Youssef Rakha flees to luxury This was meant to be the review of an exclusive Aswan-to-Luxor Nile cruise -- so exclusive, I was told, there would be no more than eight people on the boat. I pictured myself sunning in true colonial style, a gin-and-tonic in one hand and Agatha Christie's Death on the Nile in the other. In the distance would be a magnificent temple framed by the white-and-green prospect of a Nubian village while right there, below the regally furnished deck, deep blue water would ripple and glitter, ceaselessly. Alas, what my brief turned out to be was "Aswan on a shoestring"; this meant, among other things, up to 15 hours on "the sleeping train", as the Railway Authority so aptly identifies it. The thought erroneously evoked Paul Theroux's Iron Rooster : an opportunity to interact with the people and study the land. I took heart. I boarded to the sound of urban folk music at 9pm of a fine chill evening -- off a back-end platform at the gargantuan Ramses Station. And by the time the perpetually palpitating monster chugged apoplectically into my destination -- it was about 11.30am the next day -- I had interacted with no one but the steward, who brought me an unappetising dinner of fried fish and boiled potato, returning a little later to convert a row of uncomfortable seats into even less comfortable bedding. In the end I slept very little, and while I was awake there was neither company nor refreshments -- nor, for that matter, much of "the land" to study. It might have escaped my notice that night is the Great Obscurer, but even in daylight the windows afforded precious little for observation or scrutiny: the occasional stretch of yellow-green or yellow-brown (fields or rock, respectively); Upper Egyptian robes on a station platform; a small-town traffic jam... Never mind the choo choo, I reasoned: once in Aswan things will start looking up; and heaving myself up and out of the cabin, once again, I took heart. I had frequently found solace in that idyllic crossroads of the south, though admittedly never on a shoestring per se. When it comes to travel, shoestrings are a strange thing indeed, I've always thought: for the vast majority of the earth's population, surely life, whether stationary or in motion, is one very long shoestring. That the Western tourist industry should appropriate the concept for the benefit of a vastly privileged minority strikes me as inevitable enough, but that a member of the global proletariat should mimic that tendency -- this makes for a horribly pretentious stance -- sad irony. Surely a Third Worlder with the means to do so should not prohibit himself from travelling comfortably no matter what... But it was with an altogether different set of thoughts that my mind was occupied as I exited the station, finally -- thoughts about Aswan, about the fact that it had always had a remarkably comforting effect on my psyche, counteracting the strain of living in Cairo with effortless efficiency. Something about the landscape was soothing in itself; whether this had to do with the river being wide, deep and accessible or the abundance of red granite I could never quite tell. There was, of course, the serenity of the people, their relative immunity to the dog-eat-dog ways of the world. More generally, Aswan is just city-like enough to sustain a sense of engagement while at the same time too remote and quiet for any possibility of stress. It has the perfect combination, as it were, of site-seeing and goodwill... Going along with Western pretences, I had perused the mid-range accommodation section of a recent edition of the Lonely Planet guide to Egypt; the budget section seemed ridiculously cheap given that the most expensive among them cost no more than LE35 (US$6?), which, considering my experience of budget accommodation throughout the country, meant that you would be lucky to get a clean sheet for your money. Of the many nondescript options, rather, I selected the Oscar Hotel, a "travellers' favourite" at the heart of town. "Clean and friendly", the guide said, it also had a rooftop terrace and would have undergone refurbishment since this edition was published -- so much so that "room prices are less likely to be negotiable in the future". Booking by phone, I realised I was actually paying LE45 a night, which sounded, all things considered, a little too negotiable. Having said that, I had only experienced Aswan from the "top end", as it were, and this time, my shoestring mandate notwithstanding, I really wanted to be in town. The feeling on coming out of the sleeper is of having spent not only the night but most of the evening and the morning in a giant, heavy-duty blender. Organs, thoughts and emotions reduce to a featureless, lukewarm soup. Perhaps that's why, having booked my return ticket -- believe it or nor, the train is so popular it can be hard to obtain a ticket if you don't book a few days in advance -- I thought it would be better to plonk that bowl of liquid into a taxi than smear it all over town trying to find the hotel on foot. A large, silent Nubian with a ludicrous little hat charged me LE5 (about twice the average Cairo fare for a short journey) for what would have been a three-minute walk had I known the way. He pulled over somewhat ceremoniously before a perfectly run-of-the-mill entrance, waited in silence as I eased myself out of the vehicle -- and, checking the note in the sunlight, drove off. Much as I would have liked to at this point, it was practically impossible to take heart as I trudged past the entrance at last. At the reception desk an un-forthcoming, suspicious-looking young woman eventually handed me a large, heavy key; her attitude made it clear there would be nothing remotely friendly about the place; nor, by the look of it, were there any travellers about -- a fact that would be confirmed repeatedly in the next 24 hours. Even the terrace where "beers are served" catered to an exclusively local -- and all-male clientele. It wasn't even a terrace, I might add, located as it was below the third floor and reached through a separate entrance outside. The lift was cramped and squeaky, its once reflective lining burnished and layered with dust. On the third floor, an enormous chandelier dangled at the centre of a vaguely pagoda-like structure, where I found my way to one of the gaudy minimalist doors. The key caught in the keyhole, so it took a while to make my way into that strangely spread- out space -- paradoxically large considering the difficulty you had stepping anywhere, so unintuitive was the arrangement of objects, so unnecessarily large the bed. The most obvious thing was the curtain, which was thick and greasy, set up in such a way as to be constantly half-drawn -- nor could it be adjusted. As I stumbled around what looked and felt like dirty bathroom tiling, it was harder than ever to take heart: the blanket was scabbed, the pillows musty. On top of the small, smelly refrigerator, several bits of used tissue paper found disconcerting shelter. Elsewhere other remnants could be located -- I didn't want to find out what they were. Aside from the bed, one of those plastic outdoor chairs and a rotting wood table supporting a small television, there was no furniture and nowhere to sit. At least the bathroom is clean, I thought, sliding over the stark off-white surface. Once again, there was the smallest of toilets, a grubby sink and too much space in between... Four hours of unconsciousness followed, during which I registered the unseemly odour of the mattress, the play of behind that strange curtain -- and through it, the fact that I was fully dressed to minimise contact with the sheets. The shoestring was strangling me as I finally set out with no more of a plan than to be as far away from the Oscar as possible. Too weak to think, by now, my mind was made up on finding a decent meal. And things did look up just then since, walking along the main street adjacent to the Oscar's, the souq and the Corniche, I bumped into Al-Masry -- one of my favourite restaurants anywhere in the country. For considerably less than the price of a night in that dump -- a culinary indulgence well within the bounds of even the smallest budget -- the old establishment still offers a full-course meal of fresh home-cooked food washed down with a Coca Cola to the sound of local television. I had soup, salad, mixed-vegetable stew, rice and kebab -- all in very reasonable amounts, cooked and served in conditions of impeccable hygiene. And thus fortified, I set out again, determined to make the most of what remained of the day... Like most so-called cities in Egypt, sadly, the town had little to offer in the way of distractions, other than walking and sitting around for tea. It was pleasing to realise that, since I was last in Aswan, a good part of the souq had been converted into a pedestrian-only promenade with large archways and interesting lights; the rest was in the process of being reconstructed, which made for exciting crossing. Once there I gradually relaxed. Hawkers pestered tourists in much the same way as they do in Khan Al-Khalili, but you could sense Aswan's subtle magic: everything was more relaxed, the give-and-take dynamic significantly less violent, the air infinitely clearer. I took some time to explore the merchandise: piles of many-coloured herbs, peanuts and hibiscus -- Aswan's traditional trademarks -- as well as imitation African masks, semi-precious stones, galabeyas... In the end I got a lot more done than I had thought possible: a Nile-side walk (wonderful quietude); a tea in the New Cataract (the Old Cataract had an LE80 minimum charge); a coffee at the Basma Hotel (the site of the Aswan Sculpture Symposium, which meant that I could explore the unfinished statues in the sand yard outside, opposite the Nubian Museum, one of the best showcases of antiquities in the country, and the best organised); a modest supper of shish tawouk that bore no resemblance to shish tawouk except in the way it was served (as soon as I walked into the Aswan Moon Boat restaurant, I had misgivings, because there were absolutely no customers -- something the waiters explained by reference to the lack of alcohol, though it had rather more to do with the quality of the food and the fact that, even on the boat itself, everything was, rather absurdly for a boat restaurant, covered in tents, obscuring any possibility of a Nile view); an LE2 half an hour at the "net", which is how the locals refer to Internet cafés; another tea in the souq; a visit to the pharmacy for paracetamol and the grocery for breakfast provisions. By the time I was back in bed, fully clothed, it was impossible to conceive of spending any more time in the Oscar; I would stay the night, I knew that. But tomorrow, tomorrow... I went out again for a walk, but there was nothing to do and no one to talk to. Fishing the guide out of my rucksack, mobile phone in hand, I caught myself hypnotically dialing the number of another hotel altogether -- the five-star Oberoi Elephantine, an architectural monstrosity that promised genuine cleanliness... and perhaps a little luxury to boot, what was wrong with that, considering one was a Third Worlder after all... I could not fall asleep until I had a room booked on the island. The next morning, happy as a bee, I found my way easily enough to the hotel's dedicated ferry, which operates around the clock every 10 minutes -- on foot. This article should have ended here, too, if not for last-minute editorial intervention. A two-day stay at the quiet resort came to about LE600, including snacks, drinks and a couple of room-service orders. I can only say it was worth it. The room was elegant and spacious, uncluttered, with a view in which the three colours associated with Aswan -- green, blue and red-brown -- could all be enjoyed. The bed was as large as the Oscar's, but the bedding was freshly laundered and in good condition. There was a small salon and -- lo and behold! -- a writing desk, complete with ornate light, as well as a spick-and-span, fully equipped bathroom and plenty of room to walk about. At last, I exclaimed to myself as I took off my clothes, having ordered a coffee from service, and headed straight for the shower. It would have been easy to just stay in. Aside from its well-known sites -- the Aswan Museum, the Yebu Ruins and, by felucca to the western bank of the river, the Tombs of the Nobles and the Agha Khan Mausoleum -- Elephantine Island affords the wanderer the dream prospect of two Nubian villages, Koti and Siou, located, as it happens, within Oberoi territory. In the afternoon haze I walked about, exchanging the occasional hello with the Kenoz locals who chattered incomprehensibly at their doorsteps and having many a silent conversation with their notably independent sheep and goats. What is remarkable about staying at the Oberoi, however, is the fact that you end up spending so much time in the ferry, familiarising yourself with one of Egypt's most beautiful stretches of the Nile at all times of day. The rock formations from which the island got its name alone deserve hours of meditation -- the larger one on which the birds find shelter doubles as symbolic shrine for Sidi Mansour -- while the experience of waiting at the dock alters your internal rhythm, manifesting yet another aspect of Aswan's magic calm. The next day, for LE30 an hour, one of the village inhabitants took me out to the west bank where, though the tombs were closed -- I had spent the morning doing business in town and by the time we arrived it was four -- I encountered another world of sand, pebbles, horses and birds. A stroll through Kitchener Island on the way back revealed an inspiring variety of flowers and trees, while another meal at Al-Masry brought the day to an end. The prospect of the train ride loomed horribly ahead, but as I boarded the ferry at sunset, at least I knew I would spend the evening happily scribbling away in my notebook.
