was falling over with exhaustion, and so I feel asleep before and after dinner, which was a tasty, albeit pricey tourist restaurant overlooking the Nile. I read a bit of Plutarch and then fell dead to sleep, not knowing how much more tiring the next day would be...
We left Thursday night on a train to Luxor. The five girls I was with(Emily, Lindsay, Kim, Tara, and Victoria) were in the 2nd-class car but I somehow ended up in one of those traditional "compartments", with the two facing rows of seats and three middle-aged Egyptian men. They were talkative and friendly, like most Egyptians, and we had some interesting discussions about football and education. I thought it was amusing when, as the sun rose, they had to take turns praying because there wasn't enough space in the center of the compartment.
We stumbled out into the hazy, blinding Luxor sun and sorted ourselves out. I had somehow failed to get a round-trip ticket so I was forced to try and get another. They told me to return the following day. So we headed to drop our luggage off at our hotel, the "HappyLand Hostel." It's actually a very nice, charming little place in the center of town, and after a satisfying breakfast we set out to see the East Bank of Luxor.
The hustle in Luxor is intense. The town survives on tourism, and every corner sells papyrus scrolls, alabaster statues, kitschy souvenirs and overpriced water and food. It makes Cairo feel positively calm and contained despite being a fraction of the size. Sales pitches, catcalls and utterly baffling comments are the norm. Emily got so sick of being asked where she was from that she took to replying "CHINA!" despite her blonde, Nordic complexion. Got some funny looks from that one...
A microbus took us through the chaotic streets to the Karnak Temple complex, the largest and most impressive Pharaonic relics in Egypt after the Pyramids. The pictures will probably look oddly familiar to most of you, since these ruins are the iconic images of "Ancient Egypt." The part that throw you is the hordes of tourists. Even in the off-season, which we are well into, the ruins are swarmed with European, American, and Asian tour groups, and it takes some creative framing and a bit of flexibility to get pictures that don't incorporate fat women in denim cutoffs and Japanese with 4-ft. sun hats and germ masks.
The ruins themselves are really spectacular, but of course it's almost impossible to capture their majesty. Sometimes the small things are what really catch your eye, and give the whole thing that touch of nostalgic verisimilitude. The problem of course, is that the whole thing is desperately cliche. Everything is unsettlingly like walking through the soundstage of a movie you've seen many times. But sheer awe-inspiring ambition - and hubris - of the men who built these temples leaves one breathless. In hidden corners I glimpsed the original paint that once coated the pillars and walls from floor to ceiling. In their time, these structures would have been blinding, vari-colored spectacles probably visible from hundreds of kilometers away, just as the pyramids were once pure white alabaster from foundation to capstone. One can only imagine...
We then took another bus to Luxor Temple, which is situated literally in the middle of the town next to the main midan, or square. It's the same idea as Luxor, but generally smaller and less breathtaking. At this point, we were falling over from hunger and so we split up - half of us ate at a local fast-food chain and the other half had McD's...needless to say I was in the local contingent.
After retiring to the inn to rest up, we headed out once more for a Felucca ride down the Nile. Basically, it's just a lateen-rigged sailboat, and since there was no wind, we moved under a combination of rowing, towing and drifting. Our destination was Banana Island, a quaint little island village with, well, bananas. It was interesting to see village life up close and personal, but still felt a little bit like a show was being put on. Since bananas don't particularly interest me...
Anyways, our captain was an amusing man whose name escapes me. Mahmoud I believe - but in any event, he had these stacks of notes and postcards from his previous tourist clients dating all the way back to the 1980s, and a long repertoire of confusing riddles. We were pretty stumped by most of them, partly because of the lazy-vacation attitude and partly because of his thick accent. He managed to get me and Tara thoroughly entangled in that string-handcuff puzzle that I have done so many times and can never remember the solution to!
By the time we got back, I was falling over with exhaustion, and so I feel asleep before and after dinner, which was a tasty, albeit pricey tourist restaurant overlooking the Nile. I read a bit of Plutarch and then fell dead to sleep, not knowing how much more tiring the next day would be...
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Salaam Aleikum and Bom Viagem
I wake in Cairo and I think I am in the center of the world. I don't think there is any place quite like this on Earth. Even when I am sick with the flu and and tired from work and sleepless nights there is an undeniable pulse in this city. I'm sick because I spent the whole weekend out, pulling 36 hours in a row without rest. Why? Well, that's a longer story.
I should first introduce the cast of characters for this weekend. There's my roommate, Joe. Some you will already know him, closely or in passing. We've both come from Brandeis to the Middle-East, and finding fascinating and frustrating in turn. Thalia Beaty is the one who started this weekend's madness; she comes from Brown, and we actually went to Chenery Middle School together. Jon Guyer, also from Brown - I think he was the most excited of us all about the prospect of the crazy night we had. Nick is his roommate, the resident archaeologist and from Univ. of Chicago who translates French, yet doesn't speak it. Zen, I know. Claire Hefner, from Univ. of Wisconsin Madison, Anthro major and dabbler in Sufi by way of Indonesia and India. So you know, pretty normal... Finally Hanna, the Swede from California, who was not on the ground two weeks before she attended an Egyptian wedding and a Sweden-Egypt football game with some locals.
It was this motley crew that Thalia convinced to come on her little adventure. See, a few days earlier she was sitting in an ahwa(like a coffee-shop only 10 times sketchier), when she was scouted as an extra for a film. Now, everyone knows what strange men mean when they scout strange women for "a film." But this is Egypt...surely something less sinister is afoot. Thalia's only instructions: come to Cinema Tahrir in Dokki, and bring your Western friends.
After a lot of debate we decided that hey, what was the worst that could happen? I mean technically, the worst would be a starring role in an Islamist beheading video, but we were willing to take our chances. So off we go. At Cinema Tahrir, there's a crowd of Africans, Asians, and White Westerners. We get redirected by an old guy with a killer baldspot-mullet combo, and another fellow with a Darth Vader voice and a skin condition that makes him look like a B-Grade Bond henchman.
Off to another theater, this one on the island of Manyel. Here we wander into a scene of total chaos. Wardrobe, makeup, and tech setup all appear to be happening simultaneously. Assistants direct us to and fro with all the aplomb of drunk airtraffic controllers. I wore a white suit to this event, knowing it was formal dress. They change me out of it into an ill-fitting tuxedo and ghastly dress shirt, back into my own(exquisitely tailored!)suit, and finely into a bastardized combination of the two. Lovely.
Thereafter, we sit. And sit and sit and then sit a little more. Thalia, Claire, and Hanna endure hours of makeup and hair styling, until finally they emerge, looking like survivors of the Titanic - both in the elegance of their attire and the shock on their faces. This is 4am. We sit some more. Joe endeavors to stay awake by the desperate tactic of drinking the hyper-concentrated sludge at the bottom of a cup of Turkish Coffee. This is widely regarded as a humorous but ill-planned move.
A couple of odd conversations ensue. Our agent, Mr. Mullet, elaborates on the filmmaking genius of the movie Swordfish. Yes, the one with John Travolta. Smile and nod was about as much as Joe and I could muster.
We resolve to quit the scene by 5:30am. At 5:15, they usher us into the theatre. We are glad for the moment, but hope quickly turns into despair as the director, crew, and main actress launch into a marathon session of shoots, reshoots, equipment moves, takes, second takes, and so forth until everyone is thoroughly exhausted. Those with film experience(Jack-san?) may correct me if I'm wrong, but is it normal filmmaking process to dismantle and reassemble the entire dolly/track/camera in the middle of a shoot? It shouldn't be.
Anyhow, we finally here Qwais AWI!, Very good, and the take is done. In desperation at this point, starved, dehydrated, and on the point of collapse, we dash for the exits although its pretty clear the director wants more reference shots or scenes or something. We can't take it anymore.
In the dressing room, chaos ensues. We struggle to find our clothes and IDs and personal belongings. In the midst of all this, the Darth-Vader fellow comes up and starts wheezing something at is in distressed English/Arabic about money, more shots, 30 or 40 more minutes...at this point, we are beyond caring. We tell him, enough is enough, and away.
He and several members of the film crew are literally following us out the door at this point. We yell and hail cabs, throw in our belongings and more or less bolt. In the adrenalin-fueled charge of the escape, we hardly even notice the suicidal driving of our cabbie, dire even by the berserk standards of Cairo traffic. This man was literally playing chicken on a two-lane road at 60 kph with a van in between, and we hardly noticed.
Surviving this voyage, we return to Jon and Nick's apartment, where we find the third member of their trio, Katie, asleep on the couch. She is, needless to say, baffled by the arrival of six over-dressed, underslept, entirely mad people in evening dress. Nonetheless, we manage to scratch together a heroic breakfast of omelets, fuul, sausage, hash, bread, and of course Nutella. And that was the end of our career in the Egyptian film industry.
A few notes after the fact: Nick informed us that the French-speaking woman playing the lead role might in fact have been a MAJOR Egyptian star called Youssra. This woman is something like an Arab Angelina Jolie - instantly recognizable. Also, we ran into a fellow AUC student who participated in this whole farce. She actually got paid by Mr. Mullet and Mr. Vader, who informed her that they wanted to see the six of US again. When we found this out, we were a little shocked, not to mention terrified. We'll see what comes of it...
Anyhow, this is my first post. Hopefully more adventures will follow.
Cheers,
Daniel Pereira
I should first introduce the cast of characters for this weekend. There's my roommate, Joe. Some you will already know him, closely or in passing. We've both come from Brandeis to the Middle-East, and finding fascinating and frustrating in turn. Thalia Beaty is the one who started this weekend's madness; she comes from Brown, and we actually went to Chenery Middle School together. Jon Guyer, also from Brown - I think he was the most excited of us all about the prospect of the crazy night we had. Nick is his roommate, the resident archaeologist and from Univ. of Chicago who translates French, yet doesn't speak it. Zen, I know. Claire Hefner, from Univ. of Wisconsin Madison, Anthro major and dabbler in Sufi by way of Indonesia and India. So you know, pretty normal... Finally Hanna, the Swede from California, who was not on the ground two weeks before she attended an Egyptian wedding and a Sweden-Egypt football game with some locals.
It was this motley crew that Thalia convinced to come on her little adventure. See, a few days earlier she was sitting in an ahwa(like a coffee-shop only 10 times sketchier), when she was scouted as an extra for a film. Now, everyone knows what strange men mean when they scout strange women for "a film." But this is Egypt...surely something less sinister is afoot. Thalia's only instructions: come to Cinema Tahrir in Dokki, and bring your Western friends.
After a lot of debate we decided that hey, what was the worst that could happen? I mean technically, the worst would be a starring role in an Islamist beheading video, but we were willing to take our chances. So off we go. At Cinema Tahrir, there's a crowd of Africans, Asians, and White Westerners. We get redirected by an old guy with a killer baldspot-mullet combo, and another fellow with a Darth Vader voice and a skin condition that makes him look like a B-Grade Bond henchman.
Off to another theater, this one on the island of Manyel. Here we wander into a scene of total chaos. Wardrobe, makeup, and tech setup all appear to be happening simultaneously. Assistants direct us to and fro with all the aplomb of drunk airtraffic controllers. I wore a white suit to this event, knowing it was formal dress. They change me out of it into an ill-fitting tuxedo and ghastly dress shirt, back into my own(exquisitely tailored!)suit, and finely into a bastardized combination of the two. Lovely.
Thereafter, we sit. And sit and sit and then sit a little more. Thalia, Claire, and Hanna endure hours of makeup and hair styling, until finally they emerge, looking like survivors of the Titanic - both in the elegance of their attire and the shock on their faces. This is 4am. We sit some more. Joe endeavors to stay awake by the desperate tactic of drinking the hyper-concentrated sludge at the bottom of a cup of Turkish Coffee. This is widely regarded as a humorous but ill-planned move.
A couple of odd conversations ensue. Our agent, Mr. Mullet, elaborates on the filmmaking genius of the movie Swordfish. Yes, the one with John Travolta. Smile and nod was about as much as Joe and I could muster.
We resolve to quit the scene by 5:30am. At 5:15, they usher us into the theatre. We are glad for the moment, but hope quickly turns into despair as the director, crew, and main actress launch into a marathon session of shoots, reshoots, equipment moves, takes, second takes, and so forth until everyone is thoroughly exhausted. Those with film experience(Jack-san?) may correct me if I'm wrong, but is it normal filmmaking process to dismantle and reassemble the entire dolly/track/camera in the middle of a shoot? It shouldn't be.
Anyhow, we finally here Qwais AWI!, Very good, and the take is done. In desperation at this point, starved, dehydrated, and on the point of collapse, we dash for the exits although its pretty clear the director wants more reference shots or scenes or something. We can't take it anymore.
In the dressing room, chaos ensues. We struggle to find our clothes and IDs and personal belongings. In the midst of all this, the Darth-Vader fellow comes up and starts wheezing something at is in distressed English/Arabic about money, more shots, 30 or 40 more minutes...at this point, we are beyond caring. We tell him, enough is enough, and away.
He and several members of the film crew are literally following us out the door at this point. We yell and hail cabs, throw in our belongings and more or less bolt. In the adrenalin-fueled charge of the escape, we hardly even notice the suicidal driving of our cabbie, dire even by the berserk standards of Cairo traffic. This man was literally playing chicken on a two-lane road at 60 kph with a van in between, and we hardly noticed.
Surviving this voyage, we return to Jon and Nick's apartment, where we find the third member of their trio, Katie, asleep on the couch. She is, needless to say, baffled by the arrival of six over-dressed, underslept, entirely mad people in evening dress. Nonetheless, we manage to scratch together a heroic breakfast of omelets, fuul, sausage, hash, bread, and of course Nutella. And that was the end of our career in the Egyptian film industry.
A few notes after the fact: Nick informed us that the French-speaking woman playing the lead role might in fact have been a MAJOR Egyptian star called Youssra. This woman is something like an Arab Angelina Jolie - instantly recognizable. Also, we ran into a fellow AUC student who participated in this whole farce. She actually got paid by Mr. Mullet and Mr. Vader, who informed her that they wanted to see the six of US again. When we found this out, we were a little shocked, not to mention terrified. We'll see what comes of it...
Anyhow, this is my first post. Hopefully more adventures will follow.
Cheers,
Daniel Pereira
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)