We woke early to Edfu. It was cold and dull outside. After breakfast, Meleka got us into horse-drawn carriages that took us with dangerous swiftness (colliding wooden wheels, they say, make a loud thwack before you're thrown) to the Temple of Horus, the most completely preserved ancient temple in all of Egypt, certainly the best kept. This was the only place where officers scowled at tourists who ran their fingers along thousands-year old sandstone etching. All wasn't lost yet, I thought.
After we saw the immensely absorbing insides of the Ptolemeic temple -- the
re was even a carving of Horus smiling -- we were advised by our guide that the ancient Old Kingdom part, about 50-metres away, was not worth a visit because it was in a steep state of ruin. Looking back now, it was a big mistake listening to him on this one. It has, by at least three leading accounts, more archaeological and historic value than the undoubtedly beautiful Ptolemeic part, providing insights into provincial Edfu from the end of the Old Kingdom till the Byzantine era. Here's a really good reason why it's sometimes a good idea not to listen to your tour guide. Up front in front of the imposing pylons (much like the ones at Philae), I had a smoke and looked up at a huge carving of the falcon god. His birth is a strange, but certainly the most central, story in ancient Egyptian mythology. Isis and Osiris were married, though the latter's brother Seth murdered Osiris, hacked him into 42 parts and fed some of those to a pair of welcoming crocodiles in the Nile. A distraught Isis, with quiet alacrity hunted the pieces down and put them together just long enough for her to conceive Horus, who then grew up, killed his father's murderer and rose to be Egypt's definitive symbol of good over evil. The Mary-Jesus parallel is not, apparently, a coincidence. The Isis-Horus relationship is almost certainly known, according to historical records, to have sanctified the divine mother-redeeming son concept before Christianity's forms fructified.
We re
turned to our vessel and spent the morning sunning ourselves on the deck and watching another cruiser try to overtake us, finally giving up three hours later. It was hypnotic the Nile breeze, beer, quiet. After a few beers and some pitifully bad lunch, we steamed into Esna, our final stop though we still had another night on the boat before heading north to the West Bank Necropolises. Two barrage bridges cut the Nile off at Esna, barring vessels from moving any further unless they can successfully navigate the locking system. Most don't bother and return to Aswan from Esna instead of persisting for the 55-km to Luxor. Ours just sat pretty since we had another night to go, as we navigated our way through a Movenpick boat onto the land. A few from the group crossed the road next to the dock with Meleka for a sheesha and coffee, while the rest went off to explore the popular souk, one of Esna's main attractions, quite apart from a Ptolemeic temple to Khnum (the Ram-headed creater god who made people and the world sitting at a potter's wheel), which we didn't happen to visit, again on the advice of our guide. Why, why, why.
The souk is deeply directed at tourists, though we all make some pretty slick bargains. I on the other hand, in addition to some scarves, bought a New York Yankees cap for some reason -- I've always wanted one even though I've never watched a baseball game in my life and don't ever plan to. For ten pounds, it was in the bag. The shopkeepers here are overly fri
endly -- of course they all know Amitabh Bachchan. A young Arab called Sharky is alarmed when I gently correct him when he says Amitabh is a Muslim. At first I didn't think it made a difference. But when I told him that it didn't really matter either way, though he in fact happened to be a practicing Hindu, Sharky was viciously unsettled, was even willing to bet on it. A little irritated, but mostly just a bit alarmed, I gave him 30 seconds of spiel on how we were Indians first. I could tell it made an impact because he seemed embarassed. In Egypt nowadays, after they've guessed your nationality -- they're getting uncannily good at this -- they ask you if you're Muslim. Each time I was asked, I would ask why, and then there would be embarassment. To test it, one time I said no I was Hindu -- they didn't seem to understand. Another time I said I was Christian -- hmm, ok. A third time, I said yes, I'm a Muslim -- Ah, good. If this was one man asking me these questions it wouldn't have been so much of an issue. But I had this brought to me from Cairo to Aswan to Alexandria and that, to be very honest, just didn't do it for me. With the consolidation of the banned Muslim Brotherhood organisation and Mubarak's increasing placation of other extremist groups, it's all just filtering down. On my request though, Sharky took me to his friend's house to get a feel of houses and people here. I was given more Okk, this time time it was much better probably because it was diluted with very fizzy soda. Sharky said in Arabic to his friends that I'd said Amitabh was not Muslim. They all laughed, one of them even choked.
Back on the ship, after a beer with two from our group in the bar lounge, it was more scotch -- my parents were relieved to see me -- and dinner, before another smoke on the deck and a stupor like sleep within minutes of hitting the sheets.
After we saw the immensely absorbing insides of the Ptolemeic temple -- the
re was even a carving of Horus smiling -- we were advised by our guide that the ancient Old Kingdom part, about 50-metres away, was not worth a visit because it was in a steep state of ruin. Looking back now, it was a big mistake listening to him on this one. It has, by at least three leading accounts, more archaeological and historic value than the undoubtedly beautiful Ptolemeic part, providing insights into provincial Edfu from the end of the Old Kingdom till the Byzantine era. Here's a really good reason why it's sometimes a good idea not to listen to your tour guide. Up front in front of the imposing pylons (much like the ones at Philae), I had a smoke and looked up at a huge carving of the falcon god. His birth is a strange, but certainly the most central, story in ancient Egyptian mythology. Isis and Osiris were married, though the latter's brother Seth murdered Osiris, hacked him into 42 parts and fed some of those to a pair of welcoming crocodiles in the Nile. A distraught Isis, with quiet alacrity hunted the pieces down and put them together just long enough for her to conceive Horus, who then grew up, killed his father's murderer and rose to be Egypt's definitive symbol of good over evil. The Mary-Jesus parallel is not, apparently, a coincidence. The Isis-Horus relationship is almost certainly known, according to historical records, to have sanctified the divine mother-redeeming son concept before Christianity's forms fructified.We re
turned to our vessel and spent the morning sunning ourselves on the deck and watching another cruiser try to overtake us, finally giving up three hours later. It was hypnotic the Nile breeze, beer, quiet. After a few beers and some pitifully bad lunch, we steamed into Esna, our final stop though we still had another night on the boat before heading north to the West Bank Necropolises. Two barrage bridges cut the Nile off at Esna, barring vessels from moving any further unless they can successfully navigate the locking system. Most don't bother and return to Aswan from Esna instead of persisting for the 55-km to Luxor. Ours just sat pretty since we had another night to go, as we navigated our way through a Movenpick boat onto the land. A few from the group crossed the road next to the dock with Meleka for a sheesha and coffee, while the rest went off to explore the popular souk, one of Esna's main attractions, quite apart from a Ptolemeic temple to Khnum (the Ram-headed creater god who made people and the world sitting at a potter's wheel), which we didn't happen to visit, again on the advice of our guide. Why, why, why.The souk is deeply directed at tourists, though we all make some pretty slick bargains. I on the other hand, in addition to some scarves, bought a New York Yankees cap for some reason -- I've always wanted one even though I've never watched a baseball game in my life and don't ever plan to. For ten pounds, it was in the bag. The shopkeepers here are overly fri
endly -- of course they all know Amitabh Bachchan. A young Arab called Sharky is alarmed when I gently correct him when he says Amitabh is a Muslim. At first I didn't think it made a difference. But when I told him that it didn't really matter either way, though he in fact happened to be a practicing Hindu, Sharky was viciously unsettled, was even willing to bet on it. A little irritated, but mostly just a bit alarmed, I gave him 30 seconds of spiel on how we were Indians first. I could tell it made an impact because he seemed embarassed. In Egypt nowadays, after they've guessed your nationality -- they're getting uncannily good at this -- they ask you if you're Muslim. Each time I was asked, I would ask why, and then there would be embarassment. To test it, one time I said no I was Hindu -- they didn't seem to understand. Another time I said I was Christian -- hmm, ok. A third time, I said yes, I'm a Muslim -- Ah, good. If this was one man asking me these questions it wouldn't have been so much of an issue. But I had this brought to me from Cairo to Aswan to Alexandria and that, to be very honest, just didn't do it for me. With the consolidation of the banned Muslim Brotherhood organisation and Mubarak's increasing placation of other extremist groups, it's all just filtering down. On my request though, Sharky took me to his friend's house to get a feel of houses and people here. I was given more Okk, this time time it was much better probably because it was diluted with very fizzy soda. Sharky said in Arabic to his friends that I'd said Amitabh was not Muslim. They all laughed, one of them even choked.Back on the ship, after a beer with two from our group in the bar lounge, it was more scotch -- my parents were relieved to see me -- and dinner, before another smoke on the deck and a stupor like sleep within minutes of hitting the sheets.
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