Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
and soldiers from the 18th and 19th centuries. One was from a mercenary in Napoleon's
army, another the signature of a senior British diplomat from 1820. 'This is Greek,' he
said, pointed to something scratched on a pillar, 'and this belongs to . . . Alexander the
Great.'
Inside the priest's sanctum stood a vast stone shrine, into which had been carved - in
ancient hieroglyphs - the name of
Alexandros
. 'He stood in this exact spot,' said Ibrahim,
once again welling up. 'Doesn't it make you feel humble?'
I couldn't help but agree. Four thousand years of name-carving, artwork, defacing and
tit-for-tat scribbling showed that the human condition - the endless desire to leave one's
mark on the world - hadn't changed across the aeons. I'd seen the same at the Pyramids of
Meroe.
'And now for the
pièce de résistance
,' said Ibrahim, now back to his bouncing, enthu-
siastic self. He led me around the side of the shrine to where human and godlike figures
were carved in a beautiful example of late era pre-Ptolemaic art. 'This is Min, the god of
fertility.' I could see why. The figure of a man stood proud, pointing rudely at Alexander's
signature. 'Look how big he is!' grinned Ibrahim. 'It's the biggest member I've ever seen.
They say if you wish for good luck and children and point at it, your wishes will be ful-
filled. I used to bring the Japanese ladies here, it makes them blush . . .'
Outside, we made our way to the riverside and rejoined Turbo.
'Are you ready to hit the road, Lev?'
I wasn't sure that I was. At least in Luxor there were moments - a precious few, but
there were still some - when I didn't feel the police crowing at my shoulder, and didn't
have to dance for the ministries as I made my way north. My legs were aching, my feet
seemed to have permanently changed shape from the months of endless walking, and the
frustration of being scrutinised every step of the way was adding a new dimension to the
pain. Even so, Cairo was our next big stop - and, after that, it was only a short hike to the
Rashid and the Mediterranean Sea. I took a deep breath, thanked Ibrahim for his counsel,
and told him we'd see him further north, in his home city of Cairo.
One last push and I would almost be home.
Eighteen days, I cursed to myself, ignoring the police over one shoulder, thinking of Turbo
somewhere up ahead. Eighteen days to cover the six-hundred and sixty-six kilometres
between here and Cairo. I had to be crazy to even attempt it - but those were the rules set
down by the Ministry of Tourism, and the expedition would be ruined if I failed.
Miserably, I continued into the north.
Thirty-four thousand dollars, Turbo had told me, only afforded me forty-five days of
'supervision'. Leaving aside the fact that being heckled by a group of bored, invidious po-
licemen hardly counted as 'supervision', this left me with less than three weeks to reach
