Rooms

El Marsam Cousins

Our home is no longer in Egypt, but Egypt still dwells in my heart. This is perhaps why I chose to name our Italian home “El Marsam,” an Arabic word that means where the artist paints. Our El Marsam history began one fateful day back in 1999, in downtown Cairo, where my friend, Ellen, and I often spent our afternoons wandering and exploring. For no particular reason other than a sudden urge to investigate the enamel signs displayed in a dusty shop window, we entered to browse among the clutter of merchandise. A particular blue and white enamel placard bearing the lettering “El Marsam” caught my fancy; its whimsical design seemed to call out to me before I even understood the significance of its words. The shopkeeper encouraged me to buy it, saying it was a good sign for me. I realized he was just trying to make a sale, but when he explained the meaning of El Marsam, without knowing that I am a painter, I knew the sign was meant for me. I bought the smaller of the two that were available in the shop that day.

Later, during a period when I was at my lowest point in Egypt, burdened with fears and doubts, Mike without a job, both of us without a home, mired in sadness and slammed against the wall that stood between our past and our future, I needed something to hold on to. I went back to the store and bought the bigger El Marsam sign. I bought it for the house in Italy that I was going to live in someday. Within the year, we hung both signs, on the ancient stones of our new Italian home. Our B&B and my art studio are both called “El Marsam” and these words have become symbolic of our dream.

We had been in Italy several years when I received a phone call from someone who asked if we had any connection to the El Marsam in Luxor. The young woman, an Italian archeologist, told me about this inn situated in the Valley of the Kings, where archeologists often stay for the duration of their digs. Having stayed there on several occasions, she had developed a real affection for Sheik Ali’s Hotel, otherwise known as El Marsam. I was intrigued. Further investigation on my part only piqued my interest and my determination to someday stay there.

It has now been several years since we moved away, but Egypt is never far from my thoughts. I shall never forget my first arrival in the country. As our plane descended into the Cairo night, the monitor on our Lufthansa flight tracked our rapid approach to the city that was to become my home. Even though we were still moving at a rapid speed, it felt like the jet just hovered, wings spread wide, like some ancient bird circling over the desert in search of prey. My heart thumped wildly in my chest and I remember thinking, then, that with each thousand meters of our descent, I was getting closer and closer to my new life in an ancient land. I almost imagined that when we deplaned we would just walk out into the desert sands and the pyramids would greet us. We didn’t land in the desert, but there was plenty of grit and dust to welcome us. That was eleven years ago.

Here I am again in the sky, this time, flying Egypt Air from Rome. No monitor informs me just how close I am to the ground. To the pyramids? But the same excitement and some nostalgia fill my heart. Caught up in a reverie of memories and of anticipation, knees shaking, I climb down the stairs of the plane and board the shuttle bus. At the airport gate, it brakes with a lurch, sending passengers this way and that. Its automatic doors whoosh open, sucking in the real Egypt Air, delivered in a dust-laden gust on this warm November evening. A potpourri of scents, not altogether pleasant, greets me. Diesel fuel and cumin. Is that possible? Oh yes, I am reminded, anything is possible in Cairo.

Later in the week, my husband Mike will join me and together we will travel to Luxor to “do” a Nile Cruise. The expression “doing” a Nile Cruise doesn’t sound right to me because to do it right, one should do nothing; visit the temples and monuments along the way if you must but better to let the boat “take you” on what can truly be a spiritual journey. I have cruised the Nile many times; my favorite way is to just stay on the boat and let Egypt work its magic on my soul.

Looking forward to doing just that, I waste no time getting to the travel agency. As I pick up my vouchers for the cruise, Nevine asks, “What did you decide? Do you want me to book a room at the Old Winter Palace in Luxor?”

“No, thank you, we have decided on other accommodations. We will stay at El Marsam on the West Bank.”

She has a puzzled look on her face. “How many stars does it have?”

“None that I know of, unless we count the ones in the sky.”

Or the ones in my eyes. Oh, yes, I had fantasized about a stay at the historic Old Winter Palace, a place of luxury, but that notion is where our budget and reality collide. I don’t have to sleep there, I tell myself, we can go have tea in their garden and soak up its history and charm as we sit there, temporary visitors, eternal daydreamers.

When we discovered that we had an extra day and night in Luxor before the departure of our cruise, I made up my mind to book a stay at El Marsam. I liked what I learned through a search on the Internet, and sent an e-mail, requesting accommodations. A room was available, as long as we didn’t mind not having a private bath. The Old Winter Palace this wasn’t, but who could argue with its economy? For what we would have paid at the Palace, we could stay at El Marsam for 24 nights!!!

Besides, El Marsam is my country cousin; it was time for us to meet. I didn’t go into all this history with the travel agent. She just shrugged and surely thought we were strange tourists indeed.

Egypt airfares for non-residents have soared skyward over the years so we opt to reserve a sleeper car on the overnight train to Luxor. I am excited about this new adventure, something that was not permitted, or I should say, not advised years ago because of security issues. It is considered safe now; there have not been the troubles that plagued the country in the late 90s and Egypt has increased her security measures, safeguarding her visitors against harm and when possible, discomfort.

Indeed, the overnight train to Luxor, reserved for foreigners, is both safe and comfortable. It is unfortunate that it travels through the night. I would have liked to see the countryside, but I also know from experience that the windows are so often scratched and marred from the gritty desert sands and from neglect in general, that it would be like watching the passing landscapes through a veil. Our berth is comfortable and shortly after we depart Ramses train station in Cairo, we are served dinner, presented much like a meal on a airplane, but to our delight, imminently more appetizing – generous portions of chicken and fish, served with vegetables and the Egyptian rice I love so much. At meal’s end, our purser brings us hot tea, and when we have enjoyed the last of its sweetness, he returns and prepares our bunks, wishing us a good night’s sleep.

As I lay in my bunk, I think of the El Marsam that is our destination. It is located in Qurna Village on the West Bank within walking distance of the Valley of the Kings. Known and appreciated for the simple charm of its mud-brick architecture, modeled after the work of Hassan Fahty, the famed architect responsible for designing and building the new town of Qurna in the 1940’s. His ambitious project was an effort to facilitate the move of inhabitants from Old Qurna where their homes were literally constructed above Pharaonic tombs. Many of these tombs had not been discovered or investigated and a suspicious trade in artifacts surfaced on a regular basis from the inhabitant’s cellars! The building project as such met with little success, but Hassan Fahty’s innovative designs, which shunned the use of modern materials such as concrete and steel in favor of mud-brick adobe for the domes, vaulted roofs and walls of his structures, are renowned. Implementing Nubian building techniques, he created dwellings that were inexpensive to build, yet ideally suited to the climate of Upper Egypt, remaining cool in the summer and retaining warmth in the winter months.

These thoughts coupled with the steady chug-chugging of our transport lull me to sleep. Somewhere in my semi-consciousness, I hear the clanging and lurching of stops throughout the night at stations along the way.

A wake-up call brings me back to life and in short order, our efficient purser distributes breakfast trays, accompanied again by sweet hot tea. Our train arrives at Luxor at five in the morning, on schedule. As we ascend the stairs from the platforms to the upper station, I am on the heels of a lively Italian female, and I mean on the heels – the spiked heels of glittery sequenced shoes! What, no desert boots? Only an Italian tourist would be so fashion-conscious while traipsing around the desert.

Outside the dark sky is tinged with a hint of dawn, but the taxi touts are in full force even at this early hour, primed for the assault. We are not far from the ferry landing but engage a taxi anyway. Within minutes, he drops us at the Corniche, the road that runs along the Nile. To the east, the Luxor Temple stands in all its majesty, softly illuminated. Beyond, domes and minarets, and stately palm trees stand, ink-black silhouettes against a purple sky streaked with rose-coral hues.

For 2 L.E. (30 cents) we purchase two round-trip tickets for the ferry crossing to the West Bank. Upon arrival it is difficult to fight the onslaught of the many who wish to take us by taxi to our hotel. In self-defense, we choose quickly. Amin’s taxi is a 37-year old white French sedan, looking mighty impressive in the midst of more humble modes of transport, both the motorized and the four-legged variety. We are barely settled on the generously upholstered back seats when he begins to peddle his many services: taxi, tour guide, a tiny dwelling, newly refurbished, that is for rent, and just about everything but Om Amin’s cooking! We politely decline his offers. We pass tourists astride donkeys plodding slowly in the direction of the monuments for a visit in the early morning light. The donkeys bray and so does our driver. Like a stubborn mule, he does not give up on us, right on up to dropping us off at the entrance to El Marsam.

The “inn” is locked up and no one seems to hear our knocking. Amin has disappeared. Have I dismissed him too quickly? Finally, Natasha, the Czech-born manager hears our cries and answers. She shows us to our room; when she unlocks its door, a welcome wave of warm air greets us. It is surprising how the room holds it warmth; while outside, the desert air is still cool at this early hour. Inside, the domed ceiling and walls are unpainted mud-brick. Two metal cots, a rickety table and wooden wardrobe, with only a hint of paint still clinging to its doors, are all that fill the room. These and total silence. We close the shutters and in the black warmth of this adobe womb, fall asleep.

Later, when I awake, I lie in bed and listen to the birdsong. Nearby, doves are cooing and in the distance, a donkey brays. When I finally open the shutters, shadows on the walls and sandy paths tell me that we have been asleep for several hours. I look around the room. There is no trashcan, no mirror, and no towels.

“Let’s go have tea in the garden,” I suggest to my husband “It looked so pretty out there earlier when we arrived. If we can find the manager, we will ask for towels.”

A trip to the bathroom reveals that this is, without a doubt, primitive camping. The toilet, housed in a separate stall, surprisingly, has toilet paper and there is a washbasin in another room – neither place invite lingering.

The terrace garden soon makes one forget the bathroom’s deficiencies. Long tables are set up beneath fig trees where birds twitter and flit from limb to limb. The foliage paints a lacy shadow on the surface of the butter-yellow wall of the adobe structure and to the unheard music of a gentle breeze the shadow does a delicate ballet. Brilliant bougainvillea climbs contentedly over walls in the shade of tall palms. Who needs to have tea at the Old Winter Palace? I’m not budging from this spot. We catch Natasha and request our towels. She provides two, clean and folded and threadbare.

El Marsam, we learn, was once the site of the prestigious Chicago House, where American researchers conducted their archeological studies. Then in the 30s, Chicago House moved to the city of Luxor on the east bank. It was at this time that Sheik Ali took over the entire area and consequently established his hotel. A second building was added in the 1940s, constructed with large windows that would allow plenty of light for painters to use as a studio and it was at this time that it took on the name of El Marsam. In the 1960s supported by the Ministry of Culture, artists from Cairo would come for one or two months to paint in this studio. It has been written that Sheik Ali was a very social person who wished to create not just a hotel but also a meeting place for Egyptologists and artists to gather and socialize. His plan worked. Sheik Ali’s hotel became notorious; Egyptian and foreigners alike, scientists, researchers, artists, craftsmen and writers came to congregate and enjoy the lively discussions that took place in the garden. At the center of this “drawing room” sat Sheik Ali, an enthusiastic, energetic storyteller who enjoyed nothing more than to idle away the hours with his guests.

As we sit in the shaded garden, we learn that there is a team of archeologists staying here now. They left hours ago to begin their fieldwork. Soon, it will be too hot to dig. And soon, it will also be too hot to walk and explore our surroundings, if we while away too many hours beneath these trees.

As we exit the confines of El Marsam, we say goodbye to the soothing coolness of its garden. The sun beats down on us, even though winter is officially one week away. Immediately to our right is the newly opened 19^th Dynasty temple of Merenptah (1212-1202 B.C). We follow the main asphalted road in the direction of the Valley of the Kings. Soon we come upon a cluster of ramshackle mud-brick dwellings on the rocky hillside – the old village of Qurna, built above the Tombs of the Nobles; beneath their homes are literally hundreds of tombs dating back thousands of years. A young girl appears, seemingly out of nowhere, quizzing us about our nationality, skipping effortlessly from one language to the next. She speaks “Tourist” extremely well; we settle on Italian. Fatma’s dark eyes, outlined in khol, are set in a face, perfectly bronzed. Several locks of her ebony-black hair escape from beneath her red kerchief. She looks like a gypsy. Rather than beg for baksheesh, Fatma is determined to earn her coins and offers me crudely crafted dolls, carvings, a tour, any service! We clamber over the rocks together passing hovels where women carry out their daily chores above and so close to where the ancients sleep. We pass men, bent over limestone blocks, chipping away, carving the familiar images of Horus, Isis, and Hatshepsut. Every family member is engaged in hustling the wary tourist, offering carvings and fragments, tours and cold drinks. The smallest of children leap from behind rocks to hawk small dolls or to beg baksheesh or ballpoint pens. We lose interest in seeing the interior of the tombs when we learn we should have bought our tickets at the Antiquities Office now some distance away; so we work our way back down the slope, trying our best to ward off the pestering hustlers, young and old alike.

We have surely been part of a scene that has changed little over the centuries. I try to picture our Sheik Ali, renowned owner of El Marsam, as a boy, playing and hustling among these tombs much like the children of this new millennium. He would often tell the stories himself, much repeated to this day, of how he was among the young laborers who witnessed the discovery of Tutankhamun’s tomb by Carter on November 4, 1922. A young water boy, a cousin, attempting to set the base of his rounded water jug in the sand, struck something hard. It was a lintel of limestone. The rest is history.

I think of Sheik Ali and his family that have lived in these hills for generations. There are many varying stories about the Abdou El Rasoul family and how in 1871 they had come across the location of a secret tomb. Wanting the treasure for themselves, the family told no one of their discovery. The gradual appearance of the royal artifacts on the market eventually gave away their secret. Ten years passed before one family member finally caved into the pressure exerted by the authorities. When the Department of Antiquities and the Police were finally led to the tomb, they were speechless – hidden in a deep shaft was a cache of 40 mummies, the great Pharaohs of the New Kingdom. Apparently, around the year 1000 B.C., earlier tomb robbers, some say, priests, removed these kings and queens from their original burial chambers and hid them in order to keep them safe. From other tomb robbers?

But how timeless Egypt is! We soon pass a large temple complex on our right where excavations are being carried out, looking very much as if an old sepia-tone photograph has come to life. Teams of workmen are hauling buckets of sand away from the dig. Back and forth they trek, with loads hoisted on one shoulder, heads wrapped in turbans and their gallabeyyas dragging in the dirt. If this were eighty years ago, Sheik Ali would have been among them.

Sheik Ali passed away in 1987. Today, his son Saiid runs the hotel, hosting many archeological missions, season after season. Natasha introduces us to Saiid and tells him that our home/B&B is also called El Marsam.

“Why did you name your hotel after ours?” he asks me.

“Honestly, I didn’t. I just learned of your existence. I’m an artist and that is why I have called my home El Marsam,” I add, offering him the short version of our history.

“My El Marsam is old,” he tells me.

“So is mine; my house is 400 years old,” I respond with a fair amount of pride.

“Mine is 4000,” he grins, as his arm makes an expansive sweep of the land and the history that surrounds us.

“You win!” I quip as we shake hands.

We wish each other well and Saiid departs to take care of business, leaving Mike and me to our idleness. We lull away many more hours in the garden. Using the cushioned bench as my recliner, I look up into the branches of the tall date palm overhead. It fronds slice the sky into intense blue ribbons. A bougainvillea, the color of tangerines, grows over the earthen wall where I later sit enjoying the sun’s rays on my face and shoulders. Fields of bersiim, carpets of emerald green clover, cover the fertile soil. The Colossi of Memnon stand guard in the hazy distance. I feel so at home. Could this moment be any more perfect? I don’t think so. But these moments are no doubt what bind us, my El Marsam cousin and me. I am so pleased that we have met.