Top Travel Leads

Returning to Cairo from the White Desert, a Nile dinner cruise complete with the obligatory belly dancing show was next on the schedule. Without much deliberation, we decided not to attend, once again avoiding tour bus hordes and set tourist meals. However, noticing our cultural quotient was running on empty, we decided to attend a Whirling Dervish performance.

The Dervishes are a mystical sect of Sufi Islam and as in any mystical sect, the practitioners strive to achieve a direct union with God. Their method is dance and through spinning and whirling, similar to a top, they induce a trance that allows them to experience God. The musicians’ hypnotic beat also helps the transition. The performances are held at the Al-Ghouri Complex. Al-Ghouri was one of the last Mamluk sultans and this building was part 16th palace, mausoleum, mosque, and madrassa (Islamic school). The seating is limited and the performances are very popular, maybe because they are exotic or maybe because they are free. Following one of our top rules of travel, confirm and reconfirm, I checked with several sources as to what time we should arrive and the consensus opinion suggested 7:30 was early enough. When we arrived at 7:00, thinking we were early, we were greeted by a long line of Western people waiting in front of a large closed door. A young Egyptian man saw our dilemma. In perfect English, he told us his name was Ahmed, he was a musician but not playing that evening, and he was very sorry but the theater was already filled and these people were just waiting in case there would be extra seats. Even though we had arrived early, we had no reason to doubt his information. Giving up on the performance, and since he had been so “helpful”, I asked him to suggest a restaurant in the neighborhood where we could eat dinner. He suggested a small local, but very famous, Egyptian pancake house and volunteered to take us there. We followed him as he turned down a small alley and navigated his way through a maze of narrow streets. When we reached the restaurant, a small storefront with four tables, and a well used wood-fired oven, we accepted his offer to accompany us to help us order. We were cordially welcomed by the owner, who also seemed to know Ahmed, and noticed the walls were covered with photos of him surrounded by celebrities certainly unknown to us.

An Egyptian pancake is actually a pizza made from very flakey dough. Donald chose a four cheese pizza and I ordered the vegetarian. He declined our offer for a pizza but accepted the Sprite. The pizzas were small but delicious. The cheeses were creamy and the vegetables had been roasted before becoming a topping. Replying to our question, he told us he was 28 years old, married with two children. He told us his marriage was not a “love marriage” but had been arranged through a match maker. Even though we had been informed this tradition no longer existed, we again did not doubt his story. His father manufactured shoes. Not wanting to continue in the family business, he was studying to become an international lawyer. In subdued tones, he told us his life was hard, he earned very little money as a drummer, everything was very expensive, his wife would not take care of the children, he needed money for books, and his lifelong dream was to study in the U.S. Anyone traveling in third world countries has heard a similar lament. But Ahmed told his story well and seemed so earnest that we began to develop sympathy for his plight, especially knowing the economic situation in Egypt was dire and young people had very little opportunity for advancement. He seemed content to sit and talk and when I asked him if he needed to go home to study, he told us he had plenty of time. Funny, earlier he complained about the lack of time.

During our conversation, I mentioned Naquib Mahfouz, Egypt’s most famous author, winner of the 1988 Noble Prize for Literature and probably the most famous author in the Middle East. I had read several of his books in preparation for the trip to Egypt. Mahfouz’s stories deal with ordinary people and many are set in the alleyways. I knew he had lived in the Gamaliya area, on the other side of Cairo, a place our guide had failed to take us. Ahmed told us Mahfouz once lived in a house in a nearby alley and, of course, he would be happy to take us. Disappointed that we had not been able to see the Dervish show, but promised the possibility of a little adventure, we agreed to follow him. When he settled the bill and told us we owned $24.00, two pizzas, three canned drinks in a broken down restaurant, embedded in an alley with sawdust on the floor, we hesitated at the high price, but paid the bill without question and readily out the door in search of Mahfouz. Ahmed would be our guide for the next two hours.

THE NIGHT IN THE ALLEY
While crawling through Cairo’s behemoth traffic jams, inflamed by the scarcity of traffic lights, traffic police, or cooperative drivers, we had many opportunities to observe the large Soviet style apartment blocks, best defined by crumbling facades and peeling paint, lining the main roads. While home to many people, the majority of Cariene life goes on in the labyrinth of alleyways hidden behind them.

We started to walk down the alleyway across from the restaurant and immediately felt we had passed through a time warp. Medieval Cairo must have looked similar. Ancient stone buildings, two and three stories with plain facades, opened right on to streets so narrow that slanted rays of sunlight must struggle to slip through and two cars would find it almost impossible to pass each other. There are elegant buildings with ornamentation and large balconies projecting over the street, carriers of memories, invoking a rich former life but now on crumbling legs.

In the past, these neighborhoods were self-contained, immutable universes. Families lived in the same apartment for generations. Their business was in the alley and the family usually lived over their store, which the son was expected to take over from the father. Privacy was at a minimum; they knew about each other’s lives and memories of peccadilloes eternal. People prayed in small neighborhood mosques, proudly proclaiming the ninety-nine names of God, and the local saintly men were sought out for their advice. The streets belonged to the men, the rooftops were reserved for the women, and from there boys flew kites and tended their pigeons. Today, the young people may be more mobile, but life is lived on in the traditional way.

Similar to the rest of Cairo, this area also suffers from a lack of rubbish bins. Even though hidden at night by murky shadows, it piles up in the usual places: corners, dead ends, and vacant lots. The narrow streets we walked on, more like paths, are made out of clay, over the years beaten into submission, as tough as a metaled road except where pools of water had settled turning the clay into mud. A grid plan with right angles had never been contemplated and the streets twisted and turned worthy of an Arabesque design.

Yes, there was charm, but everything was coated in a layer of grime that must have taken years to accumulate. Blame can be placed on the seasonal Khamseen, the hot winds that blow off the desert, rattling windows and covering Cairo with a sandy dust so fine that it cannot be swept away. Creeping into the slightest opening, it clings on for generations. Blame can be proportioned to the Egyptian apparent disinterest in maintenance and according to our guide, it is below an Egyptian’s dignity to sweep. Tinseled garlands, similar to that which we would use for Christmas, hung over the alleyways. Placed there during the recent month of Ramadan, like the rest of the buildings, it too appeared tattered and furlong. Even though dirty and dilapidated, these kinds of neighborhoods are a witness to the past and a place where traditional courtesies linger on and the ticking clock does not rule time.

TO BE CONTINUED

The White Desert, called Sahara al-Beida in Arabic, is a plain of large calcite deposits covered in white sand. With the development of desert safaris, it has become a popular destination and even though it has been turned into a 300 sq. km Protectorate, many fear this is not enough to preserve its pristine condition. A breath taking fantasy of total whiteness made more amazing by the presence of white chalk monolithic boulders, pinnacles carved into interesting formations by eons by wind and sand storms.

It was late afternoon when we arrived and while Mahmod was setting up our camp site, Donald and I decided to explore. As we walked across the desert floor, we realized that for the first time in seven days we were surrounded by total silence, Cairo’s dissonant notes a dimming memory. Even the ubiquitous flies, compliment of Old Testament plagues, were missing. Here we experienced a seamless connection between the soft whiteness of the desert landscape and the electric blue sky, where a sunset was being prepared. From peaceful solitude flowed a reflective moment and the white stone monuments seemed to gather around us. Yes, they looked like the dog, chicken, camel, rabbit, and mushroom suggested by the tour guide. But they also reminded me of sculptures in an outdoor modern art museum, returning our gaze, compelling us to puzzle out what nature, with its artistic power, had originally intended.

The desert, previously so hostile and impersonal, had now become a surreal landscape. Were these calcite formations props in a dream, clouds in heaven, icebergs in the Arctic? We walked on, following no paths, just wandering through the lilac afterglow of the gathering dusk. As the shadows lengthened, the feeling of impending night suggested a return to camp. Patches of light, refusing to be extinguished, backlit the pinnacles, creating bluish bas reliefs against the pastel hues of the soon to be extinguished sunset. The world was on the edge of disappearance when we returned to camp now lit up by a bright fire.

BACK AT THE CAMP SITE
When setting up a campsite, any denizen of the desert knows it is important to create a windscreen. Mahmod did this very cleverly by hanging lengths of traditionally dyed material at a ninety-degree angle, supported by the car. The placement of a large hand woven rug made it a cozy corner and the addition of his propane cooker and supplies made it into a kitchen. He created a space for us by laying down more carpets and placing two long foam covered mats on either side of a low table. Waiting for the fire wood to turn into charcoal, Mahmod busied himself with boiling water for tea and peeling potatoes and chopping onions.

Preempting teatime with the cocktail hour, Donald and I opened two beers. We offered one to Mohammad who declined explaining the Prophet prohibited drinking because men who got drunk were not able to pray. When I asked him why he could not just drink in moderation, he told me the laws of the Koran are to be obeyed not discussed. He never questioned the words of the Prophet and just obeyed what he said. But sensing an opening, he told us that Mohammad was the last Prophet to receive the word of God therefore, he received the fullest information and for that reason all non-believers had to convert to Islam, which of course, included Donald and me.

In coming to Egypt we had hoped to achieve a respite from political and economic issues and to get so far removed that time was no longer in its proper place. Accept for the local English language paper we had been without access to international news. Mohammad, apparently not wanting ignorance to insulate us from reality, felt encumbered to present his political views. Simply stated, he hated George Bush and knew that Obama would be different. Like several other guides after him, he did not believe his government always told the truth and was only willing to believe that which he could see for himself. The Middle East constituted the finite boundaries of his world and he had no interest in reading Western newspapers for other points of view. He was a college graduate, an Egyptologist, and had spent five years working in the UK. Apparently these experiences had not modified his religious or political views. He thought in terms of absolutes, rejected compromise, and did not understand ambiguity. He wore the stain on his forehead, not yet turned into a scab and later we would find out how extreme he really was. But at this moment we had other concerns. There were magnificent aromas coming from the cook fire and while listening to Mohammad, we failed to notice that dusk had morphed into night and a bright and shiny large, luminous, completely developed full moon was hanging low in the eastern sky, polishing everything it touched.

UNDER THE FULL MOON LET THE EVENING BEGIN

As we gathered around the table, spokes of light from candles placed in plastic water bottles, which Mahmod had cut in half and weighed down with sand, sent the night into retreat. Without knives and forks, we ate Bedouin style, scooping up the food with pieces of pita. Each dish, an explosion of flavors, made this one of the best meals we had in Egypt. Mahmod had seasoned pieces of chicken with Middle Eastern spices and grilled it over the coals; he had stir fried rice and stewed tomatoes with potatoes. He set out an assortment of salads accented with the mint he had earlier picked from the police station and made special by his home made lebnah. For dessert he placed a bowl of dates on the table and filled small glasses with sugary mint tea.

The surprise of this fantastic dinner was only the beginning. After he finished his kitchen chores, he placed another log on the fire, and sitting down in front of an orange blaze, put his headscarf back on which he had discarded while cooking, grabbed his finger drum, and as a serene smile spread across his face, he began softly to beat the drum. As the dramatic rising full moon cocooned us in a mantle of white, he began to sing songs from his Bedouin heritage, at first soulful, laments about lost love. As if in harmony with the sparks from the raging fire, his voice became more powerful and the rhythm he pounded out became more intense. As shadowy figures around a camp fire, clapping to the beat, we allowed ourselves to be swept along by the compelling music and his powerful voice, calling out through the night as to awaken his revered ancestors. Mad Mahmod, king of the desert, needed to sing, needed to fill the night air with his lamentations and then his joyful sounds. He was connecting with his heritage and we were happy to listen. Swept up in the moment, Donald took the drum and rhythm poured from his hands as from an unknown source. With the help of our Bedouin guide, we were silent witnesses to the magic of the desert. After a few more songs, Donald and I made our way to our tent, our path illuminated by moonlight.

Our tent, not as wide as a double bed, held two sleeping bags. I crawled in first and while Donald waited, he saw lurking a short distance behind our tent pairs of sparkling eyes. We had been told about these small desert foxes called Fennec. Sleeping during the day to avoid the heat, they only come out of their burrows at night. Their large ears attribute to their exceptional hearing and while they enjoy insects and small mammals they were checking our campsite for food. We heard them yapping to themselves and two sleeping pills later found us laying shoulder to shoulder, our incredible night already becoming a dream.

Around 2:30 in the night, we were awakened by the sound of Mahmod’s cell phone. In the morning we were told that the guide leading the French tour, which we had encountered several times that day, wanted him to come over and sing for them.

In looking back, what we are left with now is memories, a head full of brilliant moments to which I have applied a string of words, maybe some too many, depending on who you ask. But I know we arrived at a new place, experienced a new culture and not knowing what to expect, we were open to encounters without preconditions. We were Rousseau’s tabula rosa, a fresh slate on to which to imprint new experiences. Those who know me have often heard me say, “Put me in a tent or put me in the Ritz, just do not put me in the middle”. This time the tenting experience was extraordinary. Funny, had the French been friendlier or called sooner, they could have come over. But then again we did not need them kumbayaing around our campfire.

When traveling in Egypt, one of the best ways to get away from the hordes of tourists is to book a desert safari. Having reached Bawati, the largest village and administrative center in the Bahariya Oasis, our program consisted of one night in the White Desert and then one night in a hotel in Bawati, along with the promise we would not miss any local attractions. The Lonely Planet warns the tourist to be prepared for the fierce competition among tour operators but the only attention we encountered was from the local tourist police.

After several cell phone calls, we were assured our desert guide and new driver, Mahmod, was on his way. Tired of waiting, Donald and I decided to explore. Stepping out of the van, we were surprised by the cool breeze coming off the desert. Even though it pelted us with a volley of loose sand, it softened the impact of the noonday sun. We walked along the main street , lined by small shops catering to local needs. These were built either from traditional sun dried mud bricks or white stone bricks, we would continue to see all over Egypt. We arrived in the town before the tourist boom and only a few shops had ventured into selling tourist type kitsch. Few in number but ready for business; not sure where we were from, they approached us changing languages as fast as they were lowering their prices. Once again, they were easily discouraged by a polite no thank you, not persistent as some Asian vendors who have physically attached themselves to us. A hut with two walls leaning at a precarious angle, defying the laws of gravity, plus a couple of tables and chairs created a coffee house and we smiled at the old men as we walked past who were content to play dominoes, talk to their friends, and smoke their shishas (bubble pipes.)

Finally Mahmod showed up, a young twenty something, walking with exuberant confidence and the restlessness of someone who wanted to get moving. Rejecting the galabiyyas, he was dressed in tight fitting jeans with a t-shirt, all of which showed off his muscular frame. He wore a checkered head scarf, reminiscent of Yasser Arafat, skillfully wound around his head with a small part that hung down his back. He was a perfect example of east meets west.

We transferred our bags into his white Toyota Land Cruiser/4WD where neatly piled on top was all the gear and provisions for our night in the desert. This vehicle belonged to the local travel company but someone with a flair for decorating had covered the dash board and front bucket seats in fake fur, resembling silver fox. I am sure our guide, Mohammad, the city boy was not looking forward to sitting on a pile of fur as the day was warming up fast. To delight the back seat passengers, two white satin pillows in the shape of hearts had been attached to the head rest and two pink angels trimmed in fur held a sign expressing their love for us.

Yet to be nicknamed ” Mahmod, mad man of the desert”, Mohammad explained he was a certified desert scout because he had passed a 1 1/2 month training program. But I was willing to bet it was his Bedouin heritage that made him a true son of the desert. He pulled up in front of a store. He did not speak English and through translation wanted to know if Donald wanted to buy a head scarf. Donald declined. He pulled up in front of another store and through translation asked if we wanted to buy beer. I wondered if they taught this in guide school. This was the first of his many surprises. Not only was beer available, it was ice cold, and cheap. At only $4.00 per can it proved to be the cheapest beer we would encounter. Not to waste a cold one and a practical way to rinse the sand out of our mouths, we popped the tops and settled back to see what would happen next.

Before we could leave town we had another encounter with the tourist police. Once again, we stopped at their checkpoint. With rifles and AK47’s slung over their shoulders, they approached, wrote down numbers on those tiny pieces of paper, mumbled Amerike, and let us pass. Mahmod inserted an Arabic music tape, this time Arabic rap. We were ready to go and with one hand directing the music and the other constantly adjusting his headgear, we headed out with the fake silver fox blowing in the wind.

BLACK DESERT
Driving south on a properly paved road, we left the oasis and once again plunged into the desert. Here black stones, ranging from pebbles to boulders, vestigial evidence of ancient volcanoes, littered the sand, creating the Black Desert. Just as we were beginning to think we had once again reached the hoped for middle of nowhere, Mahmod pulled off the road and we were immediately confronted with a hilltop covered with tourists. This was the first time we had a tourist sighting since the rest stop earlier that morning. Not sure if this was the same group, we once again thought they were French. Who but a French woman would wear a scarf while climbing a hill? Declining the opportunity to summit, we walked around and after kicking over a few rocks and finding our sociable waves unanswered, we were soon back in the car heading down the road. A few minutes later, with only tire tracks as a signpost, he pulled off the road.

Our drive across the desert ended at a small oasis where water was coming out of the ground through a metal pipe. He parked in front of a Bedouin style hut, constructed from nothing more than six upright posts made from cut down date palms and bundles of dried date palm fronds artfully forming walls and a roof. This was a perfect example of how multipurpose the date palm can be. Mohammad told us it was time for lunch. Thinking we had finally achieved “nowhere”, Donald and I removed our shoes and entered the hut but to our surprise, seated on piles of woven carpets in front of low tables, was the group of tourist we had seen earlier. They were speaking French and had not become any friendlier.

A small hut, attached to the bigger hut, functioned as the cook house. Mahmod prepared our lunch and having declined the food at the road side truck stop and the Oasis comfort stop, Donald and I were seriously hungry. Sitting down at our low table, I noticed it was set with spoons. Now we would not have to eat with our hands. In countries where this is traditional, it is only proper to eat with your right hand, as your left is reserved for taking care of private business. As for me I am left handed and would not be allowed in the communal bowl. Our luncheon banquet slowly evolved as plate after plate of food was placed before us. I do not know how he heated the pita but there were baskets full of it to dip into the hummus and the babaghanoosh , both seasoned with the right amount of garlic and lemon juice so often missing in restaurants. There was a bowl of creamy lebnah augmented with sliced tomatoes and red peppers. He had prepared sour cream with sliced cucumbers and out of a package created a tuna salad worthy of the finest lunch counter. I was most excited by the plate of fuul and finally I was able to enjoy it cooked in the traditional manner. Minted, sugary tea, served in juice glasses completed our meal.We climbed back into the 4WD feeling good. A great lunch and the dazzling blue sky with just a hint of cooling desert breeze contributed to our soaring spirits. Back up on the two lane, looking out at the landscape flying by, we felt embedded in the forbidding desert landscape spreading out all around us, empty except for the occasional cell phone tower, the usually empty sentry box, and the bus full of French tourists. We were traveling in the Egyptian part of the Sahara Desert, through a land mass that had no edges, looking out at sand that knows no boundaries and has no memory, covering over all that is left behind.

The next stop on the afternoon’s touring program was Crystal Mountain, which was not a mountain but a large quartz rock adjacent to the highway. We walked around it, noticed the hole in the center, and commented on the ground littered with shards of quartz crystals gleaming in the sunlight. As we were driving away, the French tour pulled in. I guess we were all on the same tourist trail.WHERE IS THE WHITE DESERT?
All of a sudden, with no signpost obvious to us, Mahmod pulls off the road and we find ourselves heading into the desert. We bounced along over rugged terrain until he hit a patch of loose sand. Jumping out, he manually engaged the front axle and our vehicle morphed into a 4WD. Back in the car, as a camel driver urging on his stead, he stepped on the gas and soon we were flying across the open desert, carving fresh tracks in the wind rippled sand, all the while jerking the steering wheel left then right as if to maintain traction. As if trying to catch the wind, we submitted small sand dunes, crashing down on the other side. I had done this before several years ago on an ATV in Namibia but it is definitely scarier in the back seat of a Land Cruiser being driven by a mad Bedouin, one hand on the wheel and the other adjusting his Arabic headscarf while looking for the other end of your seat belt.

A large sand dune loomed in front and before I could say “he would not dare” we found ourselves positioned on top. We were afforded a 360-degree panoramic view. Down below it was as if you could see Monument Valley and the Painted Desert at one time. On the desert floor, ridges of golden sand striated with bright mineral colors mingled with brown sand. Blackened conical hills, like small volcanoes, populated the distance and we could just make out the silhouette of a camel caravan slowly moving across the skyline, Bedouins seeking the next oasis.

Before we could abandon the car and “ski” down the other side in our shoes, he had the motor revved up and we went flying down the dune, a neck jerking, bone crushing ride complete with a final bump when we hit the desert floor. Excitement was ricocheting between but when the roller coaster ride was followed by a sharp left turn we were treated to an astounding site, a sea of white sand spread out in front of us for as far as we could see. It was late afternoon and we had finally arrived at the White Desert. Mahmod picked out a campsite and began to unload the supplies. Donald and I went for a walk and since it was time for manual word, Mohammed disappeared.

TO BE CONTINUED

SMALL EVENTS HAVE THEIR OWN SPLENDOR AND THE MEMORY OF THEM LASTS LONGER

WHAT WAS WRONG IN CAIRO?
We spent six full days touring Cairo, covered five thousand years of history from the Pharaonic days to the present, but never developed an affinity for the city or its people and never became captive to that distinctive Egyptian feeling. Maybe the difference in cultural traditions and political opinions was too stark or Cairo, with its sprawl of eighteen to twenty million people, is just not an embraceable city. Even though we were traveling in an ancient land, I had not yet been able to hear the voices from the past. I knew they were there, wanting to tell their story. Maybe the strident voices of the present, filled with hate and blame, suffocate those from the past. I left Cairo with less than a sense of completion but with a strong sense that I had had enough. Colonial Cairo, the graceful international city was gone, and modern Cairo, with its deteriorating buildings, piles of uncollected garbage, unrelenting traffic jams, and asphyxiating pollution, was a failure. Bring on a trip to the desert.

BAHARIYA OASIS AND WHITE DESERT
Bahariya Oasis is located around 220 miles southwest of Cairo in the Egyptian part of the Sahara Desert. Translated from Arabic into “northern oasis”, Bahariya, along with Siwa and Farafra, are the three most important oases in the Egyptian part of the Sahara Desert and in the past were important staging areas for the trade routes going east out of Libya. We would spend the night in a tent in the White Desert , a 300 sq. km. protectorate. As if issuing a travel advisory, the tour program stated in bold letters that the camp would be elementary and not to expect bathroom facilities. If this was a warning to stay away, it did not deter us as we were looking forward to abandoning chaotic Cairo for the solitude of the desert.

We left Cairo on an early Saturday morning. Mohammad was still our driver and Mohammad was still our guide. Saturday is the Muslim day of rest, and due to the fact they had not yet taken to their cars, we had little difficulty disentangling ourselves from Cairo’s urban sprawl and passed easily along it pretzel like course of under passes and over passes.

FIRST STOP
We had finally reached the outskirts of Cairo, with the open road ahead, when Mohammad pulled off the road and parked behind a convoy of trucks. When he got out, I thought there was something wrong with the van until I realized he had walked over to join a group of young men standing around a small table. You would not have wanted to board an airplane with this group of men, wearing galabiyyas (the traditional robe), skullcaps, and full grown beards. They were all huddled around an old man stirring a pot and a young boy preparing tea. This was not a terrorist convention but a roadside food stall and plein aire truck stop.

The old man was preparing a pot of fuul, a traditional breakfast of slow cooked fava beans seasoned with garlic, parsley, olive oil, lemon, salt and pepper. Groups of men, sitting in circles on plastic mats, were dipping bread into communal pots of fuul while drinking sugary mint tea out of small juice glasses. Others, wrapped up in blankets, were sleeping under the branches of pine trees that lined the road. Mohammad, the driver, had stopped for breakfast and the ubiquitous glass of tea. Our guide, who consistently avoided any contact with the locals, willingly remained in the van until Donald and I got out. Donald wanted to cage a cigarette from our driver and I wanted to see what they were cooking. Mohammad was now forced to follow along. He had to make sure nothing happened to us.

THE BOYS
When we talked with Egyptian men, one on one, I might have been ignored, but Donald was always received in a courteous manner. Even if sometimes obsequious, they at least smiled, extending innate Egyptian hospitality. It was always different when we encountered them in groups. These truck drivers had the esprit de corps of a pack of dogs. Sensing safety in numbers, they growled and barred their teeth. If suspicious glances and threatening looks carry content, then their hatred for us was palpable. Of course, we were not sure if they knew we were American, but we were foreigners and our presence a violation of their land. Maybe we just represented the spirit of the West, which they fear, and all the potentials of a Western way of life, which are denied to them. Declining to respond to their intimating looks, we got back into the van. Both Mohammads enjoyed drinking tea, a tradition introduced by the British. Even though they were happy to throw the British out, they are never too far from their next glass. Mohammad, the driver, was now ready for the road trip. Mohammad, the guide, probably relieved that we had not been too inquisitive.THE ROAD TO THE EL BAHARIYA
Fifteen hundred years ago, Cambyses, the Persian ruler who conquered Egypt, beginning 193 years of Persian rule, sent his army into the very desert we would be crossing. As per Herodotus, one of Egypt’s earliest travel writers and the father of history, Cambyses wanted to kill the oracle of Amun, located in the Siwa Oasis, because he had predicted his demise. His army of 50,000 soldiers started out but were never heard from again, just swallowed up somewhere in the desert. Instead of following their trail, we drove on a perfectly good two lane asphalt road built in the 1970’s. Mohammad, our driver, took his profession seriously and looked like an Arabic version of James Dean. Back in the van with one hand holding his plastic cup full of sugary minted tea, he slid in a tape of contemporary Arabic music. Pulling onto the two lane, he was now in is groove, ready for the four hour trip across the desert to the oasis.

Engrossed in the compelling beat of the Arabic music, we soon realized we had traveled beyond the known world and our highway now was a black ribbon unfurling through an ocean of sand, stretching in either direction to the horizon. There was very little traffic and only the occasional truck. The only signs of civilization were the occasional cell phone towers and the few turn offs which led to oil wells too far in the distance to be seen. We saw a few bus stops and wondered where the people were coming from, as there were no evident signs of human habitation.

The road followed a railroad track and for mile after mile, the desolate desert lay flat around us, only interrupted in places, where it heaved a little before settling back. Still morning but our desert highway had become a sun shot stretch of road paved with white heat.Two hours into the trip, we saw a rest stop ahead, a welcome diversion after nothing more than rolling sand dunes, spiny shrubs, and a few balls of tumbleweed. It was appropriately called The Oasis and parked in front, what else, but a tour bus. Stepping out of the van, we were immediately assaulted with a fierce desert wind, throbbing with heat and saturated with sand. We sought shelter in the building and found that it had everything a traveler would need: gas pumps, toilet, snack bar, and corner prayer room closed off with a curtain. Peeking inside, there were a few prayer rugs scattered on the floor along with one abandoned plastic sandal. A rendition of a mosque had been painted on one wall and on the other, someone had tacked up a hand painted sign pointed toward Mecca. Once again, there were no rubbish bins but the garbage, arranged in piles, surrounded the building. Adjacent to The Oasis was a stalled building site, which in our travels had become a common occurrence. A water tower and a block building had been left unfinished. They had managed to erect a sentry box onto a pole, but left before building the steps. Egypt is very security conscious but often does not follow through.

We did not speak to the tourist but thought they were French and at the time did not realize we would encounter them again. Back in the van, life was good. Donald and I had bought a Snickers candy bar and the Mohammads were enjoying another glass of tea. The driver slipped in another tape and we were able to hear for the first time the famous singer, Umm Kolthum. Born in Egypt in the earlier part of the 20th century, she grew up in very humble circumstances to become the most popular Arabic singer. She was King Farouk’s favorite and reputed to be the mistress of a very rich Jewish man. All activities would stop while the entire Middle East gathered around their radios to hear her Thursday night program. When she died, more people attended her funeral than Nasser’s funeral .

The electric blue sky arched above and at times, the ribbon of dunes was replaced by chains of sandy hills rising to small peaks, creating shallow valleys. Two hours later we arrived at our first checkpoint, a mud hut nestled in a grove of eucalyptus trees. Three officials operated the booth, one asleep in a chair and the other two sitting behind a makeshift desk engaged in an animated conversation. We waited until they found the time to approach the car, not needing to wake up their sleeping colleague. The driver showed his license and declared we were Amerike, all which was recorded on a little scrap of paper. This would become the standard check point modus operandi, leaving us to wonder where these little notes ended up. The conversation continued and later we were told they understood we were from the United States but wanted to know what language we spoke. Finally assured we would not cause any trouble, they raised the barrier, which was a wooden pole with a bag of rocks used as a counterweight.

We were still in the desert and now surrounded by sandy ridges turned red by iron deposits and black sand full of bitumen. A green belt of land and clumps of date palms could be seen in the distance. This was Bawati, the administrative capital for the Bahaiya Oasis, the starting point for the White Desert. Entering the small town, Mohammad parked in the shade while our guide went to the tourist police office to present our passports.

We were waiting for our Bedouin guide who would take us on a two day desert safari in his 4WD. The government has been encouraging Bedouins to come in from the desert and settle down in a house and many of the young men have become tour guides for desert safaris. Mohammad, the guide, would come with us and the other Mohammad had two days off. After several cell phone conversations, we were assured he would arrive soon. The sun was heating up as we sat in the shade of the eucalyptus trees and waited.

TO BE CONTINUED

When you leave home, take along a romantic sensibility and a traveler’s imagination so you can conjure up an attachment to the places you visit and sympathy for the people who are just trying to survive. You should leave the confines of the hotel, get out there, roam the city, walk the walks, engage the people and have personal experiences that will be remembered long after the information from the tour guide is forgotten. Often I have said this is not possible if you travel inside the sanitized tourist bubble of mini vans, drivers and guides. But I saw travel in Egypt as different and this time for the sake of safety, we spent twenty-eight days with drivers, guides, and minders strapped to ourselves like additional appendages.

I gave our travel agent a list of places I wanted to visit and activities I wanted to accomplish. After listing the usual Pharaonic sites and Greek and Roman ruins, I treated the Old and New Testament as a travel guide and ecumenically listed sights important to the Roman Catholics, remember the flight into Egypt, Greek Orthodox whose third most important pilgrimage site is St Catherine’s monastery in the Sinai Desert, the Coptic Christians, inventors of monasticism in order to avoid Roman persecution, and the Jews, with thoughts of Joseph and Moses. These sights took us from Cairo to Alexandria, along the Nile from Aswan to Luxor, and to Sharm el-Sheikh in the Sinai Peninsula. In addition, we visited both the eastern and western desert, spending one night under the stars in a tent and another in an oasis guesthouse. We traveled in mini vans, which were too large, cars that were too small, and four-wheel drives with their significant parts held together by rope. In the heat of the mid day when the sun burned like a brazier, we rode on camels, which refused to be civil, and in the early evening, we observed a sunset over the Nile, sitting in a felucca (a traditional boat) which refused to sail. Time constraints did not allow for the traditional Nile cruise between Aswan and Luxor and personal preference nixed the Nile Dinner cruise complete with belly dancing. We constantly turned down opportunities to visit mummies, as I had the distinct feeling, except for the art work which at times covered their bodies, seen one mummy seen them all.

WRITE IT DOWN
In order to prevent our memories from being filed in a forgotten cabinet, I kept a journal of all our travels, nailing down our experiences and impressions with words on paper. If I described everything we did with, “we went here, and then we went there”, I would be attempting a tour book. That I leave to the Lonely Planet and others. My plan is to record experiences, not in the order in which they took place, but in the order in which they now come to mind. This gives a kaleidoscopic approach, freed from the strictures of chronology, those sequential events flowing tidily from beginning to end. What follows is our experiences that were just a little off the usual tourist trail.

A TRIP TO THE CAMEL MARKET
When I first read about the Friday camel market held outside Cairo, I knew I wanted to go, especially because this seemed an excellent opportunity to experience traditional culture in the raw. When I presented this request to our guide, Mohammad, I knew immediately he did not want to go. He saw himself as a highly educated Egyptologist, not interested in anything that postdated the Pharaohs. Actually, from previous experience, we knew he did not like to mingle with the people, did not want to deal with us mingling with the people, and did not enjoy getting his shoes dirty. Knowing it was not wise to say no to a client, he said the trip was not possible because the road was not good, the car could not go, and besides, I would not be interested in seeing this. I parried with this is the largest camel market in Egypt, it promises to be a tourist free zone, call your travel agency, hire a jeep and driver, and Donald and I will go without you. Slowly he was learning the futility of getting in the way of a determined American woman and on Friday, after visiting several Coptic churches, with Mohammad our driver and Mohammad our guide we were on our way.

Until 1995, this camel market was held in a suburb of Cairo but as Cairo continued to sprawl, the land became too valuable for a bunch of camels and the market was moved to Birqash, a small village twenty miles north west of Cairo on the edge of the Western Desert. Since neither of them had been there before, our only problem now was to find the village.

WHERE DID THEY PUT THE CAMEL MARKET?
Returning from the visit to the Coptic churches, we were heading south on National Highway 6 when Mohammad turned off the road, following the sign to Birqash. Ahead of us was a large billboard advertising a planned upscale residential community. It pictured a two-story brick house, complete with all modern conveniences and a proposed shopping center was featured in the background. In the center of the billboard were the smiling, happy faces of an Egyptian family, who presumably would be moving into this neighborhood. Funny, the mother was presented in Western clothes without a headscarf. If this project became more than a billboard, the village would be bought up and the adjacent land would became more valuable, maybe forcing the camel market to relocate one more time.

Until that happens, one turn off the road brought us into an idyllic, timeless country setting with more donkey carts than cars. The narrow sandy road followed a canal, one of the many that branch off from the Nile. Instead of the stagnant, garbage infested waterways of center city Cairo, the water here was gently moving, willow trees, dropping their long over hanging branches, were reflected in the water and white birds were fluttering over head. The geese, ducks, fish, and cattle seen in the villages today are the same as those painted on the walls of ancient Egyptian tombs.

Under the every present brilliant blue sky, sedge plants lined the canal bank and a young boy was skillfully maneuvering a small flat bottom boat. As we passed, he waved. We passed small villages of sun-baked brick houses connected to each other by dusty unpaved roads where goats roamed and children played with simple homemade toys. With their galabiyyas tucked up between their legs, the fellaheen, Egypt’s enduring farmers, were tending their fields, green mosaics of alfalfa, tomatoes, cucumbers, and other vegetables growing in rich black soil. Canal water irrigated the crops, the water raised by pumps, no longer depending on the ancient shaduf. Egypt’s fertile soil was created by the yearly inundations of the Nile and during the time of the Pharaohs, Egypt was known as the Black Land. Today, the Aswan Dam regulates the flow of the Nile and there is no more flooding. Desert hills rose up behind the village, a buffet of buffs and browns. The lush, cultivated land ends so abruptly that in one pace you can step from the Black Land into the Red Land, the ancient name of the desert.

There were no directional signs to the camel market and at each cross road, Mohammed, the driver, had to stop and ask for directions. All visitors to a foreign country make broad generalizations from small samplings but our observations concluded Egyptian men, when in groups, express no interest in foreigners but are always willing to take the time to help each other. Mohammed, the driver as opposed to Mohammed, the guide, had a friendly manner and after obtaining each new piece of information he uttered, “shukran” and placed his right hand over his heart, Arabic for thank you. When we saw truckloads of camels coming down the other side of the road, we knew we were near. Actually, it was a ridiculous sight to see a truck full of camels with only their necks and heads sticking out. Soon enough we would find out how this came about.

WE HAVE ARRIVED
The flatbed truck ahead of us had been stirring up plumes of dense dust but by the time we reached the top of a hill, the dust had settled affording us a view of the surrounding countryside. The brick wall enclosing the camel market was on high ground to our left. But as if someone had pulled back a curtain, looking down the hill, we were greeted with ghoulish tableaux of apocalyptic proportion. We were in the middle of a garbage dump. The side of the hill was covered in piles of smoldering garbage, sending the occasional flame into the air. A pall of smoke hung over the hillside like a shroud, blurring all clear outlines. But looking carefully, we could see the ground was littered with the bodies of dead camels, lying on their sides with distended stomachs, in various stages of decay. Bevies of ominous scavenger birds were on duty. Some sitting nearby, as protecting their prey, others at work on the head, eyes, and other readily accessible parts. Some carcasses had been picked clean of all flesh and bones of various sizes were scattered about. A forlorn sight apparently filled with those camels that just did not make it to the market.

LET’S GO SEE THE CAMELS
Mohammad drove through the gate and we were immediately stopped by an official and informed we had to buy a ticket. Even though there were no tourist buses, they had decided to be prepared. A small fee entitled us to a yellow paper ticket with the picture of a camel stating “Camels Market Tourist Tackets”. In front of us was a large open area bounded on each side by a series of corrals. One-story mud brick buildings were attached to the corrals and bales of hay were stored on the flat roofs. Nothing more than primitive shelters, they could be used by the herdsman who had brought the camels to the market. Our driver slowly drove through this area giving us plenty of time to look around. I presume Mohammad, the guide, was hoping this would satisfy what he must have been cursing as our insatiable curiosity. But when we reached the back wall and Mohammed, the driver, began to turn the car around to head back to the gate, Donald told him to stop, we were getting out, and they could meet us at the front gate.

Opening the door, we immediately received a body punch from a gust of air, gritty with sand and redolent with the scent from the camels tied up at the nearby fence. Now our guide had to join us. With fear of losing us and fear of getting his shoes dirty, he got out of the car. The three of us stepped gingerly around the tethered camels, staying clear of an unwanted stomp from a splayed hoof and hoping to avoid a direct hit from camel flatulence.

With eyes full of curiosity, we began to walk through the compound. I noticed everything was the color of beige: the sand, the buildings, the bricks, the fence, the camels, and the men’s dirty galabiyyas. A group of men with long sticks approached the camels by the fence and we stopped, waiting to see what would happen next. As for Mohammed, he was watching the ground, on the lookout for piles of camel dung, still thinking about his shoes.

TO BE CONTINUED