Madame X returned to French and I to my legitimate nodding. The tomb, compared with the bright afternoon outside, was chilly. I nodded on as a desolating truth became clear to me. I had suspected it ten years before but here was clear confirmation. Unless you are a professional archeologist there is more interest to be found in an illustrated book of a tomb than in the comfortless, rock-hewn thing itself. There is a primary degree of experience which lies in a touch of the hand on rock, as with the pyramids for example and the realization that I am here! After that, what is most of interest is the unexpected and all the unforeseen surroundings of an unexpected event. Still, the martial arts were a bit interesting as was the uncompromising secularity of the tomb.
We came out into the sun and commenced our return. The tourists were already piling aboard their streamlined supership, Canopus perhaps, or Ramesses. We crossed again by the ferry, and drove back to Minya along the line of Bahr Yusuf, my old friend. In the boat I found Ann was somewhat recovered and had passed some of the time doing a river sketch to be worked up later. We were bidden that evening to the Palace of Culture, where we were given tea and shown round. Perhaps the most impressive aspect of the visit was the fluency of the English which was spoken, not only by the staff but by such of the students as we met. We came away, identified the Lotus Hotel where we had stayed before, then went back to the boat. Alaa sat with us for a while. He explained what had not been made clear before. The fellaheen do not emigrate. They scarper. They are, as near as nothing, tied to the land though there is nothing legal about it. Minya is a centre for scarpering, for fading away, for disappearing into the blue yonder. It is a centre from which roads lead out to the west through the desert. These roads lead out to the oases. If you want badly enough to get away and you are able to pay a certain amount of money, there are secret roads leading from the oases west into Libya. You go by land-rover or camel and it is inadvisable to be caught by the police of either country. In fact from Minya there is run what amounts to an ‘underground railway’ into Libya, the proper Homeric epithet for which is ‘oil-rich’. The Egyptian/Libyan frontier has been closed officially for years so this traffic is not advertised widely.
Saïd, our Nubian, was back from his trip to Cairo and he had succeeded in getting the spare parts for the water pump. However, he was not feeling well. I asked that my commiserations for his sickness and my thanks for his double journey should be conveyed all the thirty or so feet from our cabin to the fo’c’sle. I was anxious not to be associated in Saïd’s mind with Fisher of Fisher’s Island or with the English he had hated. I was a bit servile, I think. Alaa declared he would say what was appropriate. I never knew what that was.
But it had been a better day. I at least, and Ann to some extent, had been out and about. We had climbed out of the ditch of the Nile and been interested. That evening the generator ran late again so the boat was warmed through. The stars that sparkled through the chinks between the curtains of our stern window were dazzling just as in all the right travellers’ books of the country. I tried to keep my eyes open for the sheer pleasure of seeing them but was not successful.
5
The next day was very mixed. The events were not so much incompatible as events designed for several people each with different interests. That I found them all interesting meant that any book I wrote eventually was going to be incoherent. The Director of Culture called for us early in the morning and we walked along the corniche where I expected our first stop to be at Government House, but not a bit of it. There was fronting and hanging over the corniche a large kiosk, or, if you prefer, a small shop. This was full of tourist objects. It was crammed with tourist objects. There we might have bought ourselves galabias and turbans – not such bad purchases, either, since they are the best wear for the climate and only poverty of imagination combined with a reverence for national costume keeps the westerner fouling his crutch with pants and underpants. Or we could have bought imitations of the more famous Egyptian objets. These, of course, are not so much Egyptian as ancient Egyptian; and their best description is contained in the new Arabic adjective for everything Pharaonic; ‘Pharoni’. That is what they are, they are ‘Pharoni’, whether it be a plastic copy of Narmer’s slate palette or El Sheik done in wood but only six inches high. Far and away the most popular of the ‘Pharoni’ objets is the head of Nefertiti [see plate]. If she weren’t so elegant, what a bore the woman would be! Was she anything but beautiful – but then I ask myself, did she need to be?
But here in the kiosk she was not beautiful only repetitive ad nauseam, ad infinitum in bronze, brass, copper, iron, tin, lead, alabaster, plastic, sandstone, granite, pottery and embroidery. Perhaps the one most reduced, the ugliest, most along the lines of ‘a present from Margate’ was a section of bamboo hollowed out as a vase with a few hieroglyphics and the invariable head of Nefertiti done on it in pokerwork!
There were also some modern imitations of ‘Pharoni’ pictures but done on genuine papyrus. ‘Genuine’ must be the word; for the Ministry of Culture has – laudably I think – caused papyrus plants to be reintroduced into gardens near Cairo so that the stems may be made into papyrus, following exactly the ancient method [see plate]. The paper is good, then, and a sight of it highly educative to children though the coloured pictures tend to be less authentic than eclectic. But what seemed strange was that we were obviously expected to buy something! Well, after all, we had had fuel and electricity – why not? I had my eye on a very reasonable pastiche of ducks in the Akhetaten manner, partly because it was a pretty picture and partly to buy papyrus for grandchildren and partly – since we were supposed to buy – because in these days of air travel one must assess purchases for weight as well as value. But as I reached for it, Alaa muttered that the Secretary General would unquestionably present us with some papyrus on behalf of the Governate so we had better leave it alone. Finally we chose some small pottery heads of Akhnaton and Nefertiti which were inoffensive, not too heavy and in the last resort readily disposable. We concealed these about us and walked on to Government House which was guarded by soldiers as ragged as the river police. They made tentative gestures towards shouldering and presenting arms but then decided not or that they didn’t know how and gave up. We went in. The ground floor was notable for some brilliantly coloured maps of new Minya, wherever that was. We were shown in to the Secretary General, a very imposing gentleman whose appearance, I think, made Alaa’s our minder’s Egyptian limbs quake with an apprehension old as the pharaohs. In fact the situation was just that little bit ‘Pharoni’. Here was authority and power without any doubt whatsoever. The Secretary General seated us, called for tea, got rid deftly of some previous suppliants and asked what he could do for us. To this the answer was, of course, that his underlings in their serried ranks had already done all that could be possibly done and that we were overwhelmed with the kindness and generosity of the Governate of Minya and so on. Well, so we were. But I tended to overdo it. There has descended on me since I have found myself brought willynilly into the presence of the great ones of the earth an orotundity which I have come to define in my own mind as Nobelitis. This is a pomposity born of the fact that one is treated as representing more than oneself by someone conscious of representing more than himself. The Secretary General and I now began to use Nobelspeak, suffering as we both did from Nobelitis or inflammation of the membranes of the ego. The Governate of Minya was peculiarly honoured and I was peculiarly honoured. The Governate could not express its sense of what I could not express adequately my sense of – and so on.
Finally we got down a bit nearer to ground level. Was there by any chance any question that I desired him to answer?
Yes, there was. I wanted to know Minya’s plans for the future. This was the right question. Had I noticed the bridge? When that was completed – and all it needed was the root on the other bank and the centre section – it would give immediate and easy access to the other side of the river. On that side, they would build New Minya, which in ti
me would be as big and prosperous as Old Minya, where we were now. They would also make use of the desert. I had noticed the desert on the other side of the river? They were experimenting and there was no doubt that after the teething troubles were over, they would have a method of making bricks out of sand. This would mean that they would no longer have to use the fertile soil of the valley but be able to keep it for growing things. Had they produced any bricks from sand? Not yet but shortly he had no doubt whatsoever – he expatiated. Finally he asked me for my criticisms. What had I found wrong? They were only too anxious for constructive criticism. At that I replied in fluent Nobelspeak that we were guests in the land and would not offer criticism, only thanks for hospitality. He implored me to find fault. At last I suggested hesitantly that I had noticed a certain – how should I call it? – a certain dilatoriness in the execution of a project. I had seen so many houses that had been left uncompleted and land, precious land, not put to its best use.
How true that was, said the Secretary General, so true! It was a great problem. Perhaps I knew that the fellaheen, good enough people in the main but not, no, not intelligent, were demanding wages so exorbitant that landowners could no longer pay them so that it had become uneconomic to work the land. He himself knew of many people who were simply unable to keep up their family homes and had been forced to build themselves smaller ones. It was a tragedy. Some, as I had so acutely noticed, were unable even to complete the smaller houses. What would become of such people?
We would not take up more of his valuable time. We rose. He rose. We were, he said, guests of the government. Meanwhile, as a token of their respect and admiration they begged we would accept these trifling gifts as mementoes of a happy occasion. He clapped his hands. An acolyte came forward. The Secretary General took from him a papyrus picture for Ann, who was delighted and for me, also delighted, a bamboo vase with the head of Nefertiti inscribed on it in pokerwork. We bowed over our presents and withdrew.
The minibus took us back to the boat, where Ann descended to hole up with her paints for the day. The rest of us set out for the domain of the Great Heretic Pharaoh Akhnaton. The minibus now contained me, the director, Madame X, a sergeant of the tourist police and two young men who looked literary and carried notebooks and pencils. We drove again by the Bahr Yusuf but much further south this time – to the very borders of Minya Province. As we went the two young men questioned me. I was disconcerted for this was a reversal with a vengeance! I had proposed to ask questions but here I was, answering them! However I replied as elaborately as I could to the questions I have answered a thousand times, and at last we came to Deir Mawas on the Nile. Here, while we waited for the ferry boat, I found that one of my own wishes had been anticipated. I was to inspect the house of a ‘poor fellah’. I had indeed asked to meet people, in a grand, rather pious, sociological gesture. But now, faced with the actual eye-to-eye contact I felt bogus and embarrassed. Why?
The man and his wife were handsome and dignified. They welcomed me in a way that increased my unease.
‘They are very poor,’ said Alaa. ‘This is the father and this the mother, this is the peasant son, I mean the one who stays here to work the land. The elder son is at the university.’
The living space was an irregularly shaped and unroofed courtyard. Sugar cane was heaped by the wall. In a niche was the only visible sign of their abject poverty; a television set, but black and white. A face – I think it was President Mubarak’s – was opening and shutting its mouth soundlessly. The family beckoned me into their bedroom. It contained three enormous beds and nothing else. Well, in a bedroom what more do you want? Inspired, I asked about grandchildren. This was popular. The family tree down three generations was unravelled for me. There was in the courtyard a huge columnar structure, not free-standing but bonded to the wall among the heaps of sugar cane. It was about the same size though not shape as the huge storage jars in the palace at Knossos. The father, or rather, as I now knew, grandfather, seeing my interest bent down and fished some grain out of a hole at the base. I examined it wisely and nodded. I shook hands all round and the exquisite old lady – she must have been within a few years of my own age – finished me off by kissing my hand. Then to my intense relief we were outside again. I walked away, realizing at last how difficult, even impossible, it was going to be, to be more than a tourist with a bit of extra privilege. All those journalists who appear on television with intimate views of huts and families and explanations of absolutely everything – what foreheads of brass they must have! I walked away, the two young men with me, pencils at the ready.
Another fellah was arguing fiercely with Alaa, who turned to me, amused. ‘Do you wish to see a small, private sugar factory?’
Yes, I said defiantly and to Alaa’s astonishment, yes I did! So off we marched again between the mud-built, lime-washed huts with their crazy angles – oh that elaborate immemorial angle! – through dust and dried dung and straw and sticks of sugar cane, among droves of small children, goats and water-buffaloes. In an open courtyard was a machine, all clanking wheels and travelling, flapping belts with what I think an engineer would call a ‘hopper’ at the top. Two men were filling the hopper with sugar cane which the machine instantly chewed. I was presented with a bit of sugar cane and did not know what to do with it. Alaa began to eat his bit the way the machine was busily chewing a far larger mouthful. Sugar cane is about an inch thick and I remembered the children’s book (was it The Swiss Family Robinson?) in which the characters are delighted with the thick juice running so I took a bite and nearly mashed my teeth out. Cane is cane is cane and you could use sugar cane for a walking stick. We went on and into another more-or-less open courtyard. Here the heat was fierce. There were half a dozen steaming vats, their mouths only inches above the floor level and men were scooping off the scum with long ladles. There was fire below us and the floor was hot to the feet. There were sacks of quicklime for purifying the juice. I was given a saucerful of juice from each vat in turn and of course all were sickly sweet. But there was a noticeable transition from coarse to pure. I did much nodding. The last offer was a saucer of glue which I was encouraged to taste and of course it was molasses. Alaa translated that molasses was the end product as far as this little factory was concerned. It was stored in earthenware pots and sent off to a larger factory for refining. But molasses was a panacea, like ‘royal jelly’. I applauded the sweating company with clapped hands as if I were a soviet delegation, hoping the gesture would convey an amiable interest and admiration. Then we came away with my attendant group and an attachment of children who had come along for the show.
We went down to the ferry which to my great pleasure proved to be a felucca. There is an inexpressible delight in sail. I think it must consist in the sense that you are using directly one of the huge, simple forces of nature and for that time are a conscious part of her however differently you may phrase it. In calm water and slight air the quiet movement is ineffable and I settled to enjoy a holiday. But now the two young men sat either side of me and began to ask literary questions. It was difficult to switch back from the Nile to a seminar but I did what I could. Even what I could do at such short notice was not really adequate; for I was bemused by this example of the biter bit. The various fellaheen we had left there on the western bank were as like as not still exclaiming at my interruption of their work. Now here I was in the guise of Visiting Writer halfway across the quiet Nile and having to give opinions on my contemporaries. It was just, tiresome, and funny.
Across the river was Akhetaten, that space on the east bank to which Akhnaton, the heretic pharaoh, retired when he shook the dust of Thebes off his feet. The place is a plain, bounded by an arc of the tawny desert escarpment to which the Nile lies as a string to a bow. From the river as you approach you can see nothing but the greenery, palms, acacias and crops of the river bank. I thought how the day had got out of hand. It would be hard to get the experiences of the sugar refinery, the travelling seminar and of Akhetaten unde
r, so to speak, the same hat. We landed and climbed the bank of what looked like a dry canal leading inland. By the few houses a wagon was drawn up, a springless char-à-banc which I saw was to be pulled by a tractor. Our party climbed aboard and the tractor set off at about six miles an hour. We passed through an area of strangely empty houses and then the plain burst upon us in all its spectacular aridity. Really, it is as if some god had blasted the place! In all those square miles there is not one eye of green and the only variations are between the whitish yellow of sand and the yellowish brown of rock. Ahead of us, a few miles across this most deserted of deserts was the escarpment with a track leading halfway up it to another row of square black holes. But the track itself was almost too rough even for the tractor. No car could have gone a yard on it. As for the wagon it seemed to be most of the time in the air, a few inches between bump and bump. The noise was explosive and hideous. Our bodies were bounced six inches off the wooden seats at each explosion and through it all the questioning went on. Airborne, I heard the shouted question, ‘What is your opinion of Virginia Woolf?’ It was too much. I burst into rude but unstoppable giggles, tried to explain but gave up as we continued on our Brownian way. How awful to be a molecule! It was not, I believe a successful interview; but that was not entirely my fault. The char-à-banc stopped after about two miles at the foot of the escarpment. It was easy to confuse this place with yesterday’s Beni Hassan. There was the same carefully constructed ascent with its donkey steps and seats for the weary or defeated and the same rows of holes at the top, the same tour coming away from them as we arrived. Once more Madame X talked and we listened and nodded.
Nevertheless here was something to see. The story of Akhnaton is, of course, that of the conflict between two gods – Amun and Aten. The heretic Akhnaton tried to popularize if not enforce worship of ‘the sun disc’, but after his death the forces of Amun triumphed again so that, for example, Tutankaton became our familiar Tutankhamun. All that is popularly known from a hundred novels since Akhnaton was described as the first individual in history – I don’t know by whom. As Egyptian material for the novelist he has replaced Moses and the pharaoh of the Exodus almost entirely. But here you could see with your own eyes the evidence of what riotous passions were loosed in that remote conflict. It made them vivid and contemporary. For the priests of Amun had cut any reference to Akhnaton out of the rock, and to his queen, poor, over-reproduced Nefertiti, too. You could feel the hammer and chisel in your own hands. They had carefully emptied the shape of those strange bodies, following the outline so passionately that the chisel had gone through the gypsum and chipped the solid limestone beneath it. By this means they had rendered permanent what might have faded in time. Here and there, high up or low down, they had missed a hand, perhaps, or a few sunrays from the painted solar symbol with its life-offering hands.