154. Mosque

154.

We cross town to see the famous big, cavelike Mosque of Muhammad Ali. It is cool inside and a fine echo is playing with the several simultaneous tour guides’ voices.

Even Doc, a hardened materialist, notices the “healing vibes” as she calls them, of the place.

When we ask the doorkeeper for directions to a nearby place to eat, he leads us to a literal “hole in the mosque wall” where a tiny old man with bright blue eyes tends a tea kettle and friendly bubble-pipe. He puts some burning charcoal bits on the bright yellow tobacco leaves in the pipe bowl for us and then demonstrates the proper bellows-like puffing technique appropriate for enjoying the smoke. We enjoy the experience and our hosts get a big laugh out of us trying their pipe—especially the Doc, who really puffs at it!

...

153. Inside Museum and Out

153.

Before my eyes now are two polished black stones, which may or may not have been the very capstones of two pyramids. Surrounding me are dozens of stone coffins, monumental statues of humans and gods and in special rooms nearby, artifacts from young king Tut’s tomb: so thank you, mothers and fathers of the old times and present-day keepers of the flame.

~~~~~

Stepping from the museum’s dusty gloom: present-day almost unbearable Cairo: impassable, motionless traffic; drivers leaning on their horns, trolleys clanging, bike bells jangling, people shouting and it’s hot as a firecracker.

Many of the stores have patriotic displays in their windows celebration their great “October Victory”. I am out of touch with the military triumphs and tragedies of the Egyptians but I think this may refer to their recent reconquest of the Suez Canal Zone. Stubby brick walls built in front of doorways to stop bomb fragments are also reminders of war, but the people seem relaxed and happy. There are few uniforms on the streets and no visible tanks or weapons.

There is a toilet paper shortage in Cairo. No stores have any for sale. The only TP we find is in the rest rooms of the Cairo Hilton, which must be flown in especially for their prosperous guests. Every tourist (and there are lots!) steals his or her TP from the Hilton. The Hilton also shelters the American Express office where you can cash traveler’s checks and maybe collect mail and several excellent, but expensive, restaurants. Thanks, Hilton.

This TP shortage is no problem for real desert-folks anyway because they use their left hand and a little water if there is any to spare to take care of their personal hygiene, which is why we travelers are warned never to offer our left hand to take or to give anything. The left hand is kind of taboo for any practical purpose in Egypt so it is best to sort of keep it in your pocket to avoid offense. I don't know what "lefties” do.

...

152. Respect for Art

152

And I may have some petty criticisms of this museum, but I am deeply grateful that some of the huge quantities of art works that were created by the old people have been preserved so that tourists like me can gawk at them.

Many of the artifacts in this museum are so old it is beyond understanding and yet here they are. There must be some sort of genetic respect or awe for art in some humans at least or none of these lovely things would have been made in the first place and all of them would have been smashed up or melted down by the generations of malicious vandals and careless monkeys that have dwelt in this region of ruins since the artifacts were new.

I wonder what, for example, will be left of the artistic and cultural objects in Washington DC when our young republic crashes as it someday must? Will the passing human generations of our “Chocolate City” be gentler with our public and private treasure than the peasants of the Nile Valley were with theirs? Only let four or five thousand years of time roll over our greatest creations and what will be left for the intrepid tourists of the future to gaze upon--if indeed any of our kind exist to tour?

...

151. The Cairo Museum

151.

The Cairo Museum is old and dusty, the lighting is terrible and you have to pay extra to go into the “mummy room”--which is a disappointing rip off!

In several glass cases, cigar boxes filled with unlabeled stuff molder away; museum guards are forever whispering “Psssst! Would you like to buy an authentic…” whatever, and offering some fake antiquity for sale.

Even so, this building has more authentic treasures per square inch than any museum I have ever visited.

It seems sort of a shame that the current inheritors of vanished glory make their living showing off the artifacts of that vanished glory to tourists.

Obviously the current human residents of Cairo and the Giza suburb are not the ever-so great grandchildren of the noble designers, builders and people of the classic Egyptian civilization—or, if they are, they have degenerated beyond recall.

Strange, isn’t it? I was struck by this phenomenon first at the archaeological sites in Mexico then in Bolivia and Peru and now see it quite dramatically here. The creative innovators are replaced in less than one generation by bureaucrats who are replaced, after a suitable period of years--allowing for the collapse of the bureaucracy--by tour guides and t-shirt salesmen. This seems to me to be the true March of Civilization.

Still, it does me some sort of good to look at this stuff; it satisfies me somehow.

...

150. Pyramids

150.

We hop off the bus and walk up a little hill on a paved street lit by modern mercury-vapor lamps.

A few die-hard postcard salesmen and rent-a-camel hustlers make their pitch as we approach the monument but we outmaneuver them and walk right up to the stony heap. An Arab guide slips out of the shadows with a flashlight and insists on pointing out the two entrance openings—one dynamited and one original. He then demands a dollar for this service and will not leave us alone until we give him a quarter. He leaves cursing cheapskate tourists.

Kicking through the sand, we walk around the second pyramid. Near it in a parking lot a circle of laughing, singing young people are skylarking. It seems they use the pyramids as a drive-in lover’s lane after dark. Fifties rock and roll music from the states is blasting from several of their radios which adds a surreal soundtrack to our exploration.

We can’t find the sphinx but we know it has got to be around here somewhere. We circle the smaller “red” pyramid following the park road. Ahhh. Here it is! But what is it? This badly eroded sandstone lump seems to have the familiar shape of the famous lion-lady but I have seen natural rock formations in Utah that looked more like sculpture! Still, this must be it. I guess fame, vandals and a few thousand years are hard on anything!

A platoon of armed pyramid guards head us off. One speaks rudimentary English and offers to give us a guided tour of the mysterious sphinx. No thanks.

Instead we walk down a hill into a village where we buy some tasty mango juice. Then we follow a canal with local residents hollering “Welcome!” at us all the way back to our bus stop where we soon catch a Cairo-bound bus.

Our entire Cheapskate Moonlight Tour of the pyramids cost just fifty cents each and was good fun.

...

149 Cairo, Egypt

149.

Cairo, Egypt: one of the workers in the Egyptian Embassy in Chad gave me the phone number of his brother in Cairo and suggested that I should telephone him from the airport when I arrive in Cairo so I do. The brother soon arrives in a taxi and offers hospitality with his family to the Doc and I. The Doc has no other plans for visiting Cairo and is happy to have a contact here so we are now traveling together.

We cross town, which reminds me of Chicago—but maybe a little older and less organized.

Our new Egyptian friend lives in a third floor tenement apartment with his wife, pretty teenaged daughter, two smaller girls, grandma with swollen legs and grandpa with diabetes and a head infection. Soon the phone rings. It’s for me! The military police welcome me to Cairo and ask me to stop by to register at the nearest police station.

In the evening, the Doc and I take a walk beside the Nile. Barges are tied up along the bank. We nibble pumpkin seeds and drink fresh mango juice at a sidewalk kiosk. It is a fine evening.

We spend the next day in Cairo checking out tours to the pyramids. The cheapest costs thirty-five dollars—too expensive for hard-time travelers. Our host suggests we wait until the cool of the evening and then simply catch a city bus to the “Giza” suburb for fifteen cents each. Much better. So in the twilight we ride an ordinary bus into the city suburbs.

I am talking to the Doc beside me when she catches her breath. I follow her gaze out of the bus window and there, lit by fading sunset glow and moonlight; the great pyramid fills the bus’s window! I have never seen such an awe-inspiring view out of a bus window in my life!

...

148. Khartoum, Sudan

148.

Khartoum, Sudan: I can tell the airport taxi drivers and sticking it to me—the “tourist rate”—so I start hiking toward town. A cab soon stops beside me and offers me a ride to town for a quarter of the price they were asking at the terminal. I guess I am learning some of the money-saving tricks of a hard-time traveler.

The fine hotel facing the Nile doesn’t want me even though I have an airline chit for a room. I hike downtown and find another hotel that will accept a traveler carrying a backpack instead of a suitcase. (By the way, I am clean, beardless, short haired and sweet smelling at this time!)

At sunset I walk out to see the famous city.

In this part of town shade trees line the broad boulevards and the buildings look new and modern. If the people were dressed differently I might be in Phoenix, Arizona.

Here is an outdoor market with luscious piles of melons and fruit for sale. Looks mighty good after the empty markets of Chad. Here is the central mosque. The minarets are outlined with rows of bright light bulbs—like movie theater marquees in the days of my boyhood—very spiffy!

A number of robed men have gathered to hear a speaker in front of the mosque. Everything seems orderly and civilized.

Morning: I ride to the airport with the flight crew for free!

A young American woman is waiting for the same flight as me. Fellow countrymen a long way from home, we naturally get together. She is bright, witty, friendly, tall, red-haired and pretty—a medical student from the east coast of America. It’s fun to share the news and speak American English again.

The plane is a big, new jet. Below is Aswan Dam and we land in Cairo.

...

147. Sudan

147.

Germaine, Sudan: Our first stop is the small airstrip here. Germaine, as I have seen from the air, is flooded with brown water from a river that normally flows through town between narrow banks. Back into the sky: the earth below seems smashed into ragged mountains.

El Fashar, Sudan: A river is flooding here too; all the nearby farmland and roads are under dirty brown water.

On the gravel airstrip, men in green military uniforms move drought emergency supplies with new trucks--a Dutch food airlift. Newspapers are now in Arabic instead of French. In fact, the “Arabs” here look more like what I expect Arabs to look like--but the only word I understand of some overheard conversations is “OK”.

The flight soon continues over what appears to be a huge ocean with the water removed! I am sure glad I am not down there walking! Now here’s something far below I have always wanted to see: The Nile! We soon land in Khartoum.

...

146 Goodbye N'jamena

146.

The only place I can go is back to the shared hotel room.

The madman is very ill and sleeps like a dead man day and night.

A thin black prostitute with tired eyes knocks on the door asking if I want sex. I don't. I give her a little money and send her away. No one else comes.

To avoid another taxi confrontation, I decide to walk to the airport now that I know where it is and when I hear the first birdsong of morning, I shoulder my backpack , leave hotel and madman and start hiking. The morning air is delightfully fresh. Frogs and crickets croak and rasp from fields bordering the road. I fervently hope the plane makes it out this time!

This time I'm early. The plane is ready. It’s “Go”!

My fellow passengers are ebony black men in immaculate white robes and turbans.

...

145. Cadeau

145.

I arrange the proper visas, buy a plane ticket and find the airport. None of these “easy” tasks are easy in N’djamena.

I am ten minutes late for my afternoon flight and am at first refused a seat but finally am allowed aboard and--in an ecstasy of relief for me--the clean twin-engine fanjet heads east over ant-nest villages and through cloud canyons. But the going gets rougher and rougher and after two hours of flight, the captain announces that because of severe storms ahead we must return to N’djamena—a town I fervently hoped I would never see again.

An airport taxi driver says he will take me back downtown for 150 franks. When we arrive midtown, he stops, demands 500 franks and says that was the price we agreed on at the airport! We argue for fifteen minutes attracting a large crowd of spectators who want to see a white man bamboozled. A policeman finally comes up and stops the discussion by making me pay 250.

As I walk away from the cab a crowd of shouting children follows, pulling at my clothing and yelling “Cadeau!”

Like a cornered animal, I shake them off and holler at them to leave me alone. Of course this excites them even more and they race around me screaming obscene remarks about Americans in general and me in particular.

...

144. More Mad Antics

144.

There is a wake going on in the house next to my hotel. All day and all night there is screeching, sobbing and chanting.

The madman is raving about New Zealand: “Where I come from, manhood is judged by the amount of beer you can drink and the number of men you can bash.”

I can’t sleep. The broken blisters on my back are worse. The madman is ill and more and more incoherent. His lips protrude and then pull back in a grimace that reveals his large, irregular, unclean teeth. His eyebrows slide up and down as if his forehead skin is somehow disconnected from his skull. Even his hair seems to move spastically. He “spews” (vomits) constantly into a bedpan, swears and shouts outrageous statements.

...

143. Sudan Visa

143.

I have decided to cross Sudan so I visit the Sudanese Embassy to get a visa.

The Ambassador talks politics and “life” with me for a couple of hours, but won’t give me permission to travel overland across his country. He says that truck convoys do occasionally cross the desert, but that it is too dangerous for tourists. Bandits, hijackers, enemy soldiers and desert conditions make the route rather too unpleasant. He will give me a three-day transit visa, which will allow me to fly to Kartoum and on to Cairo.

Since I have talked to a French traveler who did cross the desert in one of the truck convoys and called it “seven days and nights of hell”. I don’t argue. Maybe I don’t need the experience. I’ll fly gladly!

...

142. Passport Stamp

142.

Passport Stamp

The police officer is sitting behind a big desk in an empty room with my passport and an official stamp a few inches from his hand.

We silently sit staring at each other for four hours.

Finally he snorts with disgust, angrily stamps my passport and slings it across the desk to me.

As I put my passport in it’s case which I wear on a cord hanging around my neck and under my shirt, I finally realize that he was waiting all that time for ME to give HIM a BRIBE--but I was so stupid I didn’t even think of that.

My naivete wore HIM down!!

...