Agra: the obvious and the obscure

It had to be done. You simply don’t come to India without visiting the Taj Mahal. So on the second morning of our tour, after the night I lost my cell phone, we saddled up early and caught the train from Delhi to Agra.

The Indian railways system is the biggest in the world. 14 zillion people ride it every day, there are enough miles of track to reach from Mumbai to Pluto and it employs 86.2% of the population (the rest are employed selling Taj Mahal snow globe key chains and chai). Ok, I made most of that up, except it’s true that the system is the biggest in the world, and riding it turns out to be a really good way of seeing India – not just the landscape but the people and the culture. One of the things I’m enjoying about being back on an Intrepid tour after my two weeks as an Imaginative Traveller in the Middle East is that with Intrepid we take a lot more local transport. If this was my ImTrav tour we probably would’ve got a private minibus downtown to Old Delhi, and driven from Delhi to Agra. Nevermind that if we’d had a private bus in Delhi I’d probably still have my cell phone – traveling should be about experiencing the places you visit, not viewing them from behind glass.

The Indian Railway System is also a good place to write a blog. (Jono and Akshay pictured at the left!)

Pulling out of the station in Delhi at 7:00 in the morning was an eye-opener. It turns out that the train tracks aren’t just for carrying trains. They’re also a gigantic garbage heap and a place to dry laundry, and a toilet. I couldn’t count how many people we saw who simply dropped their pants to squat down on the tracks. It’s hard not to be shocked and saddened and disgusted, which are all the things that everyone says you’ll feel about India. I’m glad that I scheduled this stop as I did – I think that going through Africa and the Middle East first has made it a bit easier for me to accept the conditions here, which are definitely worse. Patti has traveled a lot in China and Southeast Asia, and she says things are far worse here than anything she’s seen in those places.

Back on the train, we made it to Agra by about 11:00am and quickly headed out to see the Agra Fort. It was interesting, and we had a nice local guide, but ultimately it felt like a bit of a time-killer because we weren’t scheduled to go see the Taj Mahal until just before sunset, so we could get the all-important “money shot” of the Taj. The fort is still 75% controlled by the Indian Army, but the 25% that’s open to the public was quite nice. It was a former palace to a long line of Indian rulers, including the one who built the Taj Mahal, Shah Jahan. There are private apartments and public meeting areas and a lot of very nice carved stone and marble inlaid with semiprecious gems.

A bit of intricately carved stone screen – it was about three inches thick. Again, my old camera would never have been able to focus this closely.

The fort was nice, but I was happy to get back to the hotel for a some internet time and a short rest before we met up to walk to the Taj. Security at the site is understandably tight - we weren’t allowed to bring any bags, just cameras and money belts. And any bottle of water we took with us had to be factory sealed and could not be opened until we’d passed through the security at the gate. We were even given fetching shoe covers to wear when we entered the actual building. (Another in the series of “Pictures of Pam’s feet” is here.)

Quite a few of the people I’ve traveled with in recent months had been to the Taj Mahal, and all of them declined to make any real comments about it. The best I could get from them was a vague sense that you just need to experience it for yourself, and anything they said wouldn’t really mean anything anyways. I was expecting great things but also aware that these mega-sights often end up being a bit disappointing because they are built up so much in the collective consciousness of the world that it’s impossible for them to be as great as their reputation. So I’m pleased to report that while I was not moved to tears at the majesty and grandeur of the Taj Mahal, I can still report that it is undeniably impressive and well worth a visit if you happen to be in the area.

Mandatory shot of me at the Taj Mahal, followed by mandatory bit of Taj history:

The Taj Mahal was built by Shah Jahan as a mausoleum for his favourite wife, Mumtaz. They were married for 18 years before she died while giving birth to their 14th child. That’s why the Taj is sometimes called the ultimate monument to love. Construction started in 1621 and finished 21 years later in 1653, and more than 20,000 labourers worked on it. It cost about 41,000,000 Rupees at the time, about $10,000,000.

It really is beautiful, though it was (I know I must sound like a broken record when I say this) kind of was smaller than I expected. However the details and intricacy of the decoration inside is amazing. The tomb itself is surrounded by an octagonal stone screen, carved similarly to the one above, but in much thinner stone (white marble, of course) and with an smaller, finer design. And around the edges were more floral patterns of inlaid semiprecious stones like in the fort. But again these were infinitely more delicate – I overheard one guide say that each lotus blossom pictured had 64 individual pieces of stone in it, and they were only about two and a half inches across.

No photos are allowed inside the mausoleum, this is an example of the type of inlay work I’m talking about (from the fort) but on a cruder level.

We looked around inside some more, then went out to wait on an empty bench for sunset to arrive, so we could get our all-important photos. There were lots of people everywhere, but I was surprised that a couple of prime photo spots were open, and came equipped with helpful Indians who would show you exactly where to crouch down to get a nice picture of the Taj reflected in the pools out front. Patti and I each took too many pictures, and then finally decided that we were finished with the Taj Mahal and headed out of the complex and back to the hotel.

My best “money shot” of the Taj. Many many others are over at Flickr.

True to form, we took the wrong exit and then a wrong turned wrong and got hopelessly lost. This was ok though, because it meant we got to take a motor rickshaw, which are those three-wheeled contraptions you see everywhere. It cost quite a bit – 100 Rupees ($5.00!), but it included a tour of what seemed like the whole city of Agra, with frequent virtuoso solos on rickshaw horn.

After another short break we gathered in the lobby to go for dinner, but Akshay first asked us if we were interested in visiting a carpet factory, for a tour of the facility and a little lesson on how hand-knotted carpets are made. I was wary because my experience with these kind of things is that they inevitably end in a showroom with a sales pitch. However, Akshay assured us there would be no pressure to buy, so we gave it a go. And you know what? Despite the fact that I’d just seen the Taj Mahal, I think I actually had more fun at the carpet factory, and I learned a lot.

We started with a brief stop at a hand loom where a man was knotting a carpet, then we moved on to see how the carpets are washed by hand. A four foot by six foot carpet takes one man five hours to complete for each washing, and there are many washings involved. Then we saw the big piles of wool waiting to be used and also went upstairs and saw the design room where the carpet designs are rendered into graph paper so that the patterns can be recreated by the village women who are employed by the company – they’re usually illiterate rural women with no other means of support.

His hands did not stop. Ever.

The company itself is one that’s supported by the government as a mean of promoting clean, socially responsible industry in the area. Apparently there’s a lot of industry in the area that creates pollution which, in turn, discolours the marble on the Taj Mahal (Nevermind that it also discolours the lungs of the residents, clearly this is a governement that know which side its bread is buttered on.) The government provided the money to buy the looms, and the company has distributed these looms to woman in rural areas, and taught them how to use them. They train women because, as the company representative explained, women have more patience for the fine and tedious work involved. More importantly, when money flows into the family through the woman, it actually flows into the family, as opposed to ending up at the local bar, when it’s earned by the man.

After viewing the design room we saw how the carpets are trimmed after they’re knotted. Of course that’s also done by hand, in three stages. An expert trimmer uses a plain pair of scissors and simply trims the excess length from the hand-knotted strands. This would be like using a pair of scissors to cut a four foot by six foot patch of lawn, and having EVERY BLADE come out exactly the same length. It was astonishing. And there’s the six months it took two people working full time to knot the carpet in the first place, or the fifteen hours for cleaning it three times, or the inspection for quality control, or any number of the other critical steps in the process. I used to think handmade carpets were ridiculously expensive, but now that I’ve seen how much labour goes into them, I can’t believe how reasonable the prices are.

A trimmer at work on the right. The guy on the left is using a long pointed metal tool and rubbing it through all the strands of the carpet to make sure every one stands up straight.

And yes, there was a visit to the showroom and complimentary cups of chai, and the unrolling of many carpets. And there were actually three sales, though none of them were to me. I was sorely tempted, but then I realized that I was just getting caught up in the fun of it all, and I really don’t need a carpet, especially since I don’t actually have a floor. Also, I’m buying an iPhone (I think), so I’ll just have to look at my pictures of carpets on my iPhone, and be content with that.

Pick of Pics: Delhi

This is a typical good luck charm hung outside shops in Old Delhi. They are composed of a black thread (always black, or sometimes dark blue) strung with 7 chilies separated by one lemon. Shopkeepers will often replace them daily before the start of business, or have them renewed by people in the neighbourhood who might also deliver the morning paper, or chai. (My old camera never could have got this shot!)

Down in Delhi (but NOT out)

Well that makes FOUR. Four big, important, hard to replace items that are no longer with me. First was the computer – you may recall that I unintentionally stabbed it with a fork in Copenhagen. Then I left my wallet in the Barcelona metro. Smart. Very recently, my camera spontaneously stopped working. Now, it’s my beloved Palm Centro cell phone. I’ve said it before, but it was a really important bit of kit. It wasn’t just a phone, it was my calendar, address book, notepad, packing list, currency converter, alarm clock and backup camera. There’s a bit of a story about its demise, but let’s start at the beginning.

It was another night of overnight travel. I know all these nights on trains, buses, ferries and planes take their toll, but often it’s the only way, and I flew again with Emirates, so things were generally as comfortable as can be expected. I had a reasonable layover in Dubai and bought a new camera, a Panasonic DMC-TZ7, which I’m growing quite fond of. And my arrival in Delhi and cab ride out of the airport was relatively smooth and easy. I stayed the first night with my friend Patti, who’s joining me for the India-Nepal leg of the trip. She was staying with the father of a friend of hers, and he’d generously offered the room to me as well. I fetched up at the door around 11:00 am, and spent the next few hours in a sort of pleasant daze. Tired, a bit disoriented, making small talk, drinking chai, and sorting through the treats from home that Patti brought me (New, roomier pants! Long underwear! Gloves! A replacement sink stopper! And even a few un-asked-for gifts).

Me and our host, Sharma

Later that afternoon we ventured out into Delhi to meet another of Patti’s friends - Non. We took the metro for an hour to get into the centre of town, which gives you an idea of how far out we were staying. It was a pleasant afternoon – we got some food and beer (yay!), and after dark we walked around an area full of narrow streets lined with shops, hawkers, street food vendors. It was really crowded, as is all of Delhi (and, in fact, all of India). At one point a couple of young boys bumped in between me and Non and I recognized immediately that they were pickpockets jostling for the wallet in his back pocket. I was standing right behind him and saw it all so I smacked the kid and he and his sidekick veered off. It made me feel like quite the smug, savvy traveler but stay tuned and you shall soon see how pride goeth before the fall.

The next morning we had an interesting cab ride down to the Good Times Hotel, where we were to join our Intrepid tour group. Even though we called a legitimate, reputable cab company, we still ended up with a driver who clearly had his own agenda. He seemed a bit hesitant about the location of the hotel, even though we had very good information, and then he had to stop for fuel. Shortly after that he tried to feed us a standard cabbie/hotel scam. This normally happens at airports when you tell the driver the name of the hotel you’re heading for and he claims it is closed, under renovation, full, demolished or otherwise unavailable. Luckily for you though, he knows a good place where he can take you (and then get a kick-back on the inflated price of your room). Our cabbie started to mumble something about how he’d got a call from our hotel manager, which was such an absurd claim that it was kind of sad. Patti and I both saw through it immediately, and were on our guard after that. It took some very firm words, a phone call to Sharma, and a suspiciously long time, but we eventually made it in time to bolt down some lunch and join the group.

The group is small – only five in total – which is unusal. Other than me and Patti, there’s Adam, Sheila and her son Jono. All three of them are Australian, and our group leader is a friendly and knowledgeable young Indian guy named Akshay. It’s nice being in such a small group, there’s a lot less waiting around for people, and we can travel a lot quicker. Happily, as is usually the case with these kind of tours, everyone is friendly and interesting, so it looks like it will be a pleasant few weeks.

After our group meeting we headed out on the metro for a tour through old Delhi. We took cycle rickshaws from the metro station to the biggest mosque in the city, and then delved into the narrow streets of Old Delhi. Akshay was pretty good at keeping us alive, but the volume of traffic – pedestrians, biclycles, cycle rickshaws and motorcycles – was so heavy that it would have been really easy to get run over. So of course, I did. It wasn’t a big deal – just the hard front tire of a delivery bicycle that ran over the side of my right foot. But I was wearing sandals, and the tire also managed to glance off my still-tender, possibly-formerly-sprained little toe, so I was a lot more cautious after that.

This is a wide, spacious and uncrowded version of the street where I got run over. Picture this one third the width, with two-way traffic, shops spilling into the streets and pedestrians on both sides.

We stopped for a snack at a very authentic hole-in-the wall place where we tried parantha, a type of stuffed bread cooked on a grill. It’s not normally stuffed, but this place was one of only two or three – all in Old Delhi – where they’d mix things in with the dough before cooking. For 30 rupee (about 60 cents), Patti and I shared a plate with an assortment of sauces and chutneys with varying levels of explosiveness, and a mixed veg parantha. It was quite good, and left us ready for dessert, something India (unlike the Middle East) does very very well. Our next stop was a famous sweet shop, where we loaded up on a wide selection of treats, some of which we tried right away, and some we saved for the train trip the next morning.

Unexpectedly, the most fun and interesting stop of the afternoon was our visit to a Sikh temple. Each Sikh Temple – called a Gurdwara – is open to anyone of any caste, religion, gender or nationality. Everyone must take off their shoes and cover their heads before entering. We had a quick look at the central prayer area, but the best part was when we visited the community kitchen, called the Pangat. As explained in a pamphlet we picked up:

The two important features of a Gurdwara are the Sangat – the congregations and the Pangat – Community Kitchen, also known as Guru-Ka-Langar. This community kitchen is meant for providing food to all the devotees, pilgrims and visitors. It is a symbol of equality, fraternity and brotherhood. It is there that the high and the low, the rich and the poor, the learned and the ignorant, the kings and paupers, all share the same food sitting together in one row. The kitchen in run by the common contributions of the Sikhs. The institution of Langar (common kitchen) is instrumental in creating social equality among the whole mankind.

The fun part was actually visiting the kitchen. We got to try rolling chapatis with the other women volunteering, and I even spent a bit of time at the chapati grill, armed with a steel implement, trying to keep up with flipping the chapati at the right time, and then transferring them to the special grill where they puffed up and got that nice char. And we visited the communal dining area and had a bit of chai. It was a really nice visit, and it was fun that most everybody just dived in and tried things.

A woman at the chapati grill in the Sikh temple’s community kitchen.

After the temple it was time to head back to the hotel, so we piled into the metro again. It was rush hour by this time and the whole place was crammed. In the Delhi metro you have to go through a metal detector and a pat-down every time you enter a station. They have separate lines for men and women, and on this occasion the line for the men was so long it stretched up the stairs and towards the street, I suspect there were a thousand men in line, and that was just at one entrance to one station. The women’s line was very short, so Patti and Sheila and I breezed through and waited for Akshay, Adam and Jono on the other side. (The ratio of men to women was interesting indication of exactly how few women are part of the 9-5 work force in Delhi.)

Rush hour above ground.

When we lined up to get onto our train the crush of people was astounding. And when the doors opened people just kept cramming themselves into the car. Patti and I got in and I can’t believe the number of people who were able to squeeze in behind us. It’s hard to describe how tightly packed we were (in fact I tried to write that last sentence three or four times before I gave up). It was actually a bit fun, and Patti and I laughed and joked and eventually we made it to our destination and headed out into the night.

That’s when I reached down to my pocket and realized my cell phone wasn’t there. It’s always there. I go for that pocket a hundred times a day to check to time, or make a note, or look up a currency conversion. I couldn’t quite believe it – I checked my other pockets, and my daypack, but deep down I knew it was gone. It must have happened on the train – it was so crowded that there would have been no way I’d notice someone getting at my side pocket. Even though the pocket was snapped shut and the extra zipper I put in was closed the ride was long enough and I was distracted enough that someone managed to grab it. At least that’s what I suspect happened but I’ll never really know. I guess it’s possible that I left it somewhere, or dropped it, or something. Probably not though.

So it was a sad, angry walk back to the hotel. And every time I remembered something else that device did for me, I was sad and angry all over again. Most of the information in it is backed up in my computer, which is a big relief, but I did lose hundreds or text message conversations that I enjoyed going back and reading, and I lost some sound recordings that I’d made as well that meant a lot to me.

So what now? I have a few choices. I can buy a cheap phone just for India and toss it away in a week; that would cost about $40. Or, I could hit eBay and order an exact replica of the phone I lost. This would be easiest, mean an almost seamless transition, and cost a very reasonable $150. But more and more I’m thinking about upgrading. I’d kind of promised myself a new fancy phone gadget at the end of the trip anyways, so I wonder it makes sense to just get it now. Gadget lust is coursing through my veins and I’m spending a lot of time cruising eBay for unlocked iPhones. I haven’t ordered anything yet, but it may be inevitable.

For now though, I’m just living without. Patti’s Blackberry is our alarm clock, and I’m wearing my running watch so I can tell the time, and taking notes with a pen, and reconstructing my packing list on paper. Now that I’m getting used to it, I think I may just stay unplugged for the next two weeks. But the whole thing left me kind of jittery – especially the following morning. I was paranoid about my stuff, and suddenly everyone and everywhere seemed really unsafe and dodgey. And I have to admit that dealing with the logistics of replacing another important piece of gear while on the road is tiring. I guess it was too much to think I could travel like I am for a whole year without losing something in this way, and I suppose I should be grateful that both my passports are still with me, and that I’m now experienced with overcoming these little hurdles.

But enough about my woes. I’m in India, and it’s just as big and noisy and squalid and colourful and spicy and smelly and incredible as everyone says. So screw you pickpocket!* I’m determined to have fun here, and you can’t wreck that.

* When I emailed my friend Karen about the incident that evening she promptly wrote back and asked if I wanted to send the guy a nasty text message. So she wrote him and told him he sucks. And he does.

Musings on the Middle East

Thoughts on two weeks traveling the Middle East, in no particular order.

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For reasons passing understanding, restaurants in Jordan and Egypt often provide kleenex instead of proper napkins for wiping one’s hands. All over the place – everywhere from the Bedouin camp in Wadi Rum to the posh seafood restaurant where we had supper in Dahab, Egypt, there were boxes of kleenex on the tables. At first I thought they’d been hauled out because the place had run out of proper paper napkins and was improvising, but in fact it seems to be the norm. As you’d expect, it sorta works, but not really.

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I'm finally – FINALLY – running again. Not regularly, but I ran twice in Amman on the treadmill in the Magic Hotel. And I hashed in Amman in the torrential rain. And best of all, I got to run outside twice, once along the waterfront in Luxor and once again in Aswan. I was a bit worried that I’d get hassled by the local men, and I did get quite a few comments, but they were all positive. “Good exercise!” and “Very nice!” and “Strong Woman!” and stuff like that. I even got some sporadic applause when I passed by one or two different groups. It was a nice change from the hassle you normally get when walking along touristy spots. Then it’s a constant barrage from touts selling felucca cruises or carriage rides or from taxi drivers or people manning the endless stream of stalls selling tourist tat. It’s exhausting trying to stay pleasant but asserting, for the eight hundredth time, that no, you do not want a taxi, or a felucca or a papyrus print or a scarf or a crystal pyramid with a 3D image of King Tut suspended inside it. When I was running I was immune to all that, maybe because I was moving too fast for them to bother with me.

The view along the Nile

And the other nice thing? I’d forgotten how good it feels after a run. It’s been so long since I’ve done regular exercise that I was surprised by the wave of contentment and happiness that washed over me after my run in Aswan. Great.

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Tipping – baksheesh – is a way of life in the Middle East. Hotel receptionists, bellmen, housekeeping staff, local guides, camel drivers, station porters, donkey wranglers, dive shop owners, felucca sailors, taxi drivers, guys at checkpoints, police, waiters - basically anyone drawing breath within a 10 metre radius of any activity in which you are involved - will expect a tip of some kind. As the Imaginative Traveller trip notes say:

Throughout the Middle East, tipping is part of the fabric of life. The local word is 'baksheesh', which when translated into English falls somewhere in between 'tip' and 'bribe'. Everyone constantly tips everyone else and foreign travellers are expected to comply with this system. It is part of everyday life and is a form of remuneration for doing something, regardless of the standard of service. This is quite confusing for those used to the western concept of tipping as a way of showing appreciation. Over the years we have found that most of our customers find this constant need for tipping to be both tiresome and embarrassing, especially if you don't have the correct small change.

No kidding – in Jordan this was a nightmare. Imtrav (T.W.T.C.K.C.I*) usually suggests that the group establish a “Tipping Kitty” of about $3.00 USD per day to cover all these sort of tips, handled by the guide. This sounded like a really good idea, but our Jordan guide said that the suggested amount there was 5 JD per day, which is closer to $7.00 USD and seemed quite high to those who’d already been travelling in the area for a while and were familiar with the system. This dissention meant that we didn’t use a group fund in Jordan and therefore were each expected to tip all the appropriate people the correct amount at every turn. This was frankly impossible because you almost never have enough small change, and I, at least, am usually oblivious to when a tip is appropriate anyways. It was extremely frustrating to feel like you were either constantly being hit up for money, or constantly (and unintentionally) offending everyone around you.

In Egypt, with our fabulous guide Ahmed, the Tipping Kitty was back, including documents that showed exactly how much is allocated for each different service in each place. (why didn’t we have this in Jordan?) I simply gave Ahmed my 165 Egyptian Pounds (about $35 CDN) and most circumstances were taken care of for my entire time in Egypt. It may not be in the spirit of the region, but at least it was off my mind.

The fabulous Ahmed. He was very creative about distributing baksheesh. Sometimes it was just cash, but sometimes it was a small bottle of cold water given to a guard at a checkstop so that he wouldn’t make us all show our passports or open all our bags. Once he even promised a cell phone top-up. Crafty.

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Ok, here’s the most annoying thing about the Middle East – it’s really hard to find a beer! Turkey was 98% Muslim but it’s still a very secular state, and it’s easy to find alcohol wherever you want. In Jordan and Egypt it’s frustratingly rare. Very few hotels we stayed at (including the magical Toledo Hotel in Amman) had alcohol available on any menu. Similarly, restaurants will usually offer soft drinks, smoothies, fresh juice, four kinds of coffee and 98 kinds of tea, but no alcohol. It was a rare event indeed to have a drink with dinner, which was annoying (though it did mean the bill was usually a lot cheaper). There were bars in Aqaba, which was good, and Ahmed told us we could walk down to the corner store for beer and bring them back to the posh seafood place in Dahab, but it would have been nice to see beer show up on a menu with food. And please God, let me never have to endure another bottle of Amstel Zero non alcoholic “beer”. Ugh.

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It seems to be a universal truth in the Middle East that no one ever has change. Bank machines spit out £100 and £200 notes, or £50s if you’re lucky. Admittedly, a £200 note is worth about $40, which is a lot of money in this neck of the woods, so I can understand why someone would be reluctant to change it if you were buying a $1 can of pop. But I bought two 10 dinar SD cards for my camera in Aqaba and the shopkeeper only agreed to change my 50 dinar note when I said I’d buy a third card. I think they see it as a game, and whoever ends up with the small bills wins. This is probably because the small notes - £1 and £5 in Egypt – are the ones you need for the endless stream of baksheesh that’s constantly flowing out. Usually this means you have to lie about what’s in your wallet. You hand over a £20 note and the shopkeeper shakes his head sadly. “Oh, have no change. Anything smaller?” You shake your head sadly… no, you have nothing. “Ah, is problem.” You stare, unflinching. It’s £20 or nothing. You are prepared to walk out without making the purchase if no change is available. The trick is in who backs down first. If it’s something you don’t really care about, you can hang on until the shopkeeper relents and sends someone off to find change, or magically produces it from his pocket, and you win. If it’s something you really need, you pull out your wallet again and perform a much more thorough search than before and – remarkably – discover that you do have a smaller note, and the other guy wins. I sometimes wonder if they actually keep score.

Exact change! I lost this round.

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We spent a lot of time in small buses and minvans in Egypt, and though it’s a warm part of the world, it’s still January and temperatures are not always comfortable. Nevertheless, the drivers we had almost always kept their window at least partly open, creating a cold draft (or in Cairo, a smelly one) that just added to the discomfort. Once we asked that the window be closed and Ahmed told us that it’s normal for Egyptian drivers to keep the window open, so they don’t fall asleep. Naturally this begs the question: If you’re so tired that you need a cool breeze to keep you from falling asleep while hurtling down the road at 120 km/ph, then should you really be behind the wheel?

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It’s weird to me that in a region that produces an infinite variety of sticky, honey-soaked treats, the most common thing we are offered for dessert in a restaurant is… fruit. And I’m not talking about a nice fruit salad. I’m talking about a whole orange, unpeeled, and rolling around on a side plate. It’s terribly disappointing that no one seems to understand that fruit is not dessert. Fruit is… fruit. Dessert is sticky and sweet and should involve licking fingers and aching teeth. Come on Middle East!

THIS is dessert – at a nice sweet shop in Amman

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Ok, I realize this might all sound a bit whiny, so I'm going to close with a couple of my favourite and most recently discovered things in the Middle East. Naturally, they are both edible. First, lemon juice. This is NOT lemonade. I'm not sure what makes it different, but it definitely is. Very. It's got a sort of creamy frothiness that makes it taste a bit like a lemon julep. It's tart and refreshing, and I think there's a bit of the lemon zest in it. And it's always freshly made and served icy cold and it's very very very good.

Second, roasted sweet potatoes. I only found these on my second-last day in Cairo, but I wish they'd been everywhere. There was a street vendor selling them outside our hotel - he had a cart with an oven on it where he was burning some kind of charcoal. And he had a bunch of the roasted potatoes on the top of the oven to keep them warm. When you bought one (or two, if they're small), he'd pluck them off the top slice them open, and serve them on a random scrap of paper. The first one I got was on a glossy KFC menu, the second was presented on what appeared to be a photocopied page from a UK personal income tax form. And they were great. I'm not sure if you're intended to eat the skins, since I think they go straight from the ground into the fire, but the skins had a nice smokey flavour, and I think they're the best part, so I gobbled them down along with the soft, sweet flesh, and probably a thousand thousand thousand germs and gunk. But they were fantastic, and only £1 each - about 20 cents.

The Potato Man's cart. The Potato Man himself declined to be photographed.

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And those are parting thoughts on the Middle East. By the time this is posted I'll be in Delhi starting another 2 week tour of northern India and Nepal, accompanied by my friend Patti. The Middle East was good, and I'm glad I got to tick off all those amazing sights - Petra, the pyramids, and the Valley of Kings. But despite my constant complaints about being tired and moving around too much, I'm ready for something new. On to India!

* That’s What The Cool Kids Call It. (And to Rob H: Yes, the asterisks are back, in moderation. I am making an effort to include my parenthetical statements in the body of the text, but sometimes I just feel the need for an asterisk. Plus Steven G. likes them, and I like Steven G.)

Upper Egypt: the hits just keep on coming

I told you about the Temple of Karnak, the donkey ride, the Valley of Kings and the Temple of Queen Hatshepsut. That was all accomplished in about a day and a half in and around Luxor. Not being ones to linger when there are miles to be driven and antiquities to be viewed, we hightailed it out of Luxor at the first opportunity and drove to Aswan where I had the Weird Food birthday supper you’ve already heard about.

That night we all tried to get to sleep early because there was a very very early start scheduled for the next day. We were going to see the Great Temple of Abu Simbel, built by Ramses II (who was not a guy who did things halfway). It’s a magnificent site, but it’s also located in the far south of Egypt in a very sparsely inhabited area. The 280 km drive from Aswan to Abu Simbel is apparently too dangerous to be undertaken privately, so twice a day (three times during high season) a huge convoy of up to 60 vehicles forms up in Aswan and proceeds to the site with a police escort. And when do these convoys leave? The first one leaves a the punishing hour of 4:00 am. Naturally, we decided to take the second one so we got to leave a the much more comfortable hour of 4:30 am. Yup. The alarm went of at 3:15 am and we were instructed to be in the lobby ready to go at 4:00. Nice. It would be a three hour drive in the convoy to the Temple, where we’d then have about two hours to look around, and then we’d have to report back at 10:00 am to get into the return convoy back to Aswan. Oh, and of course the trip to Abu Simbel was not included in my tour, so I got to pay an additional 80 USD for the whole business. I really hoped this turned out to be worthwhile.

The Temple of Abu Simbel. Those statues in front are close to 66’ tall. And the place is so important and famous that this scene is depicted on the Egyptian £1 note.

I think it was. The logistics of getting to the site are definitely annoying, but when you get there it really is quite magnificent. As with the Valley of Kings, no cameras were allowed inside the temples. I think this is to help preserve the colours of the painted decorations on the walls inside (I run into this a lot – can anyone tell me whether flash photography really degrades paint? Or is this all just an excuse to try and get people to buy the professionally produced photos in the gift shop?). At least Abu Simbel still allowed photography outside – even outdoor photography is now banned in the Valley of the Kings. Merely being in possession of a camera there can net you a fine of £3,000 ($600). Actually being caught using it will cost you £5,000 ($1,000). Ahmed told us this is because too many people were sneaking cameras inside the painted tombs and then bribing the local guards to let them take photos. As usual, the countless jerks of the world have ruined it for everyone.

Here’s the other problem with the convoys – they create a huge glut of people who all arrive at the same place at the same time to see exactly the same thing. The crowds inside the big temple after we got there were awful. And of course everywhere you looked there were people taking photos, even though the local guards were making people put their cameras away. Naturally, it’s also forbidden to touch the walls inside the temple – not only is the original paint still present in some places, but most of the hieroglyphs are actually carved into the rock, not just painted. Nevertheless I saw people touching, and even leaning against the walls. There was one particularly miserable bunch – a Russian family consisting of a mom, dad and two little girls. As ai was standing nearby one of the little girls reached out to touch the carving of a figure in a side chamber of the main temple. I was a bit surprised but figured she was young and didn’t know better and would soon be corrected by a parent. Instead, dad came over and joined in the fun and I watched them trace over the whole carving with their fingers. I had to just leave the room it made me so mad. People are odious.

The facade of the smaller temple, which Ramses built for his wife, Queen Nefertari

Luckily the crowds thinned out after while, so when I went back to have a second look at the big temple it was much more manageable (though there were even more cameras out, and I even saw one woman blithely recording a video of the whole place as she walked through). The insides of both the temples are covered with carvings and hieroglyphs. There’s even a hunting scene inside the big temple that appears on the Egyptian £20 note. It’s pretty fantastic stuff. I got my fill of the sights and had some fun playing with my borrowed camera, which has much more zoom than my old one, and thus allowed me to take some nice close-up shots.

Staring into the gigantic face of Ramses II

The temple complex is located on the shores of Lake Nasser, which was created after they built the Aswan High Dam in the 1960s, and forms the border between Egypt and Sudan. In fact the original site of the temple is below the current water level. As the water was rising during the construction of the dam, a team of engineers and workers completely disassembled the two temples into more than a thousand pieces and painstakingly reassembled them 65 metres higher up on the hillside. The move took four years and cost about $6,000,000 (funded by UNESCO). There was a nice display in the visitor’s centre that talked about the relocation process, but I would have liked to know more – it really was an incredible feat.

Soon enough, though, we were on our cramped minibus back to Aswan. There was another quick turnaround in the lobby of the hotel and then we were off for the felucca. A felucca, (pronounced to rhyme with Delucca, for any Winnipeggers reading this. For non-Winnipeggers: “fuh LOO kuh”) is a typical Egyptian sailboat. We were scheduled to cruise up the Nile for the afternoon and then anchor at a Nubian village where we’d have dinner at the home of the mayor. Then we’d return to the boat to spend the night under the stars before returning to Aswan by motorboat in the morning.

Our felucca, the whole deck of which was covered by one big comfy mattress

And this is where I started to lose heart. Maybe it was remembering the frigid temperature overnight at the Bedouin camp in Wadi Rum. Maybe it was the total lack of toilet facilities on the boat. Or maybe, just maybe, it’s that I’m tired and getting less and less enthusiastic about these interesting but uncomfortable side adventures. Whatever the cause, I decided to wimp out, abandon the boat after supper and get a cab back into Aswan where I could enjoy a night off in a hotel room that I’d have all to myself, with a hot shower and wireless internet a warm, comfortable bed.

But first we had a really nice afternoon on board the boat. The big mattress was comfortable and the roof was low enough that you were forced to sit or lay down all the time. The sun was warm, and there really wasn’t much to do but lay about, take photos, drink beer (there was a full cooler!) and nap. We even had a pitstop so a few of us could go for a swim in the Nile. I went in, but not for long because it was COLD. We also had a really nice simple lunch of falafel and cheese and pita and such.

Life on the felucca

It was excellent. So excellent, in fact, that I started to doubt whether I’d made the right decision about jamming out on the overnight portion. However I hadn’t brought any warm clothes with me from the hotel, and I didn’t have a sleeping bag at all, and by that time I had my heart set on the comfy hotel. Supper was pleasant, but by then I just wanted out. Eventually I was guided back down to the river and got a motorboat ride over to the other side of the Nile from Mohammed, one of the mayor’s sons. He was only about 12 years old, but he piloted the huge boat and waited for me on the other side until my cab came. Mohammed got a bit of baksheesh before I left.

Eventually I got to my hotel, had a hot shower, and installed myself on the bed with the tv remote in one hand and a strong wifi signal happily feeding into my computer, and everything was good. I do feel a bit bad about skipping the night on the felucca, but I got some reports the next morning when I joined the group again, and it sounds like I didn’t miss much. Basically: it got cold, there were no bathrooms, most people slept fitfully. I, on the other hand, slept in, had another hot shower, and lingered in my room getting things done until checkout time. I do worry a bit that the length of time between these little “breaks” from travel is getting shorter and shorter the longer I’m on the road, but I suppose that’s natural. I’m trying not to concern myself about it. I’m just doing what feels right at the time, and damn the consequences.