Its not exactly the sleepy southern town I remember from 12 years ago, but why should it be that? What it is, is relaxing, cool and welcoming. Much of this is offered by our accommodations at the Isis Corniche, with its gardens and zig-zig walkways and nice light. The Corniche – the main street in town (similar to the Corniche in Luxor in some respects) – is a long hive of Caleche and felluca touts hounding you for business as you walk by. You are alternately tempted to look at the ground and keep walking as they entreat you vociferously, or look about you and devise a means of saying “No, thank you [“La, shokran”]” as politely as possible for the bizillionth time (through gritted teeth sometime, it must be admitted). But I thought of something in desperation that has matched their own in seeking business: when a tout refuses to listen to the third “La, shokran”, I turn and ask the fellow if he speaks Arabic to which he answers yes, of course. And so I then again say La, shokran and take my way. Its worked pretty well so far and I’ve used it sparingly. To any who might be appalled at the rudeness of this retort on my part, I suggest you walk a Corniche or two in my shoes first.

This morning, Carrie, I and the kids took the ferry across to Elephantine Island (“ele-fan-teeny”). It is an island in the Nile, large enough to house over 3000 people across two villages, host a school, felucca docks and a variety of other essentials like gardens. It is peopled almost entirely by Nubians – people from southern Egypt and the Sudan (but they culturally-identify with the Sudan first and foremost). We aren’t that far from the border with Sudan here, and the influence is evident in almost any direction you look. Generally, the people here are much darker, most having a decidedly black African look to them, versus the desert Arab appearance of middle eastern peoples. Housing is a little different, with domed roofs here and there, and handicrafts have that immediate African feel to them – woven-reed goods, rounded pottery jars, and giraffes and hippos as small sculptures options in shops.

The Nile is blue, blue, blue here. It flows swiftly and is couched in high, rocky banks that have been adapted here and there to stairs. Its raw and beautiful and an immensely-important part of Egyptian history, as a stopping off place for granite quarrying in the dynastic periods and as a trading centre with the south. Although we are hounded for felluca rides until we despair of ever wanting to approach a tout, the boats themselves are beautiful beyond compare to watch tack up and down the river. They are majestic and stately, romantic and efficient.

Wherever I have travelled, I have found occasion to have my hair cut. I’ve always loved sitting in a barber’s chair and having someone pose my head this way and that way, as the snip-snip or buzzzzzz of a razor runs over my head. Its usually a bit of an adventure, as you never quite know how its join to turn out. But the world over, I seem to be able to ask for a “#1” razor cut (this is a reference to the thinness of the razor separator and therefore closeness of cut). What you can’t count on though, is anything else the barber might want to do to you. I once had my ear canals thoroughly cleaned while in the chair, in a small village in northeast Thailand. That was an unusual sensation, I can assure you. Today, I was treated to a new experience; following the cut, I was “threaded“. This involves about six feet of thread held in three sections (two together in a length), with the end of the third held in the teeth of the barber. The two lengths held together as a single strand are repeatedly rolled over fine hair you might have at your temples, say. Now, I was unaware I had fine hair at my temples, but if there was any there before, its gone now anyway. After a quick rolling motion with the two strands between his hands, the barber jerks back with his head and length of thread in his teeth, and any hair is yanked out. I know for certain he found some, as my skin sort of vibrated wherever he’d done that when I left the shop. Not an altogether unpleasant feeling, but certainly a different one for me. And once again, I’m so glad I decided to have it cut away from home. But no photos of that, I’m far too fugly.