Human Velcro

The High Dam, a successor to the old Aswan Dam—also called the Low Dam—was built in the 1960’s. During the planning stages for its construction, enlightened officials realized that there were serious consequences to the building of such a huge barrage. For all its many benefits, the High Dam would also create a massive lake which, in turn, would inundate a vast area of the Nubian countryside. The many precious temples and buildings of the region, innocent victims of the modern world, would be totally submerged: a colossal loss to the nation’s cultural heritage, and to the whole world as well.  

To prevent this tragedy, UNESCO, the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization, undertook the dismantling and relocation to higher ground of many of these ancient structures which, otherwise, would have ended up at the bottom of the newly created Lake Nasser. 

According to some, other temples were also dismantled and relocated, albeit a tad farther out: in other countries! Supposedly, the relocated temples were gifts, bestowed in thanks to those nations having financially contributed to UNESCO’s rescue operation. 

Nevertheless, I guess this is still better than slowly eroding beneath the surface of the lake as are the many ill-fated temples that did not escape the flood. Scuba diving in the lake and seeing these ghostly structures would be awesome, not that I would be able to partake in this activity with my idiotic ankle, at least not at this time.  

After touring the dam, which is really one big concrete structure with a big lake on one side and a small river on the other, we head out toward Philae Temple, one of the best Ptolemaic temples still standing. Originally situated on Philae Island, it was one of the lucky buildings saved from drowning by being moved to the neighbouring island of Agilkia. Names aside, the operative word here is island, which means that we have to get there by motorboat. 

Before we get to the boat however, we have to run the gauntlet of the omnipresent vendors, crowding the dock entrance. Everywhere we look, someone is selling something, from postcards, clothes, and jewellery to papyrus, stone carvings, trinkets, and much more. I’m almost convinced that if I look hard enough, I’ll find a parka and mukluk vendor.

We pierce our way through the onslaught and march down the dock. And I crutch. And crutch. And crutch. Having covered a lot of ground from the parking lot, through the sea of vendors, all the way along the seemingly endless dock—and we’re not even at the boat yet—I feel an achy burning sensation from my deltoids and biceps, radiating all the way to my fingertips. To ease my flaming muscles, I avidly look for somewhere to sit and take the weight off my arms. Since there’s nothing to sit on—and sitting on the ground is so unladylike—I balance on my good foot and shake my arms to relieve the ache, rattling the crutches in the process. 

Clapping and giggling arise from a group of nearby children. One little laughing urchin points at me and repeats the same Arabic expression over and over. I later find out that it means something akin to flustered flamingo. Sigh . . . Well, at least I succeeded in amusing the locals while bringing about a modicum of life back to my arms.

At the end of the pier, I’m not sure by what superpower Yasmin knows which motorboat is ours as there are about a million boats, docked side by side, and another gazillion as yet undocked, fighting for a spot. If the pier were a piece of food, the boats would be like piranhas, all vying to get a bite. Yet, one particular embarkation has captured Yasmin’s attention and we’re eagerly invited to come aboard, an undertaking which presents me with a new challenge. 

To board the bobbing vessel, I basically have to leap from the dock onto the front end of the boat (an area the size of a soda cracker), then step down into the boat, making sure I don’t bash my head on the overhead canopy, or trip over the benches and end up on my butt with my good leg wrapped around my neck. 

I give the crutches to a tour mate and balance on one leg, but before I can execute the required one-footed leap, hands start grabbing me from everywhere. Everyone is trying to hold on to me to prevent me from falling. They hold on so tightly that, not only am I not falling, I’m not even moving. I’m hovering, trapped in a human force field, my feet not even touching the ground. Well that’s getting me nowhere fast. My legs, the good and the bad, start cycling in midair in a futile attempt to initiate forward propulsion, the flamingo getting genuinely flustered by this time. 

I continue pedalling until, finally, hands shift to get a better grip on the wriggling me. One of my arms, suddenly unencumbered, grabs the pole from the boat’s canopy, and pulling free of the human Velcro, I heave myself aboard, shooting a look of “victory is mine” at the astonished Velcro. 

Having thus boarded the craft, I sit on the bench, joining my companions who, by now, are laughing themselves into convulsions.  After a few minutes, as the hoots and snorts diminish to giggles and snickers, the boat pulls out and we’re off to the island.

While the motorboat makes an effort to rev up to the speed of a sea cucumber, we get a good view of the temple perched atop the island. After a ten-minute stint on the lake, we arrive at our destination where a formidable staircase presents itself, followed by a few leagues of rough terrain leading to the temple, far, far away. 

Since my arms are still throbbing from the two hundred-mile hike along the dock, and since there’s no available crane capable of hoisting me from the boat, carrying me through the air, and daintily plopping me on the altar of Isis inside the temple, I grudgingly elect to stay in the boat.   

So much for the temple visit. I settle in my seat for, once again, a good brood over my rotten luck. At least this time, I’m not alone; another member of our group is staying put and foregoing the visit.

Philae Temple

No sooner have our friends departed that the driver turns the boat around and speeds off across the lake. So, we’re either being kidnapped, or our driver’s got to go to the bathroom most urgently. It only takes a few moments for me to realize that he’s moving us out of the way to let the other piranha-boats have access to the temple. 

Reaching our waiting destination, we sit amid a throng of skiffs, motorboats, launches, and barks. Before long, a number of other drivers have boarded our vessel for a visit and a friendly chat.  

One thing has become abundantly clear throughout my trip. Egyptians are among the nicest, friendliest, and most helpful people that I’ve ever come across. Even if they sometimes get a bit carried away in their attempts to help you, they’re never without a smile and a good word, and this is another occasion when their good nature manifests itself. 

These men and boys are most entertaining. One young man shows us a huge jagged scar on his leg, a crocodile bite he suffered when swimming in Lake Nasser. Note to self: Ixnay the scuba diving of the temples in Lake Nasser. There’s no point in becoming free crocodile food.

Many of these guys are fishermen and make a living taking tourists on fishing trips when not ferrying visitors to Philae Temple. As in Cairo, any impression that Egyptians lead a calm and simple life away from the hubbub of modern living is shattered the moment they all take their fancy cell phones out and start punching buttons to retrieve stored photographs. In Egypt, cell phones are everywhere. Daniel, our saintly tour guide, had two in use at all times. One for each ear, I guess.

Anyway, they proceed to show me pictures of fish they and their customers have caught. One fellow shows me a picture of a lady proudly holding her catch, a fifty-pound perch, smiling broadly (the lady, not the fish; the poor perch really has no reason to smile). The fellow tells me that I could do that do too. I’m sure I could, but what would I ever do with a fish the size of a torpedo? What does anyone do with a fish that’s big enough to be used as a deadly weapon?

Before I can mull this topic over any longer, some signal, unseen or unrecognized by me, alerts our driver to return to the island. The tour is over and my bad mood is long gone. With everyone loaded back in, we putt-putt back to the pier.  

Yasmin gives me back my camera with which she has kindly taken pictures of the temple and shrines. Since the beginning of the trip, our dear tour guide has been tremendous at taking pictures for me when I’ve been unable to accompany the group. She has even taken shots that would not have been possible for me to take from my seated vantage point. Indeed, taking pictures from a sitting position, when everyone else is standing around you, can be rather tricky. Depending on the angle of the shot, photographs taken from the chair showcase mostly the inside of people’s noses and an abundance of bellies and rear ends. 

While our little speedboat slices the lake waters at a bewildering half-mile per hour, I take the time to review the results of Yasmin’s latest photo shoot. There was a good crowd at the temple, and several temple pictures include some of the ever-present tourists doing what tourists do: looking at buildings, fiddling with equipment and bags, dealing with tired and cranky children, smiling for other cameras, consulting travel guides, picking their nose, drinking bottled water. . . What? Wait a minute! Yuck, some guy is picking his nose, big as life. Okay, that picture’s getting edited, right now! A few manipulations later, Nose Picker has disappeared, compliments of my little digital marvel of a camera. Another marvel, a maritime one this time, has occurred. We arrive at the pier without our driver sinking our craft—or any other—during the fight-for-a-spot docking procedure.

Evolution is often evident by how people adapt to different situations. My handlers have adapted and I’m treated to a hands-free disembarkation. Well, I wish they hadn’t evolved so quickly. I do need a hand at this point. Going from bobbing up and down land to stationary land is more difficult than the reverse, especially since there’s no canopy pole on the dock to grab onto. Ultimately, a kind soul extends a hand and I latch on to it with the strength and tenacity of the legendary Samson before the hair cut. 

Back on terra firma, we trudge the 2.8 light years back to the vendor area and wade through the swarm of sellers, all the while trying to appear uninterested in the deluge of merchandise, lest we acquire the attention of a merchant who would then follow us like a heat-seeking missile. Eventually, we return to the cool and peaceful environment of our tour bus. Had I known that this peace and tranquility would be shattered in the middle of the forthcoming night, I would have made more of an effort to enjoy it fully.