Five Reasons to Live In Egypt

Oscar enjoying the desert in Siwa, Egypt. November 2017

As our time in Egypt is coming to an end, I though I would write about some of the best aspects of living here. We’ve lived in Kafr Abdou, Alexandria for almost two years, and although we are very much looking forward to starting a new life in Aberdeenshire, Scotland, there are many things we will miss about Egypt.

1. The People

The people in Egypt are, on the whole, quite friendly. They are quick to laughter and often enjoy interacting with foreigners. Of course, you get the odd looney tune, like anywhere. Wherever we go in Egypt, the common greeting is some variation of, “welcome to Egypt.” Egyptians are often genuinely interested in where we come from, and what we think of their country. Being from Canada, I’ve noticed almost every Egyptian has at least one relative who has moved to the great white north. Many return to Egypt - too cold for them.

Another positive trait is that if you’re ever confounded by something incomprehensible (this happens often) you can be fairly confident that someone will rush to your aid. We were once on the train to Cairo and found our tickets were a week out of date. A family quickly came to our rescue, translated for the ticket collector, found us seats, guided us through the Cairo Station and even booked us a Careem (Egyptian Uber) to our destination. This kind of thing happens a lot. Just act befuddled and help will appear.

Also, Egyptians LOVE children. Unlike the Yukon, where we’ve been kicked out of restaurants at lunchtime because we have our seven-year-old with us, in Egypt children are welcome everywhere. They are also very much fussed over. In a good way. Most of the time. Blond kids are subject to a lot of hair mussing action.

2. The Language

Most Egyptians in the cities speak at least some English, but if you like languages, Arabic is certainly fun to try. I took Arabic lessons, however, even if you only know the odd word, any attempt to speak Arabic will generally garner a positive reaction. Even, my husband, whose Arabic is limited to yimeen (left) and shimaal (right) is generally rewarded with cheery smiles from the taxi driver. **Note: My husband had read this and wants me to amend that he also knows alatool (straight ahead) and he can mispronounce sabah el kheer (good morning). My most humble apologies to you, Richard, you are indeed a linguist.**

It’s a tricky language, but very rewarding to learn. For me, not only is it fun to speak, but the script is super fun to write. Almost any phrase looks elegant in Arabic. It feels great to be able a read a signpost, or a price label in writing that at first glance, looks like nothing more than squiggles (or a doctor’s prescription). Living in Egypt means that you will always have someone to practise with. And you get better prices at the market if you order in Arabic.

3. Travel

Egypt is littered with historical sites and stunning vistas. We’ve seen moray eels, sea turtles and pufferfish the Red Sea, we’ve spent many an afternoon playing in the waves of the Mediterranean, we’ve climbed sandy dunes in a 4X4, floated in salt pools, unwound in hot springs and sailed on the Nile. Then there are the historic sites. We’ve touched pyramids dating from as far back as 2500 BC (they were built when mammoths still walked the earth), we’ve visited temples that are ghostly quiet, and we’ve tread softly in ancient tombs, wondering at the intricate paintings and hieroglyphs. And then there are the times we just chilled by the pool. All without breaking the bank. Our favourite poolside spot only cost 25USD per night to stay.

4. The Weather

The deserted beaches of the Mediterranean Sea in 'winter.' Borg el Arab, Egypt

I’m always a bit thrown when people refer to the winter here in Egypt. With temperature lows of about 15C, it feels more like Yukon summer (meanwhile Yukon winter temperatures were often in the -30C range). Most of the time I can walk straight out of our apartment - no need for coats, scarves, mittens and all the paraphernalia of a Canadian winter. And then, in the fall and spring, when Egyptians still consider it to be cold (maybe 24C), we go to the beach and have it all to ourselves. Bliss.

Rain is a big event here. The kids at school go wild. Sometimes they need to be picked up from school early, kinda like a snow day. Once I picked my son up from karate in the rain, and his instructor was aghast that I was going to walk five minutes in the rain. Meanwhile, summer here is way to hot for my comfort. That’s when we usually escape to the UK. But hey, three out of four seasons ain’t bad.

5. The Vegetables

You might think this one is a bit weird, but honestly, the veggies here are just better. It might have something to do with how fresh they are. I mean, they get picked, get loaded onto a cart, pulled by horse into town, and you can buy the veggies right from the cart. Can’t get much fresher than that. The UK gets about 12% of it’s vegetables from Egypt, but they have to wait until it gets there. I get it the same day it’s picked. Oh yeah, and they are cheap. Sometimes when I pick up a few kilos of veggies and fruits, I feel weird just paying 20 EGP (about 1 pound). But hey, I’ll take it.

Egypt may sound great to you right about now, but I feel I must warn you, it’s not all sunshine and roses. Okay, well there is quite a lot of sunshine. But many aspects of life here are difficult to get used to. Namely the pollution, litter, crowds, terrible internet, the green water week of 2018, instant summer sweat and the plethora of bad drivers (who constantly feel the need to serenade others with their car horns). But you certainly can’t say it’s not memorable. We will remember our time here with some frustration, but a lot of fondness.

A trip to the Siwa Oasis in Egypt

The salt-rimmed Siwa Lake near Siwa, Egypt.

We turn away from the coast and cross an invisible line between green and orange. The UK government advises against all but essential travel here. We are about halfway into our seven-hour-drive from Alexandria to Siwa, an oasis in the Sahara Desert. Every so often we are stopped at a checkpoint and our passports are examined by soldier. Turrets with guns overlook us, a trifle menacing, but the soldiers are friendly enough.

The landscape changes subtly as we drive, scrubby bushes getting thinner and scarcer. The desert is a flat rocky floor, stretching until the curve of the earth hides it from view. Near Siwa, a few trees appear, then fields of palm trees. The sand coloured dessert is broken by blue lakes. Closer, we can see the salt that edges the lake like ice.

The Talist Ecolodge and Farm in Siwa, Egypt. — The Talist Ecolodge and Farm in Siwa, Egypt.

My excitement grows as we turn into our lodge, the Talist Ecolodge and Farm. The colour of the buildings matches the wind-carved sandstone hills behind it. A still pool mirrors the landscape. The tranquility is somewhat marred by the persistence of flies, and we retreat to the screened-in porch.

Oscar exploring the cracks and caves of the sandstone hills behind the Talist Lodge.

Within minutes of our arrival, the kids are all off exploring. Our son, Oscar, and the two children of Lou and Andy, our travelling companions. They find caves, sand hills, and petrified shells from when this desert was a sea bed. They proudly take me on a tour of the caves. I’m told their names, first cave, second cave, third cave and fourth cave. Evidently they are saving their imagination for role-playing games involving dragons and other fantasies. Jemima shows me a magic trick where she disappears into one crack and appears out of another.

Our room at Talist Ecolodge and Farm in Siwa, Egypt.

Our hut is simple but comfortable. There is no electricity so we go to bed soon after nightfall. At night I can hear the wind in the trees and feel the cool breeze on my skin and I’m feel like we are camping.

Breakfast on the second day is felafel and foul, eggs and bread, and a cheese and tomato mixture. Before our afternoon desert tour, we head into Siwa town. There are many men and children, but not many women. The women are at home. The few we do see are fully covered. Their faces are hidden by loose black cloth and they are hooded and draped in more fabric. Their garb is vaguely sinister, reminiscent of the wraiths from Lord of the Rings. My eyes slide off them uneasily, I feel like they don’t want to be seen. It’s hard to imagine that the hidden figures are regular women.

Most of the people we come across are friendly, we are greeted with smiles. "Mumkin soura, low samaht," I ask. Can I take a photo please. Aywa, yes. I'm given a good luck scarab at a shop where I perused without making a purchase. Life is unhurried here, tourists welcome.

We drive through town again on our way to the desert with our tour guide Ibrahim and his son. On our way to the desert, Ibrahim waves at most of the people we pass. Young boys in pairs or groups drive donkey-drawn wagons down the streets. Down an alley we see a small boy hit a smaller girl with a stick. “La! La!” Ibrahim shout out the window. No, No. I think this is a small town where everyone look out for each other, where the adults are parents to all the children.

At the edge of the desert Ibrahim’s son takes some air out of the tires. Soon we are speeding along the sand, revelling in the slip and slide of the vehicle. We go up a steep dune and pause on the the narrow edge. Then we are plunging down, fast. The vehicles fills with gasps, laughs, screams and low exclamations. I laugh, maniacally, a huge grin splitting my face.

We come to a stop and the kids are out, running. They climb a dune and run back down, laughing and falling. I marvel at the smooth wavy line where the sides of sand meet. This is the desert of movies and adventures. I can imagine slow, laborious steps along the peak with the sun beating down, lips cracking and dry mouth craving water. But today it is fun, we run around and expend energy freely. There is water in the vehicle and tea and biscuits for later.

The next stop is for sand boarding. Andy jumps on a board and pushes off. He is always first, says Lou. The guides encourage us to sit on the boards like a sled, but we are mad English people and one mad Canadian. We strap in our feet and sail down the sand like we are snowboarding, or surfing.

I try it only once. I sail down the hill, picking up speed, and bump over car tracks until one finally spills me. I fall into soft sand, unhurt, laughing. The climb up the sandy slope is another matter. The sand slips beneath my feet with each step until I make it to the top, gasping. After that I am content to watch the others play, and photograph the landscape as it changes with the light.

We stop at a hot spring pool on the way back. I would jump in with the others, but there are only men and children in the pool, the woman here are mostly veiled, so I dip my toes in the spring and wander the small oasis.

Back in the 4X4, we crest another steep hill, this time in the dimming light, and then stop and watch the sunset with small glass cups of tea and biscuits. Then it’s back to roads and slow driving and a dinner in the town. Next to our restaurant, crowds of Egyptians spill into the street watching the football match of Egypt versus Morocco. The crowd erupts into cheers and shouts when Egypt scores. I cheer along with them.

The third day we explore Shali, the old part of Siwa. The broken finger of the old town ruins reach up, as if a stone giant is reaching from inside the earth to grasp Siwa. We climb up stairs and winding paths and wonder what it was like when these were rooms and people lived here. Was this a well? Could this have been a dwelling? Now, it is hard to tell.

We walk further into the other side of town. Here, the old ruins are patched up inhabited. There are no women here, no girls. A group of boys hang out on a wagon. “La, la,” they says as I lift my camera. A man sits on a stoop and his eyes follow us as we pass. A few children chase us. “Take, take,” it sounds like one boy shouts. Take a photo? Or is it Arabic? “Ana mish fahma,” I say. I don’t understand.

The homes here edge the street and we walk softly, as if we are treading in people’s backyards. This is not a touristy area. I feel like I don’t belong here. I feel like it’s real. Then the street opens up into souvenir stalls and I am half relieved and half disappointed.

On the fourth morning I wake up with the sunrise and take my camera to the salt shelf of the lake, stalking a patch of still water where the flat-topped hill will be reflected. I find my photo and stop, gazing at the sand and water in the silence. I feel completely at peace and am in no rush to leave. I feel like I’ve found a place with no time. A noisy truck approaches and the spell is broken.

After lunch we leave on another tour. We go to the Temple of the Oracle, a temple where Alexander the Great was told his father was the god Zeus. Next is the Temple of Amun. It looks like a pile of rubble. At some point it was blown up in search of treasure. We elect to just drive past. At the spring of Cleopatra, the men and children jump into the deep circular pool. Lou shops and I take photos. The bathing suit I brought is modest by Canadian standards, but it would be scandalous here. I’m told I will be able to swim ash the next stop, a salt lake.

We drive out into the desert. Jonah and Oscar are deeply involved in a discussion about Plants vs Zombies. They have been inseparable for most of the trip. My eyes are usually glued to the window. We drive beside another large lake and on the other side are salt mines. Empty trucks drive in, and trucks piled high with salt drive out. Every once and a while there is a rectangular pool of water.

“Maybe this is the Salt Lake,” jokes Andy.

It was the Salt Lake.

Andy is in first, of course, and immediately bobs up. The others join him. Two of the children are soon out again, the salt stings their cuts. I pour water over Oscar’s scrapes and jump in once he has recovered. I float effortlessly in the dense, salty water. I could easily have a nap. But today, frolicking is far too much fun. Soon the children are all out, playing in the piles of salt, and the adults bob in the pool. Is this what it is like to float in space?

We discover that while the salt is pleasant in the water, once it dries it becomes progressively more painful. Ibrahim takes us to another hot spring. This one is behind a gate and full of foreigners, so I have no doubts about plunging into the deep hot pool. The stinging salt is washed away and replaced with a soothing warmth as the setting sun casts everything in a warm glow.

Back at the lodge we enjoy another lovely meal. The main dish features the unlikely combination of eggplant and ground beef and raisins. Nevertheless it is delicious. The kids go to bed, exhausted. The adults stay up late, talking about politics and books, drinking wine and rum we brought from home.

The next day we decide to stay and enjoy the Talist Lodge. Oscar and I climb the “mountains” of sandstone, swim in the pool and enjoy leisurely meals. We watch the sun dip low in the cloudless sky. It throws out a blanket of warm light before it disappears, leaving behind a pale pink glow. It is Samhain and the veil between the world of the living and the world of the dead is thin. That night we chat by the fire while the kids make robots out of bottles and mud.

The drive home is mostly uneventful. Soldiers do the same cursory check of the trunk at each checkpoint. There is a bit of excitement when we pass through a desert storm. The driver slows, uncertain. The storm passes and we are on our way again, careening down the desert road at 140 km/hr, bouncing jauntily. The empty desert is replaced with buildings and light, the silence with cars honking and engines revving, and we know we are back in the city, home.

Upper Egypt Trip - Part Seven - Aswan and Abu Simbel

The view from the Ekadolli Nubian Guesthouse in Nubian Village on the west bank of Aswan.

The hilarious comedian driver with 25 imaginary children drove us from Luxor to Aswan in a minibus. This time, he was mercifully succint.

Halfway to Aswan we stopped at the Edfu temple. I was pretty impressed with Edfu, a newer temple from the Ptolemaic Period dedicated to Horus. It is a few thousand years younger than Hatshepsut Temple and very well preserved. It even had a roof. It fell into disuse a few hundred years after it was built when non-Christian worship was banned and it was gradually buried in under 12 metres of sand.

Edfu Temple

Hidden staircase

A small opening in the wall led to a staircase that climbed the height of the temple, the walls covered in carvings.

Hieorglyphs

Edfu was built during the Ptolemaic period. The Ptolemys were Greek but they carried on building in the Egyptian style with Egyptian hieroglyphs.

Hallway at Edfu

A ring of hallways and chambers surrounded the sanctuary at Edfu.

Chamber at Edfu

Many of the carvings of ancient egyptian gods were chiseled out when the Christians came to power.

As we left Edfu, we once again lost Bob. When we found him he was dressed up in a galabeya, the traditional loose ankle-length robe worn by some Egyptians. The salesman was looking very pleased with himself and offered us the “very low price” of 700 Egyptian pounds for the garment. We declined and attempted to extricate dad from the situation with a speedy escape, but our bus driver of many children was no where to be found. While we waited, the vendor stuck to us, lowering the price in drip and drabs. I offered to buy it for 100 pounds. The salesman swore up and down that he had paid 160 for it. He was either a horrible business person or lying through his teeth. He did end up selling it to me for my original price of 100 Egyptian pounds although he sulked and stalked away, only to return, once again cheerful, with more galabeyas for sale. Fortunately the bus driver turned up and we escaped.

We only lost sight of Bob for a few minutes, but this is how we found him at the bazaar at Edfu.

It turned out the galabeya came in very handy at our next resort. It was 41°C and the cool cotton galabeya was dad’s garment of choice. He wore it every morning for the rest of the trip. He likes it so much he asked Mom to find him pattern and make him a few more, including a winter version.

Once more in the minibus, our driver offered to stop at Kom Ombo, another temple, but we were all tired and a bit templed out so we unanimously passed.

Somewhere along the way, Richard said the words I’ve learned to dread… “You’re not going to believe this…”

He’d booked the hotel for the wrong day.

He gave us a crooked smile, no doubt hoping we would be amused. Look what Richard has done now, chuckle, chuckle. Aw, shucks.

We stared at him balefuly.

He looked down and beavered away on his phone and managed to book another room at the same hotel for that night.

The hotel was stayed at was called the Ekadolli Nubian Guesthouse and it was on the west bank of the Nile in a Nubian village called “Nubian Village.” It looked like it had seen better days but it was a very good price. The room we were first given was a bit reminiscent of a prison cell with no windows, not a great look for a hotel room, but we were grateful to even have a room after the mix-up. Then, without us even asking, they offered to move us to a couple of much nicer rooms on the top level for the same price.

The food at Ekadolli was absolutely amazing. We didn’t order, they just brought out a selection of deliciousness. The top floor also had a large open terrace where I could lie down and watch the stars. That night I watched the stars for about 30 seconds and before I dragged myself to my room and collapsed into bed, exhausted.

The view from a terrace at Ekadolli Nubian Guesthouse in Aswan.

The next day was an early start and then off to Abu Simbel. The guesthouse had packed us a breakfast of eggs, bread and cheese for our journey. Abu Simbel was an impressive temple but this one came with a three-hour journey on each side and at 5am start which dulled the impact. If you are going to make the journey to Abu Simbel, I recommend doing it first, before you’re templed out. The artwork was beautiful but we were not allowed to take any photos inside, which I just find painful.

Abu Simbel almost ended up under a lake. In the 1960s, the Aswan High Dam was being planned which would have caused the two temples at Abu Simbel to be submerged underwater. They were cut into 16,000 blocks and moved 200 metres to the top of the cliff where they were reassembled at a cost of a cool $40 million. Everything was put back in the same position and facing exactly the same angle. It’s impressive. I struggle to put together an Ikea table.

We stopped for lunch in the Abu Simbel village. Our driver volunteered to get us food at Egyptian prices rather than getting extortionate touristy crap. We had five felafel sandwiches and two bottles of water for 25 Egyptian pounds (about $2 Canadian) and it was absolutely delicious.

We got back to the hotel in the sweltering desert heat. Sitting under the ceiling fan was like sitting under a blowdryer. We unanimously decided to move to a hotel with a pool. We felt bad telling our host, who had been lovely and accommodating, but we were seriously melting.

Later in the afternoon our host took us on a tour of the Nubian Village and a Nubian house. I was in a better mood, knowing that I would be able to jump into a pool tomorrow, so I was super excited to get out and do some photography. My dad and Richard came out as well while mother wisely abstained.

The village turned out to be a market with mostly the same touristy crap we’d seen everywhere, although I found some nice dried herbs. I did buy some calendula after a hard haggle to get the price down to a reasonable level. I would have bought more but I just didn’t have the energy to bargain. It was that kind of heat that just sucks the will to live right out of you.

The Nubian house turned out to be a touristy tea place with an extremely depressed looking crocodile in a relatively small cage. I really hate that kind of thing. I wanted to let it out but I didn’t want to get arrested or be responsible for a vengeful crocodile massacre. I think the heat was addling my brain. We refused tea.

Our guide took us to the bank of the Nile and offered to take us on a boat ride. At this point I was very grateful that my dad dislikes boats so I could totally throw him under the bus.

“I’d love to go but my dad can’t do boats,” I said, trying to sound regretful.

We headed back to the hotel via a “shortcut” that consisted of slogging uphill through thick sand. If this dude was trying to exact revenge on us, it was working. I stopped occasionally to “take pictures,” breath heaving and sweat collecting in some very uncomfortable places. I’m amazed any of those photos turned out since they were pretty much taken on autopilot.

We finally arrived back at the hotel, kicking sand out of our shoes and coated with a mixture of sweat and grit. I slogged up the stairs to see Mom lounging on the patio under a ceiling fan nursing a rum and coke on ice. I shot her a dirty/envious look.

An hour later, after a shower and change, sitting under the setting sun in the cooling air, eating another amazing meal, I was a bit sad we were leaving.

The next morning the hotel arranged a driver for us to take us to the Pyramisa Isis Corniche Resort. We picked this resort because it had a pool and we could just afford it. I asked for rooms near the pool and we were “upgraded” to rooms as far away from the pool as you can get, down a narrow cement corridor. Even though only we saw five other guests the whole time we were there. Turned out the hotel was fairly soulless with lacklustre food, wierdly dark bathrooms and bonus cockroaches in the room. It did have a pool though. And the location right on the Nile was fantastic.

I was a bit relieved to leave the next day. Back home to Alexandria. No more having to worry about the state of the hotel we were headed to or booking mix-ups. We got through the multiple layers of security at Aswan airport and settled for a short wait until our flight.

Except Rich couldn’t find his iPad.

He’d left it in the room. Aaaaargh. He loves that iPad. He’s on there all the time. If I was on a sinking ship and the iPad was on another sinking ship and he had a rescue boat, I’m not 100 percent sure he’d come get me first.

He called the hotel. No answer. I can make it to the hotel and back in time, he said. Only if you’ve developed a superpower and can freeze time. He managed to look panicked and degected at the same time. I hugged him. His hands were shaking.

Richard called the driver that had taken us to the hotel. Miraculoulsy the driver agreed to go to the hotel to see if he could get the iPad. We searched for the hotel’s phone number online with no luck. Then mom came through, dredging up a hotel business card with a working phone number from her purse and Rich managed to get through. They said they would look and hung up. Rich called back, they’d found the iPad and the driver arrived. The iPad was on it’s way! Rich would have to go out and come back in through three sets of security. The bus arrived to take us to the plane. Oscar and I waited while mom and dad boarded. Rich texted that he was on his way. A bus load of people had arrived at security just before Richard. The second and last bus pulled up. The last few people boarded. Oscar and I, at the end of the line, came up to the boarding agent. We need to wait for my husband, I explained in broken Arabic. I looked over my shoulder, I saw him!

Rich arrived!

With his iPad!!

Hooray!!!

We got on the plane, all of us and all of our devices.

I was truly amazed at this driver. He’d met us only once but he’d driven to the hotel and brought Rich his iPad even though a hundred things could have gone wrong and he very probably wasn’t going to get paid anything. The hotel might not have found the iPad. The flight might have left. The traffic might have been bad. Hotel security might not have let him in.

In any case, he did get paid, plus a very grateful tip. Plus a big unexpected hug from Richard.

If you ever need a driver in Aswan, here is one you can definitely trust:

Fared Abdallh Mohamed Salyn
Tour Manager
Hand Stuff Nodu (Don’t ask me what this means)
fared_pop@hotmail.com
01220719865

Upper Egypt Trip - Part Six - Pickup Truck Tour of the Desert

It was our last day in Luxor. Our host, Mahmoud, offered to take us out to the desert villages in the back of a pickup truck. They’d prepared the truck bed with an assortment of chairs, carpets and colourful cushions. The final look was somewhere between a Maharaja’s palace and a redneck bush party.

My mother (or her majesty queen of Luxor as she now likes to be called) sat on her “throne” with her hat and fan, waving graciously at the villagers. Most of the Egyptians we passed waved back and seemed delighted and amused by our strange parade. A few kids even hopped on the truck for a short ride. We were greeted with shouts of “welcome” and broad grins wherever we went, a far cry from the “death to infidels” nonsense peddled by the media. I was glad my parents got to experience the generous warmth of these people.

I had a great time observing and capturing little snippets of daily life on camera. Dad was snapping away as well. He seemed incredibly happy during the tour and said that despite the heat, he could have done it all day. I had a similar sentiment. It was one of my favourite experiences of the entire trip.

Dusty and windblown, we stopped for a quick tour and cold drink at El Moudira, a beautiful and tranquil hotel in the desert. We all tried to behave around the posh people. Then we were back on the road.

Our destination was St Tawdros (St Theodore's) Coptic Orthodox Christian Monastery, in the desert near Medinet Habu. We removed our shoes and stepped reverently in the quite, peaceful chapel. The walls contained both carvings of Coptic crosses and hieroglyphs from recycled stone originating in nearby temples.

Afterwards we visited the gift shop where a variety of goods could be found. It was a strange mix of religious items and cheap plastic toys. We bought some frankincense and locally made honey. One nun demonstrated plastic cross that came apart to show it was also a pen. She seemed to think it was the best thing ever, but sadly there were no takers.

That night, back at Nile Compound, we sat on the balcony, smoked shisha and played cinquante-huit (a french card game). I was slightly concerned about Aswan and my next budget hotel choice but I didn’t let it bother me. Que sera sera.

Upper Egypt Trip - Part Four - The Journey to Luxor

We were all up early due to city noises and insect bites. Richard went to the lobby to see if we could get our car to the airport earlier than we’d booked it, eager to put the Boutique Paradise Hotel behind us. He returned saying they’d looked a bit hurt saying, “But we have the coffee on.” Shortly afterwards they arrived with trays of eggs, fruit and freshly brewed coffee and tea, at no charge. I guess breakfast was included. We wolfed down our food, a bit chagrined about the amount of time we’d spent searching for breakfast the day before.

The car arrived and we were off to the airport. I was excited about this part of the journey. We were headed to Nile Compound in Luxor. It’s a little piece of heaven on the west bank that we’d visited in November. This trip was about to get much better.

We arrived at the airport, nice and early, and breezed through security. It was all going to get better from here. A short flight and we’d be picked up the airport and taken to a real paradise, sipping cocktails by the pool, surrounded by fragrant colourful flowers.

The check-in lady looked at our tickets for an inordinate amount of time. A thread of worry started to creep into my poolside reverie.

“Go there,” she said brusquely, gesturing towards a closed counter manned by a dude who was doing a lacklustre job of trying to look busy.

The thread of worry started knitting into a light sweater. We fumed and fretted quietly while moving the next counter. The check-in dude looked up at us. No Arabic was needed to understand his look said “Why are you here?”

“She sent us,” I said, indicating the lady who’d just passed the buck. She studiously ignored him. Maybe he owed her one.

Heavy sigh.

Another inordinate amount of time was spent staring at tickets and I was getting a little peeved at the lack of service.

“You need to go to the sales counter,” he said.

You’re kidding.

My parents, Oscar and I sat and waited while Richard went back out though security in search of the sales counter. After a long time spent fidgeting and trying to unravel the caftan of worry knitting in my brain, I called Richard.

“We have to get on the the next flight,” he said. The flight wasn’t for another six hours.

I launched into a tirade about how they should upgrade us to first class and this was ridiculous. Richard was suspiciously silent.

“Actually, they are doing us a favour.”

Turns out Rich had booked the flights for May instead of April.

All I could do was laugh and feel grateful that it wasn’t me who royally screwed up. Fortunately my parents were cool about it. We had a 6-hour wait at the domestic area of terminal three with has a total of one exorbitantly expensive cafe and one ridiculously pricey duty-free shop.

Thank goodness for devices. I collected a good amount of Candy Crush boosters.

A good seven hours later we were picked up at the airport. The driver regaled us with fables about his 25 kids and five wives. Mom was having none of it.

“Don’t you believe me?” he asked.

“Honestly, no,” she replied bluntly.

No flies on her. I was so proud. Turns out he has one wife and two kids. We ain’t no gullible tourists dude.

We finally arrived at our little paradise and I was pleased to see it had only changed for the better. We had an apartment this time, with a balcony overlooking the Nile. Heaven.

Rich probably thought he was redeemed now that we’d arrived. My parents thought the place was fantastic.

“Would have been better five hours ago,” they agreed.

Upper Egypt Trip - Part Three - Pyramids and Camels

The Gendrons and Galloways at the Great Pyramids of Giza.

I woke up in the morning, fresh-faced and ready for the day, with a few more mosquito bites on my face. At this point I looked like a pimply teen. With wrinkles.

We rounded up my parents and tried to scare up some breakfast before our exciting day of exploring pyramids. McDonalds was closed so we headed over to GAD, the Egyptian food chain. We asked for fried egg sandwiches and but we were given LTs (BLTs without the bacon).

After breakfast we went to a cafe and asked for coffee. We were given ahwa. Ahwa is Arabic for coffee but means Turkish coffee. Great for those who like to chew their morning beverage. Yum. Fortunately we warned my mom not to down the end of her coffee so she didn’t have a gritty surprise.

We tracked down our bus with our guide, Azazza, and we were off to Saqqara to see the first known pyramid, the Step Pyramid, built for Djoser in the third dynasty.

The Step Pyramid was pretty neat although some of the effect was lost because of the scaffolding on the sides. Apparently they had attempted to “repair” this pyramid that had been standing for more than 4000 years, and they caused more damage. It was a bit of a shame but I loved the entrance and the temples around the pyramid. We visited the tomb of Kagemni, the first tomb where I’ve been able to take photos (no flash of course). The intricate carvings were amazing and some even retained the original paint.

In the distance we saw the Red Pyramid and the Bent Pyramid. The Bent Pyramid was Sneferu’s first attempt at a pyramid. The angle of the sides changes near the top, giving it a bent appearance. I think they realized the original angle was a bit too ambitious and switched to a shallower angle, hoping the big guy wouldn't notice. Sneferu was not pleased with the results. I personally think heads might have rolled. He then had the Red Pyramid built. Probably with new staff. This was first pyramid with the classical form and even sides. Sneferu’s son Khufu would then go on to build the Great Pyramid.

I looked at these distant pyramids wistfully. I tend to like the less important (and less touristy) places where you can get a real sense of the place. Not that I don’t love seeing white people in cargo shorts and safari hats, operating cameras badly and loudly pointing out the obvious. My parents basically fit that description and they’re lovely. All two of them. A bus load, not so much.

We piled into the van and headed off to Giza to see the Great Pyramids. Unfortunately they are so Great that the afore-mentioned tourists visit in droves. I’d been there a few times before but this time was different. I got to experience the wonder of seeing it the first time through my parents eyes.

They said it was smaller than they thought it would be.

Our guide, Azazza, gave us some helpful hints for dealing with vendors before we approached the pyramids. Rule number one "Don't let them hand you anything." She should have made Dad hold someone's hand. He kept wandering off. Azazza would start her spiel of fascinating information, only to stop mid-way. "We've lost Bob." Once time, when Bob returned, he was decked out in various pieces of touristy crap including a scarf wrapped around his head with his belongings in a plastic bag. Unbelievably, this was not the only time this would happen.

My son, Oscar, had been drawing pyramids since we first decided to move to Egypt. He was very disappointed when our apartment was a rectangular shape. Every time we passed a mound of dirt on the road he would ask if it was a pyramid. Now that were were at real pyramids, he was more excited to see his grandparents than the ancient structures.

Another draw to Egypt for Oscar were the camels. Of course, he wanted to do a camel ride. Everyone piped up with reasons they couldn’t go with him. Arthritis, old legs, bad knees etc. As the youngest (and best-looking) adult, I gamely stepped up to the plate. I limberly hopped up onto the waiting camel. And realized my legs don’t go that wide anymore. I was told to move back to make room for Oscar. This would be towards the wider part of the camel. The pain was… let say excruciating. I plastered a smile on my face that was somewhere between a grimace and a silent panicked scream.

Note to self, must get back into yoga.

After my pain dulled to a low flame, the ride was marginally enjoyable. Ozzie got a kick out of it. I didn't risk moving my legs. For me, it was pretty cool to see the only remaining wonder of the world, a structure that has endured for 4500 years. But, unsurprisingly it hadn’t changed much in the 15 years since the last time I saw it. Saqqara was by far my favourite place, and we only scratched the surface. Hopefully we will get a chance to go back.

I did learn a lot. Our guide was great. I learned they carved the Sphinx out of a block of limestone in the quarry that they couldn’t move. The Great Pyramid was built at Giza because it was a big faux pas to build a bigger pyramid right next to your daddy's pyramid.

And of course I learned to have an excuse ready when camels are in the vicinity.

Upper Egypt Trip - Part One - Train to Cairo

It was a long wait at the train station, and now I had found my row, son in tow, but there were people in our seats. I’d heard of this happening in Egypt. I squared my shoulders.

“You’re in my seat,” I proclaimed, in what I hoped was an authoritative tone.

My tone had approximately zero effect. The interlopers trying to steal my way to Cairo stared resolutely ahead. More passengers were pressing in from behind me.

“Look!” I said, brandishing my tickets which clearly stated these exact seat numbers.

“I have the same seat numbers,” said a voice behind me. It was one of those matter-of-fact no-nonsense sturdy Egyptian ladies that you do not want to mess with. She was wearing a jaunty pink hijab, somewhat at odds with her stern demeanor.

Oi, is it possible they triple-booked these seats? I pictured my parents arriving at the Cairo airport early the next morning with no one to greet them. I trembled.

“Let me see those tickets,” said the not-to-be-messed-with Egyptian lady. Of course I handed them over, a split second after she snatched them from my hand. My 6-year-old son Oscar started getting a bit twitchy, sensing my tension. I could feel sweat starting to sprout from my pores. I glanced desperately towards the other end of the carriage where my husband was waiting with the bags.

“This is the wrong date,” the lady informed me, indicating the tickets. I stared at the Arabic numbers on the paper but my brain stubbornly refused to translate.

“I can’t read this,” I said to myself.

“It’s in English here,” said the lady dryly. “See, it says Apr 4, and it’s Apr 14.”

You know that sinking feeling, the dread, when you realize things are about to go horribly wrong.

Yeah, I had that.

The next few minutes are a bit of a panicked blur. I remember looking over the heads of the passengers trying to get past me, towards my husband, who couldn’t see me. At some point my son’s twitchiness turned to distress as we got pushed into the treacherous space between cars. Richard managed to make his way to us as I tried to explain our situation to various people, hoping to find someone who worked there or knew something. Oscar started crying in earnest and attempted to flee the train despite my iron grip on his slippery, sweaty hand.

Then the train pulled away.

Oscar screamed, I sweated, and Richard fumed.

“You will have to pay a fine and there will be no seats,” a man said.

Great, three hours standing on a train with three suitcases and a screaming child. Richard and I looked at each other in despair.

Then, the pink hijab lady came and saved the day.

“There are lots of seats here,” she said, regarding the ill-informed man disdainfully. “Come with me.”

She sorted out seats for us, checked on us during the journey, booked us a cab to get us to the hotel and even directed us out of Ramesses station, waited for the car and made sure we got in. All while wrangling a large family group with small children, pulling her luggage with one hand and carrying a baby in the other arm.

She brushed off our thanks saying she knows what it’s like, having been lost in Europe before.

As we piled into the car while issuing additional profuse thanks, I wished I’d gotten her name, but it is nice to know there are good people out there.

Rouqayah’s Ranch

After a few days at Rouqayah’s Ranch we are full of fresh air and healthy organic food. My hair is full of bounce. I’m convinced it’s from the fresh well water, a welcome change from the heavily chlorinated tap water in Alex. Even the pool at the ranch is full of untreated fresh water. The water gets emptied into the fields every few days and the pool gets refilled for the next guest.

Oscar got to meet a lot of friendly farm animals and one unfriendly hissing goose. I’ve never been a fan of geese, swans or opossums. I’ve been hissed at by all three and I’m convinced they are mean, nasty creatures. We had a roasted bird for lunch the next day and I was rather hoping it was the offending goose. Turns out it was duck. I'm not worried, his day will come.

We were unusually close to our food. We saw a cow being milked and the milk was used in our pasta sauce the next day. We saw the lettuce being picked that would end up in our salad an hour later. We toured the fields with olive trees, wheat, barley, fig trees, banana trees, vegetables and herbs. Much of the food we saw in the fields would be used for the olive oil, jams, salads and meals for future guests. Instead of a hundred-mile market, our food all came from a 100-metre non-market. Farm to table at it's finest.

Oscar had two horseback riding lessons on a beautiful mare, Asal. He’s a natural. Oscar, not the horse. I'm sure the horse is a natural as well. If they've started mass producing artificial horses, I missed the memo. I was so proud. Of Oscar. He was riding on his own after 30 minutes. I completely trusted Rouqayah and Hassam to assess his ability and take care of him during the lesson. Later, Oscar and I had a hilariously fun bouncy donkey cart ride. Totally worth the butt splinters.

The downside of the trip? The weather. We’d kind of banked on the pool providing entertainment for Oscar, but it was quite cold and windy. Everything is usually more fun in the pool but he went in for a couple of minutes and was shivering like an electric toothbrush. After the failed pool experiment, the horse and donkey rides, game of footy, game of catch, playing with the dogs, playing with the cats, an hour on the kindle, countless rounds of UNO and various animal introductions, this is what my son had to say:

“I’m bored - there’s nothing to do!”

Oi.

Fortunately our host, Rouqayah, in addition to looking after all her animals and her crops and cooking up lovely organic meals, still has time to “borrow” an easily-bored six-year-old to “help” around the farm. Rouqayah is a British lady who moved to Egypt on her own with only a smattering of Arabic and started a farm. Respect. I get thrown for loop trying to mail a letter.

Party like an Egyptian

A spontaneous dance-off at the BSA Staff Kids Party in Alexandria.

There was lots of music, dancing and laughter at the BSA Staff Kids Party today. These are the families of the staff at the British School Alexandria where Richard works. I got a chance to practise my limited Arabic and snap some fun photos. One of the things I love about Egyptians is the adults get right in there and play with the kids. These guys know how to enjoy a party!

Karnak

Last week we went to Karnak in Luxor (formerly known as Thebes). We’d been there before, along with throngs of cruise ship passengers. This time there were relatively few tourists.

Karnak is a complex of temples that were built over 2000 years and cover more than 100 hectares. It is the largest ancient religious preservation in the world. Enormous statues tower over the Great Hypostyle Hall, which looks like it was built for giants. Every inch of eerie dark tomb walls are covered in hieroglyphics. It's hard to imagine how it could have been built thousands of years ago. Some parts are as much as 4000 years old. It’s impressive, to say the least.

Braving the bazaar

A restaurant and souvenir stand near the Mortuary Temple of Hatshepsut.

We were sitting on our patio at Nile Compound chatting with our American neighbours. (These were the only real-life Trump supporters I’ve ever met and seemed completely normal, no horns or anything.) They were telling us about their technique for getting through the souvenir pedlars at tourist sites in Luxor, involving a head-down-no-eye-contact approach. I’m familiar with this technique having been the recipient of it as a photographer on cruise ships but I get it. The “bazaar” as it’s called is the area of the entrance to a tourist site that is lined on both sides by people who will try all manner of tricks to sell their wares. I took to calling it the “gauntlet”.

The first time I entered a Luxor bazaar was at Valley of Kings. Being the only tourists in the bazaar we didn’t have our usual option of darting through the crowd unmolested. After a few steps I was handed a stone figurine which the seller wouldn’t take back. I put the figurine down at a random stall and found it back in my hands seconds later. Meanwhile other vendor were crowding around, shouting. One put a gawd awful hat on my head. Richard bought a guide book the Valley of Kings and one for a place we didn’t even visit. I ended up buying the figurine having unintentionally bargained down to 1/5th of the original price while trying to return it.

We put our heads down and scooted through the rest of the bazaar. We spent the next few hours in the quiet of the desert or exploring tombs. On the way out we needed to pass through the same marketplace. It was empty of tourists, full of vendors. I squared my shoulders and reluctantly headed towards the vendors shouting greetings.

“Once more unto the breach,” I muttered to myself.

This time there was a new trick. Free stuff. Trinkets mostly. I would try to give them back. “No money, no money, it’s a gift” they would say. I was given a necklace and Oscar a scarab, a pendant and a stone pyramid. By George it worked. I felt obligated to enter the stall and at least look. My perception changed. I discovered if I answered “Alexandria” when they asked where I was from, the tone changed. The bazaar felt less like battle and more like fun.

By Hatshepsut’s temple I was a bargaining pro-star. Meaning I was actually buying things I wanted instead of whatever was thrust into my hands. All manner of souvenirs lined the stalls including basalt figurines, alabaster carvings, gemstone pyramids, scarves, hats, clothes and Egyptian cotton.

There was a pattern of sorts. Vendors would cheerfully start the negotiations at an absurdly high price, I would go absurdly low and after a jovial bartering session we would both be happy. Me, because I’d got them down to a fraction of the original price, and them because they’d still made a tidy profit. A few times I was given a gift of a scarf or some carved stone after the bargain was struck and the price paid.

Knowing that tourism in Egypt was in a bad way I was happy to spread some of our meagre wealth around.

The common refrain we heard was “we love tourists.” One gentlemen pleaded with me to tell my friends that Egypt is safe. “There is no problem here,” he stated emphatically. I agreed, saying I live in Egypt and have never felt unsafe. The most negative experience I had was probably the post office, but post office suck all over the world. In Canada I’ve been frustrated with the 47 types of ID you need if you don’t happen to have your driver’s license on you, and paying extortionate rates for parking while not managing to actually pick up the bloody package. See! I’m get riled up just thinking about it.

So, my friends, here is my attempt to keep my promise and tell you about Egypt.

1. In my opinion, Egypt is probably as safe as anywhere in Europe. Nowhere is really “safe,” but I for one refuse to let terrorists make me live in fear. I will be smart and use common sense, but I will not cower. As for the revolutions, I’m far from an expert but things seem to have stabilized. There were protests scheduled for November 11 but it looks like no one turned up. I can think of a few western nations more likely to have a revolution than Egypt.

2. This is great time to visit Egypt. The last time I went to Karnak, it was full of tourists shuffling along at a glacial pace like a horde of zombies wearing pleated shorts, knee high socks and fanny packs. This time we strolled around at will, enjoyed the relative silence and were able to soak in the beauty and majesty of the place in our own time.

3. For the most part, Egyptians are friendly towards westerners. Many Egyptian know some English and love to practise, and if you can muster a few words of Arabic it is much appreciated. If Egyptians have ever been are slagging me off, I was unaware. Personally I’m ashamed when I read news reports that Muslim women are afraid to wear a hijab in my home continent, and I walk around Egypt unveiled with no issues. You can expect more tolerance here.

3. Cell coverage and data is great. Send emails. Avoid the post office.

Vacation on the Nile - West Bank, Luxor

Last week we left the city behind for a vacation on the west bank of the Nile in Luxor.

We took the overnight train from Alexandria and I remember waking up, the morning sun slanting in the window and painting the country scenes out the window in an orange light. In the patchwork of fields, men and women harvested crops by hand or plowed fields with a donkey. Every piece of fertile land was being used to grow, even the narrow strip of land between the train and the river.

Where we stayed on the west bank we were surrounded by fields and small villages. Aside from the odd car or scooter, the donkey was the main mode of transportation, both carrying people and pulling carts. In fact, aside from the occasional motor vehicle, the west bank looked like it could have been frozen in time for hundreds of years. Unlike the city, all women were veiled and all men wore a robe (I believe it’s called a Galabeya) and a head scarf.

As I strolled the streets, some women would dash away with their children in tow when they caught sight of me. Others were friendly and agreed to have photos taken. Once, a group of children crowded around chattering in Arabic and a smattering of English. Sometimes the men would look at me with vague suspicion, but a cheery “sabah el khreer” (good morning) from me would engender a friendly response, often with a face transformed, wreathed in smiles.

We got the most smiles during a slightly embarrassing donkey ride that Oscar loved and seemed to provide a lot of entertainment for the locals. We must have been a sight, a couple of slightly portly white folks on skinny donkeys, Rich with his feet almost touching the ground. Many villagers waved at us and we felt obliged to wave back from our modest steeds, like part of a funny tourist parade or a parody of the royal family.

We stayed for four nights at Nile Compound with our hosts were Elsa and Mahmoud. Elsa is German and taught Oscar how to say “guten Tag” and play Uno. Mahmoud is Egyptian and helped us sort out transportation to all of the sites and sorted trips to the bank machine and train station. Both made us feel very welcome and comfortable.

During our stay we would wake up to coffee on the patio and breakfasts of eggs, pancakes, fresh juice, fruit and yogurt. Between our excursions we would enjoy the serenity of the compound. I can recall with perfect clarity, floating on the pool in the sunshine, listening to Oscar’s giggles while Richard did etchings in his journal.

On the last day they took us on a felucca ride to Banana Island. A felucca is a wooden sail boat and Banana Island is an island with lots of bananas (more about that later). By the end of our stay, as they saw us off to the train station with a packed lunch, it felt like they were family.

For more information about Nile Compound visit their Facebook Page. I'm not being paid to promote them, honest. It is so easy to complain when something is wrong, but when you get great service it is important to be just as enthusiastic in your praise. These guys deserve it!

Ancient Egypt and modern politics

Some folks may profess that women can not run a country because of “female issues” but I’m sure Queen Hatshepsut would beg to differ. She ruled Egypt successfully and peaceably for 20 years with zero menstrual-cycle-fueled calls to war. This was 3500 years ago and she was not the first or last female ruler of Egypt.

She did have her issues breaking the glass ceiling. She had herself portrayed as a male with a beard to assert her authority and Thutmose III tried to eradicate her memory by destroying or defacing her monuments. But we’ve had a few thousand years to get over our unwarranted prejudices.

Last week we visited Deir el-Bahari and the temple Djeser-djeseru which Hatshepsut had built, an architectural wonder of ancient Egypt and one of her many accomplishments. I was impressed, not only with the beauty and majesty of the structure, but that I could touch a piece of ancient, enduring proof of the strength of Hatshepsut and the potential legacy of future female leaders.

Two months of living in Egypt

A building outside my regular coffee shop in Alexandria.

I’ve been in Egypt just over two months now and I’m getting to know the neighbourhood. I'm still not a huge fan of Roushdy (where the post office is) but the Wingat area to the east is pleasant and starting to feel more familiar. I’ve adopted a local coffee shop, baker, market and produce vendor. When I walk to and from the school I often exchange a small wave or head nod with a boab or a vendor who recognizes me. It’s a small thing but it makes me feel more like a part of the community.

Many of the folks who used to stare at me appear to have gotten bored, since I pass by them four or more times a day and I am really not that fascinating to look at. Venturing further out of my regular area I do still get some looks. Sometimes I pretend that I am a super famous actress trying to be incognito. Next time I’m considering wearing a headscarf, sunglasses, high heels and bright red lipstick. Not sure if I would get more looks or less looks that way.

I’m still not great at discerning who is being genuinely friendly and who is being weird. I chatted with an old man today who seemed friendly enough and asked me to take his photo. Later he called me over and insisted I take a photo of a dog, grabbing it by the scruff of the neck until it whimpered. I yelled at him to stop and he did, but I was left a bit shaken.

I think most Egyptians are genuinely friendly though. It helps that I’ve been taking Arabic lessons. I’ve noticed that since I started using Arabic in the open-air market the prices have dropped by about one third. Egyptian vendors seem to be very trusting. Often if I don’t have small change they will say I can pay next time. When "next time" arrives and I try to pay, they seem to have completely forgotten about it.

Kids are much loved in Egypt. They are welcome anywhere, including restaurants, and tend to get fussed over. Oscar, being 6-years-old and blond, attracts a lot of attention. He (and I) have gotten used to having his hair ruffled by strangers. If I ever want really good service I bring him along. There is a dour bread baker near my apartment but when I get Oscar to buy the bread he actually cracks a smile. Oscar loves coming to the grocery store with me because someone will often sneak him a candy.

We rode the tram to the mall the other day and Oscar had a bit of a meltdown when there were no seats available. At the next stop, some Egyptians saved a seat for us so he could sit down. Then when Oscar was getting off the tram forgetting his toy on the seat, a man ran after us and gave it back to him.

The biggest surprise about Egypt is how safe it feels. Before I arrived I was very concerned about terrorism and local attitude towards foreigners and women. I’ve had a few… uncomfortable moments, but I have never felt unsafe. I’ve walked around by myself at night plenty of times with no issues at all. It’s probably safer here at night then many western places because there are no drunk hoodlums around.

I post here when I have something to say, but I've started posting daily photos on instagram. If you want to see the random things that take my fancy, you can follow me.

Post office fail and the Egyptian wave

Last week was great. I had a fantastic day at the beach, unexpectedly enjoyed water polo, listened to Oscar’s dance teacher rave about him, did some design work that I’m proud of and had a fun girls night on the town.

I’d had a string of good days so I guess I was due a bad one.

It started with a walk to the post office to mail a letter. I’d made this attempt before but when I reached the location indicated by google maps it looked like the building had been abandoned for centuries. Turns out the post office was closed (it closes at 2pm) and that’s just how it looks.

Today the post office was there. It looked like the entrance to one of those secret clubs you see in the movies, where it doesn’t look like anything from the outside but it has a lavish interior full of laughter and cocktails. In this case, the dimly lit interior looked like a post office from the gold rush era, but much rougher. Everything was a shade of brown and the post office workers ignored agitated customers from behind dull metal grates. A few neglected rusty chairs were scattered around. Arabic wording was scrawled on crooked signs that lined the walls.

Everyone in the building avoided eye contact with me. There was a line of ladies and a line of men so I joined the line of ladies. I was in no particular rush so I figured I’d just see what happened.

Unfortunately I’d forgotten that the concept of the “line up” or “queue” is literally a foreign concept in Egypt. “Those who shove the hardest shall be served the soonest,” seems to be the local proverb. It became apparent that it was each man for himself. A small-town Canadian girl like me stood no chance.

Several men and women had shoved in front of me and I began to doubt my chances of successfully mailing this letter. Also, I wasn’t totally sure I wanted to be at the front of the line with frantic post office goers leaning over me and shouting.

Staring at the multiple signs in flowing Arabic was no help to my plight. I hadn’t realized that most signs I’ve come across in Egypt have English on them. Not so at the post office. For all I know they read “Get your toes pierced here,” or “Poisonous spider adoption sign-up today.”

I held up my letter and asked for help from anyone unfortunate enough to make eye contact with me, however brief. My Arabic training has not yet delved into the murky world of post office dealings, so my pleas were in English, but fairly obvious nonetheless given my location and the addressed, unstamped letter in my hand.

After being ignored by the first few people, I got, what I call, the “Egyptian wave.” Based on my observations I believe it is a method for locals to get rid of you without actually helping you. It usually involves a loose hand flap in a vague direction and very little eye contact. I once spent fifteen minutes searching a section of the supermarket for garlic that did not exist due to this wave.

Regardless of the validity of the direction of said wave, I headed that way, only to be shoved aside by someone, I suppose, with an urgent need to mail a letter immediately. Maybe it was a scientist rushing to warn of an impending earthquake, or a reporter with a scoop on a breaking news story. It became clear that in the letter mailing category of Egyptian life, I was severely outmatched. My frustration with the situation and the anxiety that was building up in the hot, crowded, noisy room outweighed my desire to send the letter and I beat a hasty retreat.

Outside the building I gulped down some fresh(ish) air and the panic subsided. Not to be completely beaten, I decided to take some photos on the way back. I started taking a photo of a pretty tree with a white balcony behind it and got scolded in Arabic by a finger-waving Egyptian man. Why, I have no idea, but I heard of people thrown in jail for accidentally photographing a military installation so I briskly continued on my way.

And almost got hit by a taxi.

At this point I was feeling quite defeated and I just wanted to go home and lick my wounded pride. To be honest, I was fighting a strong wave of homesickness.

I was almost at my apartment when a gentleman I often wave to outside of a nursery school on my street waved me over. He asked if I would take some photos of children. Odd request, yes, but maybe this was my failure of a day about to turn around. As he led me to the supervisor I thought to myself that maybe I could take some nice photos, email them to the school and make some friends in the neighbourhood.

“What do you want,” demanded the supervisor. I felt a strong urge to leave. I tried explaining that I was asked here. She and the gentleman got into a heated debate as I eyed up the exit. I was handed off to the another lady.

“What do you want?” said the lady. Sweet lord in heaven. Once again, I attempted to explain, edging toward the doorway. “We don’t need any photographer,” she said adamantly. I got the feeling they thought I was giving them the hard sell and the other two jumped back in the fray. While the discussion continued amongst the three of them I made my escape.

Finally, I got home, shut the door, shut out Egypt, shut out the feeling of displacement, incomprehension and failure. These are small things, not mailing a letter and having a misunderstanding, but I feel like it adds up and some days its just a bit much. Some days everything seems so very hard.

I know there are more good days than bad. The gesture of the taxi driver who refused to let us pay is a blessed reminder of the good people out there. There are lots of them that I’ve met and interact with all the time.

In the end I searched my soul and I believe I’ve found the way forward.

Email.

Girls night in Egypt

Smoking a shisha on the rooftop patio at Paradise Inn Windsor Palace Hotel.

I’m sitting on a rooftop patio with a cool breeze, sharing a shisha and (non-alcoholic) drinks with some new friends at the Paradise Inn Windsor Palace Hotel in Alexandria and over my shoulder are views of the Mediterranean and the city lights at night.

We are two Muslims and two non-Muslims, enjoying a peaceful night and getting to know each other. In this moment, our beliefs do not separate us. In fact, we have more in common than not. The factors and personality traits that led the four of us to leave our lives for the relatively unknown have common threads that weave us together.

In moments like these it becomes clear to me that people with different cultures and beliefs can accept each other nonetheless. I know from travelling around the world that people are good and bad and everywhere in between no matter where you go. My experience so far in Egypt has revealed that people here are like people anywhere. They live their lives, take their children to school, do their jobs and enjoy their free time.

Our little group of new friends is not part of some noble effort to unite people and cultures across the world. We are just people thrown together through circumstance, drawn together through the urge to make connections and living life as best we can.

We are all just people.

The reset button

The beach at the Iberotel Borg El Arab Resort.

It’s amazing how adaptable human beings are. After two weeks in the Alexandria I had become used to seeing the sky in block shapes through buildings. The constant assault of city sounds had dimmed in my consciousness to a dull background buzz. Darting through traffic as I made my way through town was a daily occurrence. I didn’t even realize how accustomed I had become to the city’s onslaught on my senses until Friday.

Friday we went to the beach.

The teachers (and families) at the British School have a wonderful week-end routine. On Fridays (week-ends in Egypt are Friday and Saturday) we pile into a mini bus and head to the Iberotel Borg El Arab Resort on the Mediterranean coast. There are several pools, green grass, lounge chairs and a restaurant. The kids play in the pool, adults play water polo or chill or chat and we all have an enormous lunch.

This Friday was my first beach experience. In the afternoon I took an hour to myself and sat on a lounge chair looking out at Mediterranean Sea. All I could hear was the crash of waves. All I could feel was a gentle breeze and the light salty spray of the sea. All I could see was the shifting blues and white foam of the waves and the unbroken blue of the sky.

I sat, almost completely still and time lost it's meaning. My mind slowed it's normal hectic pace and I almost felt like I was in a meditative state. I could have sat there for several hours but for the strong sun on my still-pale skin and a mother’s worry about a child out of sight.

Back at the pool I spent hours playing with Oscar in the pool. I don't think I glanced at my watch once. It’s carefree day - or for those of us with children who can’t swim, it’s an almost carefree day. In any case, it’s a welcome reset button for the week. Looking into the endless sky, worries tend to drift away.

To the next week, I say “bring it on.” I have this to look forward to.

To the Borg El Arab Resort, I say this, "Resistance is futile, I have been assimilated." (If you get this - high five, let's be friends)

The truth about Pompey's Pillar

About 300AD there was a Roman Emperor called Diocletian who exempted his people from paying taxes and made sure they had enough corn during a time of hardship (to be fair he did cause the famine by besieging the city). So the people erected a memorial pillar in honour of him (it seems the city folk were of a forgiving nature). Then, in the middle ages, someone starts spreading the story that the ashes, or possibly the head, of Roman General Pompey were kept at the top of this pillar. So everyone starts calling it “Pompey’s Pillar,” (which was not even true) even though, it says quite clearly on the pillar:

*To the right and good emperor, the protector god of Alexandria, Diocletian, who has never been beaten*

To this day, the memorial is called “Pompey’s Pillar.”

Poor old Diocletian.

The outside of Qaitbay Citadel

Boats on the Mediterranean coast near the Qaitbay Citadel.

So my determination to dip my toes in the sea was crushed by human weakness. Namely, a head cold. I spent yesterday on the couch mopping up the copious amounts of mucous exiting my nose and feeling sorry for myself. A day at the beach was not super appealing in my feverish state so we decided against it.

This morning I felt like I was on the mend so we went to the Qaitbay Citadel, a 15th-century defensive fortress on the Mediterranean coast, about a half-hour drive from our apartment.

We used Uber for the first time and it was a success. We were picked up within a few minutes and the fare was only 24 LE (about 4 CAD).

When we arrived at 3:45pm we learned the Citadel closes at 4pm. Of course. So instead we went for a walk along the sea. Another. Long. Hot. Walk.

For me, the best part of the day was successfully directing the Uber in Arabic on the return journey using my handy dandy Phrasebook.

So, strike two for planning outings. One of these days we will get it right. For now, here is a photo of the outside of the Citadel.

The outside of Qaitbay Citadel (which closes at 4pm)

A trip to the beach... sans beach

Stanly Bridge on El Cournish Road and about the closest we got to the beach.

Yesterday we joined another family to explore the beach, about a 15-minute walk from where we live. The busy streets on the way to the beach were lined with fancy air-conditioned shops, open air convenience stands, food trucks and corn roasting stations. Vendors shouted over the cacophony of car horns. Colourful billboards towered over us and monochrome buildings over them. Every where I turned my senses were overwhelmed with colours, sounds and smells.

Crossing busy roads was like a twisted version of frogger. To cross one must confidently step in front of a car while fervently hoping they actually stop. The right of way does not seem to be dictated by traffic rules, but by boldness, whether pedestrian or car. It is a world away from the Yukon where cars slow down if they even think a pedestrian is considering crossing the road. Miraculously none of us were hit. On the way back we creepily stalked an Egyptian woman to get across El Horreya at a zebra crossing and in order to traverse the last lane we had to squeeze through two cars and pray they didn't accelerate.

Mercifully there was a pedestrian tunnel under El Cournish Road (the main road along the sea). By then I was very hot and eager to dip my toes in the cool sea. We approached several entrances to the beach but we were turned away because they were members-only beaches. Eventually one of our companions discovered that to get a spot on the public beach you need to be there at 10am and it costs 200 LE (about 20 British pounds or 33 Canadian dollars) per adult. Alternatively there was another beach 6 miles away where we might have better luck. At that point I could feel the rivulets of sweats making their way down my legs slowly gain the momentum approaching a small creek and opted to head back, once again facing the gauntlet of traffic, trains and vendors.

We haven't given up. Tomorrow we've decided to take a taxi to a beach further from the city where the teachers usually go on week-ends. I'm determined - my toes will meet sea this time!