- “Hello, my hostel is just near to here” – When I say I already have one, it means I already fucking have one, OK ???
- “But it’s cheap price !!” – it’s not that I think the price is too high, it’s that I don’t want to buy your miniature sphinx/camel/pyramid/pack of postcards. For any price. Even if it was free. Period. - “How many camels for her ?” – knock it off boys, we’ve heard it before and it wasn’t funny then either.
- “Hey Rastaman !* to Natalie, who has dreadlocks. This is particularly irritating as it comes at every street corner. “Hey Rasta”, “Hey Rastafari” and the extremely clever “Hey Rastaferrari” are varieties of this.
- Tourists in large groups who wear completely unsuitable clothes – women in strap tops and miniskirts, men in short shorts. We have taken to calling them “the enemy” and taking pictures of them. In Abu Simbel, we had a contest to see who could take the picture of the most ridiculous tourist. It was there that I was finally confronted with the level of ridiculousness that the Caucasian tourist can reach, something I have been sheltered from in my choice of destination so far in my life. I will never laugh at a Japanese tourist in London or Paris ever again. At least we have one use for them – we’ll always stick behind a large group in the tourist souks to be able to sneak past the crap vendors.
Tourist at Abu Simbel displaying full respectful Islamic dress.
The sad thing in countries like this is that the vast majority of people are friendly and wouldn’t want to hassle anyone, yet the visitor is swarmed by salesmen and touts and gets a really bad impression of the place. As we roll along the Nile on the train, watching fishermen and palm trees and small allotments, I force myself to remember this. We have just been moved from our seat, for instance, because another guy had a seat reservation for where we were sitting. The conductor is falling over himself apologizing to us as I assure him that it really is no problem. Knowing, however, that this train is going to drop us off in Luxor, Egyptian tourism city central, I have a feeling I will forget it again rather soon. I’m beginning to really look forward to seeing Sudan.
Anyway, we have 10 days to make the most of here. Today we will be seeing (wait for it…) more temples, in the shape of the Valley of the Kings and perhaps Karnak if we have time. Tomorrow, we head off for one of the Oases of the Western Desert, once again looking for that promised land – a place we can wander the streets in peace :)
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Luxor, so far, has been quite a surprise. The town itself has been relatively (by Egyptian standards) hassle free. We arrived at 8.30 and crawled into the brand new “Boomerang” hostel at a bargain price, and were swiftly entertained by the enthusiastic Australian woman who owned the place along with her Egyptian Yannick-Noah-lookalike husband. We enquired about getting to the Valley of the Kings and she gave us the smart option, the easy option, or the cheap option. Sensing a good deal packing in good fun to boot, we opted for the cheap option. This would be that she’d call a guy who rents bikes and we cycle there, crossing the Nile on a ferry and up a hill on the other side. It would take about 2 hours each way, she said. Seeing a chance to grab our freedom, we did so with both hands and we were soon all proud owners (or at least tenants) of rattling Chinese bikes with no suspension, seats that rotated by themselves and wheels that didn’t spin straight. They were beauties, and good companions for the rest of the day! First destination was the ferry in the centre of town which would take us over to the West Bank, and it was here that I had one of my more Egyptian moments of the day. I went into my wallet to pay for the ferry tickets and by the time the guy had explained that it was a return ticket and given me my change, my bike had disappeared! An inspection of the surroundings revealed that an old man had picked it up and walked off with it towards the ferry, and I got on at the same time as him. M went one step better and had hers grabbed from her hand and lugged off by a man who proclaimed himself the captain and, of course, turned out to be nothing of the sort. They put the bikes down and instantly demanded money for having transported them the 20 metres they did. I put on my best shocked expression, snorted like an angry rhino, and walked upstairs without giving anything. M, for her part, said as many “no”s in five seconds as we heard “hey you’s” today. Further wrestling took place on the other side of the river as the same old man tried to offload all of our bikes, and we eventually set off, wallets intact.
M refreshes herself as Ruben and Natalie get down to the serious business of working out where the hell we are
After cycling uphill, asking directions here and there, for the designated two hours we arrived, hot, sweaty, tired and triumphant, at the Valley of the.... Queens. Crap. Upon asking for directions to the Valley of the Kings, we were offered t-shirts and postcards and coke and water (very cheap!), until a friendly guy wandered up and explained nicely, without asking any money, how to get there. And for the first time today, the directions were entirely accurate!! Off we trundled past calls of “hey you!”, “Taxi??” and “Hey Rastaferrari!” and turned left at the police checkpoint, as ordered, on the interminable hill which finally ended at another police checkpoint, where the girls were chatted up (again) and we were told where to buy tickets (again) for some ancient tombs (again).
Ruben and T follow instructions, while simultaneously declining a taxi ride
The visits to the tombs followed a familiar pattern:
a) Enter tomb
b) Get followed by ticket man who explains the paintings on the wall in great detail (e.g. “there, a snake with 6 heads.”)
c) Get asked for money by said ticket man
d) Explain that we had no money
e) Exit tomb and search for another tomb
f) Repeat in next tomb.
Eventually it was time to leave and we descended effortlessly (besides fending off attempts from kids to extort money, a couple of men who wanted to buy our bicycles, and “Hey Rastaferrari”-screamers) until the last few minutes before the boat where Ruben managed to crash into a little kid who was playing chicken, and we all managed to cycle straight over a freshly painted pavement, to the enormous chagrin of the painter.
We’re now washed and ready to go out for that greatest of all Egyptian inventions (besides the compound word “Rastaferrari”), a nice cold bottle of Stella beer.
Was a great day!!! cycling around...although it was veeeery hard going up hills, and hot, and i got beaten by a mosquito on the way back, which at this moment still itchies!!!!
ReplyDeleteNatalie