Well, of course there are flies here. Hell, even they are depicted in Egyptian antiquity. And to be truthful, there aren’t that many of them. But here’s the thing: they land on your lips. When you take a moment to think about whatever else they might land on in Egypt, the mind recoils in abject horror. I mean, your lips? It starts with a few tickling the back of your hand, but somehow they looooove the smell of my breath, which I admit doesn’t say very much about it if you know what I mean…(although I have anxiously asked around now and then, to no avail fortunately). But the pitter-patter of tiny feet across my mouth sends me into paroxysms of sudden buckling and wiping and utterances too coarse and raw for your gentle ears. They are unbelievably fast and can. not. be. killed. They may be the fastest-moving objects in this nation. I don’t like flies.
But the balloon ride was amazing, I have to say. It was LE500 each (which is about CAD$90), but worth it for sure. The last time I was up in a balloon was at a country fair in rural Alberta circa 1970 when my Dad went up with me in a Massey Ferguson promo thing. Straight up, five minutes, then straight down. I remember it pretty well, considering I was six. But getting in a balloon’s basket again, some 42 years later (!), was like doing it again for the first time. Our pilot, wearing reassuring stripes on his epauletted shirt, said quietly to me that he was now an instructor, when I asked how often he’d been up: 2500 hours aloft. The “flight” (drift?) was about an hour, but felt longer and shorter at the same time. It was quiet up there, with the only sounds I heard being quiet whisperings between all in the basket – about 18 people, including three or four Egyptian crew for ballast – the occasional roar and intense heat from the flame burster above us and the wild and incoherent braying of a donkey somewhere down below who very clearly indeed wished to be elsewhere than wherever he then was. It was truly beautiful. And cold! I wore a tshirt with a fleece, and a winter jacket brought from home, and was just warm enough. I also had my keffiyeh wrapped about me which was amazing – that was another great buy here. Highly recommend, in the winter months anyway, to wrap it about your neck and have it comfort you oh so closely. Make sure you buy an all-cotton version. There are crap nylon and polyester versions out there.
I have, somewhere at home buried in a huge box, a cassette tape of Egyptian music purchased years ago that has some sound bytes of Luxor between a couple of the tracks. You can hear the clip-clop of horse’s hooves amidst the traffic sounds and voices of street sellers. I was spell-bound the first time I heard this recording, imagining all sorts of visual displays before me in my often over-active imagination. I saw wispy curtains billowing out of curly-cued windows, swooping pinnacles rounding down around the curves of mosque roofs, a sickle moon suspended in the deepening blue above people shambling to night markets… Perhaps that was an unconscious Dr. Seuss influence creeping in, I don’t know. Much of that remains in my imagination, and has never been borne out in reality. But much of the magic of imagination manifests too. The horse hoof’s clip-clops sound even as I type these words, the sickle moon waxes into a billowing gooseberry, and people do indeed make for the night market at all hours. And they are kind, and mean, and indifferent to us. Would it truly be any different in the realm of imagination made real?
Its interesting to see how taken people are not only with my daughter Finn, in such a male-centric culture, but also with her beloved Maplelea doll. “Jenna” is fussed over at airports, restaurants, the street as we walk by, and even our near invisible hotel maids who sometimes set her in regal positions in our room. Actually, Arab cultures love children with a depth that we don’t often see publicly at home. I have seen exactly one crying child (terrible twos) here being hoisted by one arm into a car by his (her?) indifferent mother. Otherwise, children are held by hand, walked, carried and smiled at with open love and joy. And so Owen and Finn fall under that umbrella of care too, and perhaps moreso, as fewer western children than adults travel here I suppose. Egyptians often want their photo taken (on their or friend’s cameras) with the two, or singly; something that would never happen in the western world I think. We bring our western worries about this too, with grown men putting their arm around an eight year old girl for a photo on their camera. It makes the heart clutch in you, doesn’t it? But really it is ok here. But you can also bet I am watching each such event like a hawk. Owen is growing into such a purposeful and interesting young man (he is 11), that it feels like he is already being relegated to the world of teenagedom, and no longer in childhood – as Finn still is. And so perhaps that is why they fawn upon Finn more often, although Owen is not ignored by Egyptians by any means. He has had to learn “La Shokran” like all of us (“no, thank you”), and use it many, many, many times per day (this, in reference to offers of wares and services from street vendors).
I remember the suspended animation of hotel rooms when traveling in earlier times; the coiled electrical cords of this and that laying about, the bottle of sunscreen on the desk, baseball cap carefully not on the bed, worrisome piles of clothes worn too many times, water bottle half full (see that? heh) on the dresser. But traveling with children (I don’t actually think I can say “young children” anymore, how sad), is slightly different. There are more beds, for one thing. Food must be had much more regularly, and sleep more organize as well. No going out late and wandering around. I think anyone reading this who has children will understand the dire consequences the following day if kids are given leave to stay up too late… And there is waaaaaaay more stuff in the bathroom for some reason. But on the whole its great traveling with kids the age of ours. Owen is primed and actively interested in everything. He asks thoughtful questions, walks slowly with his grandmother and holds her hand, is unafraid of going anywhere. 11 appears to be a magically age of awakening and makes him ripe for international experience. Early on, my parents gave me the travel bug, and I do so hope I am passing this on my my own children. The world is where we live; not Toronto, not Ontario, not Canada.
