I have arranged a taxi to take me to the Pyramids. It doesn't take too long to get there and there is so much to see along the way. The rich villas of New Cairo give way to a mass of grey high rise blocks of flats. Some look as though they are in a state of being demolished, but still carpets hang from the windows and washing is strung out across balconies.
At the Pyramids, I am offered a variety of tours that I can take and so opt for the longest one which includes a camel ride. Quite fun at first, I regret my decision not to have taken some other form of transport before we are even halfway there. It is not the most comfortable of animals to ride and I certainly cannot imagine a journey across the desert on one!
The city has encroached on the Pyramids so considerably that they are a stone's throw from houses and shops, but the way my guide, Kamal, takes me makes me feel that I am approaching them from the desert. He stops numerous times and offers to take photos of me, something which I dread. I am not photogenic and tend to shy away from the camera, but this is obviously all part of the tour. At various points, I have to put my arm out in such way that it makes it look as though I am holding the Pyramids in the palm of my hand or dangling them from my fingertips.
I am shocked by the amount of litter that is lying everywhere, even right next to the Pyramids. Some people have carved their names and initials into the bottom stones of the Pyramids and this surprises me greatly. I would have thought they would have someone collecting rubbish and also someone on guard preventing the monuments from being defaced. I find it ironic that people who come to see these great edifices that have lasted for thousands of years, leave their rubbish behind, as if to say, 'Hey, look what our civilisation has produced! Plastic, junk and rubbish!'
Kamal talks about the Ancient Egyptians as though he is one: 'We put our servants into these tombs so that no one could tell the secrets of the Pyramids.' 'We killed them when they had finished their job.' Communication is difficult:
Me: 'I have heard that the Pyramids at Luxor are bigger than these.'
Kamal: 'No! This is not Luxor. This is Giza.'
'Who is buried at Luxor?'
'No, I tell you. This is Giza. Only King buried here is Giza King.'
If anything, I am surprised at how small the Pyramids seem in comparison to what I expected. Even The Sphinx is smaller than I thought it would be.
If it is one thing I do not like about Egypt, it is the system of tipping - or at least expecting to be tipped. Before I left for the trip around the Pyramids, the taxi driver gave me very strict instructions not to tip Kamal until we came back. When we get back, Kamal says: 'Now you give me tip.' I don't know how much a tip should be and give him the equivalent of a few dollars. 'From the heart,' he adds, suggesting this is not very generous. I give him a couple of more dollars and then close my purse. I am not a rich Western tourist. It is hard to explain what my Zimbabwean salary equates to in US dollars as no one would believe me.
Another thing that irritates me is being taken to shops where I am hassled to the point of committing murder. One lady tries to sell me perfumes at such a rate that there is no way I can possibly keep up with her tirade of words. Rose, Jasmine, Nefertiti of the Nile, Cleopatra's Dream, Lotus . . . it's all too much. She smothers me in something she claims is an aphrodisiac and will drive my husband wild with desire. Great, except that John is hundreds of miles away and I am in Cairo, alone, drenched in an aphrodisiac. This could be an interesting day. When I say I don't want any of it, she gets mean and tells me she has something for wrinkles and points at my face. Well, that's it. I'm back on my camel and out of there.
The taxi driver takes me to a papyrus factory which sells pictures for hundreds of dollars. I try and escape, but have this man glued to my side. 'What's your budget? What's your budget?' In another shop, a woman immediately attaches herself to me, following my every step. I feel like taking two steps to the left, to the right to see if she will do the same. I am looking for two things: a pair of white trousers for Sian (to stop her borrowing mine) and a pair of Aladdin trousers for Ellie. The shop has neither, but I am offered blue trousers, orange trousers, trousers with green stripes and red triangles and black dots. 'But I don't want them,' I cry as I head for the door. 'I don't want them!'
This may sound strange, but I did not associate Egypt with Christianity although, of course, I know all the references made to it in the Bible. In Old Cairo, I visit the chapel of St. George who appears to have been quite a hit here. Many people, Christian or otherwise, kiss their hands and place it on the picture of St. George. A good way to spread a virus, I think, rather cynically. I find the mosaic picture of St. George almost comical. He has this funny little moustache and one cannot help but think he would look more comfortable in a suit and tie, seated at a desk selling insurance rather than slaying a dragon.
I try very hard throughout the whole day to connect to the past. I am surrounded by monuments hundreds - thousands - of years old, yet I do not get the vibe. Cairo is too busy; there are too many tourists; too many clicking cameras and tour groups. There are these beautiful cobbled lanes in Old Cairo connecting some of the oldest churches in the world. I want to hear quiet; that beautiful quiet that speaks of the timelessness of God. I am not a churchgoer. I find sermons boring and often aimless and rambling. But I love churches - empty churches where peace settles gently like a butterfly on a favourite flower. I want to pass nuns, silently going on their way to worship and Coptic priests with their long black robes. I don't want this to be a tourist destination. I want it to be real. I imagine myself as Agatha Christie, walking through the narrow streets, catching glimpses of figures that glance quickly around and then dive back in the shadows. But that's me all over. Born in the wrong era. A lost soul, looking not for a country to go to, but a time.
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