Egyptian Bric-à-brac

My first trip to a non-European country and how my efforts to find a 'worthy' souvenir could have led to big trouble

Exporting genuine ancient artefacts from Egypt is illegal. Selling fake antiquities as authentic is also illegal but most visitors to Egypt’s historical highlights will be offered such wares several times a day, the difference between the two is a rather hazy question of scale. Either way, involvement could lead to a stay in an unpleasant prison. Even for prison.

Cairo is Egypt’s largest and most populated city. It is quite probably also the noisiest, and depending on the season the hottest, dustiest, and occasionally the smelliest. Multiple lanes of continually honking traffic fill every available ribbon of tarmac, creating a haze of noxious exhaust. In grubby, narrow side-streets, traders beneath shaded awnings display their wares to passers-by more intent on threading their way through children, dogs and donkeys. The combined oppressiveness of traffic, commerce and humanity are mercifully relieved by the comparatively open spaces that are required for crossroads, squares and roundabouts. Around many of these oases stand once elegant European style buildings. Their grand colonial porticos and intimidating entrance halls now provide a crumbling backdrop to mini-supermarkets, cafes, shoe shops and car dealerships.

All this is heavily overlaid by the legacy of the Pharaohs; statues, billboards, gift shops and excursion touts, all promoting the glories of Egypt’s ancient past and the proximity of the Giza pyramids. The lifeblood of the modern tourist trade.

My first visit to Cairo was with an overland ‘adventure’ holiday company. I quickly learned that for me at least, the adventure part started only when I managed to slip the leash and experience some of the highs and lows of the lone traveller. But the trip was nearly over. We had toured the tour and were back in Cairo with just one day of ‘free time’ before the flight home. Many of our group had witnessed as much of Egyptian life as they wanted and elected to spend that last day at the hotel within reach of the rooftop pool and a supply of chilled drinks. I seized the opportunity of some unescorted time in the city. I wandered in the general direction of the Egyptian Museum, an undoubted highlight, but one which we had already visited so I wasn’t too bothered whether I actually found it again or not.

Whenever first encountering a foreign city I still find the greatest pleasure in aimless drifting. I can travel with a rarely consulted map in my pocket in the knowledge that it’s pretty much impossible to get hopelessly lost in a modern city. That excludes labyrinthine souks and ancient catacombs as I have been lost in both. On well-paved city streets or muddy rural tracks I enjoy relying on my sense of direction. I revel in that moment when a rounded corner reveals that previously seen landmark which knits several locations together and completes part of my mental map.

My Cairo meander takes me through main streets, narrow alleyways, noisy markets and bazaars. I pass astonishingly elaborate mosques and abandoned side streets choked with the garbage. I photograph anything and everything. I dodge frenetic traffic and I remember to step over puddles as it rarely rains in Egypt. Eventually, the sweltering press of the buildings opens out onto the equally hot and chaotic Tahrir Square. A sprawling transport hub whose many parked buses and coaches run their engines to maintain the levels of heat and pollution for which the square is justly famous. I make for some concrete stairs and climb to an elevated walkway to photograph the sweep of the square. I am amazed that the Egyptian Museum looks so out of place, our group tour had mini bused us right to the door but now I see how much the elegant neoclassical facade stands apart from its decidedly tawdry Tahrir Square neighbours.

I leave the walkway and cross the square. I don’t intend spending much time in the museum, just a breeze around to take a few photos. The entrance of the building is fronted by a patchy grass and gravel area that had been ‘planted’ with assorted ancient sculptures in the manner of headstones in a country churchyard. In the years since this area has been tidied up to provide extra vehicle parking but I write of the leisurely days before the crowds and ticket prices were on the increase.

The museum’s century-old interior is cool but strangely airless, high-ceilinged fans slowly stir the dust which floats in beams of harsh sunlight that cut down from high windows. I have my ticket and stride purposefully through a group of self-appointed guides. Generally unqualified, these locals have learned the ‘tour’ from predecessors and are quite capable of knowledgeably steering tourists through the most famous exhibits, although they often cast envious eyes toward their better-qualified comrades who have landed official jobs with a tour company. These far better paid ‘leaders’ carefully shepherd large groups, usually cruise ship passengers, on a whirlwind tour of the museum, pyramids, souk, food and belly dancing. But the museum loiterers know their place, they hover in wait for lone or paired travellers who look ready to be dazzled by the weight of Egyptian history.

I dodge little knots of lounging guides. My determined stride giving the intended impression of a specific goal from which I should not be detained. A lone voice calls after me, “Welcome in Egypt...” but fades when I don’t turn. Maybe it was sarcasm. I scoot up a short run of steps and into the stunning grand hall, a large galleried space that stages a   charming mix of historically important statuary and glass display cases that are simply old-fashioned. As might be expected there is an abundance of painted, inscribed and sculpted ancient Egyptian signs and symbols. I had made an effort before leaving home to learn some of these but once faced with the ‘real thing’ I found that ancients rated decorative symmetry over legibility. The actual written work differed so much from the printed examples in my Egyptian hieroglyphic textbooks that I had quickly decided to simply enjoy the designs and then study my photographs when I got home.

After maybe an hour among the exhibits I make my way back to the main entrance. A multilingual buzz increases in volume as I near the doors, the lobby space is thronged with at least three colliding tour groups. Not inclined to elbow my way through, I make for the next most convenient exit. It’s the one that goes through the museum gift shop.

I have no enthusiasm for shopping at the best of times and had deliberately avoided the gift shop on my first visit. Once inside I am hardly surprised to find a mesmerisingly awful display of pharaonic souvenirs. Hieroglyphs are everywhere, printed onto table mats, lampshades, mugs, aprons and foil wrapped moulded chocolate. A wall full of artfully lit shelves shows off poorly modelled, resin cast versions of the museum's greatest treasures. Assorted pharaohs accompanied by the pantheon of gods, in a choice of poses, sizes and sometimes colours. The show card reading ‘museum reproductions' is a wild exaggeration. Any resemblance to actual exhibits seemed so arbitrary as to be almost accidental.

I am unaccountably annoyed without really knowing why. Most international tourist spots are awash with tacky mass-produced keepsakes why should these be different? I hadn’t expected to be impressed but I am not even amused, even the irony of the sphinx snow globe fails to raise a smile. I can see nothing I want to buy but a challenge is looming, without any sensible explanation, I decide that I want a souvenir. An Egyptian themed item that would mark my first visit to a country that wasn’t comfortably European. Given the low-grade material I was surrounded by, I now think I was simply setting myself the problem of finding something ‘worthy’.

I sense movement and realise that my flicker of interest has been noted. A man glides along behind the counter and stops in front of me. He must be the manager, too old for a mere assistant. He would be tall if he weren’t so stooped, he wears in a plain off-white jalabiyyah and crocheted skullcap. His high cheek boned hatchet face, taut parchment-like skin and prominent front teeth remind me of an unwrapped mummified Pharaoh. He bobs his head slightly in greeting, then as if to dispel any thought of the long dead king breaks into a genuinely friendly and disarming smile. It’s difficult not to smile a little in return. He places his left hand against his chest and proclaims himself, "Hakim,” with a slight incline of the head, ‘if I can be of any assistance you only have to ask." He is still smiling as if amused by the effect that he knows his clipped confident English accent will have.

"Just looking around." I gesture foolishly at the contents of the shop.

"Please," He waves invitingly, "whatever you like. I will be here to help." I nod, turning away to give some keyrings an unnecessarily close examination. I remember to be wary of the ‘Cairo tactic’; an indigenous salesman takes advantage of the innate good manners of the average tourist by offering assistance to the point of obsequiousness. This in the knowledge that however repellent the average western European found this smarmy behaviour they felt compelled to reward it. I block the manoeuvre, "I really don't need any help, thank you", I just sound pompous.

Hakim responds with another slight incline of the head, "Of course.” I pick up a brassy looking pendant and examine the hieroglyph markings, he wasn’t going to leave me alone, “you are a student of Egyptology?" he asks.

“No. Tourist”

"But you appreciate the past? I understand that. We here have more of it than most."

I smile weakly and glance toward the door. I should have left as soon as conversation was attempted. He senses that I am considering escape. "So, how can I help?" he asks with something close to genuine sincerity.

I am starting to feel an obligation, eyeing the tourist souvenirs I explain, "I’d like to buy something... but something better."

Hakim lowers his eyebrows and scratches his chin, weighty matters are being considered. He wags an index finger in a ‘just-a-minute’ gesture and produces a small key. I am relieved not to have to explain further. He unlocks a cabinet behind the counter but then is suddenly distracted by the noisy entry of two elderly American women. The cabinet is forgotten, I am forgotten. Hakim turns the charm and all of his attention to the newcomers. And no wonder, in a space of just minutes the two women spend a substantial amount of money. They buy with such indiscriminate enthusiasm that Hakim’s gift wrapping can barely keep up. The women leave, entirely happy with three carrier bags full of almost randomly selected purchases. Hakim stands immobile a moment, then deadpan, “Cruise ship...”

When sure the women have gone he opens the cabinet, he lifts out a blue paper wrapped package and hands it to me. It’s heavy, I peel back the paper to reveal a lumpy resin figure of a cross-legged scribe with a papyrus roll across his knees. I look up and meet the smile with a frown. I shake my head with exaggerated sadness, "Not really what I was looking for..." I look helplessly around, "really nothing better?"

The man stares at the scribe figure for a moment, "I think you look for something old?" His eyes narrow and slide sideways toward the museum interior.

I shrug, "Better. But old would be nice…"

He comes out from behind the counter and looks carefully around the shop as if for the first time, "We have nothing old," he turns to the window that looks out over the square "such a purchase isn't possible here,", then adds furtively, "but outside...”

The ‘just-a-minute’ gesture is repeated. He returns to the counter, scoops up a stray piece of wrapping paper and spends a minute or two writing. He folds the paper and with a flourish, hands it to me. I open out the note, of which I can make nothing because unsurprisingly it is in Arabic. He goes back to the window. He squints out across the bright expanse of concrete and tarmac then beckons me. Indicating the note he says, "Take this," and moves his pointing finger "to the taxi's and give it to Tarek. He is the driver of the third vehicle from the front."

Hakim doesn’t so much smile as grin, there is definitely a difference. He assumes me to be an antiquities dealer and we both know that the export of genuinely ancient Egyptian objects is illegal. Had I been concerned by this, I could have just walked away. Being thought an outlaw was strangely satisfying but I was bothered by the involvement of a taxi.

As already mentioned, I have an aversion to taxi’s. It’s not a phobia, just a dislike. I am not comfortable buying something specific for an unspecified price. If at all possible I walk or use public transport. It might be less convenient, it might take longer and be hot, uncomfortable and crowded but I do know at the outset what it is going to cost! Mistakes can usually be rectified by relatively cheap rerouting and even this can be avoided in cities with rail-based trams because they are not going to veer off in some unwanted direction. If truly stuck, I will reluctantly take a taxi and then spend the whole journey mesmerised by the accumulating price on the meter and at the time of this visit, Egyptian taxi’s had no meters. So, I bulked at this suggestion. I shook my head, “No sorry not by taxi.” I move to return the folded note, “I don’t think so.”

He becomes more animated, “No. No is okay, fixed fare, flat rate.”

“But how much?” I ask.

“Twenty Egyptian pounds. Twenty pounds only. Flat rate...” even at the exchange rate of the time this was not expensive, but as an observer of local trading techniques I shake my head and grimace

"I don’t think so...” and offer the return of the note.

He takes it back and opens it out, “Ten Egyptian pounds. Flat rate. No more...” I nod slowly, I am agreeing and I don’t know why, a little adventure for a little money I suppose. He scribbles an addition to the note

“And he will know this?” I ask.

“Tarek,” Hakim reminds me, “Yes, yes...” He nods, refolds the note and hands it back to me. “The third driver.”

I look doubtful, as well as puzzled and probably suspicious. He looks pained at having to explain,

“The first two are not my cousins,” he says.

I wave to the note, “I hope the other drivers understand."

Hakim dismisses the idea with a flip of his hand, "They have their own cousins."

I nod my thanks and with what I hope is a wry smile I step out of the museum shop and back into the dusty city heat. From bus terminal to the taxi rank, Tahrir Square is a bleached concrete space that gathers the hammering sun and reflects back as an aching glare. I use sunglasses to see across to the Taxi rank. The driver of the third car is lounging against his vehicle but suddenly looks more alert as I start across the square. Plainly I am not the first to leave the museum shop with a note.

The walk gives me time to think. I know that both the sale and purchase of genuinely ancient Egyptian artefacts is illegal. And here I am a participant in either a criminal enterprise or, and I still think this likely, a retail pantomime. Egypt is a poor country, its ancient art and architecture are among its few assets and to export them illegally is plainly wrong, plus I have no desire for a stay in an Egyptian prison. Was I in any real jeopardy? No, I decided that this was a game, a piece of theatre that provided Tarek with a taxi fare and Hakim with a percentage on an ‘antique’ sale. How else could I have gained such easy access to this ‘cloak and dagger’ trade? There had been no suspicion of my being a policeman or an investigator. Hakim had been forthcoming, even forceful. He had volunteered names, although these were probably false since everyone I had encountered in Egypt thus far had unfailingly been Ahmed or Mohamed. The idea that a syndicate of illegal antiquities dealers might have an agent in the museum gift shop was too theatrical to be believable.

Tarek, now sure I was heading his way raised a hand in subtle greeting. As I approach, I briefly remind myself that I am no antiquities expert, how am I going to be able to tell the past from the plaster. I dismiss the notion, firstly I convince myself that nothing will be authentic and secondly I know that many historic Egyptian items are difficult to date precisely. Egypt has been a tourist destination since ancient Greek ‘travel’ writer Herodotus extolled its virtues in the fourth century BC. Where there are visitors there is a souvenir market and enterprising local craftsmen quickly developed methods to fulfil the growing demand for ‘antiquities’. Separating genuinely ancient ‘bogus’ artefacts from more recently made illegitimate items can be very tricky indeed. I doubted that this view would cut much ice if I were caught leaving the country with something historic-looking in my luggage, but it was a comfort to me.

I crossed the square so as to arrive at the taxi rank broadside, reaching the third taxi without passing the first two. Tarek stepped forward, chubby in his twenties and t-shirt and jeans. He nodded silently and rather solemnly. I handed him the note, he looked at it and nodded some more. Then he grinned and offered a formal hand “I am Tarek,” he said while turning to open the rear door of the taxi, “welcome in Egypt.” He said sweeping a hand toward the interior of the car as if it represented the entire country.

It does resemble the desert regions, it is like an oven. I should mention that I am a gangly six foot two and avoid folding myself into often cramped rear car seats. I step around Tarak and get in on the front passenger side. My seat is so hot that its transparent plastic cover is slightly sticky. I sit carefully, concerned that some fly-paper effect will prevent further movement. I adjust my seat backward as Tarek throws himself in on the driver's side while shouting to the two older drivers in the rank. I wonder in what kind of family structure old Hakim could be a cousin to young Tarek, maybe ‘cousin’ was just a generic term for a family relation. My driver honks the car horn, turns on the ignition, he edges out into traffic and honks again.

All of the vehicle windows are open and our forward motion generates quite pleasant wafts of comparatively cool traffic fumes. “Where from?” Asks Tarek and I tell him, “what name?” he asks and I tell him. That seems to exhaust the conversational possibilities and I stare out of the window hoping there won't be any misunderstanding about the fare.

After about twenty minutes of honking mayhem, we pull off a busy main route and drive uphill through a quiet side street. The air is decidedly cleaner and mercifully quieter. Over the hill, we level out and enter a narrow road running through a steep-sided sandy coloured cutting. As the road rises or the embankment dips it is possible to see that we are driving through a cemetery. On either side, the landscape is dense with graves, tombs and mausoleums, a mix of white, off-white and sombre earthy tones. Between these structures, a remarkably large number of people walk with packs or cans of water, some are selling fruit, riding bicycles or even playing football. Washing hangs on lines strung between the headstones.

“Stiffs” explains Tarek. I gaze and he repeats, “Stiffs”.

I nod that I understand but Tarek thinks further illustration is needed. He leans as far back as his seat will allow, takes his hands off the wheel and crosses his arms over his chest. "Stiffs," he says again and smiles broadly. The car lurches forward as his outstretched feet put extra pressure on the accelerator.

“Yes, yes.” I nod enthusiastically that I knew what he is talking about. Tarek relaxes for a moment, we return to our previous speed, then an idea occurs to him, he adopts his corpse like position and waves an arm expansively to the left, “Christian stiffs”.

“Ahh..” I say seriously agitated and hoping that we will soon return to hands on the steering wheel and foot off the gas. Still leaning back Tarek waves an arm toward the right, “Muslim stiffs” he cries, plainly trying to convey equality.

“Yeah. I geddit, I geddit!” Tarek returns to his driving position with a broad grin, my rising panic amuses him. I give what I imagine is a frosty smile and we continue in silence but of a more companionable sort. Once off the cemetery road, we drive through a scruffy collection of single-story buildings, possibly commercial storage or maybe people’s homes. Beyond stands an incongruous group of tallish redbrick buildings, they look like old style tenements. We slow and Tarek steers us onto the dusty roadside pathway.

I climb out, the heat outside of the car is marginally more tolerable than inside. Tarek tilts his head toward the nearest ‘tenement’ and leads me toward a space between two of the redbrick buildings. Although the shade is welcome I start to feel uneasy. It is very quiet, there are no people about, no children playing, no barking dogs. No witnesses! I am walking into a garbage-strewn alley at the bidding of a complete stranger who thinks I am a buyer of illegal antiquities. And since such deals are not settled with credit cards so he must think I am carrying a substantial amount of cash.

Tarek, indicates that I should keep up, he picks his way through some accumulated rubbish and we step into a doorway. Dark inside, if I am to be mugged this is where it will happen, I cautiously follow Tarek up a flight of steps, trying to look ‘formidable’ and able to look after myself.

He stops at a front door and stabs his thumb at a bell push. The door is immediately opened by a middle-aged Egyptian man whose buttoned-up-to-the-chin white shirt is framed by the jacket of a rather heavy looking brown suit. We are expected and he steps back and ushers us in, I hesitate, Tarek sweeps a hand toward the interior. I obey, all the while thinking this may be the daftest and possibly the last thing I will ever do.

The room is disarmingly cheerful, bright and clean looking with several armchairs and a table covered in a plastic cloth and piled with boxes. I assume Tarek’s friend to be an antiquities dealer, he looks uncomfortably hot in his ridiculous brown suit and I wonder if he thinks it makes him look trustworthy. No introductions are made, there is a telephone fixed to the wall so I guess Hakim called while I was in transit. Tarek offers me a seat in a manner which suggests that his stake in this is more than that of a simple taxi driver.

“Coca-cola?” he asks, I shake my head. The balance between the two men is odd, Tarek seems to be in charge though I assume we are in the other man’s home or office. Once seated I am solemnly offered a shallow box like that in which a pizza might be delivered. Inside, on a white folded towel is an arrangement of about two dozen brown stones, some polished, some dull. They resemble chewed toffees but each is incised with a silver coloured wire pattern. It is an unstrung necklace, or more properly a pectoral, a broad collar of maybe tiger’s eye, each stone embedded with a silver hieroglyph. I examine a stone closely, then another, one has the looped hieroglyphic symbol known as a cartouche, an enclosure containing a royal name. The etched silver wire outlines the stylised baboon which I know represents the god, Toth. I am watched closely “Tuthmosis...," I say carelessly and glance at my observers whose lack of reaction either means that I am wrong or that they hadn't  recognised the pharaonic cartouche.  

I don’t know whether or not it is authentic, but I do know that I can’t afford it and either way it’s illegal. No doubt historically interesting and possibly even important the necklace is not what I would consider attractive. I shake my head and say that it isn’t for me. Brown suit leaves the room and Tarek takes the box from me and I move to get up, “No, no. Sit” Tarek is emphatic. Brown suit returns with a hessian sack marked with traces of white lettering. He upturns the bag and empties out a number of feet, human feet, so dry they clatter like logs onto the floor. Nine dark brown bundles of leather and bone, some with thick yellow toenails. All look to have been pulled apart at the ankle joint rather than cut or sawn. The suited man scoops one up and presents it as if to a customer in a shoe shop, “Ancient, ancient” he says.

“Yes. Yes, I am sure...” I stand and back away. The feet may be ancient but they could equally have just been scavaged from the cemetery I had been driven through. I have no difficulty in refusing to even touch the proffered foot. I protest. I look to Tarek, his taxi-driving sensibilities register my discomfort and he moves toward the door. I nod vigorously that we should leave, he opens the door and I swiftly join him. Over my shoulder I mumble apologies to the very puzzled brown suited man who standing among his macabre display.

Back in the street Tarek is all concern, “You didn’t like?” he asks.

“NO! I don’t want to buy feet.” I am trying to avoid any discussion about the stones. I look sternly at Tarek, “Stiff’s feet?” I ask in a dramatically questioning tone. Tarek’s suddenly childish face is clouded with disappointment and I can't help lifting the moment with a grin.

He is delighted that I am not really upset, he also grins then laughs, “Stiff’s feet” he repeats crossing his arms over his chest.

His amusement is cut short when I indicate the taxi and say “Museum”, I had had enough but sensed that Tarek was not going to be beaten. 

“Come, come.” He says marching toward his taxi.

“The museum?” I repeat hopefully.

“No. No. Better.” Comes the reply.

“No, not better please, I don't have the money," I admit. Gesturing toward the redbrick building, “I can’t buy these things...I don’t have the money” But I get the impression that the game is not over.

Tarek opens the taxi door for me, “Better, cheaper...” he says several times implying that brown suit was neither and making me wonder why I was ever taken to him. I am suffering from the heat and am no longer enjoying the subterfuge. I collapse into my sticky seat and we are off, heading back toward the polluted heat haze which rises from the city centre. After a swift and mercifully uneventful drive Tarek parks on a rather busy corner, “Here.” He states and we get out onto the pavement, I look around and with some satisfaction recognise one of the very streets I had wandered along that morning, my confidence is restored by simply knowing where I am, and where the hotel is. I have an escape route.

Tarek leads the way to a tacky gift shop, its exterior festooned with racks of postcards and its window jammed with faux ancient designs printed on papyrus, tea towels and pharaonic ashtrays. I am immediately wary, I wouldn’t cross the street to look at such a place. While it must almost certainly be cheaper, I thought it unlikely to be better. We enter, Tarek showing more enthusiasm than I.  

After an exchange of the customary Arabic greetings, I am presented to the two men working in the shop as someone who wants to buy. The elder of the two steps out from behind the counter, he wears a t-shirt and jeans with a skullcap in multi-colour stripes. He shakes my hand while uttering the obligatory “Welcome in Egypt,” and nodding encouragingly. He steps toward a dusty floor to ceiling drape and after looking around in a conspiratorial manner beckons me as the textile is swept aside to reveal upward wooden stairs. An old bakelite switch is flicked bathing the stairs in electric light, and the proprietor sweeps a hand in an unmistakable invitation to take the stairs. I look back at Tarek, who is thoroughly relaxed in the company of these two men, much more so than with brown suit, I suspect more cousins. Tarek too indicates that I should take the stairs. Having come to no harm so far, I stoop under the drape and start up the stairs. Each tread is of plain wood, many are split, some of them creak and every footfall raises a cloud of disturbed dust.

At the top is an empty doorframe, the door is missing, the proprietor calls from the bottom of the stairs, “open light” and mimes flicking a light switch. I find another old bakelite item and turn it on. Suddenly illuminated is a large attic space lined by rough-hewn support timbers, beneath are a series of trestle table loaded with all kinds of artefacts. I look back down at the proprietor, give him a thumbs up and enter the space.

That most portentous Egyptological phrase “wonderful things” springs to mind as I gaze at this wealth of bits and pieces. Ancient gods in all sizes and materials, some looking like metal that would sparkle if polished while others, in stone or pottery, stare out from cold dead eyes. There are ornamental pottery jars, ushabti figures and ugly shapes wrapped in linen and probably best left that way, there are fragments of stone bearing carved or painted figures of hieroglyphs. On closer inspection the dust with coats almost everything is that produced when ancient papyrus crumbles but no large large pieces are to be seen. Many items are damaged in some way, twisted or just broken but this doesn’t detract from the wonder of it all. I hesitate to describe this collection as antiquities because a) it would seem unlikely that so many genuinely ancient objects be assembled outside of a museum or other official collection and b) even my relatively untutored eye can see tourist junk mixed into the array before me.

I begin to sift through this dusty world, I move from one table to the next in a systematic fashion, at first just looking at the spread of objects, occasionally picking something up in my increasingly dirty hands. I am not so naïve as to think I am the only buyer who has sifted through this treasure trove but I am excited by the lack of evidence of anyone having done so recently. Then amid an assortment of wooden kitchen tools I find a carved wooden figure that I recognise. In the Cario museum is a gilded figure of Tutankhamun, it is about a foot tall and stands on a boat with a spear in one hand and a loop of rope in the other. I turn the figure in my hands, it is made from some dark wood, it has no gold leaf, it has a head, torso and legs with peg holes at the ankles and shoulders showed where the feet and arms may once have fitted. It wears a slightly truncated version of the crown of Upper Egypt and a traditional kilt. It is nicely made with pleasant facial features and well proportioned, it appears hand made by a craftsman, if not an artist. Common sense is telling me that this must be tourist ware but it does fall into the category of ‘better’ which is what I wanted.

I descend the stairs with the figure, the two men are behind the counter but there are still no other customers. I look around and ask “Tarek?”, the younger guy shrinks back into the shadows, reluctant to engage but Stripy Cap indicates that Tarek had to leave, he points at an imaginary wristwatch and then at a wall clock. I am amazed to see that I have been rooting around upstairs for over an hour. “I owe him money...” with a few words and some gestures Stripy conveys that I should give him Tarek’s money. An odd arrangement but then so is the driver leaving without saying anything.

Stripy takes the wooden figure from me, “Not antique,” he says, “for visitors, the Valley of the Kings, 1925, 1926..?” I nod that I understand. The Tutankhamun tomb was discovered in 1922 and it prompted a flood of sightseers. I liked that he said visitors rather than tourists, at that time such travels were only for the very wealthy and were accompanied by all the comforts of home. It was a notion which made the figure more attractive to me.

“How much?” I ask.

Unsurprisingly Stripy suddenly looks serious. He stares into space for a moment gauging how much I might be prepared to pay. “Tarek, ten…” he says firmly, I nod as that is already agreed. He makes a giving and taking gesture with the wooden figure illustrating how easily it could be mine and says, "Fifty".

I look at him in disbelief. I reach into a pocket in which I have one ten and one twenty-pound note, another pocket has two twenty-pound notes but it does weaken a bargaining position to let a seller know how much they might achieve.

I offer the ten, "Tarek," I say. Stripy is reluctant, he would rather keep his sale tied to the taxi fare. He lifts the figure and says flatly “Forty’ I offer the ten again, repeating “Tarek”. Stripy reluctantly reaches for the note, he can see his sale disappearing. Inexplicably he hands the note to his assistant in the shadows who pockets it.

I point at the figure and offer the other note, “Twenty” I say with all the finality I can muster.

Stripy shakes his head sadly, "Thirty" he counters. Now I shake my head sadly and turn to leave. “No, no. Mister. What you want to pay?” the question is rhetorical, just a way of continuing the game.

I reoffer the twenty, with a ‘that’s it’ gesture. Stripy looks distinctly displeased but slowly nods. I hand over the money and suddenly he is all smiles, the figure is handed to the assistant who wraps it. Both men appear so cheerful that I am sure I have paid more than they could have hoped, but it was pretty much what I wanted to spend and what I wanted to buy so it was okay with me. Once outside, and satisfied that my wooden figure has not been switched for a wrapped bundle of firewood, I walk in quiet triumph back toward the hotel.

The figure has since had a nice base made for it and stands on my bookcase. A reminder of that first trip out of Europe and a brush with the illegal antiquities trade. Maybe...

 

 

 

    

 

 

Reviews

[emmajoy]

Whilst this is a very long piece of writing, it deserves careful reading but, by the final word, the reviewer will have learned so much plus, should be really impressed by both content and style. Certainly, your second paragraph really sets the scene! ' You very gently guide eyes and mind through the tale and surely for the most, the truth of how things can be. The characters - specifically Tarek - perhaps, are recognisable even in more western clothes! There are too many detailed descriptions to mention but you've laid them out like a superb adventure story and come-gently put journalistic report. This really has grammatically fine words and more than good style It's a gripping tale, shared over my shoulder by my brother, Jack. who like me, has visited Egypt and wandered the museum in Cairo!

[Re-Pete]

a very nice educational adventure. interesting,well written and told. i am fascinated with anything Egyptian and you do it justice. a bit long for my taste but it holds attention and flows nicely as you mix story-telling with observation, background and character dialogue. all-in-all very enjoyable. thanks to emmajoy for read requesting ... :)

[barleygirl]

The best part of your writing is how you are an astute observer of life & you translate this vividly into observations that are interesting & authentic. The construction of your writing is flawless as far as I could tell, with a well-organized path of storytelling, everything related & leading up to whatever comes next. My main drawback in the first half was how you used a style of humor that seems to denigrate other people becuz their way of doing things isn't up to your supposedly high standards. To me, this was not necessary. Your storytelling is captivating without putting people down for being idiots or dumbfucks. This just makes you look small & judgmental. About halfway thru, you stop doing this, which seemed to be mostly for laughs . . . & the second half, you appear to be so involved in telling the story, you drop the affectations & just tell the story (very well-told!) Thanks to Emmajoy for read requesting me on this piece (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie

[Allen George Duck]

Thanks for taking the time to review this piece. I am pleased that you seem to have (mostly!) enjoyed it. I have to say that it really isn’t in my nature to denigrate if you understood that to be my intention and were offended I apologise. This is an entirely accidental outcome and one which had never occurred to me. I do realise that it is not much of defence to say that I have set down true events as accurately as I remember them ( I did also have some notes to work from) because we all see the world through a lens of preconceived ideas – but I would like to repeat that I hope I do not hold such stilted views. Your point is taken and I will try and make sure that any new piece of travel writing doesn’t have elements that might be seen as judgemental or a put-down.

[barleygirl]

This is a remarkable response to my review, which had a big barb in it, & you make it easy to be honest about how things come across to me (((HUGS)))