Part One: Day One. Alexandria the Great
I settled into my seat on the VIP train - in second class, headed to Alexandria.
One of the many towns named by Alexander the Great, after himself.
Whose an arrogant sod then?
I was seated next to an elderly man who sat in my window seat ( I couldn’t be bothered drawing attention to myself by haggling for my seat back, so I plonked myself down in the aisle seat); whilst a couple with two young children occupied the two seats to my right.
Two small boys - no more than perhaps 4 years old - twins maybe- were squirming their way under their parents legs, wriggling and giggling. Mum and Dad were exuberant in their slaps to the boys cheeks, muttering what I could only assume were commands to sit still.
Boys will be boys.
I smiled at one and slid my tongue out - he duly responded and slipped me a wide grin. Throughout the duration of the trip, he kept a solid eye on me in between nodding off to sleep, rocked by the click-clack of the train as it swayed its way towards the Northern African coast, his beautiful big dark brown eyes occasionally making contact with mine.
At one point he reached a grubby hand towards me, and just as I reached across to him, his mother pulled him back to the centre of the seats, wrapping a protective arm around his thick head of wavy hair and pulling him into her chest with tisk-tisk sounds.
I don’t know whether they were intended for her son or for me.
Stains of fluids probably spilled a decade ago, discoloured the seat back in front of me, and old food scraps wedged between the arm and foot rests made me realise that even the VIP train second class, has no class at all. The toilet was disgusting so I decided I needed to hold on for the three hour saunter to ‘Lower Egypt’.
Outside the window, we left the dry landscape of Cairo and entered the lush green corridor that sits either side of the Nile River. I watched this fascinating world pass by as the man next to me snored and snorted; all the while wishing I had insisted on my actual seat. What a waste. Never mind - the wide windows afforded me enough of a view, but they were very grubby - so photos were not going to be an option.
Farm land along the Nile is nurtured mostly by hand - with the help of camels and donkeys, from what I could see as we cruised by on our narrow tracks north. Bright green fields being tended by people, hand-picking crops - no evidence of sprays or mechanical help anywhere. Horses and carts, and donkeys and carts seemed to be the norm, with fields of green punctuated by small mosques, dirt roads and filthy waterways.
Litter collected in streams and canals - a forever collection of plastic water bottles, bags flapping in the strong breeze, old shoes, car tyres and whatever else had made its way to these natural collection points with the help of water currents, and people dumping where they found a space.
I saw one woman, as we roared through a large town, standing at her window several floors up, tip a bucket of trash into the vacant area of land on the other side of a fence below. The fence line was a metre high with litter - dogs picked through looking for something - anything, and I could see cats joining in on the hunt for survival. I wondered what would change this very engrained culture around littering. I knew I faced an uphill battle even in my classroom - kids were reluctant to take responsibility for their own trash - I was teaching them though. Baby steps.
When the train finally screeched its way to a stop at the top of Africa, I emerged into the frenetic central city area - this city of 5 million people being Egypts second largest, also had an active sense of hassling anyone that looked like a tourist - the walking ATM machines in their view. I called an Uber to the hotel I was bedding down at that night and stated loudly “La’a” (no!) to anyone looking to annoy me into aquiescence.
All I wanted was to drop my bags and get out and walk. Walking was something I had done very little of since arriving in Egypt, and I was aware of how bad it made me feel. I just needed to get off my chuff and move my legs, and I knew Alexandria had the perfect cure for that - (my studies on Google Earth of this city had me well-informed as to what I could expect); a promenade (or a ‘Corniche’ as they are called here), extends approximately 16 Km’s in one direction right along the water front, with the glorious Mediterranean Sea, right there. Like … RIGHT there. I was in the mood to move.
I extradited myself politely from the overly enthusiastic (but very sweet) red-headed blue-eyed hotelier, and headed the 100 meters up the street to the strip of aquamarine blue I had spied from my third floor balcony.
The narrow streets acted like a wind funnel and as I got closer to the sea I could feel the bitter cold blast coming at me - a most unexpected thing I had not really thought about! Fortunately I had my puffer jacket and pulled the zip up around my neck. I emerged onto 26 July/El-Gaiche Rd (Yes they have roads named after dates in history), and was instantly catapulted into a frenzy of noise, traffic, people, wind, dust, noises, litter and ….. the ocean. Ahhhhhh … the ocean!
Life on the corniche
I bolted across the road - dodging traffic as I went (it hasn’t taken me long to master the necessary art of road crossing!), and landed on the wide, tiled sidewalk that makes up the corniche. People were roller-blading (lots of people were roller blading - it was like I had arrived at the roller-blade capital of the world); walking; congregating for photos; eating ice cream; sitting and watching the views - all around me something was happening. And then the beggars noticed me and sent their children tugging at my pants pocket - managing to get the zip halfway down - revealing an empty prize, sadly for them. I had tried to swipe these kids away - they’re persistent - men laughed, making a weird whistle crossed with a click sound. What the heck was this!
Calling after me and shouting “Hey Ameri-can, Ameri-can!”
At that point I felt decidedly uncomfortable.
But the wonderful view of the ocean separating Africa from Europe, was right there, mere metres from my toes, buoying me on.
An array of colourful boats, remind me that this was a city dominated by the sea.
I walked quickly towards my iconic target - the Citadel of Qaitbay located at the western end of the city; an impressive fortress that once was used to protect the city from attacks by the crusaders in the 15th century. As I walked I noticed the buildings that faced out towards the ocean - the ‘face’ of Alexandria. It has the air of a once-impressive city; you could imagine people enjoying a luxurious life here in the 1930’s - once decadent and opulent - the buildings now look run down and dilapidated; dull, dusty, dirty, yet somehow rustically quaint.
Paint peels off the shutters; wires hang from balcony dangling into cracks of the level below; washing hangs into the void collecting dust just in time to be worn, everything looks heavy and tired - as if the town has carried a burden it cannot shake. I too felt that burden - the main pace of Alexandria had taken me by surprise, and I felt anxious and grimy.
It was 4pm by the time I got to the Citadel and it closed at 5pm. A few people lined up at a small booth and then we entered via the standard bag inspection through the x-ray machine, whilst disinterested police sat and smoked, ate and looked the other way. Much like my entry into the country - no one really seems bothered yet they make a big song and dance if you dare to show a camera around any area of political interest.
Stepping through the magnificent gates that allows entry into a courtyard area followed by an impressive archway, I felt an unloading.
I could exhale and enjoy the calm and the peace away from the fevered pace of Alexandria’s main strip.
I luxuriated in wandering the halls and dungeons of that fantastic place - a lot of which has been carefully and accurately restored. I marvelled at the intricate weaving of tunnels and narrow corridors, imagining a life lived by people in this once cold and impregnable place.
I looked for blood stains - for surely much blood was shed here.
Not only was the castle used as a fortress, but once a massive lighthouse stood here. The Lighthouse of Alexandria, sometimes called the Pharos of Alexandria, was a lighthouse built by the Ptolemaic Kingdom of Ancient Egypt, during the reign of Ptolemy II Philadelphus.
It has been estimated to have been at least 100 metres in overall height. It was connected to the mainland by a 180m long causeway. The Citadel now sits on this land and there is no longer an island there. It has a combining view back to the city and I was imagining how impressive the view would be at night.
The sun begins to sink over Northern Africa
I stayed right until the very last minute at this place - I had so much joy in discovering the nooks and crannies of the stone structure; gazing out beyond the walls to the ocean and a slowly sinking sun, imagining in my mind what life was like when it was built, and also the people who had used this land before it even existed. Alexandria housed such a rich deep history; but also a history with much pain. This pain could be seen in the dirt and grime of the modern Alexandria of today. It feels like there is a desperation to be something great again - yet it is instead somehow missing the mark.
I felt like I needed to wash it off at the end of just a few hours.
So I walked - I walked well into the night, a total of around 24 km, up and down that wide shiny footpath. I walked into the dark because I wasn’t hassled in the dark. I could walk without being worried about being seen as different. I could also pull my jacket hood up over my head to shield my ears from the cold, and ‘blend’ in a little more. I walked to enjoy Alexandria under my terms.
That night, I was so worn out that despite the raucous noise rising from the street below, and the failure of thin rickety French doors to hold the noise beyond my hotel room walls, I slept like a log, even on that pillow which was as lumpy as a camels back, I slept.
Morning rain