Ships of the Desert (for real)

There ARE some. Real ships. Found in natural desert areas or in humanity-devastated deserts.

In 1954 in the ancient Giza plateau of Egypt, archaeologists discovered the solar boat of Pharaoh Khufu. Almost 5,000 years old, the ship had been buried in a pit covered by enormous stone slabs. In a dismantled state, it took years of painstaking reconstruction. Although this solar boat was not the only one known or found, it is the oldest and best preserved. Its location at the foot of the Great Pyramid indicates its dedication to Khufu.

Why "solar"? Well, it's been determined it is not a funeral vessel:

"Despite its exemplary design, it was not intended for sailing or any other use on actual water. Dedicated to Khufu (King Cheops), the second pharaoh of the Fourth Dynasty of the Old Kingdom of Egypt, the Khufu ship was most certainly a ritual vessel."[1]

You can see why it took years to reassemble, finally being put on display in the 1980s in a special building. Restoration experts had to carefully study ancient shipbuilding The boat symbolizes the travels of the sun god but all the mysteries have not been understood or interpreted yet.

A different place, a different story.

The Aral Sea in central Asia was the fourth largest fresh-water lake on the planet. Scenes like this, of abandoned fishing boats, have been common in the past forty-fifty years. In the late 1950s Soviet engineers began diverting the two great rivers that fed the sea, in order to construct an enormous irrigation system for the agricultural steppes of Kazakhstan and Uzbekistan.

As a result, the Sea dried up at a fearsome rate until only small lakes remained of total volume less than 10% of its original size. Once providing one-sixth of the Soviet Union's entire fish industry, jobs were lost, prosperous towns died, people migrated. Not to mention the ecological effects.

"As a result of the drying over the past decades, millions of fish died, coastlines receded miles from towns, and those few people who remained were plagued by dust storms that contained the toxic residue of industrial agriculture and weapons testing in the area."[2]

The good news is that restoration attempts since 2005 by a World Bank-financed project are making some recovery in the northern section. Replenishing fish stocks has been successful there.

What anthropogenic havoc we wreak on our beautiful planet!

1. http://www.bbc.com/travel/story/20180510-the-egyptian-boat-buried-for-5000-years

2. https://news.nationalgeographic.com/news/2014/10/141001-aral-sea-shrinking-drought-water-environment/

© 2019 Brenda Dougall Merriman

Giza, Egypt 2011

In the fall of 2011, the effects of that year's Arab Spring were widely felt in Egypt. Unrest and protest had followed. Tourism dropped off dramatically. Their economy happens to be heavily dependent on it. One sign of the slowdown was when transiting the Suez Canal there were no cruise ships in the northbound convoy. Election signs were everywhere.  

In Port Said, a lively city (centre of recent and future unrest), Mediterranean entrance to the Suez Canal, we had a blaring police escort in and out of town for a trip to Cairo — nothing like being thrust into the spotlight!

Our bus had a mandatory plain-clothes security guard, making us feel safe, right? He had a fairly discreet shoulder holster under his jacket unlike the heavily armed soldier on buses in some countries. Discreet? He was either sleeping all the time or yakking on his cell phone, earning the scornful contempt of our guide; she shared her antipathy freely and frequently in several languages with us and the bus driver.

Such precautions aside, we experienced gratitude in one form or another for the return of tourism. The warm greetings and smiles for us on a festive Port Said Saturday night were happily reminiscent of a Mexican festival night.

How could I not take the opportunity to visit Giza once again? The town has grown into a hub of almost frenzied activity, a carnival, probably the most visited site in the country. This time is a little different. Far fewer foreign tourists. Sadly, the mounted camel cops have completely disappeared. More than half the visitors are Egyptian — because it is a holiday. And insh'allah, no sandstorm this time.

Nonetheless, the boys with their trinkets spring into action as a tour bus arrives to disgorge pale Europeans and North Americans. They chatter and pursue aggressively, intimidating the unprepared. Camel-hire guys want your business. They have their marketing ploys; sitting their cute kids on the camel is better than the one where they constantly rush and jump to block your path. Making slow zigzag progress is hard work on your part.

Camel handlers at the pyramids simply want to get you on, lead you around a bit, and then start the bargaining process at, oh, about 50 euros, LOL. As I have learned, Giza is not the place for a ride. Souvenir sellers are true to form with updated patter: "I have a gift for you, free .. free ... ." They are more tactile, it seems to me.

Well aware that eye contact, let alone a few words, will instantly create a small crowd of excited vendors, still I determine to engage and learn a few new words. I settle for posing with a good beast for a photograph. They don’t want one dollar U.S. bills. Newest ploy: “No good at the bank, give me $5, $10 ... .” Offering cigarettes is part of the satisfactory haggling, although one of them makes off with my lighter. Hey, at least it wasn't my camera. We had a few laughs and an acceptable if momentary tourist exchange.

It's fruitless to try explaining that a change in sales tactics would make a difference to the tourist market. Their enthusiasm has to be tolerated, if not embraced. A few dollars is little enough to contribute to what are desperate times for most of them.

 Because it's a family holiday, local activity swirls at the market below. A few camels and horses are saddled for the locals. It was a chance to wander without being pursued and see a variety of shaving tattoo designs among the animals.

   Who can resist the beaded headdresses? There's always a way to justify having another one!

I'm not immune to the get-the-kids-out-selling. How could you not buy postcards from a face like that?

At one point, a passing traditional family smiled at me in greeting and the man shyly said in English, “Welcome to Egypt.” Made my day absolutely.

© 2014 Brenda Dougall Merriman

Giza, Egypt 2008

My next sortie into Egypt after many years ...

Giza was a huge tourist hive, almost unrecognizable as a village from forty years ago. Cairo's urban growth has stretched all around. Teeming streets. We had to wait, patiently, in lineups, even to reach our lunch place.

While waiting and viewing the colourful passing scene (with a multitude of camels) we were treated to a furious harangue at the noon call to prayers. 

Can hardly blame the imam when you see an anomaly like this. He ranted for some time, calling on the faithful to reject the unbelievers ... for instance, the mostly-oblivious dumb tourists? Our local guide Saliba was embarrassed when I asked him to translate the gist and presumably softened the message for me.

The lunch venue was excellent with a postcard view of the pyramids, well staged. Literally. In the evening one would see a son et lumière show from here, standard productions these days.

We were told lunch would be only soup, mezzes and fruit, i.e. no traditional (substantial) third course. Fine with me for sure but I pitied some of the big-guy eaters in our group. A few in our group were already experiencing the irregular urgency to run to the john which involved frantic searching for the elusive piastres needed to purchase toilet paper! We saw the pyramids from all sides. Now, tourists are only allowed to climb one small low-level section of the Great Pyramid. Nevertheless, the blocks are huge, and progress is slow. 

I was photographing my friend Mary Ann doing some climbing when this sandstorm blew up, just amazing and quite scary. It only lasted about a half hour, but visibility was hampered as in a snow storm. The effect of getting grit in your face and eyes was worse. Forewarned is forearmed; always have a handy scarf around your neck. Hoping the camera still works.

 

While some trooped off to see the recent excavation of a boat (yes, buried under the desert sand), yours truly spent time talking to camels and joking with the predatory camel-ride salesmen. We had a prearranged ride coming up so no need to haggle over their extortionate starting prices. Had some sign language discourse with a cop on a camel. He was happy with being slipped a little baksheesh for posing.

  

Finally, time for our camel ride that couldn't come soon enough. Guide Saliba had arranged it and promised me I would have “all the time you want.” He lied ... sigh. Sadly, the briefest ride on record. Not a real ride at all, just a rushed photo opp for a short distance, among an enthusiastic group of camel tenders pestering for more tips. You could say I was not impressed.

However. The glorious monuments are what we came to see; they are enduring and spectacular. So, it seems, is the industry they inevitably generated.

© 2014 Brenda Dougall Merriman. All rights reserved.

Way Back When

Giza, 1970s. Was that when it all began? Writing this long after the fact, I was surprised how much I remembered about that amazing trip. Unfortunately, the old photos have faded badly.

Imagine two tender, blue-eyed girls from a small town who had yet to read the Alexandria Quartet. My cultural level had reached and temporarily stalled at Sigmund Romberg’s operetta The Desert Song. That said, we were aware that Cairo would be unlike any city in Europe. Sadly, we were a few years too late to enjoy the famed old Shepheard Hotel that hosted so many historical international figures—socialites, politicians, soldiers, spies—but the new Shepheard’s was just as opulent and paid due tribute to its past. In hindsight, I expect Gertrude Bell, T.E. Lawrence, and Churchill stayed here.

We had arrangements in Cairo for a local guide for several days. I remember Suleiman well. He said his father was the mayor of Heliopolis, an upper class part of Cairo. Did I believe him? Sure, why not? He was an educated man, several cuts above the throngs of would-be guides clamouring for attention outside the hotel. The souvenir hawkers, ready to pounce at every step, respectfully backed off from Suleiman’s stern wave. One place he wanted us to see (my pre-genealogy days) was Cairo’s Necropolis area where I had my first sight of above-ground tombs. We walked a few streets to see some of the vaults occupied by relatives visiting their ancestors. Culture shock.

The Necropolis is a large city in itself with plenty of foot traffic and architectural wonders. Wealthy and humble memorials jumbled together, places where family visitation has been a regular custom to honour the deceased.

Aside: Today, well over a million homeless Cairo people live more or less permanently and conduct their small business in that same city of the dead. The mausoleums provide desperately needed living space. Smoke and smells from cooking fires add to the “living tomb” phenomenon. Now, I doubt many living inhabitants are related to those whose hospitality they share. The site is not featured on tourist agendas these days (2011).

Suleiman took us to Giza to see the Sphinx and the Pyramids. In my recall, the place was a rather quiet, sandy village with little in the way of visitor comforts. To be expected, some vendors and entrepreneurs were present at the ancient sites to offer souvenirs and camel rides. We carefully climbed the steep tunnel into the Great Pyramid, as instructed ― a claustrophobic tunnel with light bulbs here and there; no steps, just wooden cross-slats to keep you from slipping backward. The constricted height only allowed a bent-over, semi-crawl position. We emerged into a central burial chamber to gaze, with some irony, on an empty room. Whatever sarcophagus or paraphernalia it once contained had long ago been removed. I don’t remember if we retreated the same way we came in. Certainly there was no room in the tunnel for ascending and descending at the same time.

Aside: Today, the famed site is protected, although urban development encroaches alarmingly. Giza is a much larger town now, the streets teeming with people, camels, and donkeys. Not to mention tour buses. The presence of a Hard Rock Café was very unnerving. No wonder the local mullah was shouting invective one day at the infidels. His Friday sermon was blasting from the mosque loudspeakers over throngs of tourists, naturally oblivious to the Arabic words. Our tour guide squirmed with embarrassment when I questioned him about the message.

Ergo, my first camel ride. It might appear to have been little more than a photo opp, but in the suffocating August heat, a camel was a godsend on the long way between pyramids! Long enough that Suleiman hired a donkey for himself.

From the camel’s mouth into my keffiyah ... my travel buddy was appalled at this familiarity. I’m sure the camel was asking me to come back again. Fickle as I am, I don’t remember his name. But I did come back. More than once. 

© 2014 Brenda Dougall Merriman