DAY 25 - THIRD CLASS
SYNOPSIS: About traveling under the wire in an area where tourists usually are escorted, about two more temples in the Nile Valley, and about how I came into the possession of a police officer’s hat. But mainly, it’s about an unforgettable train ride.
At times the pantheon works in mysterious ways. Just when I needed to take a shower this morning, Ganesh made sure that the faucet only produced a gurgling sound but no water. Three minutes later the water was back, but I was already dressed. If I had taken a shower, I would have missed the train.
Yesterday, one of the feluka boys pestered me asking when I would take a ride with him. When will you go with me, Madame? When do you need me, Madame? Tomorrow at 5 AM, I replied. For sure? Yes, for sure. When I got there this morning, there was no feluka and no feluka boy; all was dark, so I proceeded to the main ferry dock. But who was waiting there for me? Achmed, the feluka boy! If he had not taken me a few hundred yards further out and several minutes faster than the ferry, I would have missed the train.
The train was already on the platform when I arrived in the only taxi in town out and about at 5 AM. If it had not been available, I would have missed the train and without getting out on this early train, I would have missed Dendera.
I had three minutes to departure. But just as I was about to board the train, a police officer approached me: No tourists on this train! But I am not a tourist, I argued, I am a teacher. I got up at 4 AM to make this train – three miracles had just happened to get me there and I could not possibly wait for a train three hours later just because this one for some odd reason is off limits for tourists. Really, I am not a tourist; just a teacher. The officer softened and agreed to let me on. He even got on the train with me choosing a wagon and a seat for me explaining that I needed to sit best on the aisle seat going backwards. It was pitch dark. A few men were sleeping stretched out on a few seats, otherwise the train seemed rather empty. The officer mentioned a baksheesh. I pretended I did not hear. He needed to get off the train fast as the conductor was blowing his whistle. He did and one more time, poked his head into the window mumbling something about money. I ignored it again.
The train started to roll. Police corruption was one of the main factors triggering the revolution. The police are scared. Many police units have staged independent demonstrations declaring their solidarity with the people. They vowed to give up their baksheesh demands for fair hours and fair wages. I knew that.
As the train rolled along and my eyes adjust to the darkness, I realize the horrific environment I find myself. No wonder the tourists are not allowed on this train. A bombed-out post World-War II train could hardly have been worse. It was a train classified as 2nd and 3rd class train only. Tourists are only allowed to go on trains with first class cars. I am sure the police officer had picked one of the 2nd class wagons for me, but I have a hard time picturing how anything could get any worse from here: For starters, there is no light. Many doors do not close and are open, some hanging rather loosely in their frames. The scenery moves beneath you at lightning speed. A false step and you would fall out of the train with nothing to hold you.
The conductor comes through with a small flash light around his neck – buying a ticket on the train is OK. I pay $1.60 for a three hour ride and give him the change as a tip. He is a young kind looking guy. He speaks no English. I ask him about the name of the next stop. Instead of an answer, he makes me a list of all the names of all the stations between here and my final destination. It is in Arabic; but no problem. I will count. Eight to go.
MY SEAT ON THE TRAIN
The seats are plastic and freezing cold. There used to be fabric on the seats, but it has been ripped off. It is still dark, at least a half hour before the sun rises and I feel around in my backpack for something I can use beneath my butt. I am freezing from the cold seat all the way up to my head. I feel something unfamiliar in the dark – a felt cap, the police officer’s hat. He had left it! For a moment I ponder how I can get it back to him and wonder if he will get into trouble for losing his hat. Then I decide that it is a perfect buffer between me and the freezing seat and I sit on it. A fourth miracle as I cannot find anything else in my backpack of use against the cold: A camera, a book, a bottle of water. I did not pack my socks. What an oversight. The train stops. I move into the wagon with the lights. One down, seven to go.
Now I can see everyone and they can see me. Everyone stares at me. No wonder. In my short-sleeved white cotton top, sandals and backpack, I looked as inappropriate for the ride as could be. Everyone else is bundled up; all men; many of them draped in their traditional dresses with thick shawls around their necks and heads. Another stop. Two down, six to go.
On my way to the lit car I pass through three other wagons. The story is the same everywhere: Of the 24 windows in a car, there are no more than 4-6 still in place. Even those that are there have smash and crack marks. All windows are dirty. You can only see what is going on through the missing parts. The train races along and the ice cold air whips through the train. No wonder the police officer suggested this strange seat: Aisle facing backwards. It’s the only way to escape in part from the cold air. Despite the police cap under my butt, I am freezing. All I have is my Egyptian scarf. I unfold it and wrap it around me. I sit as huddled into myself as I can, exercising my toes for some warmth in my feet. One more stop. Three down, five to go.
The sun is rising but it does not help. There is light now, but no warmth. I am shivering. The train is filling up with people. Some have to sit forward now… A young soldier across from me is shivering, too. But he is wearing woolen socks and heavy shoes and a uniform. How can he be cold? What about me in my paper thin top and my paper thin scarf? Vendors are coming and going through the train advertising their wares with razor-sharp voices: cookies, combs, napkins and finally… tea! What a relief. I sip on my tea curled up. It feels warm for a little while. Four down, four to go. It’s half time. I got this far!
I look around and the state of the train is hard to comprehend. To mention the dirt on the floor would barely scratch the surface. Nothing that is not essential to hold the thing together has been left in place: The light fixtures in all but this car are gone. The seats are ripped bare. The trash bins have been pulled leaving gaping holes. Only an occasional bare iron luggage rack is still in place. The veneer covering the iron structure of the cars has been lost in most places allowing you to see the welded parts of the wagons. Another stop. Five down, three to go.
Whenever the train stops the smell of urine wafts through the air. A mother with four children comes aboard. They sit next to an open window. How can they do it? They don’t seem to mind and the children soon fall asleep. It is still early in the day, indeed. I try to distract myself from the misery and read up about the temples I have planned for today: Abydos and Dendera. My book soon accumulates a thin layer of dust on its pages. I must be breathing this stuff. No wonder I have been coughing for a month! The conductor has come by a few times sitting near me as if he wants to reassure me that there is at least one friend, one person I can trust, on this train. He is smiling at me and making sure I am still counting right. Believe me, I am counting! And there is another one: Six down, two to go. But each stop comes at the expense of that smell… There is something to be said for moving.
I keep looking down at my book, pulling the scarf as close to me as I can. I packed the last couple of strips of my chocolate. I had no breakfast. I am cold. The chocolate tastes wonderful. Everyone is still staring at me. If I just had my socks! Seven down. One to go.
I pack the book and focus all of my thoughts on the fact that at the next stop I can get out. I did it! Three hours passed. I will look back at this and laugh. But I am not laughing yet. I pack the police cap. I don’t want to lose this precious souvenir. Immediately the cold creeps up my butt and spine again. But there is the stop! Eight down. Three hours down. It’s over!
An hour later, I can hardly imagine the cold I felt on the train as I am roasting in the heat at the temples.
At the end of the day I had taken two shared taxis, three micro-buses, one tuk-tuk (like those Geishas in India), a donkey cart, and a first class train back to Luxor! The first class train had all windows in place even though a couple of them sported cracks and smash-marks! Most of the light fixtures were in place and working even though a few started to dangle. And it featured air conditioning – much appreciated at the end of the day when the sun had warmed up everything to excess.
I was faster than the “Frenchies” – a small bus full of eight French tourists, whom I met at Abydos, who went from there to Dendera to Luxor with a police escort. And I had baffled more than three police officers at check points who all in disbelief asked “ Where did you come from?!” I guess they don’t see too many tourists coming out of 3rd class trains staying under the wire in microbuses and on donkeys. But when they got a hold of me at those check points, they took no chances. They noted the license plate numbers of the cars that took me on. In one case, an officer joined me on the tuk-tuk to make sure I got on the right bus. There is that “man takes care of woman” – mentality that is so common around here. But I did not mind. It was a kind gesture.
The Lonely Planet says you cannot yet travel in this area yet unless you take a private taxi. Yes, you can!
Abydos has the most superbly carved relief I have seen anywhere in an Egyptian temple; just breath-taking. The temple itself though is nearly as over restored as Hatshepsut’s Deir El Bahri. It did not move me much. A curious semi-submerged small temple in the back of it has great charm though.
Dendera on the other hand is serenely situated in a palm-grove and a knock-out for its restored parts. The soot on the nearly complete ceiling beams is cleared and you can actually see fantastic imagery in bright colors. The quality of the images fluctuates between crude and mediocre. But some out of the extra-ordinary iconography makes up for it all: Signs of the zodiac, images of Nut.
And the fact that the guards would rather chat than guard allowed me to climb beyond a few barriers all the way to the top part of the temple where on busier days an officer is sitting on duty in a small kiosk. Not today. Even though aside from me, the 8 Frenchies had arrived as well. I got a few wonderful panorama shots.
DENDERA TEMPLE BIRTH HOUSE
This was a long, long day. I am exhausted!
Good night.