But the tranquility and softness of the felucca ride down around the bottom of Elephantine Island and up past Kitchener Island to the west bank set everyone at ease. It took at least 45min to an hour for the outbound boat leg and we chatted amiably with the skipper Abdullah and his son, to whom he was teaching the ropes, literally, and amongst ourselves. It was lovely, just lovely.
The shore loomed eventually and the boat beached We got mum down onto the sand with less difficulty than expected, and helped her trudge up the soft sand embankment to where a few camels loitered and belched liberally in the now hot sun. Above us loomed the mausoleum of the Aga Khan, where in life he spent many summers during his philanthropic career. With an unease bordering on hysteria, I watched as my 80 year old mother was helped onto her camel and it was de-couched to standing. Those unfamiliar with camel mechanics might not know that there are two serious lurches for the rider when the beast either rises or settles; one huge lurch forward as the rear legs gather and stand up, and then a second backward as the front legs assemble beneath her (most camels for riding are female, due to their inherently greater strength than males). I knew this in advance and watched open-mouthed as three strong Nubian men chattered away, barking at each other as they ushered mum and her beast to the sky. Camels are tall animals and once seated, you eye-level is a good ten feet off the ground. Its high up there, and teetery understates the event. I sat with Finn before me and the rear pommel of the arabian “saddle” repeatedly knocking my tailbone with each camel stride. Ouch, ouch, ouch. Oh well. Owen took to his own camel instantly as did Carrie hers; Mum wobbled on her camel, and we were off.
We arrived at the monastery some 20 minutes later and spent the next hour marvelling at the rooms and ceilings, climbing narrow stairways and shooting image after image. There was wonderful dust in many of the rooms, which kicked up into the air as we entered and revealed beautiful shafts of light striking down into smalls pools of bright lava in the dark. It was even a little magical. In its prime, the monastery housed 300 monks and a variety of penitents. Declining with the rise of Islam in the 8thC, the monastery eventually became a way-station for pilgrims on the trail to Mecca for the Haj. One cell on the second floor attests to this with religious tracts inscribed on the walls in Arabic (or so our guidebook tells us). But what I noticed right away was how quiet it was. Sure, we could vaguely hear the traffic and city sounds of Aswan muted in the distance, but the twittering of little birds all over was perfectly apropos to the deserted structure. Mostly little sparrows, the thrum of their wingbeats could almost be felt as they flitted from room to room, as if following our trudging progress. How leaden we were compared to their infinite lightness.
Eventually, we had to wake ourselves from our lovely reverie with St. Simeon, and retrace our steps to the waiting beasts and make our way back down through the rocks and sand to the waiting felucca. It was, indeed, a grand day.
