A Journey to Luxor

Al-Qurn, "The Peak" that overlooks the Valley of the Kings

Down along these hillsides,

Many miles ago,

Lived a man of vision, child,

Little did I know,

He was always talking, child,

'Bout the heart and soul,

'Til one day some pharoah came,

And offered up his dole,

In the valley,

In the Valley of the Kings.

Marc Cohn

"Valley of the Kings"

Leaving the lobby of Luxor's small but modern international airport, we are ill-prepared for the onslaught of taxi drivers jostling toward us. Though our flight is full, most of our fellow travelers have arranged transport in advance or are returning home to Luxor and their own vehicles. We are among maybe five other sets of passengers that require transport into the city. There are at least fifty idle drivers forming a loose, mobile barricade between us and the parking lot beyond. 

With the tide of drivers breaking around us, a brown hand, sinewy and weathered, shoots forward, clamping down on one of the straps of my backpack. I do not sense a pull. Just a firmness and an immense presence.

"Come this way, sir." The sonoroous voice seems to emanate from far above me. I look up to see the face that matches the voice. Rye colored skin with a deeply lined face and blazing eyes, the driver towers above me. He is very tall, his height accentuated by a bulky turban and flowing, sage dishdasha. 

He loosens his vice-grip and takes a couple of steps toward the lot. Dana, overwhelmed and nearly surrounded now by a host of drivers, is nonetheless following behind. We halt as a fierce argument breaks out. A couple of jostling drivers in front of us spit harsh Arabic slurs at the tall driver. He barks back, menacingly.

"Umm," I start.

Whirling around, his snarl instantly vanishes, replaced immediately by cherubic smile.

"No problem, sir. No problem. Come." His teeth are a flash of alabaster set against the dark crags of his face. 

Spinning around to face his rivals, he lifts one arm high in the air, fist clenched. He seems to be holding aloft some sort of invisible staff. He is all at once the Moses of the Luxor cabbies. And before him, the Red Sea of complaining drivers parts. He marches triumphantly into the breach. Dana and I are in tow, reluctant Israelites following an inspired prophet; or a madman.

The tone of our three-day journey to Luxor is established by our first 30 minutes in Upper Egypt: running pell-mell into a series of situations for which we are completely unprepared.

The Great Hypostyle Hall, Karnak

First, let me say that Luxor is a marvel. Straddling the Nile, the city boasts an urban side dominated by Luxor Temple and the Temple of Karnak  Then there is the rural side, the West Bank of Luxor, dominated by the necropolis and the Valley of the Kings  Over 3000 years old, the temples of Luxor and Karnak are amazingly well preserved masterpieces of ancient Egyptian architecture. Both sites feature soaring columns and richly carved hieroglyphics. In Karnak some of the ceilings still remain, beautifully painted in various hues of blue, gold and bronze. The West Bank of Luxor is reserved for the dead, the burial chambers for pharaoh's and their spouses, for nobles, and even for artisans. The final resting place for Tutankhamen, a relatively small tomb as we come to discover, is found here in the Valley of the Kings. Tomb chambers, hundreds of feet deep, snake their way into the escarpment. Several are open to the public. In the Deir el-Medina, the tombs of the artisans who worked in the Valley of the Kings remain almost perfectly preserved along with colorful paintings depicting the lives of more ordinary Egyptians.

However, I come to the conclusion that an amazing dis-service has been perpetrated upon the people of Luxor, and they are suffering lasting, negative consequences. Some two hundred years ago, Napoleon and his troops revived an interest in ancient Egypt. Thomas Cook brought the first formal European tour group into the region in 1869. Since then, Luxor has been sculpted and shaped by the tourist industry. Over time, residents with other skills have slowly abandoned their various trades to take jobs in more lucrative industries tied into the tourist trade. Since the coming of the revolution in 2011 however, there has been no tourist trade. The world-class hotels erected here are empty, as are the restaurants, shops and docks that once catered to thousands and thousands of foreign tourists every day. Dana and I check into the 4-star Steigenberger Hotel, for example. With 200+ sumptuous rooms, the hotel is a jewel. Dana and I are among maybe 20 of its current occupants; maybe. For most of our stay here, we feel as if we have the hotel to ourselves. When we go out of a walk, we are bombarded by street merchants, taxi drivers, carriage drivers, and boat captains all looking for that one crumb of business for the day; just one speck, one scrap. There is a desperation here that I have never encountered in all my years of travel. With virtually no tourists, the people of Luxor are making a torturous return to the days before Thomas Cook and Napoleon, and we are heartbroken to bear witness.

With extremely mixed feelings, we depart. The driver who has guided us through the city and the ruins comes to pick us up from the Steigenberger promptly at 7 am. His name is Said, but he is known throughout Luxor as "Mr. Hero." With two wives and four children to support, Dana and I get the strong sense that he works various jobs for most of the day and night. He bids us a cheery good morning, but his weary eyes betray a deep fatigue. Silently, he drives us back to the airport down roads that snake through verdant fields of sugar cane, cabbage, cauliflower, and banana. At this time of the morning, mists rise from the rich soil as villagers emerge from their simple dwellings to begin their day. Some of the farmers are already at work in their fields. Everything is done by hand; we see no signs of machinery anywhere. When Said drops us off at the airport, we say our goodbyes, we wish him and his family well, and we pay him. There is a lot extra in today's payment. What else can we do? We shoulder our packs and walk towards the airport. I look back for a second. An elderly man dressed in a ragged dishdasha and turban, wheeling a baggage trolley, approaches Said. I get the sense that the trolley was for us, but the man is quite old and a minute or two too late. 

They talk for a second. Both are smiling. Said reaches into the side pocket of his dishdasha and hands the old man some money.

*This week's photographs taken by Dana Purpura.