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Al-Ahram Weekly 13 - 19 July 2000 Issue No. 490 
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Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
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Al-Ahram Weekly 13 - 19 July 2000 Issue No. 490
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| Published in Cairo by AL-AHRAM established in 1875 |
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Egypt Focus International Economy Opinion Interview Culture Features Travel Living Sports Profile People Time Out Chronicles Cartoons Letters
Footprints in the sand
By Eric HartmannI once read that we do not remember history, we dream it. So for me, this was a simple journey of nostalgia, a revival of childhood memories and perhaps a way of making my dreams come true. For 23 years, until the devastating conflict of 1967, as a small family with modest means, we would spend the large part of summer either in Suez or camping at Ain Sukhna. Back in those days, camping was definitely a modest affair, embraced only by the hardy who were prepared to rough it away from the trappings of modern life. Nature was rough but awesome because of its raw beauty and harshness. Daily provisions and water had to be rationed and planned; we always returned to the capital leaner, yet full of vitality and optimism. We had made friends with families who had camped nearby -- ordinary people who had shared bread, sugar or any other vital provision that had run out at inopportune moments. We had also shared nature, swimming in the crystal waters amongst coloured corals and watching the grime and hardness of city living drain away into the soft desert sands.
Days before I set off on my dream journey, my 90-year-old aunt warned me never to go back to the place of my dreams. "Going back is a total waste of time. Your journey will always end in tears," she said. "Of course places and people change," I responded. "Isn't that the essence of being human -- that we do not stand still, we build and improve, and try to make life easier?" She gazed at me through the cloudiness of the cataracts that had claimed her once gleaming eyes, kissed me hard on the cheeks, and then said: "You are stubborn, like your father. May God go with you, and do not forget to bring me back some sweets."
Days later, Gamal, my jovial driver, prepared a sturdy four-wheel drive for a journey that was to take us from Cairo to Hurghada, taking in Suez and the west coast of the Gulf of Suez, then back to the capital. It had been almost 33 years since I last saw the landscape, and the prospect of setting foot on that ground filled me with anticipation at the thought of meeting the people upon whom so many of my memories were constructed. I had hoped to find the ice-cream sellers, sandwich makers, and waiters who served drinks at the Cabanon Hotel. Perhaps I would see the kiosque owner who sold tins of contraband Players Navy Cut and Craven A, fresh off the cargo ships that had glided through the Canal the previous night. I even looked forward to exploring the cafés that once spread along the Canal, where vendors tempted the patrons with sea urchins and mussels to accompany their drinks.
I was not a soft romantic looking for a dream. I knew that the wounds of war, the bitter conflicts of '67 and '73, would not have healed. In fact, I longed to see reminders of the selfless human sacrifice and visit monuments to the thousands of brave young men who worshipped their land and ended up dying for it. As proof that their memory was alive, I wanted to see blossoms on fresh trees, new cities, a revival of the names that made the history and geography of this region known to the world. I longed to hear the people boast about having experienced agony, then regained their strength and shaped a new future.
The first few kilometres gave me a taste of what was to come. The boundaries of Heliopolis were being extended to those of the next new districts. Freshly laid highways marked out the vital communication routes. Stretches of marble-clad official establishments, multicoloured and multidimensional housing developments and sporting clubs had risen from the dry sands to announce the dawn of a "New Cairo." Far over the horizon, I silently gazed at "Old Cairo," huddled alongside its much older sister deep in the valley below. Both were shrouded in smog, dust and early morning mist, anxiously waiting for 16 million bodies to mill and churn amongst them, another 20 hours of continuous pounding before they could catch their breath and rest their weary souls.
The road clears and the true desert of my dreams manifests itself. For several kilometres, the electricity pylons and billboards heralding seaside resorts are the only visible evidence that change has taken place. We pass toll stations and military checkpoints that announce themselves as the gateways to a New World. Before long, we approach the outskirts of Suez and my anticipation increases. A roadside billboard hails a monumental cement factory, and already the stamp of heavy industrialisation is upon us. On the horizon, the majestic mountains have lost their pride. Rows of bright diggers and lorries are slicing through the rock, pounding and pouring their loads into a titanic crusher working tirelessly to fill a constantly moving conveyor, which in turn feeds the insatiable kilns. Clouds of white dust powder the desert below, marking a trail that will stand witness to the supremacy of man over nature.
Gamal senses my need to regain my bearings by recalling scenes and images buried under 30 years of personal history. He slows the car and patiently waits for me to guide him through the city. Nothing of the past reaches my consciousness, but occasionally a building façade, a cinema or a school playground flashes past me. I direct Gamal along the railway line that slices through the city and on to Port Tawfiq, guided more by luck than judgement, yet keeping my eye on the shoreline that seems to have remained unaltered. We park by the banks of the Canal to watch the last cargoes and tankers of the day sailing through. On this point once stood a monument to the French engineer Ferdinand De Lesseps, designer and architect of the longest man-made waterway in the world. It was also a monument to the 1.5 million Egyptian workers who took part in digging the Canal, and the 125,000 who lost their lives to make this construction the most strategic in the region, and arguably the world.
Sadly, none of the history or memories are intact. The monument and the bank surrounding it reflect human neglect and bear the scars of multicoloured graffiti, wanton damage and litter. I try to revive memories of the beautiful evenings we spent lounging at the cafés and restaurants that once stood here, watching the cargo ships and tankers glide past. The crew and passengers waving or shouting hello across the water used to add to our enjoyment. The merchants would ply us with brioche and sesame-covered buns, fresh sea urchins and ice-cream. None are here, and none can be conjured back to life. Then, as if to emphasise the authority of the present, a small boy kicks an empty plastic bottle in my direction before his father yanks him back into the car. I cast one last look across the waters but cannot hold back the tears. What was once here has vanished beyond my reach.
Heading back into the city centre, we passed modern towers, new schools and hordes of young people with more interesting things to do than looking back into the past. Nearby, piles of military debris and now defunct equipment used during the '73 Canal crossing were being dismembered patiently by a lone worker and an oxy-acetylene torch. It was getting late. The long road to Hurghada awaited us.
The early morning sun wrapped the desert in a soft yellow blanket and steamed the overnight moisture out of the sand and rocks, sending streaks of fog into the atmosphere. The two-lane tarmac road stretched out proudly between the pipelines that have brought wealth and prosperity to these once primitive stretches. Wealth had clearly spawned the desire for tourist villages and holiday homes, each with their own private piece of nature. Interspersed with these monuments to civilisation stood partly constructed concrete ghosts, their greyness casting dull and haunting shadows on the landscape and staining the bright blue horizon that lay behind. Rubble, wooden joists, half-built boundary walls and abandoned shacks look dispassionately back at the travellers who pass them every day. Here were landmarks to failed or disillusioned investors, and yet, further on, giant earth movers and bulldozers were levelling fresh expanses of virgin land and dunes, ready for another bunch of hopeful real estate tycoons, and for all tomorrow's dreams.
Finally, we were at journey's end. The Hurghada streets were bathed in the late afternoon sunshine and our bodies ached for rest and freshness. The Swiss-run hotel offered the familiar blend of modern luxury and blandness perfected over the past 20 years, which has become the feature of "leisure resorts" everywhere across the globe. Multilingual staff wearing permanent smiles dealt officiously with overbearing tourists. Stretches of glistening marble floors led through colonnades and down colourful corridors to theme restaurants that strive to satisfy every taste. Poolside games, bustling restaurants and energetic young entertainers in carnival outfits kept the beat going and the guests occupied.
We took up the offer of a boat trip for LE90 that promised to take us to the bay of Sharm Al-Arab, provide ample snorkelling over several coral reefs, and give us lunch and drinks. Accompanied by 30 other tourists, we drew anchor and headed for the open sea, all hoping to catch a glimpse of the "Egyptian Riviera" and inspect those "resorts that the Pharaoh would have chosen."
An hour later, we reached the first reef. Within minutes, seven other cruisers joined us, all vying for a vantage position along the reef. With mooring manoeuvres completed, each cruiser belched its cargo of snorkellers into the clear waters. From the top of the boat, all I could see was that the majestic reef and its protruding boulders and corals provided excellent mooring. Next stop: Sharm Al-Arab.
The bay of Sharm Al-Arab is a relatively shallow enclave bounded by a deep cut reef on either side and a crescent-shaped sandy beach set against sand dunes and a tall cliff. Because of its geography, the bay gives the impression that it is totally isolated, and accessible only from the sea -- a spot of outstanding natural beauty, shaped by nature over the centuries, and achieving ecological equilibrium among the inhabitants of its underwater, land, and air environments. By the time our trusted captain had moored the cruiser, 10 boats had joined us in this paradise. The clear waters of the bay were churning and frothing. The engine was spewing diesel oil onto the water's surface, and the happy tourists were again getting to know the deep and unveiling its secrets. I opted for a long walk on the beach, searching for fossils of shells and some photos for my scrapbook. One or two dozen people also jumped ashore, hoping to lay their sunbathing mats down and absorb the hot rays.
On the beach, the full demonstration of man's total disregard for what the Almighty has given him became evident. Piles of construction debris, used and discarded bags of cement, filthy and torn polythene bags, newspapers, food containers, bottles and even a plastic toilet seat were strewn over the sand, half buried or clinging to underwater rocks. A tired diesel engine started bellowing, spewing exhaust fumes and greasy water into the bay. All this came from great construction works lying immediately behind the bay. To add a new dimension to the scene, young Bedouin and construction workers who no doubt knew of the boats were now crouched on the dunes and hilltops, leering at the bikinis and their bronzed contents.
While tourists were touching and being touched by nature, lunch was being prepared by an old sea mate assisted by a crew of young men. The lads looked weak and complained of headaches and tiredness caused by long nights of smoking. Their combined endeavours produced an edible, if unappetising mixture of fish stew and salad served on a bed of oil-rich onion rice. With stomachs filled and curiosity satisfied, the tourists headed to a second reef for more snorkelling then back to the hotel. The captain and his mates could count their dollars and pounds, and the sea and its inhabitants could be left to recover before the morrow's battering.
I sat on the quayside watching the sun play hide-and-seek at the edge of the horizon and contemplated the day's events. Would we trust our precious health to a witch doctor, or the construction of our bridges to amateurs? Would we leave the future of our children in the hands of strangers? Of course not. Why then do we entrust our precious environment to crowds of greedy, uncaring and illiterate charlatans -- people who regard the coral reefs and surrounding bays as their personal milk cows? Once the milk dries up, they and the tourists will move on to fresh pastures, leaving behind a trail of withered reefs, extinct species, and polluted beaches. We will have left nothing for future generations except photographs and video footage for them to view on their computer screens. It was time to go home.
On the journey back, we stopped at Ras Gharib for coffee and a smoke. High in the sky above us, thousands of migrating birds were making their way north, having spent the winter on the African plains. Gamal took a deep draw off the water pipe and said: "You know, at night these birds used to nest in caves deep in the desert behind us. The Bedouin did not find them appetising, so they would shoot them or else let the wild dogs have them. Anyway, the birds now nest in the town, because it is safer for them." I looked up at the flock. Their leader was frantically rounding them up and guiding them across the water. One or two minions were rushing around, trying to bring stragglers into a delta formation. I quietly wished them a safe journey and hoped that next year the shooting skills of the locals would have deteriorated, and that the wild dogs would have taken a liking to other meats.
Hours later, we also reached our north. Dusk had given way to the dark blue light of night as it gently enveloped the capital. The past I knew had existed. I was sure I did not dream it. It was just that three decades had diluted and reshaped my landmarks. The clear lines that I carried in my mind had faded away and been replaced by new dimensions. My history had passed and it was time for a new history to be made by those who inhabit the present. The hardest truth to bear was the one that I had to deliver to my aunt. She was right after all, and I did not like to admit it. The writer is managing director of OEH Group,, an environmental consultancy based in Birmingham , United Kingdom
