It is a sultry, hot day, the south wind is not blowing, and so the dream of our excursion on a felucca around Elephantine Island also fades. We do it by motor boat, rather quickly, until I catch a glimpse of the Old Cataract, the legendary hotel of Aswan, overlooking the Nile. It doesn’t look such, but then…what is the reason for its fame?
Ahead I seem to have an afternoon of reclusion in the cabin of the motorboat, as the weather is unmanageable on deck. A few fellow travelers take part in the excursion to the Nubian village not far from here, perhaps better than battling the dust and insects in our rooms. Ahmed tells me that I can freely leave the motorboat, withdraw cash from the ATM and hail a taxi. This is not really the case, the police slavishly control every entry and exit from the landing stage, plus I don’t think it is the best idea to stand alone in front of a bank counter, let alone get into a car without speaking a word of Arabic.Finally I make up my mind: I go down to reception and start negotiating: I would like a transfer for three people to escort us to the Old Cataract, later to become five….maybe a felucca is better? We could reach it by river. Finally there are eight of us, and we are given a very advantageous price for a four-wheeled round trip. We leave the landing stage and a red-light bus is waiting for us, ‘adorned’ with a few posters of hot women and psychedelic lights. We could easily fit eight of us, but the police intervene, admonishing the motorboat boy who kindly offers to come and guard the taxis on the way to the hotel. It is not understandable why, but it becomes clear that the group has to split up and three girls from our group get into the smashed taxi of a driver who is completely toothless. They drive off into the hubbub of Aswan and I feel some unease. Later we catch up with them in the race, after about ten minutes we are finally at the Old Cataract. Perhaps not as triumphant as the arrival I had imagined in the carriage, but there it is.
‘This was Omar Sharif’s suite, this one Mitterrand’s, the other Lady Diana’s..she stayed here with both Charles and Dodi. After all, there is also Sarkozy’s, I was in charge of his reception,’ explains the butler Ahmed with some pride. At first he looked at us suspiciously, no doubt thinking that we were eight rowdy Italians who wanted to sneak into a luxury hotel to spy on it and undermine its charm. Then, after reassuring him of our intentions by showing him that we had booked a drink on the terrace, I started to press him.
‘I would like to see… if possible… Restaurant 1902’.
‘The Restaurant is closed until dinner time, but let’s see what I can do..’.
The Cataract butler leads us through the hotel’s magnificent corridors, in perfect late 19th-century colonial style. With his elegant, plush step, he shows us the way, in his light grey tailcoat, well matched by his Nubian complexion and dinner jacket. He knocks, sneaks into the salon, and opens the doors wide just for us. Suddenly we are in a large Moorish-style atrium, soft lighting… they are setting up the elegant round tables for dinner. Designed by Englishman Henri Favarger, the 1902 Restaurant combines Moorish interior architecture with Victorian exteriors.
‘There at the back, by the window… dined Winston Churchill and the King during the work on the first dam in the early 1900s.’
‘Is it possible to visit Winston’s suite?’, I ask.
‘Unfortunately it is not accessible, it is currently occupied by visitors. It is not easy to find it vacant, normally our guests, mostly British, French, Northern European, American, always try to reserve it generously in advance’.
I am disappointed, but I ask Ahmed, my eyes twinkling, ‘but what if we could see Agatha Christie’s suite instead?’
‘I will have to check with the staff, Miss, I will let you know. In the meantime, you can sit down for an aperitif on the terrace’.
As outside visitors, we can only head for the hotel’s enchanting lobby and the nearby library, filled with volumes and prints amassed in front of a large fireplace. A truly immersive experience tracing the history of Egypt and the topography of the Nile. An old-fashioned parlour, reminiscent at best of the ambience of an English mansion on a rainy afternoon in the Moors. Later on, we have access to The Bar, a British-style piano bar embellished with elegant Egyptian details: brass lantern chandeliers, mahogany furniture upholstered in velvet. The ideal setting where King Fuad and Sir Churchill enjoyed a fine whisky or Martini dry.
Instead, we choose to hang out on the terrace, at the Promenade, as recommended by the butler. After a couple of wrought-iron belle epoque annexes, the Old Cataract overlooks the Nile promenade, surrounded by palm trees and lush vegetation. One can also dock here directly, especially when staying in the New Cataract, the hotel’s newest space where Kissinger secretly conducted ceasefire negotiations at the outbreak of the Kippur War in 1973. A New York Times article of 15 January 1974 reported Kissinger’s statement back than: ‘This is the toughest negotiation I’ve been in, certainly the most complex.’
There is not much of a sunset, a certain haze is gathering, the sky is sand-coloured. Some laze at tea time, we order a cocktail, we all wait to see the sun go down behind the sands of the Nubian desert, in the distance. In front of us stands Elephantine Island, where Sarah Bane, wife of Giovan Battista Belzoni, lived for some time. A British adventurer who followed her husband in his archaeological exploits, sometimes getting tired of waiting. At the beginning of 1818, dressed as a man, she set off alone for Palestine and visited the esplanade of the mosques in Jerusalem; she was the first woman to succeed in this undertaking. Now, in this instant, it is I who am looking at the Elephantine Island, enveloped by the south wind dragging the felucca traffic, gazing at the Aga Khan’s mausoleum on a sandy hill, further on. A true Vedutist painting, with Sudan, Africa, in the background.
And then the surprise, here in this hotel suspended in time. Agatha Christie’s suite: it was here that the famous English detective novelist wrote Murder on the Nile, what better place? Ahmed indulges me, realising that the interest is not superfluous, it is true mythomania. Soon we are also in Winston Churchill’s suite, opposite his original writing desk. Apparently, the suite coincidentally vacated earlier in the day. And it is when we access his private terrace… that we realise the sandstorm!
It’s time to go back, I have to find our driver’s number, it’s getting late, it’s the first time I’ve been in the middle of a storm, maybe all the plans have blown up? I feel like time is up for the spell I was dreaming away in. Yet no, the sandstorm seems ordinary for the people of Aswan. We leave the hotel and already our chauffeur is waiting for us, rather impatient, clearly claiming a tip. He fires up his Egyptian pop, we zoom along the Aswan promenade and before long we are in the motorboat. Our afternoon novel is over. The colonies, the Egyptologists, the writers, the stories of secret diplomatic negotiations… now we are back here, in our floating hotel, waiting for Oriental night. They are all dressed up in their trademark galabeya, ready for the party. I think I’ll enjoy instead the lonely night on deck, wandering the palm trees on the Nile, lucky witnesses to the stories and intrigues of the Old Cataract in years gone by…
