Egypt, to most people, means the pyramids. But to me Egypt means crocodiles. I
love the metaphysical extravagance of ancient Egyptians in turning even the
nastiest thing into a god — and mummifying him. I love the way they made
even the beast feared by everybody into something comfortable.
For Sobek the crocodile was (in some places) the father of the gods, the
Mighty One, a fertility god, from whose sweat issued the Nile itself — the
very lifeblood of Egypt. He was also, of course, prince of all the powers of
darkness, but he was especially good to the dead, guiding them along the
highways and byways of heaven on his hind legs, like an armour-plated
nightclub bouncer. Really, you couldn’t find yourself in a safer pair of
hands.
When Augustus took Egypt from Cleopatra in 30BC, he minted silver coins
bearing the legend “Aegypto Capta” and a grinning crocodile, the symbol par
excellence of the Land of the Nile. On the classic tour, first time
upriver, I’m having the whole of Egyptian history and culture chucked at me
in 10 days flat. I’d quite like to fix up a meeting with the Nile crocodile,
get eyeball to eyeball with the prince of darkness, but the official line is
“not a hope” — he’s all handbags and watchstraps now, gone for good.
First stop is Giza, the Sphinx and pyramids. I’m speechless, of course, before
these great mysteries, but what impresses me isn’t even the Great Pyramid of
Cheops, with its mind-boggling 2.3m blocks of stone, but Cheops’ elegant
solar boat, 143ft long, for sailing through the afterlife. Found in 1954 in
1,224 bits, like an antediluvian Airfix kit, it’s now rebuilt, perfectly
preserved, a cool 4,500 years old. In the museum we find the tiny statue of
Cheops himself, ivory, just three inches high, making this pharaoh the
record-holder for Largest Pyramid and Smallest Statue in Egypt. A pharaoh
with a sense of humour?
In the tombs of Saqqara, the necropolis of Memphis, there are fabulous carved
reliefs: donkeys, fishermen, harvest, timeless rural scenes. We spend an
afternoon mosque-hopping, then fly off to Luxor, the ancient Thebes, with an
eagle’s-eye view of parched wadis, distant mountains and the shining,
snaking Nile.
The Nile Beauty is a vessel fit for modern pharaohs: maroon and white, with 52
cabins, saloon, sun deck, and a good-humoured crew of 45. They feed us like
pharaohs, too, and entertain us with belly dancer, whirling dervish and wild
music. In the morning we wake to lapping water, braying donkeys and Koranic
chanting. Karnak, the great spiritual powerhouse of Egypt, the biggest
temple in the world, is within walking distance.
You could fit 10 cathedrals inside Karnak Temple, but in the afternoon it
feels about as sacred as the Tube in the rush hour. When I return at 6am, I
have the whole place to myself. I wander through the vast, deserted
hypostyle hall, with its forest of 134 immense columns, fingers trailing
across hieroglyphs of snakes, vultures, crocodiles. The crocodile was sacred
here, fixed up with gold bracelets on his front paws, and gold earrings, and
so tame that he came when he was called. He even allowed the priests to ride
on his back in the Sacred Lake (so they say).
Even at this hour the smiling guardians take my right hand, touch it to the
carvings on the temple walls, to the hand of Amun, and the ankh — the sign
of life — then touch my hand to my heart three times, saying: “For good
luck.” Modern nonsense or not, it makes my spine tingle.
Up on the roof of the Temple of Khonsu at Karnak are hundreds of pairs of
ancient feet scratched into the stone, like some ancient “Kilroy was here”.
It feels good to fit my feet into the outlines, trying them for size.
Treading in their footsteps, standing in their shoes, this is what coming to
Egypt is all about, and I’m mesmerised, because so little seems to have
changed since antiquity.
AS THE sun shoots up over the palm trees, we sail north for Dendera, with a
privileged view of river life. Women carry water on their heads and still do
their washing in the Nile. We have a near miss with nine buffalo swimming in
midstream. A fisherman in a flat boat poles himself through the reed beds.
Donkey carts rocket along the roads; camels saunter past. And the fields
have people working in them, all wearing the long, flowing galabiyya, white,
blue, or brown, and the white headcloth. Everybody waves, or shouts
“Hal-lo-o-o”, everybody. The progress of pharaoh upriver must have been like
this — amazement at the gigantic boat; awe at the god-man, the Son of the
Sun; the fantastic welcome.
At Dendera, I’m thinking about Hathor, the cow-headed goddess of love, whose
consort was Sobek, the crocodile, and whose massive temple still has its
roof on. Cheops built here, around 2600BC, but the present temple is late
Ptolemaic and Roman, with towering reliefs of Cleopatra and Caesarion, her
son by Julius Caesar, on the back wall. Inside there are astronomical
ceilings, blue with gold stars, and solar boats like Cheops’, full of gods,
sailing across the night sky.
The staircases are dark, with a carved procession of priests carrying the
sacred barque of the goddess to the roof, to be reanimated by the sun.
Rumour says the ghosts of these priests have been seen here at night. By day
they teem with high-spirited Egyptian school kids, bashing drums and
singing. The atmosphere is astonishing, for although the temple is humming
with people, it seems to fizz with sacred energy, and in spite of the racket
there’s also a curious calm. Dendera’s sacred aura simply has not gone away.
In antiquity it was forbidden to approach Hathor in silence: she was the Lady
of Drunkenness, the Mistress of Music, and required everybody to make as
much noise as possible. The Egyptians have been making a row for this
goddess for nearly 5,000 years: that’s continuity.
BACK IN Luxor we head for the Valley of the Kings, where it’s like Piccadilly
Circus in the desert. Below ground it’s stifling, but I begin to understand
why all the world wants to come here: time simply stands still. In the tomb
of Merneptah (died circa 1223BC) the atmosphere is electric, as if he died
yesterday. We tramp down a narrow passage, awesomely long, in single file,
like a funeral procession. At the bottom, 120ft deep, in the burial chamber,
the image of Merneptah as Osiris, holding the crook and flail, forms the lid
of his pink granite sarcophagus. So he was the pharaoh of the Exodus, who
lost his troops in the Red Sea? I’m speechless again.
In the Valley of the Queens we inspect the tomb of Ramses III’s son,
Amunhirkhopshef, killed in battle aged nine, a mere 3,500 years ago. You can
feel the heartbreak in the wall-paintings: pharaoh introduces his dead son
to the gods; Osiris welcomes him to the afterlife at the door of the tomb;
Isis holds his hand; Anubis, jackal-headed god of the dead, leads him into
the darkness.
But Amunhirkhopshef lives for ever.
On the way back to the boat we stop at Qurna to visit the alabaster workshops.
A Nubian boy, about 16, wearing a white galabiyya, presses a blue scarab,
made by him, into my palm — curved side down, as if it’s meant to fit — and
closes my fingers over it. “For good luck,” he says, huskily. The scarab,
virtually synonymous with ancient Egypt itself, is Khepri, beetle of Ra,
symbol of the everlasting renewal of life. To hold it connects me to the sun
god, and does indeed mean good luck. It’s a ploy, of course, to part a
gentleman from his money, but I don’t mind. Nobody in my life ever did
anything like that before. I duly hand over the baksheesh. But I’m still
holding the scarab.
We sail on, stopping at Edfu — the most perfect temple in Egypt — and Kom
Ombo, to visit the temple dedicated to Haroeris and Sobek (half each), where
there’s a crocodile pit... but no crocodile.
By the time we reach Aswan, the desert comes right up to the Nile; Egypt feels
different, more African, and the drumming is urgent. Feluccas drift on the
river, giant sails like grubby white butterfly wings. Once, this was the
great market for leopard skins and elephant tusks from the south: not any
more, but the spices are still piled up in mini pyramids, red and yellow,
and basket design hasn’t changed since the time of Ramses.
Philae is as far as we go, which is fitting, because it means “the end”.
Beyond this was the Land of Ghosts, where no sensible Egyptian ever set his
foot. Philae is famously beautiful. To see Trajan’s Kiosk and the temples
built by Cleopatra and the Ptolemies intact is tremendous. The story of the
rescue of Philae and Abu Simbel from the rising waters of the Nile is one of
the great engineering wonders of our times. But I can’t forget that these
stones were ripped up from the sacred island where they were meant to stand
for all eternity, and re-erected in the wrong place. For me, compared with
the magic of Karnak or Dendera, Philae has a melancholy feel, a bit like a
power station with the electric turned off.
By the last day I’ve almost given up thinking about crocodiles. We sail by
felucca from Aswan to Elephantine Island, past boatloads of singing Nubians,
clapping to a fabulous drumbeat, and this wonder- ful music floats across
the water. We wander through the sleepy Nubian villages on Elephantine,
whose greatest god was Khnum, the ram-headed Lord of the Cataract, and, as
it happens... Lord of the Crocodiles. The houses are mud-brick, yellow,
blue, or white; the gardens full of lemon and orange trees, mangoes and
bananas. A Nubian woman in a red dress carries a white chicken in her arms
along the dusty path. Then we manage to bump into the village chief, who
insists that we look inside his house — which happens to have a carved
crocodile head over the door. Intrigued, I ask, “How long has your family
lived here?” “Four thousand years,” he smiles, and he’s probably right.
In the hall, sliding about a Perspex tub, we find a crocodile, called
Elephantine, two feet long, greenish, with black spots, and wicked laughing
eyes. “Would you like to hold him?” the chief says, lifting him out for a
photograph. In Ptolemaic times they identified this little chap with Helios,
the sun god, and thus with Ra, the creator of all things.
Upstairs, on the roof terrace, grins a full-size mummified crocodile:
Hot-Mouth! Mighty policeman of the river. If he nabbed you, you only got
what you deserved anyway. The good had nothing to fear. On the other hand,
to be devoured by Sobek was to be possessed by divinity, the greatest
honour. Some consolation for being swallowed whole...
OFFICIALLY, THERE is no croc in the Egyptian Nile today — but he’s doing
pretty well in Lake Nasser, on the other side of the Aswan Dam, and may be
back soon. The young croc is slim enough to slip through the dam, and the
Aswanis like to keep him in the house — until he grows too big for domestic
comfort, when it’s back in the lake with him. In antiquity, Herodotus says,
the crocodile wasn’t worshipped around Aswan, but ended up in the cooking
pot. So is Elephantine destined to be the dinner? I daren’t ask.
But here, at last, is the symbol of ancient Egypt, alive and kicking in my
arms. By this time I’m grinning like the crocodile myself. Aegypto Capta, I
think.
Duncan Sprott travelled as a guest of Bales Worldwide and EgyptAir. His
novel The House of the Eagle — Book One of the Ptolemies Quartet is
published by Faber at £12.99. To order a copy for £10.39, excluding p&p,
call The Sunday Times Books First on 0870 165 8585
TRAVEL BRIEF
Tour operators: Bales Worldwide (0870 752 0780, www.balesworldwide.com)
has a 10-day Splendour of Egypt tour from £1,095pp, including flights from
Heathrow to Cairo with EgyptAir, four nights in Cairo, six nights cruising
from Luxor to Aswan (or vice versa), B&B accommodation in Cairo,
full-board on the cruise, sightseeing and transfers. Regional add-ons from
Glasgow, Manchester, Dublin and others are from £75pp extra. Or try
Abercombie & Kent (0845 070 0610, www.abercrombiekent.co.uk),
Cox & Kings (020 7873 5000, www.coxandkings.co.uk), Hayes & Jarvis
(0870 366 1636, www.hayesandjarvis.co.uk),
Libra Holidays (0871 226 0446, www.libraholidays.co.uk),
Soliman Travel (020 7370 5159, www.solimantravel.co.uk)
or Voyages Jules Verne (0845 166 7000, www.vjv.co.uk).
When to go: high season is from November to March. Summer is
blisteringly hot, but less busy, and cheaper.
Further information: Egyptian Tourist Authority (020 7493
5283, www.egypttourism.org).
Egypt afloat: see the ancient wonders from a balloon
DRIFTING OVER the Valley of the Kings in a hot-air balloon is perhaps the
greatest indulgence of an Egyptian trip. The wicker basket (capacity 20)
reminds me of the papyrus hamper we saw in the Cairo museum — divided into
nine compartments for fragile objects.
Dawn is the usual flight time, for technical reasons, but the bonus for the
passenger is the fantastic crisp quality of the light. We take off from the
west bank of Luxor, rise to 2,000ft over the Ramesseum, then come down via
the Colossi of Memnon, Medinet Habu, Hatshepsut’s temple, to the edge of the
desert.
It’s 6am but people are already at work in the fields, harvesting sugar cane —
by hand — the whole family, with donkeys and camels for transport. One man
waves a great stem of sugar cane at us like an ostrich-feather fan. A fox
stalks up a gully after a chicken. We have a private view of geese,
bullocks, buffalo, goats, donkeys, camels inside the compounds of houses.
The panorama of antiquities is breathtaking. Too soon we achieve our
landfall, and the army of recovery boys is clinging to the ropes, to stop us
floating up again. The drumming starts up, and it feels quite normal to be
dancing in an Egyptian ploughed field before breakfast. Unmissable.
Hod-Hod Soliman (00 20 95 370116), in Luxor, flies
year-round. Prices start at £90pp (or £135 per couple) for a one-hour
flight, with transfers and insurance
