Cairo - Luxor

Tuesday, 9th March 1999

Without a scrap of food for 48 hours I wearily dragged my luggage down to the metro station. We then made our way to Cairo Station to catch the 7:30am service to Luxor. The train was filled by the time we got on with generations of Egyptians, from the flowing dirty jellabahs and smelly feet of men in their twenties, to businessmen and families with children taking boxes of dry-goods south. Funnily enough our carriage was adjoined to the buffet car and all five westerners (including us) were huddled together at the back of the carriage behind the riff-raff. The inconspicuous young men in front would forever stare at me and laugh, whilst with an almighty jolt the train joined the engine, beginning a five minute backward journey until we were all joined together. Across from us sat two middle-aged German ladies, with a lust for life and well-humoured nature. The train then began its gruelling 10 hour journey to Luxor. Outside the mayhem of Cairo persisted as lines of people packed together like sardines waited for our train to pass so they could cross the tracks. Goats, chickens, cardboard boxes, plastic, and flowing fabrics all weaved together like a Jackson Pollock and one felt a sigh of relief to move our of this intense and overpopulated city.

The mud brick and concrete suburbs passed us quickly and soon the small towns and villages lay in a background of green beside the Nile. The scene being similar to the ones seen on route to the pyramids, where poor but seemingly happy farmers and families would work the fields, women would huddle in colourful groups beside the Nile and do their washing, whilst little boys and girls would sit stunned on donkeys as the train whirled by. We'd all settled in and most in the carriage were either sleeping, relaxing, eating, talking, or just taking in the passing snippets of Egyptian lifestyle. I sat there listening to my walkman and the favoured sounds of home, like Hoodoo Gurus, Hunters and Collectors, and Cold Chisel, wondering what my closest friends were doing and if they were thinking of me too. Some of their faces seem so distant, as time often slightly erases the memory.

It was a very pleasant journey, except for the young Arabs in front who decided to take their very worn pair of shoes off, place their stinking feet on the back of seats and constantly leer at us. As we all sat there taking in the wafting stench of feet never washed, one of the German ladies pulled out some perfume and passed it around to all of us to rub against our noses. Even the Arabic businessman behind them couldn't wait for a whiff of perfume and we all spent a good few moments laughing about it. Scenes of both luscious and barren banks whisked past our eyes for hours. New mud brick cottages would pop up, groups of women were smiling and laughing whilst washing clothes in the Nile, ragged children stood dumbfounded, sickly donkeys stared, camel herders alongside 20 camels would move across a barren and unpopulated landscape and most memorably the mayhem at the level crossing included trucks laden with bodies in every direction, boys on bikes equally as important trying to be the first to cross and a barrage of colourful ladies carrying more goods on their heads than you could in your hands. This scene is all intermixed within an area of civil unrest between the Christians and Muslims running from Cairo to Luxor. Tourists are advised not to travel and in fact a military presence makes it nearly impossible to exit the platform. I was contented with window vision and did not want to step out into the tension. Along this band lies a few Pharaonic temples and for a long time the locals have been starved of a foreign presence. In fact some of them looked at us as though they'd never seen a tourist before. As the sun warmed my skin and we passed more farming communities I could not help but feel excited about sneaking our way through the heartland on tensions and often wondered if any new passengers were sizing us up. In fact the plain-clothes police looked blindingly obvious in moustaches and dark sunglasses.

We eventually rolled in to Luxor an hour and a half late. The muggy heat and hotel touts hit us hard and fast as we stepped off the train and somehow these guys thought we would follow them to the hotel if they shoved a business card 2cm from our faces. The flies had to be swatted and we saved all the other travellers from the fate of mauling touts. Fifteen locals all waving cards, almost pressing against our faces and grabbing our arms caused an entertaining scene for coffee-sippers and onlookers outside the station. Staying very calm seemed to get on their nerves, but they just did not understand "la shukran" (no thanks) and in a moment where I was gasping for air I yelled "imshee!" to one. This is what you say to a young child and is a derogatory term for "get lost". The man nearly fell on the floor and left the pack yelling in rage. In fact that was the only time a police officer interfered by pushing him off the sidewalk, ushering him to leave. The good old tourist police did nothing and the crush continued for another 100 metres and was so thick that it was impossible for us to see where we were, or even notice that there was an obelisk and fountain with gushing water in the centre of this crude roundabout. After fifty attempts of asking them to move back finally some gave up giving us time to speak to the older German ladies. They were looking for a particular hotel and were accosted by a tout who they wanted to go with. We said our goodbyes on the next corner and were not going to let any of these scoundrels get commission out of our final choice. On this narrow dirt road a young man on a blue bike came careering across (one I recognised from the crowd) desperate to follow us to a hotel. In the middle of a busy street lined with dens, bustling traders, watchful locals, donkeys, a herd of sheep, and crazy cab drivers, Dave stood still in the mayhem and told him we weren't going to move until he left. This was the best phrase yet and nothing is more rewarding than watching these scoundrels lose. We took the next corner towards the Oasis Hotel, where he joined us for a last attempt. After many words he told us to "f… off". With a pair of insane eyes I moved in close to his face and blasted him with "never ever say that again", but not much sank in to his small brain. From across the street other young Egyptians yelled out sorry and the proprietor of the hotel came out to sort out the commotion. "Sorry, he works for me but sometimes he is very stupid", said the talkative hotelier as he showed us up to a very clean twin room with ensuite for which we bargained him down to a measly E£6 each (about AU$3).

For the next two hours he really pushed the hard sell of his tours over a cup of tea, dropping the price until it was down to E£45 each to see two tombs in the Valley of the Queens, three tombs in the Valley of the Kings, and the Temple of Hatshepsut. Being ardent non-members of the coach tour club we ummed and ahhed over it. Its most promising features being guaranteed student prices with only our Under-26 cards and an Egyptologist as guide. We met him in the foyer and he turned out to be quite a professional who'd studied hieroglyphics at university. We agreed on the deal as it gave us the opportunity to have an insightful guide to explain all the mystical stories and for the fact that it would almost cost us the same to do it ourselves on bikes.

We then set off for a meal at the enticing New Karnak Restaurant, by the station, giving us ample opportunity to take in the contrasting scene of the fountain by night. An omelette touched my senses for the first time in two days and it felt good to be able to eat again. Although unfortunately I'd picked up a cold from being run down and it was utterly painful trying to breathe in the dusty and stifling Luxor air. The noise of cars, horses and carriages, and streams of people lingered through the streets well into the night. I lay down to sleep just after ten listening to the faint whir of the ceiling fan and the riotous screams of youngsters with single digit ages playing football in the street. Tomorrow our minds will be boggled by the tales of ancient Thebes.