To the desert and beyond

On a visit to the quiet monasteries of Wadi Natroun, Nyier Abdou forgoes the worldly for the divine
Near the Church of the Virgin at Deir Al-Suryan
The great irony of the proliferation of luxury resorts on the Red Sea coast is that it was here, just a little further inland, that monasticism was born -- thanks, in large part, to the inspiration of St Anthony some 18 centuries ago, but also to an already existent anchoretical tradition in the area. That the wellspring of monastic community life would one day become a hedonistic hub for sun worshippers seeking all things worldly could not have occurred to St Anthony, who was revered for his ascetic lifestyle and is credited with encouraging scattered hermits to piece together a communal way of life.
While, historically, this all began in the craggy mountains of the Eastern Desert, it was in the monastic centre of Wadi Natrun -- founded by St Anthony's disciple, St Macarius, in the early 4th century -- that the precepts and by-laws of St Anthony's model merged into a Christian formula that would be replicated throughout Egypt and, eventually, emanate abroad.
In St Anthony's day, Wadi Natrun was fairly isolated, and remained so until modern times. The monasteries there thrived in the centuries following his death, and the area is said to have harboured some 50 monasteries during its most flourishing period. Today, the four remaining monasteries cluster in an area rimmed by the busy desert road connecting Cairo and Alexandria, near the little town of Bir Hooker, where anyone will point you in the direction of the main monastery, Deir Anba Bishoi. Questions about any of the other monasteries will elicit the same directions.
Built like fortresses, these majestic oases of serenity seem both forbidding and gentle; both solid and vulnerable in the harsh landscape they occupy. Walled from the world both figuratively and physically, their inhabitants occupy a time and space impervious to the quotidian concerns of the common man -- and yet they are surprisingly comfortable with visitors. If you depend on public transport, it is wise to brave the crowds and head out at the weekend, when hordes of pilgrims are making the same journey and you can rely on the kindness of your fellow pilgrims to get from the rest house on the desert road to the monasteries.
If, however, you are travelling by car and would treasure the solitude of a day spent free of the multitudes, then a weekday visit is preferable. That was what we chose.
Finding Deir Anba Bishoi was easy enough, even without crowds of pilgrims to follow. It was only on the final leg of the journey, after turning off at the rest house, that we were haunted by an ominous suspicion that we were way off track. There are signs, and we found that they were accurate, but you must keep your eyes peeled for them.
At Deir Anba Bishoi, the barren lot in front of the main entrance was peopled by a single monk sitting next to the door, who paid us no heed. We entered with a feeling of trepidation, as the quiet archways and passages were empty, making us feel as though we were trespassing and that any second an angry monk would shoo us off the exquisite grounds. The immediate sense of quietude is overpowering, and instinctively we submitted to it, lowering our voices to a conspiratorial whisper, and slipping down the passageway as if on tiptoe. Only the birds were chatty, and their singsong chirps envelop you from every corner of the complex, which sprawls from one cream-coloured dome to the next as if it could be no other way than this.
A few workers tended a garden-in-progress, but it was a full fifteen minutes until we crossed paths with a resident monk, who glided past us as though we were part of the wall. The rebuff, replicated several times over the course of our visit, transcended rudeness -- it was obvious that we were welcome, that if we had any questions to ask we might go ahead and ask, even though he was on his way somewhere else. All this in a fleeting glance and swish of his black robe.
Installation of Joseph and Mary; The monks' cells at Deir Anba Bishoi. Pope Shenouda III has a residence here
photos: Nyier Abdou
The eponymous Father Bishoi, who lived during the late 4th century, was one of the area's earliest monks and is palpably present both in this monastery and the nearby Deir Al-Suryan. The ever-present image of St Bishoi washing the feet of Jesus refers to the story of how, during one of his lengthy prayer sessions in a secluded underground cave, St Bishoi was visited by Jesus in a vision. The cave -- where St Bishoi is said to have tied his hair to a chain hanging from the ceiling so as not to fall asleep during the long days immersed in prayer -- can be accessed through a small passageway at the back of the Church of the Virgin in Deir Al-Suryan, which was built on the spot in light of its history.
One curiosity stood out in both the monasteries -- a penchant for what look like life-size papier-mâché renderings of everything from the Nativity (on the grounds of Deir Anba Bishoi, across from the Church of St Bishoi), to monks taking a communal meal (in the refectory at the back of Deir Al-Suryan's Church of the Virgin), to a hodgepodge of animals -- a grinning lion, a smirking camel, a donkey soldiering on (this menagerie is collected, unexplained, in front of Deir Al-Suryan's ancient cells). In many cases, the figures are wrapped in brown paper -- a medium that immediately strikes the viewer as short-lived, giving the scenes a temporary, almost dashed-together quality, despite their obviously careful contrivance. The blue-washed pictures substituted for the faces of the holy figures of Joseph and Mary add to the surreal feeling of a modern art installation.
Deir Al-Suryan is about a 15-minute walk from Deir Anba Bishoi and, as the name indicates, it was once run by Syrian Christians. The monastery was founded in the 6th century by a group of monks from Deir Anba Bishoi following a theological split which proved irreconcilable. While the renegade faction was obviously convinced enough to found their own monastery, they were not, it seems, angry enough to shun Deir Anba Bishoi altogether -- the two monasteries are cosy neighbours. When the temporary split was eventually mended, the new place was sold off to the Syrians.
Whether it was by coincidence or an honest reflection of the differing natures of the two monasteries I can't say, but we found the atmosphere at Deir Al-Suryan a tad more upbeat. Two women walking a wobbly child were leaving as we arrived, and a hint of alacrity seemed to hang in the air, perhaps enforced by the sight of reconstructive projects underway. Dollops of domes and sinuous arches abound, as they do in Deir Anba Bishoi, but we also found a few lay people dotted about. The august sense of harmony and contentment is to be expected from such an establishment, but it is undeniably inspiring to be allowed to sip this kind of tranquillity, no questions asked, no fees levied.
The monks are proud of the artefacts in their possession, and by painstaking restoration in the Church of the Virgin have managed to reinstate the original frescoes in the domed alcoves of the church while retaining several layers of work painted over them -- these are displayed separately. Unaccompanied, you might nod approvingly and make a mental note that this is all very interesting, but you would not notice all the wonderful things pointed out to us by Father Jacob Al-Suryani (note that this is his monastic name -- one's birth name is shed with one's worldly possessions after joining the monastery).
Father Jacob, an affable fellow, found us hovering outside the Church of the Virgin feeling a little conspicuous, as we were the only people in sight who didn't seem to have an agenda. He was happy to take us under his wing for the next hour or so, and wound us through the church, pointing to the various frescoes and dating them proudly.
I was eager to see St Bishoi's cave, and my prior knowledge of it clearly impressed Father Jacob. Seeing that my efforts to read up ahead of the trip had finally managed to impress someone (my co-traveller had groaned with embarrassment when I whipped out my Rough Guide: Egypt while seated on a step in Deir Anba Bishoi), I later brandished a few more facts I had picked up. I asked about the famous tamarind tree, said to have sprung from the ground in the spot where the Syrian St Ephraem had thrust his walking stick. The legend says that St Ephraem had used the staff because of his physical weakness, but his fellow monks had taunted him, saying it was an ostentatious affectation (I particularly like this part of the tale, because it brings a bit of naughty humanity to these stoic forefathers). Again, Father Jacob was impressed by my knowledge, and took us to the tree. He almost seemed a little suspicious of where I had found my information; I think he thought I had been there before and was just pretending for his sake.
It was a French scholar, whose studies centred on the somewhat offbeat topic of hairstyles and clothing in medieval religious art, who first alerted the monks at Deir Al-Suryan to the remarkable difference between depictions of holy figures during the Syrian period and earlier and later images -- even within the same fresco. One holy figure in the superb fresco near the back of the church is incongruously dressed in tights -- evidence, the scholar noted, of his relation to the royal court. The churches are constantly being refurbished, and each time the monks plan new renovations, they are obliged to contact the Supreme Council of Antiquities (SCA). The SCA then sends over an expert to ensure all the chipping and tapping is executed by the book (this information was related to us, by the way, with a muffled suggestion of sourness).
Not to be missed, nor glanced over without close inspection, is the so-called Door of Symbols -- another piece of curio that I had read about in a guide book ahead of our visit. Father Jacob drew my attention back to the 10th-century ebony-carved door which separates the altar from the rest of the church. The consecutive panels of simple latticework represent the periods of Christianity through figurative renderings of the cross, beginning with a period of unity and faith, represented by circles meshing to create interconnecting crosses. Subsequent epochs traverse the spread of Christianity to several main centres, such as Constantinople and Jerusalem, and the advent of Islam (symbolised by crescents surrounding a cross), followed by disharmony and confusion (heresy here is given the form of a swastika). The period in which we now live shows numerous crosses looking like rows of encircled "X"s, showing how loosely connected the various Christian faiths have become. The final panel shows the as-yet-unrealised period of reconciliation; several crosses emanate from a central cross, depicting the return of Christ.
Father Jacob showed all the signs of a man at peace with his life. His eyes, while lively, were not curious; his voice was unhurried and hymnal; even his movements were swift and assured, yet unobtrusive. Over tea infused with a sharp mint which gave it the taste of Christmas candy canes, he ended his sentences with a small, pensive movement -- a little scratch at his long, grey beard wound around his chin, a tap of his finger on his knee -- and a ready smile. That afternoon, as we sat gazing in the desert from the monastery's modest guest quarters, Father Jacob looked over it as though he never tired of its beauty -- as if the view were as new to him as it was to us. It wasn't until long after we left, when we were speeding back towards Cairo trying to beat the sunset, that I wondered if he was ever lonely.
Two other monasteries operate in the area -- the more remote Deir Al-Baramus (Monastery of the Romans), believed to be the oldest of Wadi Natrun's remaining monasteries, and the isolated Deir Abu Maqar, which may be difficult to visit for the average traveller (try getting approval ahead of time from the Coptic Patriarchate; Tel. (02) 282-5374, in Cairo and (03) 483-5522 in Alexandria). Both were founded by the venerated 4th century ascetic St Macarius, but it is Deir Abu Maqar which holds the remains of the 49 martyrs slain by Berber invaders in the mid-5th century (another story told and retold in pictures and tales throughout the Wadi Natrun monasteries). Deir Abu Maqar also maintains that it holds the head of St John the Baptist, but then again, only a hydra could have as many heads installed in as many places of worship as those which claim to have St John's -- notable among them being Venice and Damascus.
The monasteries are frequently closed during periods of fasting and Coptic holidays. It is helpful to call ahead at the patriarchate to make sure they will be accepting visitors. Men can also be given permission to stay at the monasteries' guest houses.
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To the desert and beyond (travel)
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