Today is our first day with nothing formally planned, a chance for a lie-in and to recharge our batteries but I’m wide awake by 7am so go for a run around the hotel, taking in the morning sights.
Thursday is obviously a major changeover day for the tourism industry as there are dozens of new cruise ships docked along the east bank, having arrived overnight, with many more coming in to dock over the next couple of hours, temporarily turning this stretch of the Nile into a busy thoroughfare. They are moored four and even five abreast, with others manoeuvring in the waters, belching filthy black smoke behind them and turning around to face back to Luxor, where they will return. We will be joining them tomorrow.
After breakfast, taken on the terrace of the hotel’s Elefantine restaurant, we go for a walk around the spacious hotel gardens. The Movenpick occupies the entire northern third of Elephantine island and affords wonderful views of both Aswan city on the east bank and the desert sands of the west bank. We gaze up to the monastery on the ridge of the west bank, beneath which sit the Tombs of the Nobles which are still being excavated by Spanish archaeological teams, and watch the little boats in the water criss-crossing their way across the river, dodging the cruise ships.
The hotel gardens are well manicured with vegetable plots, neatly-trimmed lawns, rockeries, fish ponds, bird-watching points, deer in an enclosure and huge amounts of trees and flowers. Sprinklers drawing water from the Nile keep everything fresh and green and it’s a far cry from the dustier, poorer, ramshackle village over the far wall of the enclosure. We walk up to it and can almost touch the walls of the Bob Marley Guesthouse where we had dinner last night, but the gate that once connected the previous Oberoi hotel to its Nubian neighbours no longer exists. The Movenpick obviously has different ideas.
The huge square tower of the old hotel building, which has all the allure of an East German prison fortress replete with laser circling searchlights at night, dominates the skyline and we get the lift to its tenth floor Panorama restaurant, which apparently serves ‘Western Fusion’ cuisine. It’s deserted at this time of day and affords us glorious views of the whole of the island, Aswan and beyond and lets us look down on to the original 70s-style pool complex, which has obviously become dilapidated and is now closed for renovation.
The enormous pool at the new building however is absolutely lovely, and we spend the rest of the morning there, swimming and relaxing in the warm sunshine. After lunch we find Mustafa, a young boatman with huge corkscrew hair from the island who we met yesterday, moored up at the Movenpick jetty touting for business. We promised him we’d be back to hire his felucca, Nubian Dreams, and for €50 and a tip he and his driver Noor, take us out on the Nile for five wonderful hours.
We start at the Botanical Gardens, on the small El Nabatat Island (formally Kitchener’s Island), to the west of the hotel, where once again visiting school kids crowd around us asking for selfies and making conversation. In fact there’s so many of them that our leisurely stroll through the gardens becomes a kind of game of hide and seek as we try and take different pathways, yet still they find us, sometimes shyly saying hello and sometimes being ridiculously chatty and demanding photos. It’s fun but tiring.
Meanwhile out on the water, young boys from the Nubian villages are on tiny surfboards, using pieces of cardboard for paddles, trying to sell trinkets to tourists in feluccas. And amongst the houses and gardens on the banks of Elephantine Island, women wash clothes in the Nile surrounded by palm, mango, guava and banana trees.
We sail through the cataracts, the rapids that mark the end of the navigable Nile for big ships and pass by a multitude of islands, each with rocks and vegetation in beautiful formations. It’s gorgeously tranquil, a truly special spot of true peace and beauty.
Shortly afterwards comes the impressive mausoleum of Aga Khan. The story goes that the fabled Ottoman billionaire was so enamoured of Aswan and the Cataract Hotel he used to stay for months at a time. He was in poor health with bad mobility issues and one day was recommended to be buried up to his neck in the sands of the west bank. When he emerged he could walk again so decided he would be laid to rest in that spot, facing east for rebirth, overlooking the Nile and the rapids beside the Cataract Hotel. The mausoleum used to be open to visitors but the family got fed up with all the litter they left behind and closed it, however his grandson still visits the lovely villa they built below it.
Our next stop is a beach on the shores of the Nile where many other boats are pulling up, laden with tourists. Everyone is paddling in the waters with braver souls having a swim. I join them in the bracing waters, having been reassured that there are no crocodiles this side of the Aswan dam, and immerse myself in the bracing river, swimming about in the crowded waters amongst revellers from many countries, especially boatloads of laughing Spaniards.
There are camel rides on offer and souvenirs laid out on the sand, but we continue on to ‘the’ Nubian Village that coachtrips and boat parties all visit, forgetting the less touristy ones on Elephantine Island.
The Nubian Village is full of shops selling the usual garments, spices, incense, food, teas, handicrafts and more that keep their traditions alive and feed their families. Groups of tourists, led by guides with flags, troop through the narrow lanes, crowding into locals’ house for tea ceremonies and all trying to get the best shots of what they’re seeing. We wander around for fifteen minutes, politely declining to add to the modest haul of souvenirs we already have, and then hop back on Mustafa’s boat and sail away, with the original British Dam in the distance.
As we sail back towards Aswan, Mustafa tells us about his “best friend”, Seamus from Cork, who from the photo he shows us, is an elderly gentleman and an academic who travels to the Middle East regularly. Seamus apparently has a soft spot for Mustafa and comes to see him frequently, supporting him with money. It seems a rather strange arrangement but Mustafa is very happy about Seamus so we assume all is wholesome.
Mustafa still lives with his parents but spends time sleeping in his grandparents houses on the island too, and the whole community knows and supports each other. He has a brother and sister and his brother will marry next year, in a celebration that everyone will be invited to and lasts for three days. Mustafa asks if we’d like to come too.
While Coman takes photos of the Cataract Hotel, approaching in the distance Mustafa asks, with a subtle glance in Coman’s direction, “Are you married?”
I can’t work out whether he’s asking in the singular or referring to us as a couple. Mindful of both Islamic custom, and the laws of Egypt - where we have ensured all our hotel rooms have twin beds rather than a double - I lie and say, “No”.
“Maybe you prefer men?” enquires Mustafa somewhat tentatively.
“That’s a difficult question to ask in this country, isn’t it?” I respond.
A pause. “Maybe. But people here are ok. We know gay people. All is fine”
“But your laws are different,” I say. “And we have different laws where I live. I believe we should treat everyone with love, peace, kindness, compassion. But I also believe I don’t have to be interested in marrying a woman.”
There’s a slightly strange atmosphere and I can’t work out if Mustafa is trying to articulate his own sexuality, is disconcerted by what I’ve said, is fishing for information or genuinely just interested and making conversation. In Egypt, secret police are still used to trap unwitting people into revealing their sexual orientation with fines and imprisonment not uncommon.
It’s a reminder how difficult it still is in so many countries around the world to be honest and open about who you love, something massively in the spotlight as our trip is taking place during the opening matches of the World Cup in Qatar, with its dreadful record of human rights and terrible abuse and criminalisation of LGBTQ people.
I’m fairly sure Mustafa is just being friendly, but I move the conversation on to discuss the ruins of the ancient temple on Elephantine Island, which have come into view, the ancient hieroglyphics on the rocks and the clever Nileometer marks that the ancient people used to predict how fruitful the floods would be.
By now the sun is setting, giving us glorious skies, and so we suggest to Mustafa that we’d like to moor at King Jamaica, a restaurant on the island that has great reviews and is, inevitably, owned by a cousin of the Bob Marley Guesthouse. We pull up at the brightly painted steps and are met by Amun, the said owner. He leads us to a table with perfect views of the sunset and talks with an intriguing accent.
Turns out Amun fell in love with an Australian woman, married her and moved out there for many years, but always hankered to return to Elephantine Island. So when the chance came he sank all his savings into buying this spot and built King Jamaica on it. Through word of mouth and online tourist reviews it’s become a big success and he now employs sixteen villagers. The reviews are right too; the food is delicious and very similar to Bob Marley’s and we have a vegetable tagine and an aubergine bechamel bake, with all the accompanying sides, and fresh mango and strawberry juices.
Mustafa returns us to the Movenpick and we say farewell, heading back to our room to pack for our cruise ship in the morning, where things don’t unfold quite as expected.
