Horus

At nine in the morning, our group, twelve travelers plus our superb guide, left the barge that had carried us upriver from Luxor.  We were now going to visit the huge Temple of Horus, the falcon-headed god of the sky, war, and protection.  Until the revolution that toppled Hosni Mubarak, visitors traveled from the riverbank to the temple by bus.  But in the five or six days following Mubarak’s resignation, when the police presence collapsed, the horse and buggy drivers stoned the tourist buses, hoping to gain the business for themselves.  The police have returned, but the travel agencies, taking no chances, have abandoned the buses in favor of the dilapidated buggies, although the latter are slower, less comfortable, and more expensive, and although the drivers’ whipping of their horses often upsets the tourists.

The stoning of tourist buses was not the only violence during the period before the Military Council took firm control.  Our guide told us that he joined a neighborhood watch, armed with a knife – his neighbors were armed with weapons ranging from clubs to revolvers -  in order to protect their homes from roving, looting gangs.  By the time we visited, the police were back on the streets and the demonstrations had died down – save for the street fighting near Tahrir Square during last two days of our stay, of which we were unaware.

The only demonstration we saw was at five in the afternoon, a few days before our visit to Edfu, after we left the new Library of Alexandria.  The library had closed for the day and its workers were now demonstrating for the removal of the library’s director.  He had been an appointment of the old regime – the library was a pet project of Mrs. Mubarak – and the workers wanted him to leave.  Hosni Mubarak was in a prison hospital and his sons were in jail, along with 60% of his cabinet.  Now the library’s workers wanted their director’s head.  The workers’ demonstrations continued after the end of each work day, of which this was the 32^nd or 33^rd, if I remember correctly.  Such demonstrations would have been inconceivable, of course, under the old regime.

During our ten-minute buggy rides to the Temple of Horus and back, we saw many men sitting around smoking, chatting, and drinking coffee, seemingly unemployed.  Perhaps more of them would have been working had tourism not dropped through the floor.  Our flight to Cairo was only about 40% full, with most of the passengers returning Egyptians.  The hotels were reporting only 30% occupancy.  The most recent violence is likely to poison tourism even further during the high season of Christmas week.  But it’s an ill wind, as they say, and our group had neither to stand in line to visit the antiquities nor to jostle others at the museums. 

Our guide advised us to identify ourselves as Canadians, if anyone asked, since America had temporized at the beginning of the revolution, not showing unqualified support for it until it was clear Mubarak was finished.  Animosity to America, at least among the politically aware, was strong.  In Cairo, we passed both the Saudi and Israeli embassies, both heavily guarded by police, the first because Saudi Arabia had never embraced the revolution – the rumor was that the kingdom had offered to pay half of the Egyptian debt if Egypt would allow Mubarak to take refuge there – the second for obvious reasons. 

After our visit to the Horus Temple and as we were descending from our horse-drawn carriage, a photographer showed us the photograph he had taken of us in the buggy.  The picture flattered neither my wife nor myself, and if the horse had been shown, it probably would not have flattered it either.  We were only mildly interested in owning the photo, but we asked him what it would cost.  I forget the price he mentioned, but it was laughably high.  We told him politely that we weren’t interested.  As we walked down the steps to our barge, he kept dropping his price until he offered to sell it to us for one Egyptian pound, or about sixteen cents. We accepted his offer, he removed the photo from its elaborate cardboard frame, and he grudgingly gave us the print.  Sixteen cents was better than nothing, which is what it would have been worth had we not taken it. 

Shortly before this transaction, a child, perhaps ten years old and dressed in rags, asked for alms, repeatedly gesturing with her thumb and first two fingers towards her mouth.  She would have been pleased by a gift of a pound, but I felt it was wrong to encourage the caretakers (her parents?) who had sent her to beg.  Even so, what were their options?  I should have given her something and I felt bad that I hadn’t.  Horus, god of war, sky, and protection, was nowhere to be seen.


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