By the Pyramids of Giza, I was caught in a sand storm while hiking alone across the surrounding desert, when I came across the solitary camel herder. The biting wind was blowing coarse sand against my face and every minute I had to turn my head away with my back to the wind. Against these difficult weather conditions, I will go to any lengths for my art. I would even have stared death in the face, let alone passing waves of sand, blowing their way through the eye of my mind, for the greatest storm was within, and not without - where all was silent, and all was wild.
I was here in the world of ancient Egypt, where I continued on through the desert and I came upon the desert kiss, two camels together, rubbing their faces against each other softly, among the harsh desert sands. Together alone at the edge of the desert, I saw you by my side.
I stood face to face with the sphinx. And later in my journey, as I travelled down the Nile, I was entering Thebes, the city of the ancient Egyptians, now known as Luxor, among the ancient tombs and towering stone columns of hieroglyphs.
And there, at the gate of Amen-Ra, by the light of Karnak, I walked out from the palace of desire, waiting for the colour of the night.
Tonight I am there once again in the nightwish of memory, standing in the Cairo twilight, where I looked down from the air. I stood on the top floor of my hotel from the balcony, and above the world, I waited. In the African shadows, I flew beyond dreams through a darkened cityscape, beneath another sky.
The next day, I walked through Cairo. I walked at dawn, and came to the banks of the Nile, where my photograph “Migrations” creates the scene of a flight of birds across the soft light of the dawn mist illuminating the strange, empty impermanence of fleeting dreams.
Yet from here, from the vantage point of dreams, as the city began to awake, I was jolted back into the grit, hustle and coarseness of Cairo. For hours I walked along the grimy streets described so well by the scholar Gerard Russell, in his engaging memoir:
“The city was a revelation. It was a vast concentration of humanity, perhaps eighteen million people, with more arriving every day - leaving behind life in the villages along the Nile river and streaming into the capital by train, by bus, on foot, or in carts, settling in unplanned, chaotic shantytowns on the edge of the existing city, poverty side by side with wealth. I used to walk from my tree-lined street over to the slums and watch knife jugglers and street traders stand amid the raw sewage that trickled down the dirt lanes.
It was also a joyous, chaotic, confusing, overwhelming carnival of noise. I lived in Mohandiseen, a leafy modern suburb. But even there I would hear the mint seller outside my window with his horse and cart at five in the morning, and the loudspeakers of the mosque at noontime and then car horns blaring late into the night...but I could put up with that, and all the other irritations of that polluted, crowded city, because I was in love. Not with a person, not then. I was in love with Arabic... There was grit, there was noise, there was still the sour tang of polluted air - but these things did not seem to trouble my Egyptian friends as they did me”.
Yet travelling independently through post-revolution Egypt today was difficult, and dangerous. I was bothered by the grime, bothered by the filth, trying to understand why Muslims in Cairo lived in such squalor, while their compatriots in the Arabian gulf enjoyed lavish lifestyles of wealth and comfort.
I wanted to give to those in material need, but when I gave, they always wanted more. I came across two young boys in dire poverty, begging from me for things I could not give them. Real change. I was carrying two cans of soda, and decided to give them one can. And then the first boy tugged at me and persisted that I give away both cans of soda to them. But what about my can? Was I not part of this equation? Everywhere I turned, I saw the dark gleam in the street vendor’s eye. And I was tired of arguing with taxi drivers, screaming at me in Arabic.
I walked through Cairo, and hours turned to days. Among the coarseness, among the grime, it was hard to imagine that great intellectuals had once walked among these streets. The Nobel prize winning writer Naguib Mahfouz, while walking these grimy narrow alleys, penned the Cairo Trilogy (Palace Walk, Palace of Desire and Sugar Street), portraying the ideals of a young intellectual at discord with the world around him. Above all he sought a holistic view, as his country struggled to adapt to systems of thinking that did not involve wholesale imitation of the western nations’ individualistic drive for material pursuit, that led to indebtedness to the west, and eventual full-scale colonisation. Mahfouz perceived the need for a deeper life of the individual, in his outstanding work of literature, teeming with the frenetic street-life of Cairo, where “science is the language of the intellect of society. Art is language of the entire human personality.”
Eventually, along my travels in Cairo, sapped by the oppressive African heat, I ducked into the shade and emerged into a beautiful courtyard, the grounds of the Manial Palace, built between 1899 and 1929. A serene, peaceful courtyard ran through the enclosure, past an intimate, ornate little mosque. The dry stone walls were embellished with detailed calligraphy, and ducking my head inside, I was treated to a scene of dusky opulence, an atmosphere of dark beauty, the room emitting a dark blue light, which fell slanting and buried itself into the large, soft carpets lavishly spread out upon the floor.
I re-emerged from this tranquil scene, and passed a delightful pleasure garden, before I entered the house.
I stepped upstairs into the large living room, a rococo design of luxury among the exquisite white carpets and enormous gold and white furnishings, the home of just one man. Yet it was a truly beautiful, fascinating scene. I now walked downstairs, stepped across the courtyard and entered the throne room, to a magnificent sight. A pathway of white marble led to the throne at the end of the path. To the sides of the path were blood-red carpets leading to its end, and all around was gold. Embroidered gold mirror frames, ornate gold frames winding around the crimson canopy of chairs. As appalled as I was at the ostentation and greed of the Egyptian monarchy, I stood here transfixed, for this was truly a scene of the most intense concentration of alluring power.
This lavish ambience and beauty was bought at the cost of the Egyptian people’s blood, and age-old suffering. It was the home of Mohammed Ali Tewfik, the uncle of King Farouk, a puppet for the British financiers and warmongers who had torn his country apart and caused the misery and suffering of millions of Arabs in their wake.
The monarchy were members of the dynasty of the Egyptian ruler Muhammad Ali, the original ruler of Egypt. For western readers, he is not to be confused with the popular American who became famous for punching people in the face.
The ruler Muhammad Ali had absolute power over Egypt, which always corrupts absolutely, and herein lay the root of the problems of Egypt, inside the greedy mind of this Albanian tyrant, ruthless and hard.
Some in the west believe that the Islamic world is resistant to change, yet in “Islamic Enlightenment”, Christopher de Bellague shows that the Islamic world imported wholesale the progressive ideas of the west. They were driven by Muhammad Ali’s reforms, as he imposed a system of a cash-crop economy and reformed the army, and embraced wholesale the industrial ideas of the western world. Encouraged by Britain, his reforms exploited the labour of Egyptians, with the sole purpose of feeding western trade. The peasant dead from overwork on the banks of the Nile paid to fund the leisured gentleman in his country manor in Wiltshire, and only a few in Egypt profited.
While his goal, like with many public ministers in all countries today, was self-enrichment at all costs, under his rule a group of intellectuals were encouraged to develop the modern ideas of the western world and incorporate them into the Egyptian system of thought. The medical scholar Hassan al-Attar for example, encouraged precise and empirical knowledge of medical anatomy through dissection, and the scholar Rifaa al-Tahtawi, translator, traveller and intellectual, sought to bring enlightenment ideas from France and show that what were seen as the progressive ideas of the west were compatible with traditional Islamic faith.
Yet Egypt was increasingly succumbing to western influence, and was increasingly falling into debt with countries such as Britain, who encouraged Egypt’s weakness and indebtedness. The following ruler, Ismail, fell further into dependency on Britain, which showed that western ideas were all powerful, even against traditional conservative Islam that might have been resistant to them. In the end the western ideas did not work here, for Egypt is after all a country in Africa with limited natural resources in a harsh geographical climate, and when western goods started to be sold, Egyptian goods could not compete, on these western economic terms. The ordinary people remained in poverty, while the British government pulled the strings of the rulers of Egypt.
The Egyptian people wanted nothing more than freedom from suffering that they had powerlessly borne for generations. Scholars and intellectuals struggled hard for freedom and a peaceful life free from the brutal power hanging over them; and they almost achieved it with a constitution that would have led to democracy. Yet at this crucial point, afraid of democracy, the British shamefully attacked in a bloodthirsty war, in order to stamp down their power as a coloniser and continue to exploit its resources and suffering people.
Be careful what you wish for, because greed does not pay, and history is written by the strong, and tainted against the weak. The western enlightenment ideas that were at first so enticing for Egypt’s rulers were taken to their natural conclusion - bloody war, with thousands of Arabs dead. Bloody war for money, humiliation, torture and suffering. It is no wonder that so many Arabs appear hostile to the west.
From Egypt to Iran, the west colonised and financed rulers that exploited the suffering of powerless and shackled people, who suffered for money, and could be eliminated without trial, while western countries described themselves as a democracy. Above all, it is the indignity and lack of respect that galls, here in this area of the world. The most shameful thing of all, as mentioned in an earlier chapter, is that the British have never truly acknowledged or apologised for what they have done to vast masses of the world’s population, who they continue to vilify as regressive, or as terrorist fanatics, yet continue through their derogatory and ill-informed attitudes, to perpetuate the problems that their individual systems of greed have caused. And of course, do nothing to redress.
Of course the problems continued, as the Arabs struggled to free themselves, for these wronged people had never had a country of their own. The Suez canal, where thousands of Egyptians died for the dividends given to British shareholders was only nationalised in 1956, by Gamal Abdel Nasser, when the British attacked again. Nasser, one of the few leaders in history brave enough to stand up against the west, drew opposition from America and Britain, because he sought to introduce socialist reforms, aimed at helping millions of his starving countrymen. He was branded as a communist by the Americans, who did not like the fact that they could not exploit trade of a minority of financiers imposing their own interest of self-enrichment against the suffering masses of millions, from Egypt, to Korea, Vietnam, Chile, Russia, or anywhere in the world that held economic interests different to their own. Egypt was nationalised finally, but now fell pray to a complete nationalistic mentality of confrontation, with a succession of military rulers governing, imposing order with an iron fist, and never having granted a true voice to its millions of suffering people. And because of having never had a stable, representative government, perhaps ever in the country’s history, Egypt remains a dangerous place that is prone to continuous cycles of violence, revolution and coups for power, that carries on to this day. As a result, the traveller wandering in Egypt today is often met with a great degree of hostility, and as tourism has all but disappeared, one is seen as a representation or a symbol of money, on whom it is expedient to infringe upon, to take, and less often to give. This is of course a natural corollary of western free market capitalism, yet among the poverty stricken world of the losing side, it takes a harder, edgier, rawer form, and is hard to accept or live with at peace. For all of the beauty of the ancient Egyptian world, Egypt today remains a harsh and sometimes inhospitable place.
I contemplated all of this while standing in the throne room of the Manial palace, fascinated by the magnetic pull that power and luxury have on the human mind.
Must one be a tyrant to live in opulence and beauty? Is there really too much competition in a world of limited resources, where beauty is at a premium, that one must fight their way to a life of calm opulence among a pleasure garden such as this? And what was it all worth anyway for him, after his death, when the country of his people fell apart? What is it worth for any individual to amass wealth, after an individual’s death, when they have left behind only squalor and pain? Yet this beautiful place remains, as a memory of the succulent fruit that fell from the dark tree of ruthless power. I stepped out of the Mandial palace and walked out of my ruminating thoughts, into the falling night. It was dark all day, here on Mercy Street. Yet in the end, I had found my way into the cold white light.
I travelled south through Egypt, along the Nile, and eventually I came to the beautiful city of Aswan.
Here is the heart of Africa, and the home of the Nubian people, who appear with a slightly gentler, more relaxed disposition than the crowded Arabic world of the north, though the invasive street hawkers continued to press and grab.
Here in Aswan, I walked along the banks of the Nile. The sunset on the Nile is one of the most beautiful moments that I have experienced, and here, I saw a beautiful scene, as a solitary figure prays on a boat in front of the purple, blushing sunset. I am an atheist, yet there is something immensely beautiful about this scene. Aswan at sunset, dreams that were out of this world.
As I walked in the heart of Nubia, I gazed at the gently drifting white boats and colourful flowers, among the beautiful scenery of Africa. Emotional resonance, dreams of parting from a thousand lives, rippling through the Nile.
In a lost reverie, by the silent waters of the Nile, I stood with an open heart.
By the banks of the river, I looked at the wind flower, trembling lonely in the cool winter breeze, and again Rumi spoke:
“Somewhere beyond right and wrong is a garden. My friend, I will meet you there”.
I sailed out among the swaying waters, waiting for sunset. And as I leaned out of my felucca boat, arm hanging out freely in the air, I felt the wind against my face.
In Aswan, on the boat, I titled my work “The King of Nubia”. It is a photograph of my felucca boatman Ibrahim, who every so often stood up on the swaying boat, and shouted “I am Muhammad Ali, the King of Nubia!”. I hoped to create something very warm, intimate and genuine with this photograph. I hoped that the whiteness would give a peaceful and serene effect, and with the high exposure, would create an even more powerful feeling.
After sailing on the Nile, we came to the garden that waited on the horizon, Kitchener’s Island, an oasis of green, with blood-red blossoming flowers in the centre of the river’s heart.
Here among the bloodflowers of the river, I thought of the song by The Cure, as a boatman emerged into the hanging flowers on the right.
"This dream always ends" I said,
"This feeling always goes,
The time will always come to slip away".
"This wave always breaks" I said,
"The sun always sets again,
And these flowers will always fade".
"This world always stops" I said,
"This wonder always leaves,
The time will always come to say goodbye".
"The tide always turns" I said,
"This night always falls again
And these flowers will always die".
It is what it is - the memory remains, the viewer and the subject trapped together in the sands of time. She said that these bloodflowers will never fade. But in my heart of hearts, I knew the impermanence of all things.
I left Aswan, and continued on the road south along the Nile. Eventually I crossed the Sahara desert, stretching out for miles, on the dry road to nowhere.
Along my journey, I came to Abu Simbel temple, after a long drive out, near to the border with Sudan. Here in Abu Simbel, I saw the giant Pharaohs of stone looming before me. The rock carvings were stunning to behold.
Abu Simbel’s ancient Egyptian wonder was an incredible experience, the most stunning of all pharaonic stone carvings, and a dramatic photograph of two people walking past each other without even realising or ever knowing about each other’s lives, with the weight of history behind them. And returning through the Sahara desert, the impressions were impossible to forget.
In the temple, with “Summoning the Genie”, I created a photography work inspired by the classic tales of the Arabian nights. How did I achieve the effect of making the turbaned man like a ghost, or a genie? I used the aperture at a low f/ setting and decided to shoot in the dark. Furthermore I shot in raw. I knew that as it would take more time for the lens to let in more light as it focuses, that this would create a blurred effect and that if there was movement, it would accentuate the motion and give the effect that would put my fantastical idea into practice.
The genie would have granted me three wishes, but I did not want them. I had only one wish, among the candlelight. To be at peace. But this is something we must all fight for. And only you can heal your life. My photography depicts the beauty of the world. It is about representing the ideal states of seeing, feeling and existing. By representing ideal moments of beauty, my photography is depicting the world as it could be. Photography is a reflection of reality, and it enhances the reality, as seen, and as felt, through my eyes. And through your eyes, you are seeing a reality that has value. It is not an escape from the truth - look at something long enough, and you will see that it brings joy and liberation. But more on that later, when we travel together to Cambodia. Because I do not do photojournalism of sensationally negative events, or talk at length about negative current affairs, does not mean that my writing or photography is somehow less “real”. Negative stories form only a small portion of real life - they are simply things that are remembered by people for evolutionary purposes to ensure future survival, and such negativity is then seized on and exploited for individual greed and commercial self-enrichment - and that is what you will see on the “news”. But there is nothing “new” about the “news”. Because the world is truly beautiful, everywhere you look. If you really look. The smile in your mother’s eyes. A light in the window on Sugar Street. The way that the candles light your lover’s face. The gift of the river. Beautiful memories of laughter with friends, dispersing in the dusty desert wind.
Read on for the next chapter via the home page, as we are about to enter our journey together to - VIETNAM......