Khaled Diab shatters his illusions about oases on a quest for refuge in Fayyoum Oasis.

May 2000

Solitude and tranquillity are taken for granted in many parts of the world. But in our little corner, they are coveted – and hard earned – prizes. Finding a little peace near that speck on the map called Cairo can prove as difficult as finding the fabled world of Atlantis.

Succumbing to the stress and pressures of life in the big, bad city, I decided to spend the weekend at a nearby peaceful haven. I set off for the oasis of Fayyoum with images forming in my head of vast stretches of soothing cultivation, endless reserves of fresh air and unspoilt, alluring desert, where I would find respite.

As the bus made its way out of the cloying clutches of the claustrophobic metropolis, I looked out of the window and bid farewell to the hectic frenzy of home. My eyes strained to see the dim line that marks the edge of the heaving nebula, my body tense with the anticipation of the great, heaving exhale it had been waiting for.

Upon the advice of the driver, I got off the bus where the road to Fayyoum City forks off towards Lake Qaroun in order to catch the lake before sunset. They told me that I could wave down a minibus to take me there.

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Interview with a monk

The road I walked was flanked on both sides by fields of a greenness unknown in Cairo. There was a fresh breeze blowing that invigorated me to the pores. At first, I was so enjoying the walk, looking out at the vegetation, trees and farmers that I didn’t bother trying to find transportation.

Further down the road, I decided to was about time to get moving if I was to enjoy the lake before sundown. I guess Providence thought it fit that I should walk in order to appreciate the finer joys in life. I unsuccessfully tried to flag down anything on wheels (which wasn’t much). Increasingly anxious, I even considered a cyclist, but thought better of it.

Now several miles from where I’d started off, with my stomach in staunch rebellion, I came across a row of motorbikes parked off the road. Mounted on them was a group of men, perhaps some sort of local republican guard in galabiya-clad splendour. I wondered if they were Fayyoum’s answer to the Hell’s Angels. I ventured up to them and asked if one of them would give me a ride to the lake. The ease with which they agreed and their pointing me to the bikes whose turn it was to go made me guess that this was some sort of local taxi service.

There must be a fascinating fatalistic mentality behind climbing onto a bike with a perfect stranger and entrusting your well-being to him – especially when the stranger has a deadly disregard for common-sense safety. Not only did he eat road at break-neck speed, pushing his poor Jawa to its limits, but he kept his head turned around trying to have a conversation with me.

When I suggested that he keep his eye on the road, he shot me a look of miffed condescension. I tried, somewhat nervously, to distract myself by admiring the scenery and the lake as they whizzed past.

Soon after – and not before I had a couple of split-second opportunities to remember all the precious moments of my life and all I had not yet done – I arrived at the lake safe but not so sound. A little shakily, I dismounted the bike and paid Death’s envoy the going rate for taking me to the edge and back.

Lake Qaroun, like all great lochs, has a legend attached to it – not a monstrosity, like Nessy – but a promise of great bounty and fortune. According to the legend, the great treasure of a wealthy Jew named Qaroun is submerged somewhere in the murky depths of this vast lake. Sitting on the almost deserted shore, it being the off-season, I toyed with the idea of learning to dive and searching for the hidden treasure to attain wealth on a par with old Sindbad’s.

Instead, I succumbed to the quietness and the view of the lake. For all of the three minutes before I was ambushed, that is. A couple of kids pounced upon me wanting to sell me necklaces made of shells. After negotiating them, I dipped my hand into my pocket for my money. That was a signal for a whole band of them to come down on me like a battalion of warrior hobbits, harassing me for cash. I fled as quickly as I could with the kids in hot pursuit. I finally shook them off and went to the Auberge for dinner.

After dinner, I hit upon the notion of hiring a rowboat to take me out onto the lake. Perhaps there, I would be allowed to be alone. The lake was a little turbulent but it was enjoyable and relaxing nonetheless.

In the evening, I headed off to Fayyoum City – a journey that made me appreciate the sheer scale of the oasis. I previously held the idea that an oasis was a tiny dot of green in the middle of a vast desert ocean. Fayyoum City turned out to be a provincial town aspiring to become a metropolis. It was definitely a wannabe Cairo. My mind was gripped with a disturbing image that this beautiful oasis would, one day, be swallowed up by the cancerous growth of the city.

Early signs were already showing, like the solitary factory at the edge of the oasis spewing out an unsightly trail of dense smoke into the clear sky. Thursday night in downtown Fayyoum is a noisy business and my hotel being in the centre of town meant that sleep was out of the question until about 2am.

Early the next morning, I resumed my so far frustrated search for tranquillity. I wandered aimlessly around the fields, soothed by the subdued trickle of the interweaving irrigation streams. I plonked myself down under a palm tree and the peace and quiet soon made me doze off. Suddenly, I was shaken out of my slumbers by the noise of hail.

In my grogginess, I searched for the source of the falling debris. At the top of a nearby palm tree was a young boy shaking down the dates which his partner collected in his tucked up galabiya. I was intrigued by and a little envious of his daring show of aerial acrobatics. I watched as the boy made his way nimbly down the tree. After they had collected most of the fallen dates, I caught their attention and interest.

They regarded this strange alien from the city with an uninhibited curiosity, as if I, too, had fallen out of the sky like the dates they had been gathering. We exchanged smiles and they decided it was safe to approach. They offered me some of their dates and asked me what I was doing in the middle of their field. They soon betrayed their fascination with Cairo. I was subjected to a tirade of questions about the fabled city of which they had only ever heard.

In return, they begrudgingly let me into their world, which they viewed as vastly less interesting. They told me they were on a break from their farm work and were going home to dinner; that they had dropped out of school to help their ageing parents work the land. They soon realised that they were running late for dinner and wanted me to join them – an invitation I politely turned down.

I resolved that to find the elusive solitude I so desired, I would have to venture further afield. Monastery-hopping promised to be the answer. You can imagine my disappointment when I arrived at the first monastery to find coachloads of loud and boisterous pilgrim-tourists milling about all over the place. I had a cursory look round and beat a hasty retreat.

I decided to outdistance them and headed for the Malak Gibril monastery in the desert. I rode on the bumper of a converted pick up truck, precariously holding on to a bar for a journey of about 30 kilometres. The passenger truck dropped me off at the bottom of the road that cut into the desert towards the monastery. I walked along the road keeping my eye open for any cars heading my way. I passed a small caravan of camels laden down with sugarcane.

The mud brick houses gave way to a cemetery which fizzled out until all that was left was a windswept and peaceful desert with a black snake of road winding its way up the hill. Three kilometres or so down the road and with the monastery in sight, I finally found myself a ride.

Walking into the crumbling courtyard of the ancient monastery, I was struck by the mishmash of buildings: the old main buildings of the monastery with a recently added gateway that was more of an eyesore than anything else. I was passed by a monk who appeared to be on his way to prayers – an encouraging sign. Then, round the next bend, I found myself face-to-face with more coachloads of weekend pilgrims.

Defeated, I resigned myself to observing them. I walked into the shop to get a coke. The novice monk who was running the shop engaged me in polite conversation until he put the sticky question to me of which church in Cairo I belonged to. At that point, I had to explain that I was a Muslim. He appeared totally baffled as to why a Muslim from Cairo had come to their crumbling, small, out-of-the-way monastery. I gave him the simple answer: that I was curious to find out what a monk’s life was like.

This seemed to satisfy his suspicions and sparked off a long dialogue on spirituality, the meaning of monasticism and the relationship between Islam and Christianity. He also introduced me to other monks, including the abbot. I observed the mass and took in the foreign atmosphere: the ritual oil, the air heavy with the musk of linseed, the glass coffins containing the bones of martyrs with letters and donations strewn over the glass.

While in the monastery, I decided it would be a good idea to see the sun set over the pyramid of Lahoon. It was a race against the clock to get there in time. I had to walk all the way back to the main road. Perched inside a passenger truck this time, I made my way to the outskirts of the village of Lahoon.

Then it was a hair-raising motorcycle-taxi ride on the dirt track, through the narrow streets that teamed with villagers and buffaloes on their way home from the fields. I arrived at the pyramid with a bit of light to spare. The security there had obviously not had a visitor in a while and were uncertain how to cope with me. It took them a precious five minutes to find the ticket book. They also decided I needed an escort up to the pyramids on the pretext that the wolves and criminals hiding out in the desert posed a serious threat.

Nonetheless, I parked my two escorts on a bench so I could explore more at my leisure. However, their presence made it impossible for me to climb one face of the pyramid as I had earlier envisaged. Instead, I stood there and watched the sun take its curtain call for the day at the foot of a collapsed and almost shapeless pyramid that resembled the form and texture of that weekend’s scheme to seek out some solitude.

This article appeared in the 25-31 May 2000 edition of Cairo Times.

ã2005 K. Diab. Unless otherwise stated, all the content on this website is the copyright of Khaled Diab.