Time travels in Egypt
In 1978 I spent six weeks in Egypt. I didn’t take a camera, and didn’t have a guide book. I did keep a journal but my 24 year old self didn’t add the sort of detail I want to read now. This was long before google. She relied on local tourist offices and word of mouth. I stayed with a friend from university who was teaching English there. Her knowledge was immensely helpful. Then it was easy to meet other travellers and share information and experiences.
I can’t unearth where my passion for Egypt began. As a small child I’d a prayer book with an attractive picture of pharaoh’s daughter rescuing Moses on the cover. I had an embossed leather bag and a few vintage postcards that someone had brought back during the war. I read Herodotus at school. This ancient Greek travelled at a time Egyptian civilization had already existed for almost two millennia. He marvelled at the country, its customs and religion, recognizing that it was like no other. I marvelled with him.
When I moved to London I spent hours in the British Museum, especially the long gallery where papyrus were displayed. The ancient world, and its magic, called me. The Mummy was, and remains, a favourite film. The line “come out under the stars of Egypt” is like an evocation. My favourite novels were the Alexandrian Quartet. Among the shelves of the wonderful Gateshead Public Library I found Isis in the Graeco-Roman World, by Reginald Eldred Witt. This was first published in 1971, so must have been newly purchased. It might be the book I remember more than any other. I was amazed to find that worship of the Ancient Egyptian goddess had flourished in the centuries after the birth of Christ. I lamented the fact that her religion, which had spread over much of the world, was eventually outdone by Christianity.
In 1978 I’d yet to encounter Edward Said, and his critique of Orientalism. I adored Matisse., especially his Odalisque in Red Trousers. I had a postcard of it on my wall. I didn’t know that in the paintings of Delacroix and other artists the exotically clad, or semi-clad, odalisques weren’t North African women at all, but Parisians willing to pose. I admired all the Orientalist interiors by painters like John Frederick Lewis. He’d lived in Cairo for ten years and continued to specialise in Egyptian scenes even when he returned to England.
My weeks in Egypt were the culmination of a dream. I wasn’t disappointed. Yet my dreams were sometimes a burden. I loved Cairo. It was a beautiful, vibrant city. I walked through interiors as beautiful as any painted by Lewis or Delacroix. I walked in the shade of palm trees by the Nile. The journal reminds me that the dream wasn’t always sweet. It was impossible to wander freely. Stopping and staring was never an option. Cairo was an overcrowded city. There was terrible poverty and distressing deformity. There was constant noise and continual hassles. I had days when I felt exhausted and spirits
dropped. Nevertheless, the love remained. If anything, it grew stronger.
Yet my love affair with Egypt turned into a painful one. In 1980, when I’d saved enough to return there, I became seriously ill. Travel was no longer on the agenda. I collected old travel books, especially those written by intrepid Victorian women. Luckily, Virago was rediscovering and republishing many of these. I amassed a collection of vintage post cards. Friends gave me prints and bric a brac. For some years almost everything in my flat was Egyptian themed. Not being able to go there was painful. I’d watch programmes about Cairo and weep.
But life goes on. Decades passed. I gradually dispensed with much of the bric a brac. I’m no longer a collector of things, though still have the books and postcards.. It’d have been complicated to return to Cairo, but not impossible. I didn’t. The love remained, the passion waned.
The journal I kept during my travels had remained in a drawer for decades. It was always a disappointment. I wasn’t the travel writer I’d aspired to be. The handwriting was small and an effort to read. I disdained standard sentence structures and placed text in a variety of positions on the page. Irritating. It doesn’t bring back my days in Cairo, Luxor and Aswan with any vividness. I’m frustrated by all the omissions. I’ve had to work out days and dates. I’d numbered days in Arabic. Luckily, I’d noted Halloween which gave one fixed point.
In writing up the journal I’ve had to come to terms with my 24 year old self. At first I struggled. I came to see that, although convinced she was a writer, she hadn’t found her voice. Her world was overwhelmed by all the writers and artists she admired. Her Egypt was filtered through Durrell, Gerald de Nerval, Baudelaire, Mallarme…. I developed some sympathy for her. The handwriting became easier to read.
Recently Egypt started calling again. Photos of places I visited arrived on facebook, as if filling in the ellipses in my past. So I decided to revisit the only way I can, travelling back in time and blending past and current selves the way the Romans blended divinities and cultures.
I can’t unearth where my passion for Egypt began. As a small child I’d a prayer book with an attractive picture of pharaoh’s daughter rescuing Moses on the cover. I had an embossed leather bag and a few vintage postcards that someone had brought back during the war. I read Herodotus at school. This ancient Greek travelled at a time Egyptian civilization had already existed for almost two millennia. He marvelled at the country, its customs and religion, recognizing that it was like no other. I marvelled with him.
When I moved to London I spent hours in the British Museum, especially the long gallery where papyrus were displayed. The ancient world, and its magic, called me. The Mummy was, and remains, a favourite film. The line “come out under the stars of Egypt” is like an evocation. My favourite novels were the Alexandrian Quartet. Among the shelves of the wonderful Gateshead Public Library I found Isis in the Graeco-Roman World, by Reginald Eldred Witt. This was first published in 1971, so must have been newly purchased. It might be the book I remember more than any other. I was amazed to find that worship of the Ancient Egyptian goddess had flourished in the centuries after the birth of Christ. I lamented the fact that her religion, which had spread over much of the world, was eventually outdone by Christianity.
In 1978 I’d yet to encounter Edward Said, and his critique of Orientalism. I adored Matisse., especially his Odalisque in Red Trousers. I had a postcard of it on my wall. I didn’t know that in the paintings of Delacroix and other artists the exotically clad, or semi-clad, odalisques weren’t North African women at all, but Parisians willing to pose. I admired all the Orientalist interiors by painters like John Frederick Lewis. He’d lived in Cairo for ten years and continued to specialise in Egyptian scenes even when he returned to England.
My weeks in Egypt were the culmination of a dream. I wasn’t disappointed. Yet my dreams were sometimes a burden. I loved Cairo. It was a beautiful, vibrant city. I walked through interiors as beautiful as any painted by Lewis or Delacroix. I walked in the shade of palm trees by the Nile. The journal reminds me that the dream wasn’t always sweet. It was impossible to wander freely. Stopping and staring was never an option. Cairo was an overcrowded city. There was terrible poverty and distressing deformity. There was constant noise and continual hassles. I had days when I felt exhausted and spirits
dropped. Nevertheless, the love remained. If anything, it grew stronger.
Yet my love affair with Egypt turned into a painful one. In 1980, when I’d saved enough to return there, I became seriously ill. Travel was no longer on the agenda. I collected old travel books, especially those written by intrepid Victorian women. Luckily, Virago was rediscovering and republishing many of these. I amassed a collection of vintage post cards. Friends gave me prints and bric a brac. For some years almost everything in my flat was Egyptian themed. Not being able to go there was painful. I’d watch programmes about Cairo and weep.
But life goes on. Decades passed. I gradually dispensed with much of the bric a brac. I’m no longer a collector of things, though still have the books and postcards.. It’d have been complicated to return to Cairo, but not impossible. I didn’t. The love remained, the passion waned.
The journal I kept during my travels had remained in a drawer for decades. It was always a disappointment. I wasn’t the travel writer I’d aspired to be. The handwriting was small and an effort to read. I disdained standard sentence structures and placed text in a variety of positions on the page. Irritating. It doesn’t bring back my days in Cairo, Luxor and Aswan with any vividness. I’m frustrated by all the omissions. I’ve had to work out days and dates. I’d numbered days in Arabic. Luckily, I’d noted Halloween which gave one fixed point.
In writing up the journal I’ve had to come to terms with my 24 year old self. At first I struggled. I came to see that, although convinced she was a writer, she hadn’t found her voice. Her world was overwhelmed by all the writers and artists she admired. Her Egypt was filtered through Durrell, Gerald de Nerval, Baudelaire, Mallarme…. I developed some sympathy for her. The handwriting became easier to read.
Recently Egypt started calling again. Photos of places I visited arrived on facebook, as if filling in the ellipses in my past. So I decided to revisit the only way I can, travelling back in time and blending past and current selves the way the Romans blended divinities and cultures.