Friday, October 10,
2016
Basma Hotel, Aswan
“Excuse me,
mister! Hellooo!”
You hear this a lot
in Luxor.
“Taxi? Kalesh?”
You hear this a lot
too.
“I am Eddie
Murphy.”
This — not so
much. But it was true. The man standing in my way was a dead ringer
for comedian Eddie Murphy. He was about 5’6”, with receding
hairline, a thin moustache, and a lopsided smile. He handed me his
business card. It read: “Eddie Murphy / Car & Fluca / Welcome
in Luxor”. There was a small colour mug shot too. It reminded me
of something a real estate agent might give you.
“Is this your
first time in Luxor?” he asked. I said that it wasn’t.
“Welcome back,” he said, smiling broadly. “Do you need a taxi?”
If you stay in Luxor
long enough, you can really get tired of answering this question.
The best you can do is smile (it prevents you from feeling annoyed),
and keep moving.
“Good morning
madame!” he said, directing himself to Gayle, who was walking with
me. “Where are you going today?”
“To the temple,”
she replied, and pointed across the street to where the temple stood
– a series of columned halls and carved stonework. “No need!”
“Maybe later?”
Eddie asked. “Take my card. Call me if you need anything.” He
gave us a friendly wave, and was gone.
(The actual exchange
was somewhat longer than this. The real
Eddie was a touch more persistent than the one I’m telling
you about here. He’s just not that important to the story. But how
many times do you meet someone named Eddie Murphy who has a card to
prove it? Well. There was a guy in Cairo in 2000 who called himself
Eddie Murphy. He didn’t much look like his namesake other than
having a similar moustache and build. And a few years later, I was
introduced to a camel called Eddie Murphy, but he looked nothing like
Saturday Night Live alum. But I digress.)
We were on our way
that bright and warm morning to visit Luxor Temple. On our last few
visits to the temple, we had only seen it at night when it is
dramatically lit. This is fine if you want to experience the romance
of Egypt, or if you want to immerse yourself in its “mysteries”.
It’s also good for viewing the wall reliefs because the raised
reliefs are lit from below at night, which makes them much easier to
see. Nevertheless, today I wanted to see it in full sun, in part to
get a look at the recently cleaned Roman frescoes, but mostly to get
a proper, clear-headed, scholarly
look around.
I had a second
mission too. In addition to a massive pylon, colossal statues of
Rameses II, and peristyle courts, the temple is home to the Abu
Haggag mosque. The mosque was built some time ago, before the temple
had been excavated, when street level was higher than it is today.
From inside the temple, the mosque now appears to have been built
inexplicably high. There is a door at the back of the mosque which
used to let out into a street, but now opens into space about 40 feet
above the temple floor. I have visited Luxor Temple at least five
times, but I have never made it into the mosque. This year, I
resolved to go.
As Gayle and I
approached the temple, I wondered what the protocol for visiting a
mosque was. Is it OK to take pictures? Is there anywhere we
shouldn’t go? Do you just
walk in?
As
I was thinking about these logistical concerns, a man
I hadn’t noticed approach
us said: “Welcome! Do
you want to see the mosque? I’m the imam.”
A middle-aged in a grey
galabiya smiled at us and gestured to the steps that led inside.
“Yes,
we would!” I said. “That’s why we’ve come.”
That
was easier than I thought.
At the top of the
stairs was a modest outdoor landing with green astroturf. A dark
wooden cabinet by the wall had a number of cubbyholes – the sort
you see in primary school class rooms. “You can leave your shoes
there,” he told us. When we had done that, he motioned us inside.
You can’t help but
sigh with relief, going from brilliant sun and unrelenting heat to
cool indoor shade. As our eyes adjusted, we made out a small room
which was mostly filled with a large wood enclosure lit with green
lights. “This is the shrine of Abu El-Haggag”, the imam told us.
Abu el-Haggag was a Sufi who came from Baghdad to Egypt. Now, he
is considered a saint, but I don’t know why.
“Take pictures if
you want,” he told us. I took a few of the shrine, before he led us
through to another room with a number of worn carpets over a stone
floor. Above us was a canopy of coloured fabrics that moved slightly
in the breeze from outside, and moved more when a large electric fan
looked its way. Muted light came in between gaps in the canopy and
through three or four windows which looked out onto the ancient stone
pylon. Large stone columns inscribed with the name of Ramesses II
marked the corners of the space. I got the impression of being
outdoors, despite indoors. Or possibly, the other way around.
He took us over to a
window covered in a wooden screen. “Until 80 years ago,” he
said, “this window was at street level. Now, it is very high.
Please look.” I knew this window very well. It’s the one you see
in the Ramesside court behind the first pylon.
While I can’t be
sure, I have a feeling I was humming at this part of the tour.
Apparently, I hum when I’m in my happy place. It’s usually some
pop tune from my youth whose title has some oblique connection to
where I am. Now that I think of it, the main character from The
English Patient does the same
thing. It was an unconscious act for him as well.
The imam took us
into the main part of the mosque where the prayers are held. I asked
how many people come to pray. “About 700,” he said, “but only
on Fridays.” He gestured to us to come a bit closer. “Abu Haggag
was a Sufi,” he said. “For Sufi, there is one god. Adam, Eve,
all people – they are the same. You understand? No difference.
Christian, Jewish, Muslim: all fine. Everyone is the same. Other
types of Islam . . . “ He shrugged in a way that indicated a
slight annoyance. “Other types of Islam are different. But for
Sufi, everyone is the same. Equal.”
He introduced us to
a colleague who had been reading a book when we came in. He
introduced himself and shook our hands in welcome. This man
organizes aid to local orphans, we were told. “If you would like
to make a donation for the orphans, you can give it to him. Or not –
as you like.” Gayle slipped him a few bills which he gratefully
accepted.
We were shown an
outdoor deck that looked out into the temple. “Take as many
pictures as you like,” he reminded me. “Anywhere you like.”
From that vantage
point, you could see the larger-than-life statues of Ramesses II in
his peristyle court, and the even larger seated statue of the pharaoh
at the entrance to Tutankhamun’s pillared hall. It is a view of
that statue that I have never had before.
I was probably
humming quiet loudly at this point.
The imam gave us as
much time as we wanted in each part of the mosque, and answered all
of our questions freely and openly. He talked about peace and being
good to people. It’s thoughts like this that make me hopeful for
the future. “More of that,” I said to Gayle.
“OK?” the imam
asked. We nodded. He led us back the way we came, back to the
entrance of of the mosque. We retrieved our shoes, and thanked him
for the splendid tour.
On the way out,
Gayle turned to me. “Yes?” she asked.
"Yes," I said.
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