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Reykjavik, Iceland: 4 - 7 Dec, 2009

Fri, 01 Jan 2010 14:41:44 GMT

Ice and snow aboveground and smoky fires underground - Iceland is full of wild, alien landscapes

The Land of Fire and Ice, isolated, wild, rugged. Located just south of the Arctic Circle, in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, Iceland welcomes us with ice on the roads and drizzling rain as we pull into Reykjavik. The darkness is velvet, the air is crisply cold. It is well past midnight by the time we get into our accommodation - we are given an entire house to ourselves, three bedrooms, a lounge area and a kitchen. The decor is cute, kitsch. A pair of old roller skates sit underneath a wooden dresser, blue and white china plates adorn the kitchen walls. There are wooden sculptures and old dolls displayed on shelves.

Inside Hallgrimskirkja; the church from the outside with the statue of Eirik Leifursen at the front

The next morning we are awake well before sunrise - at this time of year, the sun rises at 11am, and we troop over to the main hotel for breakfast. The hulk of Hallgrimskirkja, literally "Hallgrim's Church" sit across from our hotel. Completed in the 1940s, the structure is supposed to represent the basalt volcanic rock that forms the foundation of Iceland. The choir is practising for Christmas and we sit for awhile inside the stark grey hall. The sound reflects beautifully off the tall gothic arches and the austerness of the church suits Iceland to a T.

Our first full day in Reyk is spent exploring the town. Rugged up against the cold in layers, we wander in and out of the grey rain for most of the day. There is a starkness in Reyk, the town has the spirit of a frontier town, especially in the older parts where there are still original, tin clad wooden houses standing. The buildings are painted in different colours - red, black, blue with bright white window frames. Everywhere we go we see Advent candles lit.

A view of Reykjavik's heritage houses; Mount Esja, cloud touched and gold lit.

Our first stop is the viewpoint at Mount Esja, looming across the harbour. Later, as the sun sets and the clouds are blown away, the mountain is brushed in liquid gold and we revisit the view point in a different light. We eat in the very cool Cafe Paris, its walls decked with canvases of comic book heroes. We go shopping, but even with the kronur's devaluation, things in Reyk are still eye-wateringly expensive. It is raining again as we queue up at Baedaris Beztu for "pylsur" or hotdogs - delicious, hot mouthfuls of mystery meat encased in a soft white bun doused with remoulade, crunchy fried onions and tomato sauce. The boys have two, then three each.

The famous hotdog stall - Beadaris Beztu; chowing down on hotdogs in the drizzle

We spend awhile by the water, getting colder by the minute, then walk along the foreshore to "Sun Craft" a sculpture that evokes a Viking ship, or whale bones, both appropriate symbols of Reykjavik. The light is perfect, soft golds reflecting off the greyness of the water.

Contemplation in Reykjavik

There are tons of vintage shops in Reykjavik, beautifully appointed, lovingly decorated, more boutique than second-hand. There are also the less upmarket Salvation Army stores, filled with hip young 'uns and old mamas looking for bargains. Iceland goods are high quality, with matching price tags to match. Like the rest of Scandinavia, it is design that Iceland excels at, and we see examples of that famous, pared-down, sexy Scandinavian aesthetic everywhere, expressed and translated into clothes, jewellery, household items and furniture. I am on the hunt for a "lopi" or traditional Icelandic yoke knit top and I find one that has traditional design with modern colours - grey, red and white.

We eat well while in Reykjavik - lobster, perch, lamb. The produce is fresh and delicious, but the lamb was a stand out. Our first night we sit down at a table at the Lobster House and after, head on home. The bars open late in Reykjavik. Our crew is tired from the cold and a day of walking so we spend the night chilling out in our comfy little house instead.

The interior of the Lobster House; Outside Humarhusid, the Lobster House.

We are off to the Golden Circle tour the next day, and our first stop is at a geothermal plant. Clouds of steam billow out between the buildings and in the pre-dawn light the futuristic buildings and industrial fixtures look like they come from another planet. All of Iceland uses clean energy - everything is powered by the geothermal energy lying underneath the surface of the country. The entire place is, for all intents and purposes, a giant volcano.

The geothermal plant just outside of Reyk

There are three major attractions on the Golden Circle - Gulfoss waterfalls, Geysir and Thingvellir National Park. The waterfalls are smaller in winter, the edges are locked in ice, but standing far above on the viewing ledge, the powerful falls still send clouds of spray in our direction. It is freezing out in the wind and wet, and we feel the cold. The landscape is wide open. As the sun rises a strip of gold light lies on the horizon, illuminating a white-blue glacier far off in the distance. Even in winter, yellow sedge grasses dot the black lava fields.

The Icelandic landscape and a full moon; the double cataracts of Gulfoss; the trail leading to Gulfoss

We stop by Geysir, the geyser that gave its name to all other geysers around the world - the first real hot spring, as it were. Geysir is old now, and less active, so we are entertained instead by Strokkur, which reliably spits up hot steam and water every ten to fifteen minutes or so. The water bubbles just before it shoots up, giving us ample time to ready cameras and poses.

Strokkur, showing off.

As the sunsets, we explore Thingvellir, where the Icelandic parliament, the oldest continuing democracy in the world, used to meet in the early 11th century. The rivers cut across this broad plain, its paths locked in ice. Fir trees dot the ridges and a line of blue mountains mark the horizon. The light is purple and pink and soft blues as the sun goes down. The snow crowned moutains flare into gold for a brief moment and we watch as tiny human silhouettes are dwarfed by the age and scale of the landscape.

The many faces of Thingvellir National Park.

It's been a long day. Surprisingly it hasn't been as cold as we'd expected - the severe snow storms that occurred just a week before we got there had melted into grey snow or ice and there were glimpses of green vegetation around. We had come prepared and wore a thin, light thermal layer next to the skin, followed by two thin cotton tops, a cashmere and lastly a water proof down jacket. The others wore ski pants, which kept them both warm and dry - I layered two thermal leggings underneath regular jeans and wore thermal and wool socks with hiking boots, which seemed to work, though were not wind proof. Just getting dressed in the morning took a while.

Dinner was Laekjarbrekka, where the lobster soup was legendary. There was also Christmas buffet on offer, an Icelandic tradition. We sampled horse (yum), puffin (ew), and reindeer (yum) amongst other Icelandic delicacies. We didn't, however, try the hakarl, or rotted shark - culinary adventurers we were, but not culinary suicide bombers.

Beautifully done lamb, Laekjarbrekka

On our walk home to rest up before our Northern Lights tour, the streets of Reykjavik were lit up in festive colours. It was quiet, and the shop windows were locked down. Like many Scandinavian countries, Iceland goes into hibernation mode in winter, but come summer, when the country gets two hours of darkness at its maximum, the party never stops here.

The streets of Reyk; an old fashioned coffee shop

Aurora borealis, named after the goddess of the dawn and the north wind, are a natural phenomenon that occurs as a result of solar magnetic particles brushing agains the Earth's electromagnetic fields. They occur year long, and are more common when there has been high solar activity, like sun spots. Many friends who have been to Iceland didn't manage to see them - we felt lucky but weren't expecting much. We had an almost-full moon, which didn't help matters - auroras are clearest on dark, dark nights. Far off to our right we could also see the Peace sculpture, an installation by Yoko Ono, a simple, bright white light shining straight into the skies.

The Peace sculpture by Yoko Ono

It was cold out at the vantage point, and the field was filled with people and random flashes of light - photographing the lights are very very hard to do well. We waited for an hour and were just heading back into the warmth and comfort of the bus when we turned around and there, hanging just over our heads behind us - a ghostly trail of light. To the naked eye the aurora looked white, with a hint of green, but cameras see the Northern Lights much better than the human eye. It stayed and shimmered, then faded away before reappearing every now and again. Ours was a straight line in the sky - a plain, simple arc. Other shapes are clouds, or dancing lights, which move as the solar currents change direction. Green is the commonest colour, with red auroras found higher in the atmosphere.

Aurora Borealis, a simple arc of green across the sky

The last day in Iceland dawned with clear skies as we were speeding down the roads to the Blue Lagoon, another highlight of our trip. Born from the by product of the steam powered energy plants that dot Iceland, the warm waters of the lagoon are filled with silica and are algae rich, perfect for soaking and relaxing. The white mud at the bottom of the lagoon gives the waters their milky blue colour, and are perfect to use as a facial mask. We spend a few wonderful hours here, running around in 2 degree Celsius air taking photographs then plunging back into the warm, 40 degree pools, steam rising from our skin.

Inside the Blue Lagoon; with Denise at the entrance to the Lagoon

The surreal beauty of Iceland is everything that I was expecting, the relatively young age of this country, and the facts of its sheer existence are relentlessly fascinating, even to the non geologist. Iceland is a completely different and unique place to any I've ever been to, a fascinating, lose-yourself-in kind of place, filled with rugged beauty and the kind of soul-testing wildness that separates the men from the boys. The sky is tall here, and the mountains snow covered, the sea filled with steel. Hot steam billow out of fissures in the lava fields, pennants of clouds issuing from an underground of heat, fire and volcano hearts. Ice, snow, sky, sea, and fire come together to form a land of extraordinary beauty and spirit.

The Blue Lagoon

Christmas in London

Sun, 27 Dec 2009 12:31:02 GMT

It snowed in London for a few days and the bets were on for a white Christmas. Everywhere else in England got a good dousing of snow, but London stayed brilliantly clear on Christmas day itself. By then the snow and ice of the previous days had melted into sunshine and blue skies. Jeff and I spent Christmas Eve shopping for goodies at our local Waitrose which was packed to the rafters with desperate shoppers and screaming children. If there is a hell, Christmas Eve in a shop is probably it.

Our fridge well stocked, we settled in to wait for Christmas Day. Coffee and present opening first thing in the morning, followed by a hearty English breakfast. The day was so beautifully sunny and clear that we headed out for a walk to Victoria Park along Regent's Canal for a few hours. The main event, Christmas dinner, was comprised of cold meats, olives and brie to start, followed by roast chicken, potatoes and au gratin of broccoli which was as far away from healthy veggies as it could possibly be. In my experience, everything tastes better with bacon.

Boxing Day we eschewed the manic crowds of Oxford Street to shop in Canary Wharf instead. Our modest haul: three shirts for Jeff, one shirt for dad, tops for mum and my sisters, cufflinks, and a pair of boots. Later on in the evening we headed out for Warhorse, which was as touching and splendid as I remember it being from my first time watching it. We are heading off to Hyde Park for the Winter Wonderland theme park later, and then the Jack the Ripper walk - a quintessentially tourist London experience.

Happy holidays, everyone, wherever in the world you may be!

P.S.: No pictures of Christmas dinner, present opening or our walk along the canal - too lazy for pictures over the hols, but we'll bring a digicam out with us to Hyde Park later.

P.P.S.: Iceland travel post up soon-ish. Aberdeen and Istanbul in January!

Strike, and you're out

Tue, 15 Dec 2009 21:35:02 GMT

I'm currently following the news of the British Airways cabin crew strike with fervid, fervant attention. I have a vested interest in whether or not Unite, the union representing the majority of BA's cabin staff will actually go ahead with their actions. Nine out of ten of the 80% of cabin crew who met on Monday voted to strike for twelve days over the Christmas period. Insincere apologies and statements of deep regret issued from Unite spokespeople sound falsely, hollowly hypocritical. Such critical timing is meant to be effective against BA, but it is also vastly cynical and immensely selfish. If Unite was hoping to canvass public sympathy, they've gone about it the entirely wrong way.

"“We do not care if it is lawful or not. It is not acceptable to us,” Steve Turner, Unite’s national officer for aviation, said. “The only way we have to address unacceptable behaviour from a bad employer is to strike.”

Unless the staff on Unite are somehow caught in a time warp from the 1970s, I believe Mr Turner is highly mistaken. There are other ways to address unacceptable behaviour from a bad employer - negotiation, compromise and at the last resort, resignation. The skills that BA staff believe sets them apart could surely be put to use at other airlines - except that nobody else in the industry pays as well as British Airways. BA cabin crew earn more than their counterparts at Virgin Atlantic and although BA has had a turbulent year, cutting costs, implementing redundancies and asking their staff to go on part time salaries, industry insiders say that BA staff will still have 5-7% payrises to look forward to within the next few years.

A Cabin Steward Director - the steward or stewardess in charge of a particular flight and of overseeing other stewards - earns £56,000 a year. The job involves stress, dealing with unruly, loud, complaining customers, training for emergencies 40,000 feet above sea level, handling a few levers, smiling a lot, generous travel allowances, 90% staff discounts off flights, employee share plans and a nice tidy pension at the end of the day, which staggering deficit their "bad employer" is struggling to cover.

British Airways is not a guaranteed government hand out project. It is a commercial business that is struggling massively in the current global recession, news which does not appear to have reached union members. Unemployment rates have soared both here and across the pond. The airline and travel industry are facing lockdown as discretionary spending and consumer confidence plummet. The survival of the airline itself has been called into question and management's cost cutting exercises includes a 2 year pay freeze (note not cut!) - one of the issues of contention amongst cabin crew. Having worked the last two years in the finance industry and survived two rounds of redundancies as well as two 10% paycuts that came within six months of each other, to speak nothing of pay increases, my sympathies lie entirely with BA and not with Unite unionists.

Industry analysts say that all signs point towards the strike going ahead, despite BA's pleas for customers to sit tight and wait for announcements. By all accounts, some long haul flights may still be salvaged but such uncertain risk is no comfort to the one million passengers who are looking forward to going home for Christmas. When faced with an unacceptable airline, I have done what most of my peers would do - I have booked extortionately expensive alternate flights with a rival airline, and will never fly British Airways again. It must surely be bad business sense to hold the goose that lays the golden egg ransom - especially at Christmas. British Airways stock price has fallen 5p just today in response to the strike - again a move that can only harm the company, its shareholders and indirectly, their employees.

Currently the latest press releases indicate that BA is seeking a court injunction to delay the strikes. The legal team at BA are scouring the ballot process for flaws and indiscrepancies - if any are found Unite may have to declare the ballot void and organise another, which will cost them money and buy Willie Walsh, BA's CEO, a little precious time.

As a commentator in the Evening Standard noted, "cabin staff do not, of course have to like the cost cutting plans that BA is trying to impose on them, but elsewhere in the private sector, other works have had to accept similar sacrifices to keep their jobs. Unite cabin crew demonstrate an extraordinary absence of intelligent self-interest in voting for the strike." Walsh does not look like he will back down and as a non-benefit-getting, high-income-bracket taxpayer who already owns shares in HBOS and RBS (whose boards recently paid upper management staggering bonuses), I have neither interest nor desire in bailing out an airline whose staff seems to believe they are something special.

Overheard on the radio this morning and noted in the comments section of an article on the Guardian:

"I heard a BA cabin crew memebr on 5live this morning - livid she was at the scurrilous rumour that they get 3 nights in a 5 star hotel when they travel to Saudi - it's only one night apparently.

Another poor sould named Robbie phoned up to say how bad management were. When asked by another caller why he just didn't leave if it was so bad, he replied that 'the package he got @ BA was the best in the industry'. That's alright then Robbie - it's probably best to stay and go on strike.

Turkeys voting for Xmas."

Perhaps after the strike goes ahead , after British Airways loses another £200m on the top of their already crippling £400m loss in this year, after loyal customers defect to rival competitors permanently, after British Airways collapses under the socialist weight of inefficiencies, after the entire institution files for bankruptcy and the pilots, janitors, engineers and other staff who rely on BA for a living has also lost their jobs and everyone at BA has no pension or retirement fund to speak of, the cabin crew of Unite can pump their fists jubilantly in the air to prove their triumphant point about power of the people. And after the dust has settled the unionists can then go back to utilising their special skills serving drinks at a dinky bar for a living.

The closest exits are to your right and left in the rear of the cabin, Unite.

Q&A - If you're a British Airways passenger here's what you can do

Petra, Jordan: 6th Nov, 2009

Wed, 09 Dec 2009 21:41:42 GMT

Petra, that fabled land immortalised in Burgon's poem, was not included in the plan when I first got to Egypt, but given the chance for a daytrip there to see that ancient wonder, I felt like I couldn't pass it up. So at the devillish hour of 4am, we piled into a mini bus that threaded its way across the mountains from Dahab to Taba, the port that overlooks the joining of three lands - Jordan, Israel and Egypt. It is an old land that we pass, touched by ancient civilisations, modern wars. It is in these desert plains that Moses wandered with the Chosen exiles for forty years, here in this sun-touched sands that dreams and dust comingled, here where lives have been tangled and mangled for more conflicted years than we like to remember.

Leaving Egypt, heading towards Jordan

We board a tiny boat that tosses and turns with the waves, sailing across the Gulf of Aqaba on a blue sunny day. On arrival at Aqaba, we are met by our tour guide and drive off north towards the fabled rose red city, through the precarious town of Wadi Musa, perched on the cliffside. It is Friday and noon prayers are just over as we arrive. The streets are thronged with men heading to the mosque.

Houses and tombs carved into the rock

Petra is an abandoned city with its complement of houses, an amphiteatre, a complex and complete water system of canals, markets and shops. But the most fabulous facades belong to the tombs. As we wend and wander our way towards the city through towering massifs lined in stripes of red, scarlet, grey and pink, the sky is a tiny sliver of blue far above us.

The famous Khazneh, so named because treasures were thought to have been hidden here.
One of the Indiana Jones movies was partially shot here.

The famous view of Petra is through a gap in these sandstone cliffs, the fabled first view of the Khazneh, or Treasury. There is evidence of the cultures in ascendent and also of the declining powers of the times. Petra was built in the 1st century, and there are echoes of the ancient Egyptians in pyramid shapes, of the Grecian empire in the doric columns, and of Rome in the classical statues of gods and goddesses that line the pediment. The city was an important trading stop for the caravans that plied the route between East and West, but it fell into decline after its position was usurped by sea trading ports. It gradually fell out of renown and after the last of its inhabitants left, the desert sands obscured it for hundreds of years. It was only in the 18th century that Petra was once again rediscovered by the West.

We wander around the sandy, main street of the city. Nabatean tombs are carved into the hillsides, each stepped pyramid on the pediments representing a person buried therein. There are brick remnants of houses that once stood here, all that is left after earthquakes that destroyed a major part of the city. These days camels and madly speeding horse carriages ply the route from the entrance to the Khazneh and we tramp over sand and stone to get to the Monastery, sitting 900m above the city on a hill.

Animal portraits

Petra feels alive still, thrumming with the energy of the people who visit to ooh and aah over its carvings, over the mysterious buildings hewn into rose red rock. The colours are soft and dramatic, ranging in shades from creamy gold to clear silver to ochre, scarlet, carmine, rose, dusky pink and back again. We spot some donkeys, decked out in bells and whistles. The camels glance at us with lofty expressions, their great splayed feet kicking up dust as they trot along at a breakneck pace. Petra is a surreal city, a place that time forgot.

It seems no work of Man's creative hand,
By labor wrought as wavering fancy planned;
But from the rock as if by magic grown,
Eternal, silent, beautiful, alone!
Not virgin-white like that old Doric shrine,
Where erst Athena held her rites divine;
Not saintly-grey, like many a minster fane,
That crowns the hill and consecrates the plain;
But rose-red as if the blush of dawn,
That first beheld them were not yet withdrawn;
The hues of youth upon a brow of woe,
Which Man deemed old two thousand years ago.
Match me such marvel save in Eastern clime,
A rose-red city half as old as time.

The city of Petra

Cairo & Dahab, Egypt: 1 - 5 Nov, 2009

Mon, 30 Nov 2009 21:54:49 GMT

We spend a day in Cairo before we head into the Sinai Peninsula. We pass by the great Al Azhar mosque, one of the oldest centres of learning in the world, dropping in for a quick look. Women visitors must not be wearing trousers and must keep their head covered. No shoes are allowed inside the marble courtyard and dim prayer area. We then head to the Khan El Khalili, a sprawling souk or bazaar in the heart of Old Cairo. It is a Sunday when we go, so many of the shops, especially the jewellers in the famed Street of Jewellers, are closed. However there are still many shops open and the atmosphere is jovial. In Cairo, as in the rest of Egypt, touts and hasslers are the norm. The best way of dealing with it is with an Oriental kind of laissez faire. Let their wolf whistles, pleas and cajoling wash right over you, ignore them, smile always and be polite - it is what the locals would do. Liyana and I are there in the Khan for one purpose and one only - to purchase some kakaday, the ruby red hibiscus tea drunk in cafes everywhere in Egypt.

In the streets of the Khan El Khalili; Inside Al Azhar mosque

We find a spice shop manned by a calm, smiling older man. He speaks not a word of English, but his neighbour, a younger man selling statues next door, comes in to translate for us. We greet him with the traditional salaam mulaykum, the Arabic for "peace be upon you" and he responds graciously. The smell of spices stain the air, his shop is filled to bursting with all kinds of produce. Kakaday petals, heaps of cinnamon sticks, and bright orange paprika sit in hemp sacks, stacked by the walls. There are two scales on the serving table, and behind, in hole-in-the-wall cabinets that line the entire back wall, traditional medicines wait to be dispensed. We pay for half a kilo of the blood red kakaday tea, and leave, clutching our spoils triumphantly.

Chilling out at El Fishawi

Determined not to give in to the blandishments and entreaties to "step into my store, many beautiful things to see", Liyana and I side step the many shops in the narrow lanes of the Muski and find El Fishawi, the old cafe of fame. It is a creaky, graceful establishment. The insides are decked out in dark woodwork. Lamps and coloured light bulbs provide illumination. Waiters in flowery blue uniforms serve the clientele, most of whom are tourists. It is a cafe that harks back to colonial times - I can see, too easily, writers, explorers and society ladies sipping Turkish coffee here. We set up at a table outside, on the sidewalk and order coffee, then settle in to watch the bustling, hustling life of the Khan around us.

A Tourist Police sits in a corner, resplendent in his whites, chatting to a French family. Shoe shine men dressed in dark gray robes and white turbans follow leather shoed men, hoping for custom. Young girls sell colourful scarves edged with bells and metal discs; young men hawk watches, cds, cheap jewellery. All around us, Cairo is bursting with life, light and sound. Later, after we've had our fill of coffee, Liyana and I head to one of the many hotels that line the banks of the Nile. On the terrace, we order breads, dips, a mixed grill and later, after dinner is over, an apple flavoured shisha. We watch the feluccas, ferries and cruise boats ply the dark river as the neon lights of modern Cairo light up around us.

Smoking apple flavoured shisha pipes by the sea; dive centre in Dahab

The next morning we are off to Dahab, a laidback, charming town on the Gulf of Aqaba. The journey takes eight hours on a bus that hurtles along dark grey ribbons of straight tarmac, plowing through dust whirls and a desolate landscape of rock and sand. We pass the Suez Canal and numerous checkpoints along the way. The Sinai has long been an area of contention and in the wake of the Israeli settlement and subsequent desertion of the area, the Egyptian military has no presence here, although the local police man the regular checkpoints.

At the blue hole, Dahab

It is a relief to leave the early wake up calls behind. Liyana and I spend the next four days in Dahab alternating diving, snorkelling, eating fresh seafood, soaking up sunshine and reading on deckchairs, smoking shisha and watching the full moon rise over the water. The lights of Saudi Arabia glitter at us from across the gulf at night, and the mountains glow purplish-rose in the setting sun.

Dinner at Nemo Restaurant, Dahab; By the light of a full moon

The best dive was at the Blue Hole. I’d snorkeled at the site the day before, but being 20m underwater with the expanse of ocean surrounding me, with only the sheer face of the reef for orientation was a calming, humbling, fabulous experience. The big blue beckoned.

There is a richness of the tropical fish one expects from coral reefs, but the colours here are less bright compared to equatorial waters. We saw lionfish, stonefish and on one dive, a giant eel hiding in his hollow rock. I like the lifestyle here, I don’t ever want to leave. Dahab’s quiet charms snake around my soul and there is a peace here, underneath blue skies and by dark waters.

Excerpt from my travel diary:

November 5th, 2009, apx 4:30pm

"Riding back to Dahab from the Blue Hole in the back of a pick up truck, hair a mess, oxygen tanks clanking over every rut in the dusty path. We passed camels and teased poor Baka, who was shivering, feeling the cold. He's so cheeky, yelling out "Taxi?" at random people we drove past, an ironic take on the constant Egyptian hassle, of course - Baka has no intention of touting a ride to anyone and is merely teasing us all. I peeled off the top half of my wetsuit, gripped the edges of the truck - the road was bumpy and dusty. The sun was in my eyes and there was a blue blue sea, the sound of laughter ringing in the air. Perfect. Moment."

The Gulf of Aqaba and Saudi Arabia

Luxor, Egypt: 30 Oct - 1 Nov, 2009

Sun, 22 Nov 2009 22:22:16 GMT

By a riverside cafe in Luxor, Liyana and I watch the feluccas drift on the dark blue water. There are reddish-yellow sand and rock dunes on the West Bank of Luxor, verdant green palm trees and tiny dark figures of farmers and their donkeys working the land. I could never tire of this view. At sunset the colours stain away into pure gold and black silhouettes - all except the white winged feluccas, which gleam translucently silver, fluttering down the Nile.

In the evening we take a walk along the river promenade and find Gaddis & Co., a wonderful little shop near the Winter Palace Hotel. Shelves of books, parts of old cameras, prints and photographs form the nexus of the offerings here, but there is also the requisite stock of tourist items. The walls are painted teal green and a fan swings lazily overhead. The staff are friendly and do not hassle you at all. I bought an old black and white print of the pyramids taken by Gaddis, an Egyptian photographer who worked in the 19th century.

The facade of Gaddis and Co., Luxor (Photo credit: Liyana)

That night we go to Luxor Temple, splendidly lit up at night. Colossi of Ramses II sit at the first pylons, a single obelisk guards the way. It's twin sits at the Place du Concorde in Paris, brought over by a victorious, marauding Napolean. Inside, a 12th century mosque sits incongruously amongst the ancient ruins, and further still, Amenhotep III's magnificent Hypostyle Hall, rows of papyrus capitalled columns lit up by golden light. The inner sanctum boasts carvings of Hep, the one legged god of fertility, depicted with his phallus, rubbed shiny by women hoping to get pregnant - a myth that has stayed well into modern times.

The Hypostyle Hall, Luxor Temple

The main gate of Luxor Temple; minaret of a mosque and a full moon

We have a dastardly early wake up call the next morning, off for a hot air balloon ride over the Valley of the Queens and the Valley of the Nobles on the West Bank. It is a large, sturdy basket and there are no steps, so Yan and I are manhandled, literally, into it. As we ascend there is a silence across the landscape, a quiet punctuated only by the sporadic roar of the flames, the sudden heat and fire casting a reddish glow on everyone's faces.

Sunrise over Luxor

We rise with the sun over Luxor. Close to the horizon the river gleams like mercury, a glittering ribbon cuttingi across the landscape. A low, dreamlike mist hangs over Egypt in the early hours, dissipated only by the warmth of Ra's rays. Farmland, settlements and houses border the Nile, lush with vegetation and life. There is a sudden and firm demarcation where this meets the desolate desert, a cut off between greenery and dry, dusty earth. We see nothing but rock, sand and mountains, shimmering into the far distance. The stony, barren wastelands of the Theban Necropolis is stark, forbidding and desolate.

Hot air ballooning

The wind directs us. Far far below we see villagers going about their morning routines. Donkeys and cows and goats stand in courtyards, tethered to their food. Children wave at the brightly coloured balloons. We see the shadow of our balloon against the sand, thrown out of proportion, a tiny round imprint against a vast desert. From the air we see the dark entrances that lead to the tombs in the Valley of the Queens. Nefertari's tomb is down there somewhere, the most glorious of all of them. We float by Hatshepsut's mortuary temple, quiet and dignified, cast in sharp relief by the low sun.

A view of Hatshepsut's Temple from the air

Our landing is gentle and perfect and as we clamber out, a full score and more of men flatten our wayward, airy balloon into long lengths of canvas and rope. Dusty children ring us, asking for food, money, pens. The sun has just about fully risen as we drive towards the Valley of the Kings. There are donkeys tied to lamp posts, yellow stone and sand, a sky blue beyond belief.

The shadow of our balloon

There are over 60 tombs in the Valley of the Kings, some grander than others. Some are mere rooms rough hewn into rock, others vividly decorated in carvings, plaster and paint. Some contained treasures the like the world had never seen before, or will again - Tutankhamun's tomb was found here. There is nothing much to see from the outside - dry dusty earth and black entrances like the maw of the Underworld. Excavations are still going on and it is hot, blindingly hot as the day approaches noon. There is dust everywhere. No cameras are allowed.

We descend into three tombs - there are people a plenty in the Valley of the Kings. My favourite is Horemheb's, an unfinished tomb belonging to an Egyptian general who rose to become Pharaoh. His tomb utilises two shafts near the entrance to deter tomb raiders. The walls of these are covered in beautifully painted bas-reliefs, the colours as fresh and bright as if they were only applied yesterday, not 2,000 years ago. My favourite is Anubis, the jackal god, his visage in sharp relief, his mantle painstakingly made out in brilliant aquamarine and white stripes, the Pharaoh in a bright white, translucent robe, the bright red of the sun god's disc.

It is here that Yan and I share a precious, silent, magical moment of contemplation alone, just the two of us, in the still air of a centuries-old tomb, breathing in the colours and shapes of artwork meant for a royal eternal afterlife. The silence hammered home the great age, beauty and mystery of the tomb - a missing ingredient at the far-grander but too overcrowded Abu Simbel.

Horemheb's tomb is unfinished and in the lower rooms the process of how the tombs were decorated are obvious. The plain rock is first covered in plaster. Hieroglyphs and drawings are then applied in black ink by apprentice artists. A Master Artist comes along and corrects this in red ink, tying in a line here, fixing a hieroglyph there, tidying up Anubis' ears there. Then, a carver painstakingly works away the plaster around the drawings, throwing them into relief. Lastly vivid, bright colours obtained from minerals like crushed lapiz lazuli (blue), malachite (green), ochre (red), chalk (white), charcoal (black), and orpiment (yellow) were applied.

The magnificently painted walls of Horemheb's tomb (Source: http://www.squidoo.com/horemheb)

After the Valley of the Kings we drive to Hatshepsut's Temple, Egypt's most famous female Pharaoh. The lines of columns and the three tiered construction look very modern, but are centuries old. Back in the day a garden stood in front of the first tier, a garden of fragrant myrrh trees that Hatshepsut brought back from present-day Somaliam a journey she undertook personally to create trade ties with that far flung region. There are carvings aplenty here, but most of her cartouches and representations have been erased by her successor, Tuthmosis III, convinced that his aunt had usurped the power that should have been his by right.

At Hatshepsut's Temple

Along the second tier of pillars, statues of Hatshepsut would have stood in front of each one, coloured red and dressed in white, resplendent in the double crown and scepter of both Upper and Lower Egypt, her arms crossed in the Osiris pose and depicted with the requisite beard that male Pharaohs sported - the better to convince her subjects that she was male enough for the task of leadership. In a grand PR coup, Hatshepsut convinced the populace that she was a direct descendent of the god Amun, and had the story of her divine conception plastered across the walls of her funerary temple. This little story was supported by the High Priest of Amun, believed to be Hatshepsut's lover, and led to her people accepting her rule.

Contemplating Karnak's Hypostyle Hall

Our next stop is Karnak Temple Complex and by this time my hamstrings are well sore. It is no easy business traipsing up and down hot air balloons, descending into pharaoh's tombs and climbing up temple stairs. The size of Karnak is inchoate, unbelievable, incomprehensible. It is from here that the god Amun sets sail on his river barge once a year, during the festival of Opet, down towards Luxor Temple to meet his consort Mut. After the golden effigies are given some time to themselves, during which the populace of Thebes caroused and debauched, Amun was then escorted back to Karnak along the processional way, a 3km long road lined with ram headed statues representing Khonsu, the son of Amun and Mut. These three divinities represent the Theban Triad.

A model replica of Karnak; the real thing

In Karnak's Hypostyle Hall, which is large enough to fit both St Paul's and St Peter's dome, Yan and I walk through alternating light and shadow, take pictures and pick out Ramses II's cartouche. Built by his father, Seti I, the Hypostyle Hall was appropriated by Ramses - he ordered his cartouche carved over his father's. High up on the lintels over the papyrus capitals, however, some of Seti's cartouches have survived, the paint as bright and brilliant as ever.

We head back to our hotel and sit by the Nile some more, drink more kakaday tea, soak in the pleasures of just being in Egypt. The sun sets in golds and reds - another perfect Egyptian sunset. Our overnight train back to Cairo will end our adventures amongst Egypt's temples and tombs - the next part of our travels will take us to the sun, surf and sea of the Gulf of Aqaba.

Felucca and sunset, Luxor; Chilling, just chillin'.

The Nile, Egypt: 28 - 30 Oct, 2009

Wed, 18 Nov 2009 19:51:37 GMT

We are back in Aswan by noon and head out to the docks, where our cruise ship awaits. We will spend the next two days sailing up the river Nile, towards Luxor. Hightailing it up to the sundeck, I watch the light change and the sand dunes of Aswan pass by. There are verdant farms and spiky palm trees by the river banks, white sailed feluccas zig zag across the water. As the light leaves there is an Egyptian sunset over the sand dunes.

Beautiful feluccas and the scene at Aswan

We dock at Kom Ombo, literally, "Mountain of Gold", one of a very few temples left in Egypt with access to the Nile. This temple is dedicated to the gods Horus and Sorbek, the falcon and the crocodile. Lit up at night, the temple has a mystery, an ambience that is missing in the bright light of day. The columns boast papyrus and lotus flower capitals - an influence of the Greco-Roman. There is a calendar, with a chart showing the specific offerings for each day. There are drawings of medical instruments. There are carvings over every surface, hieroglyphs and beautiful scenes of worship and every day life.

Kom Ombo at night

The next day we are amongst the earlier visitors to the Temple of Horus at Edfu. In the quiet hours the temple feels large, majestic. The light is soft and golden. The courtyard is ringed by columns and on the inner walls, reliefs of Horus defeating the evil god Set tell the story of the falcon god's vengeance for his father, Osiris' murder. Set is depicted as a hippopotamus, the most dangerous animal in Africa - unpredictable, powerful, chaotic and bad tempered, a fitting animal spirit for Set.

There are stray cats at Edfu and a ginger tabby tries to climb into my lap as I kneel down to snap a picture of the double crowned falcon god statue. Yan and I lark about; we have been given an entire hour to while away in this relatively young, at 2,500 years, temple, and so go around pretending to read hieroglyphics at each other. Eventually we just sit on the base of one of the pillars in the courtyard and contemplate the scene.

The Temple of Horus, Edfu

We have no more temples for the remainder of the day, and obligations to Ancient Egypt done, we head up to the sun deck to soak up the sun, write postcards and chat desultorily about everything and nothing at all. There is the wide expanse of the river, a blue sky feathered with clouds, pierced by slender minarets of mosques. Upright palm trees and new-green fields of sugarcane are in evidence everywhere. Winged feluccas drift with us and we pass a few two sailed dahabiyyas, the ultimate in Nile travel - sleek, elegant, luxurious houseboats.

Chilling on the sundeck of the MS Semiramis III; pillars at the Temple of Horus

We pass the locks at Esna, listen to the calls of the azan ring out from solitary mosques. There are no longer any crocodiles sunning themselves on the bank of the river, but the pace of life out here remains quiet and calm. Until the early 20th century, much of the farming continued in the same way as it was done in the time of the pharaohs - dictated by the river and her moods. Egypt has been called the gift of the Nile, and it is true that without her life giving waters, the country, both modern and ancient, would not have existed. The annual Innundation made many things possible - fertilising the land, resulting in surplus crops that made the rise of Ancient Egypt's stunning art possible. When the Nile flooded the fellaheen, or farmers, would flock to numerous building sites and work on the pharaoh's eternal tomb. It decided the level of tax (high if the flood was good, low if the flood was average) and whether or not there would be famine in the next season. The water of the Nile was the first thing a newborn tasted, and his body was cleansed in its waters before mummification. The Nile, in Egypt, is everything.

We dock at Luxor as the evening azan rings out in ever growing discord - there are many more mosques here and the overlapping layers sound strident. In the golden, liquid twilight, a fisherboy and his father row past our ship, waving a hello. There is the mass of feathery net in a bundle at one end of the boat, the only sound now the slip and splash of their oars gliding them by. The boy is wreathed in smiles, the turban of his father glows white in the silver light reflected off the still, dark green waters of the river Nile.

Scenes from the river Nile

Cairo & Aswan, Egypt: 25 - 28 Oct, 2009

Sat, 14 Nov 2009 22:24:54 GMT

The Giza Pyramids

It is an early plane that takes me into Cairo, Egypt, Land of the Pharaohs. As we circle the landing strip, the view out my window is all dusty browns, as far as the eye can see. Cairo is a dirty, polluted city, and my sinuses seize up as soon as we get in. Known as Umm al-Dounia, or Mother of the World, there are 23 million Cairenes who live, work, play and dream in this tightly packed, traffic choked city of old crumbling Renaissance buildings, dirty dusty 1930s apartment blocks and elegant Moorish facades. Five times a day the call of the azan rings out from the many slender spires of mosques that dot Cairo's winding streets. The city is a chaotic contradiction of old and new, ancient and modern.

Cairo by night; The Great and Second Pyramids

The first night we take a bus tour of Cairo and Ahmed, our tour guide, brings us to a local fateer place. Egypt in many ways remind me of an older Malaysia. The shop is dirty, lit by neon bulbs, the chairs cracking plastic, the tables a cheap linoleum. There is little sign of the artificial sanitation of the Western world. The fateer, an unleavened kind of bread filled with a choice of mushroom, cheese, meat or vegetables, is delicious.

Our first real day in Cairo is spent exploring the noisy halls of the Egyptian Museum. It is a marketplace, filled to bursting with tour groups and their shouting guides (walkie talkies should be mandatory!), Egyptology students sitting in corners sketching one or two of the many ancient Egyptian treasures. The artefacts are beautiful, rich, varied. The museum is a hum of humanity, a waterfall of noise, heat and humidity. No photos are allowed in the Museum, but suffice to say that Tut's treasures are really all that they are hyped up to be. Tutankahamun was a relatively unimportant pharaoh, a boy king who ruled for just nine years. What would the treasure trove of great pharaohs like Seti I and Ramses II have been like? The imagination staggers, fails, to envisage it.

Tut's death mask is undoubtedly the highlight of the entire collection, all 14 kilograms of it, resplendent in lapis lazuli and pure gold. There are also the four gold gilded wooden sarcophagi, nestled one in the other like giant babushka dolls. It was in the innermost sarcophagus that Tutankhamen's solid gold coffin was found, and inside, the boy king himself. there are other treasures in the Egyptian Museum - scarab beetles carved from all sorts of material, burial beds, canopic jars with the heads of the gods carved as stoppers. Awesome statuary line the lower halls of the Museum, Pharaohs in red granite, black granite and sphinxes in limestone, engraved with royal cartouches.

The Sphinx

We head to the Giza Plateau for the Pyramids and the Sphinx. The Great Pyramid, owned by Cheops, is so big and breathtaking that up close, its sheer mass and height render it almost one-dimensional. Yan and I clamber up a few steps up on the great stones. Bereft of their limestone covering save the cap that survives on the Second Pyramid, the Giza Pyramids would been wondrous in their day, glittering a brilliant white in the desert heat. We clamber into the musty depths of the Second Pyramid, pay our respects to the Sphinx, carved out of one giant piece of limestone and depicting Khafren, owner of the Second Pyramid. Napolean knocked off his nose when he came a-conquering, to prove to the locals that the Sphinx was not, as believed, a god.

The Pyramids render me speechless. Their size confounds the imagination - to think that mere humanity erected such a monument to the gods and to their king, still standing after 5,000 years, is a humbling reminder of the greatness that belief and willpower can attain. Contrary to popular opinion, the pyramids were not erected by slaves; they were built by the fellaheen, the farmers of Ancient Egypt. During the Inundation, when the Nile flooded its banks, they flocked to the West Bank of the Nile and were paid by the pharaoh in food for their labour. Pharaohs started their pyramids early, as soon as they ascended the throne. More than just a tomb, their pyramids were to give them shelter for the rest of their eternal life, and it was imperative that they completed it before their death in this world.

Chilling in a cafe in Aswan; shops in the bazaar

Bound for Aswan that night, we cosy down in our 5 star, Egyptian style, sleeper train. We have: flat beds big enough (for us) to stretch out in, our own sink, lockable doors and access to (relatively) clean toilets. The train lurches, jerks and jolts through the night. I wake up early enough to see sunrise and watch as platforms whiz by. We pass fields of sugarcane, donkeys carrying produce and people, the slender spires of minarets,; we pass turbaned, wizened old men and running, laughing children. Aswan is the southernmost town of Egypt and extremely Nubian in character. The town is laidback, with a wide, modernised bazaar. The heat, in the afternoon, is unbearable and the dust chokes us. We seek refuge in a cafe and order Cokes for the sugar rush and to cool us both down.

View from a bus; Horus at the feet of Ramses II

Our next wake up call is at 2am for Abu Simbel the next morning. Travelling in military convoy, we watch a desert sunrise and the long, dark grey ribbon of tarmac unravel through an ochre desert. The two temples at Abu Simbel is a wonder of architecture, both ancient and modern. Carved out from a mountain side on the orders of Ramses II, this is a temple to the sun and on two days each year, the rising sun reaches far into the holy of holies to touch the gold gilt and painted statues of 3 out of 4 seated gods - Ra-Horakhty, Amun Ra, and Ramses himself. The fourth statue, Ptah, sits always in darkness as the god is associated with the underworld. The entire temple (as well as Nefertari's temple next door) was relocated upwards away from Lake Nasser when the High Dam was built, cost a cool USD$40m and relied on an international cast of thousands of engineers and archaeologists.

The Great Temple, Abu Simbel

T Minus Three

Wed, 21 Oct 2009 21:04:16 GMT

As the days inch slowly closer I'm starting to feel the buzz. I'm researching the best options to get to LHR on a weekend when the Piccadilly is down, setting aside bits and bobs I know I will need to bring with me, strategising a plan of action - where, when - to meet Yan, making lists of things to do before I leave the house, clearing memory cards and charging batteries, reading up on been-there-done-that traveller's tips, checking the itinerary, making copies of insurance, visa and passport, confirming flights, stocking up on provisions.

These gypsy feet are well rested and ready to go.

Paris, France: 3 October, 2009

Tue, 13 Oct 2009 20:06:46 GMT

IM Pei's pyramid & the Louvre

Over cupcakes at Hummingbird at Notting Hill, Debs and I hatched a dastardly plan. We would, we decided, skip over the Channel for a cheeky lunch in the City of Light. Perhaps go shopping. Perhaps eat pastries. Be back by dinner time, with no one the wiser. The world was ours, or Paris, at least, was.

With tickets bought we met at St Pancras at an unholy time in the morning and within hours were walking south from the Gare du Nord towards the Marais. Prior discussion had resulted in a plan of attack that included exploring the shops of this quarter, then having lunch at a local brasserie. The day was cloudy as we set off towards the Seine, but it cleared up soon after. Paris was just waking up as we threaded our way to our destination. Our journey was long and arduous - only because of the constant pit stops we were making to patisseries and boulangeries on the way for croissants, pain aux chocolats and pain aux raisins - it's a hard life breakfasting in Paris!

Cafe culture; autumn leaves & postcards; The Eiffel Tower; shops in the Marais

We made for the Place des Vosges first, an oasis of trees and empty space. Finally at the Marais, we stopped for some people watching and tourist guessing at a cafe on rue de Turenne (the street of the tureen, perhaps?). There were warm braziers at our backs and the theatre of a Parisien side street on display and we had first row seats. The Marais is the Jewish quarter of Paris and we saw a few very well dressed couples head off to the synagogue. It is a quaint, old area, filled with designer (and very expensive!) shops, traditional Jewish bakeries and here and there, bead shops, vintage clothing, bookshops and restaurants.

The facade of the Pompidou Centre

The prices and the decidedly lacklustre sterling at the moment were completely prohibitive, so aside from a few crumbs on our shirts neither Debs nor I had anything to show for our purchases in the Marais. We headed down towards the river, passing the Pompidou Centre on our way. I'd wanted to see this building on my first visit to Paris so it feels utterly divine and pre-ordained to literally stumble on it, all unawares, on this trip. As we head down we finally see the Ille St Louis and glimpse, in the far distance, the tiny silhouette of the Eiffel. Along the quai we walk past the petshops and flower shops, past the postcard sellers and the vendors with their mountains of kitsch Eiffel keychains.

At the Louvre; cafe au lait in Paris; the Seine and the Ille St Louis; Marais streets

At the Louvre we pause for breath and photographs. The sky is a rich, happy blue and we search for the orange awning of Le Fumoir, where artists, writers and the glitterati gather to partake in nourishment. Grey and earth tones dominant inside, casual and chic at the same time. In the far back is a dining room lined with books where happy diners sit and chat. We plump for a sun filled spot by the window, only to be told the table is reserved for others more important than us. Unwilling to cause a scene in a foreign language (less of an ability to argue well) we resit ourselves in the main area.

The insides of Le Fumoir; looking down the Champs towards the Arc du Triomphe

The prix fixe menu has salmon and salad and delicious sounding desserts. I order mushroom ravioli in beef consomme to start and the salmon as my main. The food is perfectly nuanced and after a hard day's tramp, much appreciated. Service is quick, quiet and calm and all around us are friends catching up, families lunching and business busily in the process of being conducted.

At Laduree and Fauchon

Feeling happy and expansive, Debs and I roll our way back down through the Louvre and scuff our shoes through the sunny Tuileries, then hang a right towards the Pantheon. At Laduree I point at the long, ridiculous line and ask "a emporter?" incredulously. The host says "yes, to take away" and Debs and I slink away to Fauchon instead where the line is shorter and the macarons just as good. It is difficult to say no to the beautiful concoctions of sugar and spice and all things nice and we end up with a few bags each of delicious nommable delights, then a quick hop back to the Seine and on the Metro to catch our train back to London.

Au revoir, Paris, I'll see you at Christmas.