Draw Back the Curtain – Safaga, Egypt – [04/05/2012]

Tours to the Valley of the Kings always start early, it’s a long drive from Safaga out to Luxor. A lot of us make the trek, despite being exhausted and gritty eyed from the crew party and BBQ the night before. I am the first one on the bus, prepared this time, with an oversized bottle of water next to me and an extra container of SPF 30 sunscreen in my purse (I’m already wearing SPF 60, but in places like this you can never be too careful), next to a pocket umbrella. I am trying to avoid a repetition of last year’s sun-stroke. For a half hour I’m the only one on the bus, soaking up the silence that is all too soon broken by the excited babble of voices in Indonesian and Phillipino as well as English. Without looking up from my book I reach into my purse and pull out my I-pod; even here, perhaps especially here, I remain solitary, preferring the company of my own daydreams to conversation. These are not guests, and, as such, I’m not required to speak.

Outside the air-conditioned oasis of the speeding bus the arid cracked land flashes past, all shades of brown with only the occasional splash of stubborn green underbrush, it would be easy to believe that this place has not seen rain since the time of the pharaohs – perhaps it hasn’t, only the sandstone knows, and it’s not talking.

Eventually the desert gives way to the city of Luxor, an oasis of green civilization clinging to the banks of the Nile. We pass donkey carts and children in the streets, and fields upon fields of papyrus that brush the skies with their pyramid-like stalks. Egypt is a civilization that is hard won from the desert, and one need only look beyond the areas of carefully directed irrigation to see that sometimes the desert wins.

Houses stand unfinished to either side of the road. They’re not abandoned, but instead are incomplete because of tradition, unfinished by choice. Egyptian culture dictates that a story be added to the house when the children marry, and then another when their children marry and so on and so on. One family, generation after generation, living in a home that will never be complete. I have always thought it sad.

The bus moves on.

Carved into the distant stone, nearly invisible through the heat haze, the temple of Hepchetzut clashes by; one more thing that I will have to bring myself back to Egypt to see one day. There is always something else, it is never finished. The list is never complete.

For example, I realize that i have once again forgotten to bring the extra cash to purchase the additional ticket that would gain me access to the most famous Egyptian tomb in the world. Despite our guide’s assurance that she can secure me a ticket, I know it is not to be. I have looked into the lapis eyes of the boy king in the Cairo museum, but King Tut and I are not to meet in person. A part of me is relieved.

The hawkers at the entrance to the valley are worse than I recall. Swarming over us like biblical locusts, they spot my short stature and pale skin and make me for an easy mark. They are so aggressive that I nearly revert to being intimidated, but in the end my newly acquired courage holds strong and I refuse to buy from anyone who harasses me, which means I refuse to have dealings with any of them. It makes me a bit ill to see in truth. Gods of old, once so fierce and respected, reduced to plastic trinkets for gullible tourists. What must they think of us from their residence on the distant side of the veil?

Once inside the Valley the sun reflects so blindingly off the limestone that I find myself cursing my inability to wear sunglasses unless i opt for my contact lenses which, in this heat and choking dust, would not have been wise. As it is, I squint my eyes against the glare and try to decide which way to go.

The air inside the tombs is cool and damp, the dimness a welcome relief to my dust-stung eyes. I could come here a million times and it would always render me speechless. As the crowd sweeps me along I try to take mental pictures of everything, since security has forbidden us the use of cameras – but I am not as skilled in visualization as some of my Family and I know the images will fade swiftly, remaining only in my subconscious. All around me the images rise, falcons, owls, feathers, jackels and winged women, capturing forever the story of Ramses the fourth and the second, in a language I could never hope to interpret. In my ears I can hear the faintest of whispers, a voice only barely in the range of hearing, and only because I know to listen for it.

You do not belong here. None of you belong here.

The hematite at my wrist and the charms at my throat, previously cool against my skin despite the heat, grow subtly warmer.

The others here nothing, notice nothing, but I know when I am not welcome, and leave the tomb before visiting the final chamber; emerging blinking back into the monochromatic brightness of the main valley.

Again, the bus moves on.

The colossus of Memnon is more crowded this year, and hawkers have set up shop here as well. I can’t help but wonder if it has something to do with the aftermath of the revolution, if more people are desperate for income than before. I look at the carved alabaster and imimitation papyrus and realize once again that Egypt today would not survive if it were not for the echoes of its past glory. Whatever the reason for their presence I find myself wishing that my wings were physically real instead of metaphorical so that I could sweep them and their stalls out of the way.

The statues of the colossus rear up in breathtaking broken glory, their sightless eyes scraping against the roof of the sky. The yare said to have once cried every sunrise, but now their voices have been rendered silent by restoration. But restoration can never bring back their missing faces. They will be sightless until the wind and the sand returns them to the desert.

Upon return to the bus our guide offers me a portion of her own lunch. I take only a small bite and savour the unique flavours, but I do not ask what’s in it, nor do I finish it.

Once again the streets flash past, I slip my headphones on and delve once more into my daydreams until we at last pull up to the Temple at Luxor.

It is even more immense than I remember; the massive lotus topped columns make me feel drawfed and insignificant. The visit is too short, shorter than I recall my previous one being despite the fact that the tour should be identical. I would need a great deal more time to visit the Temple properly, time to allow my sight to adjust to the strange double vision that is inherit in such a place; to adjust to the contrast between the graduer of what was with the reality of what is.

It is like entering a different world. As the gravel crunches beneath my feet and my fingertips brush against the carved sandstone I can’t help but feel that if I turn my head quickly enough I will find myself in a world of whispering robes and eagle winged priestesses, where your eternal fate depended on whether or not your heart was lighter than a feather.

As I snap the last of my photos and head back to the bus, thinking longingly of my water bottle, I look back at the massive silhouette of the ruins outlined black against the brilliance of the Egyptian sun. I feel the weight of the hematite at my wrist as the beads clack against my skin, and the beginnings of a headache behind my eyes that may or may not be from the sun, warning me that it is time to leave. I stand there with my camera dangling from my fingertips and look at what was once an incredibly sacred place of worship, that now swarms with tourists most of whom can barely hope to understand any of what they might see, who cannot hear the voices in the sandstone or feel the gaze of the thousands of eyes that stare from the hieroglyphic walls.

I take all this in, including my own part in it, and I think, once again, as I so often do…

What must they think of us….?