My mother should probably not read this one….
Luxor, Dakhla, Abu Minqar, Bahariya, Cairo
Day 317:
The alarm sounded on my side of the bed at a bright an early 6:45. Our plan from the day before was pretty simple: Get up early and get out of Luxor before the Arab world got up and started protesting. The previous day saw some fairly large groups of people gathering in front of the government building… which happened to be across the street from the Mummification museum that we wanted to visit until being told that it was closed. Anyway, the alarm going off woke me up instantly. I nudged Catt who pleaded for “just a little snooze” and not noticing that I turned the alarm off instead of snoozing it, we eventually woke up after 8:00. Not exactly the slick get away we had planned so perfectly the night before…
When I opened the hotel room door I expected to see either mayhem or a totally deserted courtyard, but the truth was quite the contrary. The French family in their luxury camper van was still there, and still asleep. The same lady who had worked on cleaning the swimming pool the day before was there again, busy doing her thing and the single tourist policeman who was there when we arrived was exactly where we had last seen him: In front of the television, watching the news. He came by to let us know that Mubarak decided NOT to resign and with that news we got even more anxious to get out of Dodge. Not before catching up on the latest BBC live website news though and what we saw was pretty scary: We read the old man’s speech and wondered who decided it would be a good idea for him to gather all the opposition in one place and deliver a speech that would make enrage them even further. We read reports of angry youths wanting to “burn” everything and felt just like being back in South Africa for a few minutes. The again, reports like those hardly affected our daily lives and travel plans in good old SA any more.
By 9:30 we were showered, packed up and ready to leave. As we drove to the exit gate I heard the unmistakable sound of tank tracks on tarmac and swallowed hard as the gate slowly opened for us. I was surprised for the second time that day though. The sound was tank tracks, but the tracks belonged to a bright yellow digger that was on its way to do a day’s normal work. So we rolled out onto the empty and totally deserted streets and carefully bypassed the government building, the 109 totally empty and moored up luxury Nile Cruise ships we counted the two military tanks that protected the two major intersections in the city and headed south until we found the bridge over the river. I half expected that to be either closed of barricaded, but apart from the barrel of the sniper rifles peering out from their vantage points, even the police roadblocks seemed deserted.
Once we reached the west bank things seemed quite different as well. That side of the Nile was all about agriculture and the poverty was apparent. Then again, those people did not rely on tourism for their survival, so perhaps they were the lucky ones. We drove past the Colossi of Memnon, the 18m high statues overlooking the green sugarcane fields and the Nile beyond. Apparently they were once a tiny part of the biggest temple ever built in Egypt: Amenhotep II’s temple to be exact and that was believed to cover an area larger than the 2 square kilometre big Karnak Temple we saw the day before. We were still a little jittery about the perceived unrest in the area, so didn’t really linger there too much. Instead we found the quant little hotel/restaurant the French family told us about and decided to hide there for a while.
The place was absolutely and utterly brilliant! It was an originally built, double storey mud brick house set in a small date palm grove. In the lush garden (Any garden in the desert was lush by this time) we found a man who looked like he was in charge chatting to a foreign looking woman about the countries’ current affairs. We established that it was “mumpkin” (Possible) to park Maggie in the garden and sleep in the tent if we wished to do so. We also established that their beautiful en suite rooms with huge and comfortable beds and hot showers were only E£200 a night including a hearty breakfast, so that decision was made by Catt before I could take a breath to speak.
The inevitable conversation about who we were and what the hell we were doing in Egypt at the time of the revolution erupted. I was explaining that we were trying to quietly sneak into Cairo to apply for a visa with a processing time of 10 days to get me and Maggie into Italy, when we discovered that the lady in our midst was actually the French Consulate in Luxor. Well, I said: “You don’t fancy organising me a Shengen visa then do you?” Hey one has to try and those who don’t ask will never receive… She promptly phoned someone on the day off of Friday-Sunday but came back with the news that because the Italians had not run away yet, and our port of entry was Italy, it would be rude to bypass their system by asking the nice French lady for a favour… She suggested that we phone my own embassy and ask them to put in a word for a speedy result. I would have loved to do that, but they did not answer their phone in Cairo. In fact, they did not even answer their emergency phone number in Cairo. We thought about asking Catt’s country for help as well, but that was the same story. The emergency number had a message about no visas being issued and a lengthy explanation of what to do if you’re in real trouble. We even tried the number in London (The emergency one) without success. So we were alone… apart from the French and the Italians that was.
The topic became too depressing to talk about so we decided to have some lunch. The friendly hotel owner refused to let us eat our own food by the car. Instead he made us bring it into his restaurant and sit at a comfortable table while being served chai from his kitchen at no charge. In fact, he even insisted that we use his kitchen to cook our own dinner. We laid out some cheese and fresh tomatoes and breads and fruit and were given a pot of fig jam to enjoy as well. We told the French lady and the owner about our experience in the empty city that morning and they just nodded, knowingly. They explained that in Egypt nothing happens before mid day prayers. Things usually happened very slowly after that, but only until about 14:00 when it was time to smoke a shisha pipe and “rest” until the heat of the day had passed. If you were lucky, normal business would resume between 18:00 and 22:00, but with a national curfew of 17:30 to 6:00, that was unlikely. I thought about pointing out that it was winter and even at mid day we were wearing our North Face jackets, voiding the argument for resting over the heat of the day, but gave up on that loosing battle instantly.
With lunch over and the day not, and us not in the mood to face problems, we decided to go see some sites. Besides, there were boxes to tick in Luxor and we were far from done with them. The fist place on our list was the famous Valley of the Kings, about a ten minute drive from the hotel. The road there was as deserted as the city that morning and when we arrived at the car park we were in fact the only thing with an engine in sight. I was almost scared that the place would also be closed, but as we got out of the car we were approached by a well dressed and well spoken man who invited us into the visitors centre. He explained that absolutely no photography was allowed in the complex and that we had to leave all cameras and even cell phones in the car. We knew about that rule, so didn’t bother trying to sneak them in in the first place. Not knowing the place at all we were however a little overwhelmed and I think it showed because the man then started explaining the lay of the land.
They had a three dimensional model of the whole valley and two short films explaining the location and how it was discovered by Howard Carter in 1922. However it was astonishing to learn that the last of the tombs were only discovered in 2006. Apparently the ancients chose that valley for the natural pyramid shape mountain at the end of it, which to be fair, looked spookily real. The tombs themselves though were dug into the soft sandstone and the entrances were obviously really well concealed. The two most famous tombs in the complex are those of Tutankhamun and Ramses VI. However, as we had discovered with most sites in Egypt, the art of separating money from their tourist owners had been perfected. You had to buy an entrance ticket, covering no more than three normal tombs and then pay extra to see the mentioned two. We were told that all Tut’s stuff was moved to the Cairo museum anyway, so it wasn’t really worth paying the extra cash there. As for Ramses… Surely he wasn’t that famous…
With the help of the well dressed man we identified the three tombs we were interested in. It wasn’t difficult to decide. They had interactive computer screen showing pictures of the tombs that were open to the public and we chose the biggest and most colourful ones. Not being Egyptologists, and not really that interested in that history, one tomb pretty much looked like the next one to us. The three we identified were: Ramses III, Merenptah and Ramses IV. The friendly man took us to the ticket office where we could not get away with using Catt’s outdated student card and then showed us up the long road to the last tomb. I was half expecting him to offer his “expert guiding services” and I was half contemplating employing him as such. It was however clear that he was not going to accompany us and when he started asking for “baksheesh” for his “information” I lost all interest in him. Catt mistakenly indicated that we would see him on our return though.
So the tombs:
Ramses II’s tomb was credit for being the longest tomb in the valley at 125m. As with other tombs and temples, the walls were covered in hieroglyphics and colourful reliefs and even the ceiling was painted to look like the sky with cartoon stars all over it. The floor we were walking on was a wooden walkway instead of the traditional sandstone tiles, but that reduced the amount of dust from tourist feet, so that was fine. The walls were “protected” by massive panes of glass that resembled cheap shower doors. The best part was that they did not even bother to wash the permanent marker writing off the glass after installing them. They were dirty and obscenely ugly, but obviously necessary because people were just unable to keep their hands to themselves. I was almost impressed by the way the ancient carvings had so incredibly much colour left in them until the key man explained that they had been restored to look more “life like” seconds before he also wanted baksheesh for his information. I did feel sorry for him as we were really the only tourists in a place that was sued to see in excess of 9 000 pairs of feet every single day, but tried to explain that he should really be nice and not piss off the last two remaining tourists in Egypt.
So the second largest tomb in the valley was our second choice. It belonged to Merenptah, the 13th son of Ramses II. The latter lived so long that 12 of his sons died before he did and it was the former that eventually succeeded him when he was in his 60’s. That one did not have glass “protection” but came with it’s very own none English speaking key holder who insisted on accompanying us inside and pointing out things we did not understand. He showed us two massive pieces of granite that was the late man’s sarcophagus. Apparently, in a very rare mistake of ancient Egyptian engineering, the outer sarcophagus did not fit through the tomb door and the gates had to be hacked away. The key man tried to get us to breach the barrier and climb inside to have a look, but we knew too well where that would lead, so refused. On the walk out he started talking about “Baksh…” but I stopped him with a stern fatherly look and a simple but strong “NO”.
The last tomb, belonging to Ramses IV was by far the most impressive thing I had seen since arriving in Egypt. As a photographer the three things that catch my eye the most are colours, contrasts and frames, or shapes. That tomb had all of it! The long slanted square tunnel was absolutely covered in glittering blue, yellow and red paints. The curved ceiling was painted in that powdery blue desert sky with the cartoon stars on it and at the bottom of the perfectly framed corridor sat a massive granite sarcophagus claimed to be the largest ever found in Egypt. It was HUGE! If I had to guess I’d ay it measured about five meters wide and deep and six meters high and the contrasting black and coldness of the thing in this long colourful tunnel was just phenomenal! I instinctively reached for the camera around my neck with the picture I wanted to make perfectly imprinted in my mind only to find no camera at all. Damn! No photography allowed! In that tunnel the key man followed us right to bottom only to stay there when we started our walk back to the surface. He didn’t even try to ask for money. Perhaps the word had spread through the ranks. As we ascended the steep walkway I glanced back every few meters still mesmerised by the beauty and intense aura of the place.
Back at the gate our well dressed man dutifully arrived awaiting his “little something for nothing” and while Catt excused herself to go the little girl’s room I explained that he was not getting any money from us. I suggested that they start demonstrating to force the government to lower the ticket prices so that we had money left over for tips. I also suggested that they form an official guide association where tourists like us could employ them to accompany us to the tombs. He looked bewildered and still asked for a tip, but I was adamant. I had given him two great tips and the rest was up to him.
With Catt relieved at finding the WC we walked right out the front door and back to Maggie who was still totally alone in the car park. It seemed entirely possible that we were in fact the only tourists left in the whole of the country! On the way back to the hotel we stopped in at the memorial temple of Hatshepsut. The temple itself looked like it was carved out of a massive limestone mountain. It was oddly modern looking in a 1970’s porn star sort of way and I remember seeing a picture of the steps leading up to the temple in relation to some Swiss tourist being shot there some decades before. We still braved the same steps and walked high up into the inner part of the temple. Looking out the picture was perfectly framed with a pitch black granite door frame and the Nile and the sugar cane fields beyond that were greener than we thought should have been possible. Although it was another magnificent site and interesting place it became quite official: we were templed and tombed out… enough was enough and we had it all.
Back at the pristinely quaint Nour al-Gurna hotel we parked Maggie inside the well protected garden, leaving enough space for the French camper van and retired to our bedroom early. It was cold in the desert and we decided to prepare something fabulous inside. The room was definitely big enough to house our trusty MSR stove and a few plastic crates for a kitchen. We managed to change the dressing table into a dinner table and even had enough room to fit another mediocre bottle of Egyptian wine on it. We were just about to sit down to our scrumptious dinner when we got the word form the French father: Mubarak had officially resigned and the country was under military rule. That was scary! In fact, it was so scary that we did not want to be anywhere near the city the next day and set the alarm, and an extra one for safety sake for 7am before crawling under the mosquito netting and watching a movie on the laptop to keep our minds of the end of the world.
Day 318:
The alarm woke us up as planned and the second alarm got us out of bed at the right time. The small boiler had just enough hot water for us to both have a shower and while we packed the car with the plan to leave as soon as, the hotel owner had different plans. By the time we were ready to leave, breakfast was ready and being served! It was a huge mix of the usual cheese, eggs, bread, jam and coffee and it was just easier to stay and eat than argue. The most valuable lesson we thought we had learnt in Egypt was that nothing ever happened in a hurry and very few things happened without food and tea being involved.
It was about 8:30 by the time we rolled our full carcasses back to Maggie and fired up the big diesel engine. The French family was still cocooned in their van and we didn’t really expect them to move to far away from their consulate. With our embassies deserting us we headed into the only direction that made sense: The Western Desert. The route took us south again along the western bank of the Nile and almost had us reach Esna, the town of the temple of Khnum before turning towards the great sandy ocean.
As we left the green belt of fertile soil we could immediately see the lure of the desert opening up before us. It was strangely empty and bizarrely clean compared to its eastern counterpart. The road was tar and new and easy going and snaked through the rocks and sands with perfect efficiency. About half way through our travelling day we saw a town that was totally and utterly deserted. It was as if the desert had fought back and won and was reclaiming the land once again. I actually thought that it could have been a prison. The neat rows of simple dwellings were identical in colour and style and very very ugly indeed but still there was no apparent reason for them being there.
We stopped for a bite to eat in the middle of nowhere and absolutely loved the solitude. In the four hours since leaving the Nile Valley we had seen only one other vehicle and that one was a delivery truck. The sun was high and very bright and the wind was light, but freezing cold. We looked at each other with big eyes wondering about the wisdom of braving the desert in the winter. I was once again very happy that we had those fancy down sleeping bags that Catt’s parents left with us in Malawi.
In the absolute middle of no where we found a T Junction. Actually, it wasn’t in the middle of nowhere. It was at the town of Bagdad (I kid you not). The road was totally blocked by traffic gates but there was a clear path around them. Every other roadblock we had come across was also deserted, so we had no reason to suspect that one to be any different. As we arrived back on the tar though we were met by three uniformed men with AK47’s over their shoulders. The road ahead of us was not blocked, but according to the rules of self preservation it was better to stop when the man had a gun instead of a pen. I opened the window nervously and was approached by the y9oungest of the three. He smiled as I said “salaam alykum” and before asking a single thing simply said: “Come… drink chai” Now who could ever refuse an invitation for tea by a man with an automatic rifle?
Inside the small police hut we were introduced to the “black man from Sudan”, the “Nubian man from Aswan” and lastly the young Egyptian from Luxor. They were totally perplexed that I could be white and from South Africa and although thy tried very hard they could not understand how I could be married to an English woman. When they started asking about children I lied and told them about our two girls Phoenix and Savannah. I added that they were twins, four years old, had four legs and are very furry but that was simply beyond their scope of comprehension of the English language. When the tea was finished and the conversation became difficult I got up, thanked them for their hospitality, told them that was the best tea I had ever had in the western Desert and walked back to Maggie. To my surprise they stood in a row by the door to their station and simply waved while saying “good bye”.
The next town we passed was called Al-Kharga. Just before arriving in town we saw another road block, but that one looked off. There were about twenty people standing around and no one was in uniform. There was not a single AK47 in site and instead of the normal law enforcement vehicles we saw a few small motorbikes. The road was blocked by a 45 gallon drum so we had no choice but to stop. While one guy approached me another, machete in hand was indicating to Catt to open her window. I just smiled and loudly proclaimed that we were from South Africa! We drive with locked doors and we do not under any circumstances open windows for idiots with big knives. The guy on my side started talking, but I interrupted him with rapid fire Afrikaans which I was pretty sure he would not understand. I slid Maggie into gear and nudged forward until the winch touched the guy manning the oil drum which was obviously empty. When the dude with the machete tried to open Catt’s door I had enough though, so I just put my food down and the oil drum was removed in the absolute nick of time. We were off. I half expected the band of bandits to race after us with their tiny motorbikes and was fairly confident that I could outrun them, but looking in my rear view mirror it seemed that they were too busy harassing the car that was behind us.
It did seem like we were followed by one guy on a bike, but once we left the other side of town he left us alone as well. That was after we passed a totally burnt out police station and the shell of what used to be the government building in town. Whose idea was it to go the desert again? It took another hour of driving before I started relaxing again. The desert around us was full of tracks and places to hide and I knew that no one would veer find us if we needed to sneak off to find a place to sleep. We were fairly desperate to make the next town of Dakhla and the recommended Khamis Camp. With 40km to go and the sun getting lower and lower we passed a familiar shape. It was a man of a bicycle and as we drove by I recognised the man as John, the English guy we met on the ferry from Sudan. I hit the brakes and screeched to a halt a few meters ahead of him and he positively beamed when he saw us.
Apparently he had a similar experience with the bandits of Al-Kharga but being on a bicycle his get away was slightly trickier. He was also trying to make the safety of Dakhla, but was running out of time, so we promptly strapped his bike to the roof, loaded him in the front and headed off into the sunset. We reached the Khamis camp without incident about half an hour later to find it utterly and totally deserted. It was too late and I was too tired to try and find another place to stay, so we simply hid in between the locked huts and shut up ablution block. It took only ten minutes for us to be discovered though but the man to do so simply showed us where the light switches were and said that we were welcome to camp there. I was still waiting for the baksheesh conversation to start when he simply bade us a good night and left on his donkey. It was a little weird, but I did not mind too much.
We prepared a huge dinner for the three of us, opened our second last bottle of bad wine and chatted like old friends around our modest table. John had been travelling for six days without rest so decided to stay there another day while we had plans to move on early. The night was freezing cold! We opened our trusty roof top tent for the first time in 17 shameful days and after adding another blanket to the mix proceeded in having the best night’s sleep that I had had in… well about 17 nights.
Day 319:
We got up early as planned and as I scaled the ladder down to earth to start making coffee I was greeted by a slightly familiar voice and the face of the man who saw us the previous evening. He was on a motorbike that morning and wanted simply to know how our night was. He was very concerned to see Catt get out of the same tent as I had but only until he established that we were married. While I was tending to the coffee I noticed him speaking to someone on the phone. He asked me for a pen, which I provided and I was convinced that he was finding out how much money to take from us. I already decided to insist on a sit down, porcelain and flush toilet before handing over any money and was ready for the battle by the time he joined our little group.
The battle never came though. He stood chatting for a while and marvelled at the fantastic world of the roof top tent before greeting us with a smile, starting his bike and riding off. We completed our chores, refilled our coffee mugs, said good bye and “safe travels” to John and headed out of town by 8:00. All indications were that it was going to be an easy and enjoyable travelling day. The roads were great and the wind was not present yet and the kilometres clicked by with great ease. We got to a point where the GPS indicated a road to our east but all we could see was soft and undisturbed desert sand. We decided not to go that way.
In the next small town of Abu Minqar we passed another “civilian” road block but they were all happy and smiley. The official army road block offered us tea, but we had full mugs so gracefully declined. About five kilometres north of town we were stopped by another road block. The gang manning it had no weapons. No guns, no knives, no machetes or bats, but they would not let us pass. There were two other vehicles stopped there so even though we could not communicate much I had a feeling they had good reason for their blockade. They sent me back to the army road block for an explanation.
Things were not going that great there either. I understood that we were not allowed to continue our journey and I understood that the previous towns were also dangerous. I finally understood that they were waiting for the result of a demonstration in both their neighbouring towns and as the area was not controlled by the police or military, the scared locals were simply trying to protect themselves and their families. It was explained that we would probably be able to move on at 13:00, half an hour later, so we decided to have lunch in the street.
As 13:00 arrived there was no sign of us being allowed to leave again. In fact, shiny silver Land Cruiser Prado arrived and the person that climbed out looked a little like the bad guy in a bad Mexican film. On the other hand, he could speak English and was actually summoned by the army guys to come to our aid. His name was Juan. He was from Spain, but had lived in the area for four years, so knew the people and the politics. He explained that we had at least another hour to wait and suggested that we park in the shade of the nearby cafeteria. Which was exactly what we did while reading some books and waiting for his return.
As promised he did return, but the news was not great. We were told that the demonstrations had turned violent and that the road was simply closed. The locals had no legal right to keep us there, but his heart felt suggestion was that we stayed there the night. I asked about a safe place to pitch our tent and he simply made us follow him to his home. It was a modest house, but absolutely brilliantly practical! He explained that he was renting the place while building a restaurant and house on the other side of town. He admitted that he had taken about three years to get that far and the building site we saw as we arrived was very far from finished. His current abode had a typical Bedouin courtyard with two rooms leading of it. One was a small kitchen, the other his bedroom. For us he had a corner of the yard masked off by tent material with a huge double bed under a reed roof. That was his summer bedroom he explained. We parked Maggie right by the gate and set in for the afternoon. Or so we thought….
After the obvious drinking of more tea and chatting to the locals about our predicament he proudly announced that he would take us into the desert. Now that did sound like some kind of fun, so we gladly accepted his invitation. We deflated tyres and engaged 4 wheel drive while he picked up two local guides in his own vehicle to show us the way. We left town by not using any of the roads and bypassing all the roadblocks and before we knew it we were in the middle of a massive and very empty sea of sand. It was an incredible place! It was flat and almost featureless apart from the small ripples where the wind had blown the sand over time. There was not a single track in sight and it was almost like snow boarding on virgin powder.
We followed Juan’s silver Land Cruiser at high speed deeper and deeper into the desert. The flat planes gave way to some fairly impressive and very high dunes on one side and some strange looking white rocky outcrops on the other. I have to admit that we did loose momentum at one point and I did not manage to gear down quick enough and we did get stuck… However, under the guidance of the “guides” we took a little more air out of the tires, reversed back the incline and tried again, successfully conquering that little obstacle to the applause and obvious delight of the village clown.
Deep into the vast emptiness of sand and rocks Juan expertly zigzagged us up a huge sand dune. At the top I could not believe that things on 4 wheels were actually able to make that ascent, never mind the fact that we were so incredibly heavily loaded, but the man was an expert! He knew the sand and the secrets it held and obviously chose the perfect path every time. At a place that seemed to be at the very top of the world as we knew it he finally stopped. We all got out the vehicles and stood speechless, with my jaw hitting the floor, staring out over the wide expanse of landscape that I would never be able to describe. It was late afternoon and the sand had turned that incredible pastel desert colour. In the distance Juan explained that we were looking at the start of the White Desert which had been described as a lunar landscape before. It was wind still and the sky was a never ending royal blue providing a perfect edge to the limestone white and pastel sand. It was breathtaking!
While Juan lifted a lazy arm and pointed in a direction he explained that if we followed that ridge for about three days we would get to Cairo without using a single road. It was only about 600km away. Towards the other side he showed us the never ending ocean of dunes which stretched through Egypt, Libya and well into Algeria and the Western Sahara. It was almost too inviting to look away and I really wished that we could simply turn Maggie in that direction and go… To our south we could see the far away line of oasis after oasis and to the east… nothing by sky. I wanted to stay forever, but our handy host called a time out after half an hour of admiring the place. We followed him back towards the town and just as I thought the mighty adventure was nearing its end, he turned west and headed towards the dunes.
At the very start of the first row of massive and apparently impenetrable dunes we climbed another hill by zigzagging up it and stopped at a Bedouin desert tent next to a rocky outcrop. The local guys explained that it was a place where travellers (I think they meant people on camels) were free to stop and rest… and obviously drink some tea. They produced a gas cylinder and kettle out of thin air and proceeded in making a fresh brew while Catt and I climbed to the highest point to stare in absolute awe at the incredible view…. Again.
After being summoned for tea and drinking the required amount of the sweet stuff Juan explained the return trip to us: We were to follow him, as before. However, when he waved his hand out the window we had to stop at the top of the dune to let him descent first. When he waved his hand again we had to drive down, not using the same tracks and when ever the car felt like it was sliding sideways, we had to go faster… Lastly he made no secret of the fact that if we used the brakes on one of those descends we would definitely roll the car and things could turn bad. By the time the explanation was done my eyes were the size of saw2sers and Catt was visibly terrified of what laid in store for us. I hoped that the language barrier made it sound worse that what it really was and a proclamation of “tally ho” we mounted our steeds and headed into the sandy dunes again.
Within a minute I saw a hand waving and came to a stop where indicated. I couldn’t actually see the silver Land Cruiser at all so got out and walked forward. My stomach did back flips when I saw the angle he was driving down and when he reached the bottom and waved again I swallowed hard. Back in Maggie Catt asked me what it looked like and I remember squeaking something like “What can possibly go wrong” before gently nudging Maggie’s nose over the crest without being able to see what was ahead of me. Before I knew it the momentum carried us over and we started skating down the steep face of the dune. I felt the car sliding sideways and selected the next gear while accelerating as instructed. The car immediately righted itself and with the apparent correct amount of speed we rode the roller coaster incline all the way to where Juan was waiting for us. The locals had massive smiles on their faces and the young one, resembling the village clown, even came to retie my head scarf in the proper desert way. I had done it! I had survived my first drive down a steep dune and with that I obviously earned the approval of the locals.
The rest of the drive back had more of the same. With every dune we bounced over and slid down with a tiny bit of control our confidence grew and with every long open sandy plain we crossed we were driving faster and had more fun. By that time the sun was low and the desert became breathtakingly inspirational. I felt an urge to stop every minute to take another photograph, but the sand was so soft that we simply could not risk stopping at all. I saw Juan getting stuck trying to crest a dune and stopped on a harder bit of sand just in time. The young guy got out, walked another route and waved his arm in great delight as he found “the way”. We were waved at once again and came to a halt next to them. The silver Land Cruiser looked light and confident and Maggie with her load and the doors open as we had left them looked like a massive competent beast that was catching its breath. The timing for the stop was impeccable as the horizon was splitting the huge orange sun perfectly in half. We waited until it finally set before Juan pointed down the dune and said: This one is my favourite! I watched him drive down it at great speed and when I got back to the car I had to honestly advise Catt not to look. She just smiled, took the camera and said that she would take pictures and then walk down.
I selected first gear and popped the clutch, feeling Maggie roll into action and crest the last bit of sand. The nose dipped and I suddenly saw the angle which freaked me enough to change into third and put my foot down. I accelerated out of another small slide in the wrong direction and by the time I got to the bottom and stopped next to Juan the clown guy and Catt were clapping their hands and smiling from ear to ear. It was exhilarating! The drive back to town over the flat featureless desert went quickly and we stopped right in front of Juan’s house seconds before darkness set in.
Catt and I used the kitchen to prepare a huge meal in thanks to our host and while the cooking was going on we got news that the bulk of the trouble was over and that we were free to leave the next day. By then we had had so much fun there that I actually wished that we could stay, but alas we had things to do in Cairo and not a day to spare. With dinner out the way we watched the news on Juan’s TV and just as I though it was time for bed he told us that he would take us to the local hot spring for a well deserved bath. Now who could veer argue with that?
The spring was on the other side of the village and the moon was bright enough to see everything we needed to without any additional light. We did find two locals in there, bathing away the stress of life in the desert but they did not mind us joining them in the slightest. The water was incredibly hot and you could feel the minerals eating the dirt of your skin. It was soothing and so ridiculously relaxing than I actually fell asleep in Juan’s car on the five minute drive back to the house. It took very little time to move my weary body from the car to the bed and once I crawled into the perfectly cosy down sleeping bag I instantly fell asleep to the sound of the goats next door and the cat w2alking on the roof of the house. It had turned out to be a perfect desert day!
Day 320:
For a change we woke up before the alarm sounded. I am not entirely sure if it was the sun that woke us or the chickens or goats in the village, but it was still quite refreshing to do without electronics. The morning air was cold and frosty and I could see my breath as I spoke about making coffee and leaving soon. We filled our mugs and packed our bags and after presenting our host with a mug of the good stuff and inflating the tyres to normal pressure again we set off towards the roadblock at the edge of town.
I wasn’t absolutely convinced that the guys would let us pass either. We were stopped by the barrier and when I got out the car to plead my case I was hugged… The young clown from the day before was there and on duty and he promptly explained something to the others by using as many arm swinging signals as words before I knew it my was shook by every member of the posse. The barrier was moved and we were waved through with smiles and cheers sending us into the desert once again. It was hard to believe that we had stayed there for only one night.
The road took us right into the town of Farafra where the troubles were the previous day. It was a shade before 9am when we passed and the whole place still looked fast asleep. There were no roadblocks and the police and army posts were totally deserted. The shops were shut and the streets empty and apart from one donkey and a couple of chickens, it almost resembled a ghost town. We did not hang about though and popped out the other side without delay. Our friends from the previous day had explained that the country was without law enforcers and that we should try and get to Bahariya before any trouble could start again.
We passed a sign claiming the start of the white Desert National Park and I could not rest driving off the road. I stopped at a sign showing a map and the sites of the park and felt really sad that we did not have time to spend a few days there. The previous days adventured really did show me the beautiful side of the sand and its people and I was by no means ready to leave. We took an hour to drive a small loop through the park. It was incredible! It really did look like the moon and although the sand was hard and easy to drive on and there were many tracks from many vehicles before us, it was such a deliciously deserted and almost forgotten place and I instantly fell in love with it. The pure white structures stood high into the pale blue skies and the different shapes of mushrooms and monuments turned everywhere I looked into another brilliantly picturesque landscape.
At some point we got to a place with thick sand and could see fairly fresh motorbike tracks. I saw footprints next to the tracks for most of the way and felt sorry for the poor sod that had to push his means o transport all that way through the thick stuff. We found some palm trees on a rise and saw a glint of metal from the middle of them. While wondering if the bike was local or traveller I saw another one and another one and by the time we got close to the trees I saw a group of six men standing there watching us. They were Egyptian, but I could not gauge whether they were friend of foe. I tentatively waved as we drove by and that was met with a wave from them, but I really did not trust the situation enough to stop. We simply headed past, found the tar road again and sped off out of the white desert and into the black desert.
The black desert almost looked like someone had put a black chocolate sauce over all the sand coloured ice cream scoops. It was bizarrely odd and magically pretty, but it was also nearing the middle of the day and we had little time to spare. I stopped a few times to snap a picture of something interesting and finally arrived at the second road block a shade before mid day. That was a police block, manned by men in uniform who asked the right questions and filled in a ledger that we recognised as official. I tentatively asked the man about the safety of the area and he simply said that the military, which controlled the country at that time, also had perfect control from where we were to Cairo and that we did not need to worry about a thing. So trying not to think about the fact that mass demonstrations led to the departure of a 30 year dictator which left an already unstable country in the hands of emergency military rule, we drove into the town of Bawiti in search of supplies.
We found it to be an unexpected hustle and bustle of a town with many small supermarkets, fruit and vegetables sellers, a bakery and a fuel station. The streets were covered in people doing their normal every day thing and even buying the food we needed was effortless and none confrontational. We liked the place instantly. I also decided to fill the tanks with fuel again. While waiting for the pump to do its thing I was approached by a neatly dressed and well spoken guy who told me that we were lucky to get fuel there. Apparently they had been dry until the day before. He also said that he had a few drums of diesel stashed at his house and proudly said that he would have helped us out of we needed it. The writing on the side of his Land Cruiser indicated that he was a desert guide and even though I knew we were being touted, I did not mind his company at all. He asked where we were heading and I mentioned the name of a place that had been recommended to us.
He knew the name and insisted on taking us even after noticing the two GPS’s on Maggie’s dash. We arrived at Eden Gardens about ten minutes later, tired form the drive and desperately hungry! Another man walked up to us and invited us to tea before we could even ask about camping and prices and things important to our western minds. He refused to talk business! I saw that I was fighting a loosing battle, gave up and followed him to a tent in a lush garden where we were introduced to a few guys from Aswan and a lady from Italy who was there to help design their new hotel rooms. I tried again to explain that we really just wanted to find a place to camp and have some lunch when a young guy appeared with a massive tray of food. It seemed that we had arrived with perfect timing and was instantly welcomed at the table.
The guy who greeted us was obviously important there as he was the one giving the orders and being waited upon. He had pillows put down for Catt and I and simply insisted that we share the food. They must have been expecting us a swell as there was a ridiculous amount of food on the table. We had bread and chicken and vegetables and Fuul and cheese and salad and soup and tea and coffee and biscuits and no one was allowed to stop eating until the man himself loudly exclaimed that it was time to smoke hi shisha pipe and drink some chai… It was 14:00 in the Arab world and that usually signalled the end of the day. There would be no more discussion of where we would stay and how much it would cost that day.
Over yet another cup of chai we learnt that his name was Talat. He was the Sheik of that particular little oasis and he had an absolute passion for the desert and what he could do in it. He had nine Land Cruisers! His pride and joy was a 1985 model 40 series which he stuck a massive twin turbo eight cylinder engine into. He told us that he drove as fast in the desert as he did on the roads and I believed him! I also noticed a few sand boards strapped to the roof and he explained that he just loved getting his hair blown back while riding down the face of the biggest dune he could find. While he then told everyone that it was time to rest he invited Catt and I to use his own personal hot spring in the corner of the compound. It was totally natural, totally open and the water was even hotter than the spring of the previous day. In fat, he tapped the same spring to the showers and you even flushed the toilet with the incredibly soothing, steaming liquid.
For the last time I asked him where we could camp and after showing us a cosy corner to park Maggie and set up he took a phone call which made him walk away from us for a few minutes. When he came back he smiled and said “did you know it was Valentine’s Day?” I did not. He then insisted that we stay in one of his guest rooms, with a big and comfortable bed instead of camping. It was hard to resist. We spent the rest of the afternoon hanging out and relaxing (AKA resting) in the big round tent we had lunch in. After his second shisha he came to chat and told us that dinner would be served in a different tent, with closed sides and a fire pit in the middle. He asked where our children was and when I told him that we did not have any he pretty much pointed at the room he gave us and said “well, what’s the problem?” That was the same afternoon that Catt found out that her best friend was pregnant and she had been broody for a year or two, so I knew I was in deep doo doo and there wasn’t really much I could do about it.
As the sun set behind the last palm tree the temperature dropped dramatically and we retreated into the safety of the evening tent. There was a roaring fire in the middle and mountains of pillows lying around the place. It was cosy and comfortable and I could not think of another place I would have rather been. Dinner was served by the same quiet young boy that brought us lunch and he even cooked some sweet potato right in the fire in the tent. It did not take long for the evening to wind down either. Not long after dinner Talat took his position on his favourite mattress next to the fire. Some other guy came in and put a blanket over him and after the obvious drinking of some more chai we also called it a night.
Day 321:
It was another sad day where I really wanted to stay, but had to move on. We got up fairly early and instead of having a shower we ventured into the hot spring. The water was so incredibly hot that it took more than a minute to get in. The spring was so strong that the water cascading over our shoulders provided a perfect massage of pressure and steam and because of the latter we could not see anything outside of the pool. It was ridiculously difficult to leave that comfort and start the day.
By the time we were dried and packed and ready to leave Talat was waiting for us at the main tent and beckoned us in for breakfast. It was another ridiculous feast accompanied by more coffee that even I could consume. When it really was time to leave I asked how much we owed him and he simply said: Pay what you feel is fair… What I ended up paying was hardly fair. Catt and I decided to present him with E£200 ($35) as that was what we could afford, but we did have three wonderful meals and slept in a fantastic… not to even mention the hot spring. He seemed pleased when I handed it over though and I am pretty sure that he did not need the money….
We eventually rolled out of there after 10:00 and as soon as we left the safety of the oasis I once again wished that we could just turn around and go back. It was windy! I mean really windy and we found ourselves in the middle of a good old desert sand storm. Driving into the wind I had my foot flat to the ground and could only manage about 60km/h. Driving with the wind on the other hand I had trouble keeping the speedo below 130km/h. It was so windy, so sandy and so unpleasant that we were absolutely convinced that not event he army or police or bandits would brave the world outside that day.
The 350km drive to Cairo took only about three hours. The scenery was… well… obscured to put politely. The sand was blowing streaks over the tar road and it took all my concentration just to keep us on the tar. The city itself seemed exactly as I had expected it to be. The traffic was mad and the place was filthy with rubbish. The cloud of sand covering the place added to the dreary visions I had of it as well as my mood. I really did not want to be there. We passed the famous pyramids but could hardly se them through the storm. I did however see that the gates were open, so it was again possible to visit them after they had been closed for the “revolution”. We drove through some dirty and cracked up side streets and arrived at the designated camp site as per our trusty GPS maps… it was not there…. An old man tried to explain something to us and I understood that the place had moved.
We eventually found Salma Motel Camping a few kilometres away and stared out over a totally deserted and wind swept camp site before being approached by a man who seemed to be in charge. It was quickly established that we were allowed to camp there and that the fee was a modest E£30 per person per night. He even made a point of saying that the car was “free”. It was an ugly and unkept place, but the best available, so we parked Maggie in a suitable place and walked into the restaurant armed with phones and computers to conduct our Cairo business.
I had to make an appointment with the Consulate of Italy to obtain a shengen visa before we could start formulating a plan to leave the country. I fired up the laptop, found the number for the call centre and dialled. It was answered by a machine explaining that the call cost was E£2 a minute and then continued through a menu until I finally spoke to someone. I explained what I needed and he simply said that it was not possible. As a South African without being a resident of Egypt I was simply not allowed to apply for a visa with them. So that wasn’t really part of the plan. I tried to explain that we had been travelling for 10 months and that it was not possible (Mush mumpkin) to get a visa in my country of residence. I blabbered on a little about being held at knife point in the desert and the 200% Carnet that we had on the car and that I really just wanted to flee Egypt as quickly as possible, but it did not help. He would not even allow me to speak to the consular or anyone else. I was not allowed to make an appointment and that was that.
While still trying my luck the phone cut out with a message that I had run out of credit. It was 14:48 and the call centre closed at 15:00. FUCK!!!!! I grabbed the keys and ran to Maggie and raced out of there in a huge cloud of dust. The third shop I tried had the little scratch cards I needed and when I handed over the money the guy did not want to give me change. He actually wanted me to pay E£50 for E£40 worth of vouchers. I grabbed the money back of him, refused to give him the vouchers back, ran to Maggie, hopped in and locked the doors before he could reach me. I opened the window slightly and calmly explained that I did wish to pay him, but not before he produced the right amount of change. He refused, so I told him that I was in a hurry. I said that I was leaving and would come back later to sort it out. He did not seem impressed. I raced back to the Salma, charged the phone and tried the call centre again. The same man answered the phone. He stressed the fact that he worked for the embassy and not just a call centre and that there was simply no possibility for me to even submit an application for the visa that I so desperately needed.
Catt phoned the UK embassy to find that the Consular had left for the day. It was 15:05. There was no one there that could help us either and their visa section was still closed. So I could not even fly to the UK form Egypt. I then phoned my own embassy and asked for advice. At first I could not get any answer. I used a cell phone number someone had given me and was told that the South African embassy could not really help me either. They were willing to provide me with a letter of introduction and request that the Italians assist me, but nothing more. Check mate… For what it was worth I made an appointment to see the consular the next day to get the letter. The guy from the shop had sent a young boy to the camp to collect the money for the phone cards as well. With the help of the hotel owner I sent the right amount of money and stern warning that ripping off foreigners would not made his Allah happy with him. I don’t think he gave a shit…
Outside the weather was horrible! It was windy as hell and the sand from the surrounding desert formed a thick smoggy blanket that blocked out the sun almost completely. It was freezing cold and unwelcoming and seemed like the perfect weather for our moods. We kept hearing gun fire in the suburbs around us and could not think of a worse place to be than where we actually were. We used Maggie as wind break and while trying to prepare a simple dinner we drank our very last bottle of horrible Egyptian wine while trying to come up with an alternative plan of action.
As we saw it we had three options: We had to either somehow convince the Italians to give me a visa, fly me to South Africa while Catt drove the car to the UK or turn around and drive back to South Africa together, taking the shortest route and driving as fast as we could. I calculated that we could probably manage it in about four weeks at a cost of about $4 000. The only option I liked was the first one.
We eventually crawled into bed after the food and the wine and I have to honest and say that for the very first time since starting our travels I felt beaten. The city was unwelcoming and noisy and between the silent mosquitoes sucking the life out of my veins and the noises of unrest and gun shots around us I almost felt like crying. It was a very long, uncomfortable and sleepless night.
Day 322:
I felt almost relieved when the sound of the morning call to prayer vibrated through the tent. I could not believe the amount of mosquitoes that managed to find their way into our tent and could not wait for the sun to rise and the alarm to sound so that I could get out of bed. That time came eventually and while making coffee I decided to start a brand new day with brand new zest and a positive attitude. I had shower in the filthy ablutions and the taxi that we had booked arrived promptly at 9:00 as arranged.
The traffic in the city was so light that we arrived at the South African embassy half an hour early. We sat inside waiting for our contact to finish his meetings and after a short discussion and written request on blank piece of paper I was furnished with the infamous “letter of introduction” It was nothing more than a formal request from my embassy to the Italian consular to assist me, but it was the best I could do. Our driver then took us to the Italian embassy. Our route took us into the city centre and I could not believe the amount of armour and panzer there. Every intersection had a tank and a dozer or so soldiers manning at. The Italian embassy was heavily barricaded as well and we were not allowed to drive anywhere near it. A high ranking soldier walked us to the door and when we finally got inside we learnt that we were in the wrong place. Not only that, but the place we had to be was so close to Liberation (Formerly known as Tahrir) square that they had decided to close it… For at least one week.
We asked our driver to take us to the British embassy which we knew was close by but he refused. He opened the window for us to hear the shouts and screams of protest in the direction we wanted to go and explained that there was a demonstration of about 3 00o people there and that we would really risk our lives if we went that way. So we tucked our tails between our legs and headed back to the dirty and deserted camp site in Giza. On the way back I tried to explain our predicament to our driver and he immediately indicated that he could help us out. We agreed that he would take us to the immigration place the next morning early (Before the trouble started) and he would organize the customs guy to meet us that airport the day Maggie’s paperwork expired. At least that would give us some breathing room until we could come up with a plan of action after Egypt.
We arrived back at the camp at 13:00 after purchasing some fresh bread for four times the price it should have been. The driver charged us E£180 for his services which I also found about four times more than what it should have been. We hid from the persistent wind behind Maggie and prepared a bowl of piping hot Full a la Heinz. That consisted of heated up Heinz baked beans, some diced onion, greet pepper and carrot and the fresh bread. It was delicious! It struck me that we had had a long and successful day if we judged it by local standards. We started at 9:00 which was practically midnight for Arabs. We visited two places, accomplished one useless thing and ran away from violence. We arrived back at our accommodation for lunch and planned to “rest” for the rest of the day.
I had one trick up my sleeve still. I phoned Mademoiselle Christine Gerber, the fabulous French consular we met in Cairo and pleaded my case with tears in my voice. I explained that the Italians had left Cairo and that according to the shengen rules I could then apply for a visa with the next country I wished to visit, which was France. I think she really did feel sorry for me as she promised to phone the head of the visa section in Cairo and gave me the name of the right person to see the next day. I was hopeful again.
In the afternoon we did nothing more than hide form the shitty weather and noises of gunfire and protesting masses. It was all quite far away, but close enough for me not to be able to totally relax. I removed the flapping rain cover off the roof top tent and suggested that we put our other mosquito net inside our roof top tent that night. The wind did seem to subside a little in the late afternoon and we could even make out small patches of blue sky. We knew we would have the Friday-Sunday without anything to do and hoped that the weather improved enough to go to the pyramids even though I could not believe that we were, once again stuck in the capitol of an African country for longer than we ever wanted to be.
It was bitterly cold once the sun finally set and the blue sky was still eluding us. We had a simple dinner of things we could find that did not require preparation or heating and managed only to brave the outside until 20:00. The tent, with extra mosquito netting inside provided a safe haven with the down sleeping bags (Really thanks Pete and Annie!!!!) provided enough warmth so we could be comfortable.
Day 323:
It was a brand new with brand new hopes and the mosquito free night was peaceful, provided enough rest and I was ready for the challenges that lay ahead. The alarm sounded at 7:00 and although it was still very cold outside, the shower water was steamy hot. I mean that literally as the hot tap produced nothing but steam. I used the cold tap to cool the pipe down enough to produce water from steam and managed to regulate the temperature to a comfortable heat.
Our over weight, over expensive and slightly greasy taxi driver arrived promptly at 8:30 as arranged and hopping into the car I asked him to make sure that the immigration building we needed to visit was open that day. It was Thursday, but the building bordered Tahrir Square, renamed Liberation square after the “revolution” was won. He assured me that it was. The traffic in the early morning was light and finding the place was easy.
We crossed a massive bridge over the Nile and after driving past the Cairo museum which was closed and barricaded in by tanks and armed personnel carriers, we finally arrived in the square that I had only seen on TV and news websites. It was totally empty. There were no tents, no masses and no army shooting at protestors. There was a small make shift memorial with photographs of the poor souls who perished in the fighting the weeks before and that was heavily guarded by two tanks and a few policemen, outnumbering the attendants two to one. Our driver skirted the edge of the square and delivered right in front of the door to the main immigration building with instructions on where to go.
The people we needed to see were on the second floor. As with Sudan, someone in their infinite wisdom made all the signs in the place where foreigners had to go in Arabic. I simply followed a Korean lady who seemed to know where to go, found a stack of papers with English on them and started filling in the simple required form. Armed with form and photograph we saw a man who’s job it seemed to be to check that everything was filled in correctly. He sent me to one counter and Catt to another. The lady who helped me checked all the paperwork and then asked for copies of my passport and visa… Didn’t think about that one, now did I? Fortunately she told me that there was a guy with a copier on the ground floor. I found Catt whose paperwork was also being checked and told her what I needed seconds before the guy helping her asked for copies of her papers. So we walked down the stairs and found the guy with the captive audience and photocopier. That took only about ten minutes and back upstairs I smiled as I handed it over. The lady continued checking things and then asked me for the stamps…. She could have told me that I needed them at the same time as she told me about the copies, but that would have been too easy. I rushed over to the stamps counter and handed over the required money (E£8) for the required stamps. Back at my counter the lady seemed satisfied, wrote something in Arabic in my passport and said: 10 days. It took a while, but I eventually understood that my application would take 10 days and I had to go back there after then. The fact that she wrote something in passport meant that I would not get into trouble though.
At Catt’s counter things were getting interesting as well. She just got to the stage of being asked for stamps when I got there. With one of us done with business I could let her stay right in the front of the cue while I ran to the stamps counter for the second time. I returned a minute later with those stamps and another minute passed before the verdict was in: In would be two hours before her application was processed and she could get her passport back. A quick scan of the desk showed passports from USA, Canada, UK, China, Japan, Korea and a few I did not recognise. All those could get their extensions in two hours. South Africans…. 10 days buddy!
We decided not to wait there for two hours and after phoning our trusty driver walked outside and got picked up. The French consulate was next on the list. We had the name of the person to speak to there and as I had my passport in my hands we were hoping to at least get an application form and a list of requirements. That was if I was allowed to file an application with them in the first place. The embassy was heavily guarded and barricaded but foot access was easy. We stood in a cue of people waiting to have their biometric data taken for their applications and after some broken French and English managed to get someone to talk to.
I never got his name, but as he greeted us he said “You must be the south African with the camping car?” That was me indeed. We followed him inside and explained our predicament. I though about telling him that my forefathers ran away from France because they were being persecuted for their religion. I was now running away from South Africa because I was being persecuted for the colour of my skin and I with my very French name I thought it only fair that they give me asylum… But with the whole on Tunisia and Algeria fleeing to Italy and France I thought using those terms may not be such a great idea. Instead I begged, shamelessly and told him that if they could not help me the only alternative was to drive the car back to South Africa, crossing all those dangerous African countries again! He frowned and told us that he wasn’t sure that he could help. He needed to speak to his boss, the consular first.
The longest hour of our trip followed where the emotions we went through can not be explained. On the one hand I was hopeful as they did at least let me through the door. On the other hand I wasn’t sure that the time it took indicated anything positive. It was creeping up to mid day and at some point I was wondering if they all went to lunch, or worse, to join the daily demonstrations in Liberation Square… Where Catt’s passport still resided. However, when he did return he was smiling. He handed me an application form and asked me to fill it in. The questions I did not have answers to he helped me with. I offered a mass of supporting documentation that he did not even look at or take and he even made me jump the cue for the fingerprints and photograph they required. He signed my form and wrote something on the bottom in French, handed me a receipt and apologized that the process would take ten days. I asked if I could kiss him, but he declined. I would have hugged the man if it wasn’t for the bullet proof glass between us.
We summoned our driver once again and headed back to the square. The traffic was building and it took a while to get there. We had to squeeze in between some tanks and mounted machine guns and when we were dropped off at the door to the immigration building our driver looked apprehensive. He asked us to hurry as within half an hour the square was to be full of people. We jogged upstairs fully expecting to be told to wait longer. However, when we got the right counter the lady flipped through a pile of applications found Catt’s passport and handed it back. All done…
We jogged down stairs again, passed the growing crowd, the TV cameras and line of press photographers until we found our driver again. I could see the utter relief on his face when we jumped in and as we drove away I saw the demonstration starting in the rear view mirror. It was perfect timing! To be honest, I didn’t feel unsafe at any point. In fact I even wished that I had my camera with me as that was probably the only opportunity to take photographs of military hardware in Egypt without getting into trouble. As we passed the last tank I saw the gunner leaning on his arms, looking utterly bored and I had to smile.
For the first time since arriving in Cairo I took the trouble to look around as we drove through the city. It was strangely beautiful and actually really interesting. A part of it reminded me of the centre of Paris and other parts looked very much like Oxford Street in London. We passed Sandstone buildings reminding me of the ones around Pretoria’s Church Square and following the Nile out of the city we could have been in Hammersmith on the Thames. The sun was out and the skies were blue and even the temperature was pleasant. As we left the city behind us and drove back to the camp site in Giza we saw the massive pyramids through the tall buildings for the very first time. We bought some bread without getting ripped off and arrived back at Maggie at the perfect time for lunch. We had managed to achieve the impossible! We managed to do two very important things in one Arab day between the hours of 9:00 and 12:00 in a city where mass demonstrations were the order of every day’s noon hour.
With the incredible weight lifted off our shoulders we decided to spend the afternoon chatting about plans for the next ten days. We noticed that the Scuba diving operators were suffering from the lack of tourism so much that they were offering incredible deals, and they were only half a drive away from where we were. So it was decided, we would take it easy for the rest of the day, get up early the next and hide under the water until my passport was ready for collection. The making of afternoon coffee resulted in the trusty MSR stove packing up, us running out of backup gas and boiling water on a charcoal fire.
The setting sun came with a promise of a wind still, but cold night and the probability of clear skies for the next day. We planned our modest dinner and fluffed the pillows inside the tent under the extra mosquito net and felt confident that things could only get better.
If I had to do it all again:
Mmmmm tough one. You can’t really plan around a revolution now can you? IN an ideal world I would have loved to spend at least one more day in the White Desert and perhaps another two around Bahariya at the Eden Gardens. (Yes it was that good)
In Cairo we could not see any sights. The Cairo Museum was closed off by tanks and the pyramids of Giza were hiding behind the massive sand storm. We also found out that they close at 16:00, which is not really any good for the photographer in me. So we decided to try and visit them when we had to be back in town to collect my passport.
As for the rest of the week, all can say is that it was an adventure and I probably should have bought that AK47 for $50 in Ethiopia.
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