Top Travel Leads

Villa Ambron 19 Sharia Maamoun
In 1941, Lawrence Durrell was living in Greece with his wife and daughter. When Greece fell to the invading Nazis, they, along with other British nationals, were evacuated to Egypt. At first, he was dissatisfied with his new situation. He had been forced to leave his beloved Corfu and his marriage, soon to be over, was not doing well. His wife and daughter eventually left for Palestine, the safe haven for British families, and Durrell became a press officer at the British consulate in Alexandria. He remained at this post until 1945.

His first apartment was a hovel, which he shared with fellow author, Paul Gotch. Soon he met the Ambrons, a family of substance and culture who generations before had migrated out of the Levant to Alexandria. Aldo Ambron was one of the richest men in Alexandria and his wife, Amelia, was a portrait artist. One daughter was a musician and the other daughter was an artist, who painted with her mother. Their son was also an artist and it was his collection that formed the basis of the art museum in Bali. The Ambrons were very generous people and often entertained Alexandria’ s elite. They enjoyed their role as patrons of the arts while putting together a collection of paintings, sculpture, and books. They befriended Durrell and often invited him to their parties where he had an opportunity to meet their illustrious friends. They rented him space in their house where he lived there from 1941 to 1945.

With Mohammad the driver and Mohammad the guide, we set off to find the house, which today is located in a very poor section of Alexandria. Even though I had the address, Mohammad had to stop several times for directions. I do not think they knew Lawrence Durrell but at least they knew the street. The house is located at # 19 Sharia Maamoun, in the middle of a short street. As soon as Mohammad pulled into the yard, a small child rushed to wake the caretaker, who was sleeping soundly on a small pallet placed under a shade tree. Donald started taking pictures and now on the job, the caretaker followed along.

The villa, beige with faded yellow shutters, was built in a neo-Classical Italianate style with homage to the Renaissance. Its two stories and basement project the style and elegance of its owners. The Italian architect who designed the Cecil Hotel also worked on this house, responsible for the atelier in back where the women painted. This is where Durrell met Clea Badaro. She was an artist, often invited to paint in the studio with Amelia Ambron and her daughter, Gilda. This is the Clea who had a minor part in the three novels and became the main character in the final book of the Quartet, Clea. The daughter was mentioned in the second book, Balthazar. A backyard garden, the site of many parties, had been designed around a massive banyan tree. There had been a famous continuous blooming flower garden framed by flame of the forest trees and a sculptural garden exhibiting their collection.

Before attempting to go inside, I walked around to the back. The day before I had just finished reading Clea and I think I was looking for her. I had spent quality time with this woman. I felt I knew her but wanted to become better acquainted. I also had questions that only she could answer and since so many years had passed since her inception, I was curious to find out how she was doing. Unfortunately, the backyard has been totally destroyed, favoring more of a construction site than a garden. It has been grated over, down to the dirt with nothing left to bloom. The sculpture garden must have been removed years ago. Maybe I did not know where to look, but I could find no structure that would have been their studio. Another cleared lot lay beyond what must have been their property line. I know this house is a collection of other people’s memories but it is poignant to realize what had once been no longer exists.

The front of the house is in total disrepair and similar to the backyard, small piles of garbage are scattered around. A wagon had broken down and all its parts, included the wheels, are piled up in a corner, as if waiting for someone to reassemble it. Parts of the floor of the projecting balustrade porch have rotted and caved in and concrete has fallen away from the supporting pillars, exposing the brick core and weakening its structural function. As if invited to one of their parties, I walked up the steps and entered through the front door. I stepped into a reception area and noticed a large room to the left and another to the right and a long hallway stretching out in front of me. I did not investigate any further because the floors are torn up and parts of the ceiling have collapsed.

On the right side of the house, the flat façade is interrupted by a projecting three-sided structure, as if a tower had been engaged to the house. Durrell occupied this space on the second floor. He brought in a desk especially designed to fit the room and from here, he wrote Prospero’s Cell, which described life on Corfu. It was in this room where he made his notes that he turned into the Alexandria Quartet, one of the most important literary works of 20th fiction. He was introduced to Eve Cohen, who eventually comes to live with him in this room. She would become his second wife and served as the model for Justine, the most important character in the Quartet. I wanted to walk up and take a look but the wooden stairway to the second floor has collapsed.

Outside I noticed the window to his room was open. I looked up and thought of him standing there, looking out, deciding what to write next. I had read the novels, I had read their memoirs and thought about the kind of life he and his friends lived in wartime Alexandria. As the result of Hitler’s advances into Greece and the Balkans, refugees poured into Egypt. During the desert campaign between the Germans and the Allies, life in Alexandria must have been intense. After Tobruk, Rommel pushed within sixty -five miles of Alexandria, promising to eat breakfast on the Corniche. The Egyptians were secretly preparing to welcome his arrival because they believed the Germans would liberate them from the British. I thought of his new wife, Eve. They were newly lovers and how the two of them must have lived on the edge of their emotions. For anyone who has read Justine, Eve Cohen must have been an incredible woman.

When Donald and I were traveling through Cyprus, we crossed over to the Turkish side in search of a house Durrell occupied. While he lived there, he wrote Bitter Lemons. Even though people living in the immediate vicinity of the house did not know of Durrell, the house was at least being maintained and a sign had been posted advising the years he had lived there. Unfortunately, this villa is not receiving the same kind of respect. The house was eventually sold to a local contractor who must have been responsible for grading off the backyard. Recently, it has been the efforts of the U.K. Friends of the Alexandria Library and the American Ambassador that have saved the house from being totally demolished. They hope eventually to be able to restore the house. The government says they agree but like we have seen in Cambodia, nothing is being done and the house is just being allowed to deteriorate. The contractor will not have to demolish it; time will do it for him.

It was late afternoon when we finished touring the house and the sunlight was casting long shadows against this forlorn structure, one more example of Alexandria’s former cosmopolitan society. It has been a long time since the clip clop sounds of the horse drawn gharrys/carriages had been heard. Maybe Durrell was correct when in Clea he described Alexandria as a “shabby little seaport built upon a sand reef, a moribund and spiritless backwater”. Reminders of Alexandria’s colonial past are only important to the foreigners. As for the local people, they are only memories of repression.

As we were leaving, the caretaker told Mohammad he did not understand why foreigners kept coming to take photos of a broken down house. If he did not know about Durrell, I am sure he never heard of Mahfouz.

FIRST A VISIT TO THE FISH MARKET
We toured in Alexandria for two full days, time enough to cover all the important sites and to contemplate what was no longer there. Before we began the official tour, I wanted another slice of daily life and suggested a visit to their wholesale fish market. Since the days of the Pharaohs, the Egyptians prefer sailing on the Nile as opposed to exploring the Mediterranean Sea. Nevertheless, the Alexandrians are passionate about fresh seafood and rely on their local fishermen to supply their needs. Once again, Mohammed did not understand. He never understood our trip to the camel market and he could not understand why we wanted to see dead fish. Alexandria has been called either the “royal city” or the “anus mundi”. I believe Mohammad was thinking he was going to the latter.

The main fish market is located in an old limestone building off the Corniche at the western end of the Eastern Harbor. This area, called Anfushi, is the old Turkish part of town, often the setting for Lawrence Durrell’s characters. The fishing industry here is rather simple. As they have done for ages, fishermen go out in small wooden boats with nothing more technical than a few nets and return to sell their catch at this market. Fishing is a family business and once again, the son is expected to take over from his father.

We arrived at 8:00 AM. There was a pleasant breeze blowing off the Mediterranean and in the morning light, the sea sparkled a rich blue green. We noticed the parking lot was not full and realizing we were too late for the frenetic action, I was hoping there would still be enough activity to make it interesting.

Many colorful boats were tied up at the docks, which are adjacent to the main building. These fishing boats, constructed out of wood, are old and small, giving us the idea they do not venture too far out. Even though they were all the same shape, each boat was painted in an individual manner with various stripes of yellow, red, and green. As per tradition, the dominant color was blue. Several had an eye painted on the side, similar to the eye of Horus, a talisman to ward off evil. Crowds of men in tall rubber boots were working the docks. Many were engaged in unloading the catch and moving it into the main building. Some fish were being hauled out in big plastic buckets and others had been placed in antique wooden trays. Once unloaded, these men restocked the boats with long rectangular columns of ice. Those that had already delivered their fish were trying to move out of the way to allow the other boats to unload. Unlike the manner in which most Egyptians drive, these fishermen seemed to be cooperating with each other.

Once inside the building, the fish were taken to the various vendors where they were assorted and artfully nestled into beds of chipped ice. When we entered the building, we walked gingerly as the floor was covered with water and slippery from the detritus of left over fish parts. Cats were everywhere, taking advantage of the situation. We had entered the world of the fishmonger. Sellers were taking turns shouting out the description of their fish, the prices, and asking the buyers just to come and have a look. This was not exactly Seattle Pike’s fish market where they throw the fish but there was certainly enough buyers holding up fish, poking them in the side, seeking firm flesh and taking a hard look at their eyes. We were the only tourists and at times, I was mistaken for a buyer and offered trays of large shrimp and calamari. I just waggled my head with a no thank you, hopping the fish and shellfish would look that good at dinner. As for Mohammad, he returned with fish parts stuck to the bottom of his shoes. I guess for him, just like the camel market, the fish market was another “annus mundi”.

THE ELIYAHU HANAUI SYNAGOGUE BACKGROUND
According to the Old Testament, Jews have had a presence in Egypt since Joseph with his coat of many colors and Moses and Aaron. In the 4th B.C., Alexander encouraged Jews to move to his new city. They responded and soon two of Alexandria’s five sections became known as the Jewish Quarter. Under the Ptolemy’s, they enjoyed religious as well as political freedom. At their height, they represented 25% of the population and contributed to the vibrant cultural life of Hellenistic Alexandria. Even though they suffered intermittent persecution, they continued to do well under the Roman Empire. When the Jews, as well as the Moslems (Moors), were expelled from Spain in 1492, many of the lucky ones were able to settle in Egypt. In modern times, after Napoleon’s arrival, the Jews took an active part in the economic development of the country. Growing from around 25,000 at the beginning of the 20th, their number increased to approximately 40,000 to 50,000 by mid century. In Alexandria, they became an important aspect of its cosmopolitan culture.

They may have led parallel lives, but Jews lived in peace with their Moslem neighbors until the creation of the state of Israel in 1948. This began the expulsion of the Jews and the confiscation by the state of their property. In 1956, the time of the Sinai Campaign, the government announced that all Jews and Zionists were the enemy of the state and would be expelled. Then 25,000 Jews were forced out with nothing more than one suitcase and twenty Egyptian pounds. This policy was continued after the 1967 Six Day War.

Today, Alexandria is a city of four million people and there are less than twenty Jews remaining in the city. Fifteen are old women residing in nursing homes and the remainder is old men. In the Jewish religion, ten men, over the age of thirteen, are necessary for a minyan, a prayer group. Therefore, today, after living in Egypt for over 2,000 years, there are not enough Jews left in Alexandria to hold a religious service.

AVISIT TO THE SYNAGOGUE
The Eliyahu Hanaui Synagogue was built 150 years ago by Alexandria’s Sephardic community. It is one of the largest in the Middle East, seating up to 1,000 people, and is considered the most beautiful. The Jews have never established synagogue architecture, relying instead on local traditions. This synagogue’s series of arched windows gives it a neo-classical style but there is a Levantine twist including influences from the surrounding Islamic culture. It is built out of cream colored stone with interior pink marble columns, a stately building testifying to the achievements of the Jewish community.

The synagogue is located on a large plot of land on Nabi Daniel Street and is surrounded by a high wall. The entire area is heavily guarded and when we arrived, a van loaded with policemen was parked at the corner. The entry is off a narrow side street requiring Mohammad to convince them to raise the barricade. For the first time I had the feeling that the police were paying attention to what was going on. We did not know to bring our passports and after much conversation, Mohammed persuaded them to accept our copies. Then we were subjected to a thorough search. They patted Donald down and required me to empty my purse one item at a time. After passing through the security gate, we were met by an older man who told us he would be our guide. This gentleman was originally from the Sudan and has worked for the Synagogue for the past twenty years. When I asked him how he obtained this job, he told me he worked for a Jewish man who owned a clothing store and he offered him the job. He told us they treat him very well and he would never think of leaving.

The building was in pristine condition, as if the walls had just been painted and the chandeliers recently polished. This is Alexandria’s main synagogue and it has become the depository for torahs gathered up from those synagogues that have been forced to close. He opened the ark and we were able to view part of the collection. As in all Orthodox synagogues, there was a loft in the back for the women. It was very poignant to see the brass plaques on the backs of the wooden benches bearing the names of families who had once prayed there. Our guide led to us a lovely well tended garden with rose bushes and palm trees. On the other side of the garden, he pointed to the buildings that had once belonged to the synagogue. A four story building had been used as a religious school but is now being rented by the government as a school for girls. Another building had once been an apartment building. Today this is also being rented by the government. This income is vital to the support of this remnant of a Jewish community.

The guide brought us to the administrative office to meet Ben Yuussef Gaon. At age fifty-four, he calls himself the baby of the community. In various capacities, he represents the only organizational structure. After pleasant introductions, I asked him why are you still here? His answer was simple. He was still there because Alexandria is his home. His family has been in Alexandria for four generations. On his mother’s side, they came from Aleppo, Syria, and on his father’s side, from Spain. His father had been a tailor. Nasser was one of his clients and before Nasser, the father made uniforms for King Farouk. Maybe this was the reason his family had not been expelled. His wife was a Christian but she died in an automobile accident several years ago. His uncle left Egypt for Switzerland where he is in the hotel business. I am not sure about his children. He visited Israel but that is not the place for him. He believes himself to be an Egyptian. He speaks Arabic not Hebrew. Yes, he keeps a low profile but his friends are Muslim and at times, he shares a Ramadan meal with them. He told us for the important holidays Jews from all over the world come to Alexandria, making enough men to hold a proper service.

Apparently, there had been no reason to redecorate his office and he was still using the same furniture from the 1940′s, with only the computer as a new addition. Leather bound books are stacked in the cabinets and piled up on the table. These books were used to record the activities of the synagogue. There have been no births recorded for over twenty years, only deaths from an aging community. The torahs they have been able to save, the leather bound books, the building, and the memories handed down all testify to the vitality of a community now almost extinct.

The following is an e-mail from a friend. Small world story.

Dear Alexandra:

I read with a bit of deja vu your account of your trip to Al-Ghouri, named after the mosque there. Marsha and I went there for the Dervish show, which we did see, but arrived very early. There we met Ahmed who took us to the “pizza” place. I too thought it was too much. We heard the same stories you did and then he took us down some really frightful alleys looking for locally made “stuff”. We did buy 6 boxes inlayed with tiny shells from a shop featuring a dirt floor and child labor. We also went to a Nigerian papyrus artist, but bought nothing. Before entering the performance Ahmed said he was in the band and departed, but not before I tipped him generously for his “help”. Half way though the show I asked Marsha if she sees Ahmed and the answer was no. I believe Ahmed is making a very good living from tourist and kickbacks from the “pizza” place and the popular artists’ shops, considering that the average income for 40% of the Egyptian population is $2/day. I believe this scam-the-Westerners mentality is all up and down Egyptian society. But in all fairness we did obtain some good directions in place and the person did not ask and refused baksheesh.

Best Regards, Art and Marsha

We had not yet found Mahfouz’s house but we were very willing to keep following Ahmed. Turning down a narrow lane, Ahmed suggested a visit to his friend who owned a box “factory”. When we arrived, his friend was standing on the street in front of an ancient wooden double door secured by a lock probably used since the days of the Crusaders and Saladin. In an instance, we were judged potential customers and he became the salesman. He greeted us warmly with the now familiar palaver, where are you from, is this your first trip to Egypt. Which continued with no obligation to buy, but please just look at what I do? He pulled out a large antique key, opened the lock, and threw back the doors to reveal his “factory”, the size of a small closet. He must do his work on the side of the street. The boxes were for the tourist trade and we had been seeing them since we arrived. His part was to sand the raw wooden box and then pass it off to another “factory” to inlay woven strips of plastic, mother of pearl, or bone. He warned us to be careful that many souvenir shops called the plastic strips mother-of-pearl and charged more. Because we were a friend of Ahmed, he wanted to give me a finished box, which he assured me was mother of pearl. This was not the first time a merchant offered us a gift but it must be part of a sales ploy. We declined his offer, thanked his for his time, looked to Ahmed and we walked off. Was it beginning? Were we, the tourist, being played?

These small streets were like a maze and with one more turn, we found ourselves in front of his brother’s shoe “factory”. We walked through a narrow dimly lit hallway littered with scraps of leather and found his brother in the middle of a small room. He was supervising his only worker, a man sitting behind a treadle sewing machine stitching together various pieces of leather on the way to becoming a sandal. Crudely, handmade sandals, for the local population, had been piled up in one corner and the other corners were filled with parts, which they must buy from someone else. Extending traditional Egyptian hospitality, the brother greeted us very cordially and with Ahmed translating, we declined his offer of a glass to tea. The brothers chatted as we watched the worker complete a pair of sandals. Thankfully, no one asked us to buy a pair. Even though Ahmed was overstating the use of the word “factory”, we were becoming enthusiastic followers wondering whose workshop we would visit next.

Back in the passageways, we saw tailor shops, also consisting of one man behind a sewing machine and notion shops selling threads, needles and whatever else these cottage industries needed.

For someone who was supposed to busy with his studies and music, Ahmed was turning out to be a man of many friends. One more turn down a narrow alleyway brought us to another friend, the artist. We entered a building and in the dimly lit vestibule found the stairs and started walking up. After several flights, we entered a small art gallery. Once again we were greeted cordially and once again declined the offer for tea. The artist, born in Sudan, spoke excellent English and proudly pointed out the page in the Eyewitness Travel Guide that recommended his art as something worth buying. Having passed up boxes, sandals, spices, and suits, I succumbed and soon we were walking back down the steps with a painting rolled up in a small tube.

We began walking again but I wondered what happened to Mahfouz’s house? Then he stopped and we found ourselves standing in front of an old, apparently abandoned house. This, he told us, is where Mahfouz once lived. Rising to four stories, this building was certainly the grandest one on the street and a perfect example of traditional domestic architecture for the well-to-do.. A triple arcaded colonnade covered the façade and the walls were composed of striped layers of beige and pink stone. Over hanging wooden eves projected from the roof, supported by decorative iron brackets. Projecting on to the street from an upper floor was a wooden balcony enclosed with lattice work screens. These screens have a practical purpose, allowing a breeze to flow into the house. But they also serve a more important social or religious purpose, it allows women to look out without being seen. These balconies are called mashrabiyyas in Egypt but can be found in other Muslim countries and also in Hindu societies where the men are busy guarding their women’s virtue.

Looking down the alley, I saw the pizza restaurant, but having enjoyed the walk so much I did not bother to think why we just did not come here first. We were so thankful to him for showing us such a good time that we gave him a sizeable tip, saying we hoped this would help him further his education. He thanked us and left us feeling very good with ourselves.

Back in the hotel that night, I took out the Lonely Planet and began reading the section about annoyances and what scams to avoid. There was a section advising the reader to beware of the charming young man who tells you that something is closed and then invites you to a coffee house for a cup of coffee and an opportunity to meet his friends. Was our young friend a scam artist, was any part of his story true? Instead of a musician, was he an actor playing out a well rehearsed scene and now looking forward to his next performance. Actually, I knew of the alleys from the books I had read and was happy to see this life style “in situ.” Ahmed remained a very personable, polite young man and a first class tour guide. If this was a scam, he did it with style and grace. Most importantly, we would not have walked there without him. He also explained the dark stain and the scabs we had been seeing on men’s foreheads was the result of years of prostrating themselves and touching their heads to the ground during prayer. He told us the more religious ones hit their head on a stone, resulting in these marks. That answered a big question. But I still wondered if that was really Mahfouz’s house?

Epilogue to follow.