30,000 years ago, some experts say, the survivors of Atlantis walked out of the setting sun and transformed a primitive Nile-side culture into a wise and powerful civilisation. As years passed, the story goes, Egyptian legend changed the west from an ancestral home into the ‘otherworld’, a kingdom of the dead, and the source of all wisdom.

Nowadays a few ‘seekers’ still look for this twilight realm. Not in order to die, but because they can see no other way to go on living.

‘Desperation is the raw material of drastic change; only those who can leave behind everything they have ever believed in can hope to escape,’ so read a passage from ‘The Western Lands.’ I was desperate alright, so I took the advice literally. I left my girlfriend, home, car and job and, carrying everything I owned on my back, I eloped to Egypt.

It was now my 5th day alone trekking in the Sahara, the world’s largest desert, and I had dogs on my mind. Besides Sirius, the dog star, glaring at me as I shivered in my sleeping bag each night, there had been the 3 dogs that had appeared out of the desert on my 1st day and guided me to Lake Wahid, a sparkling patch of deep blue nestling between dune fields. Their Jackal like appearances had led me to think about the Egyptian dog god Anubis, the patron saint of ancient travellers, known as the ‘Opener of the Ways’, and called upon frequently in the old days as a guide in both spiritual as well as physical matters. I could use his help, I thought as I hiked on through the great waterfalls of spectral silver sand that the howling wind whipped across the ever changing landscape, I haven’t a clue where I am, either in this desert or my head.

I hiked over 100 metre high whale-backed dunes, keeping to the windward side to avoid the quicksand, and past clearly defined ancient fossilised seashores. With no sign of life anywhere to distract me I sat for hours staring at the shimmering horizon. ‘You can’t outrun what’s ingrained in your mind,’ the emptiness seemed to echo, ‘no matter how far you travel.’ I pushed onwards, through the ocean of silence, the dunes of insanity, the vast perfection that is beyond the human ideals of heaven and hell. As the sun prepared to die once again I topped a rocky island and saw below me the deep blue Lake Zeitun, and the 300,000 palm trees of Siwa Oasis.

The Temple of the Oracle, perched high on a sandy hill, reflected perfectly in the still lake waters. Here, 2,333 years ago, Alexander the Great had wearily climbed up through the dark entrance passage after an epic 8 day desert trek in order to ask questions of the oracle, the wisest seer known to the ancient world. I approached the Inner Sanctuary, this wasn’t like other Egyptian temples, there was no guard, no entrance fee, no crowds; just me, kneeling in the same spot as Alexander, imagining times past and listening to the sounds of Siwa sifting through the heavy stone walls. Donkeys, cockerels, palms rustling, water chuckling, kids laughing, and never, ever, a voice raised in argument anywhere.

I sat in a tea garden in Siwa village centre, the bleats of goats and pigeon call in my ears, the smell of an open cooking fire mingling with that of sweet mint tea.

‘Have you a recent local map?’ I asked the waiter. He disappeared for a while, returning with one drafted by the British in 1941. ‘Oh, made by the army?’ I said.

‘Yes, before the Germans came. You know, General Rommel met the local chiefs in this very garden.’

‘What did he say?’

‘I’m not sure, the head chief is dead now, but his son, Mohammed Heida will know.’

Each day for a week I called at Mr Heida’s house, but nobody was there, so I gradually forgot about Rommel and concentrated instead on exploring Siwa. The centre of town was marked by the ruins of Shali, a 13th century mud fortress, now largely uninhabited but offering extensive views of the oasis for those willing to brave the climb to the top of the 5 storey high walls. At the summit I found a few discarded water bottles; thankfully the useless tourists who do such things are still a rare sight in Siwa. The main square below me was clogged with donkey cart traffic jams, farmers bartering for fruit and vegetables, and kids playing football. As a 100 strong flock of egrets flew overhead the call to prayer blasted out. I remembered my last visit here 7 years before, when the call was still made without loudspeaker by an old man from the minaret of the mud mosque built into the side of Shali. He was the last muezzin to call in this traditional way in the whole of Egypt.

‘He retired in 1999,’ said Mahdi, the tourist officer, ‘and there is nobody to replace him. Things are changing. Before the road to the outside was completed 17 years ago, Siwa was mainly mud houses without running water, electricity or TV. Now, conditions are better, but our traditions are dying! All our kids want to do is watch Ninja Turtles!’

I walked past low mud brick buildings out of town, old men sat in dusty alleys wrapped in light cotton robes and headscarves, drinking tea and chatting in the sun. They sat in noble silence as I passed but when I hailed them with a ‘Salaam!’ their faces crumbled into smiles. I greeted one old boy whilst he was eating and he was so eager to respond that he choked on his falafel. His rasping cough followed me as I slinked guiltily away into the palm groves.

Cleopatra’s Bath, a 10 metre wide and 3 metre deep pool of crystal clear mineral water, is sat smack bang in the middle of a dirt track 4 kms out of town. I generally bathed there in the afternoons, when I would be joined by the same group of long stay travellers and a few farmers who used the water to ritually wash before moving to a simple palm leaf prayer niche, which indicated the direction of Mecca. A small restaurant served cold drinks at the poolside and the waiter, Driss, acted as guardian for female swimmers who were sometimes pestered by young men unused to seeing anything more of a local woman than a body wrapped liberally in figure destroying layers of blue cloth. 

Alcohol is officially banned in Siwa but one afternoon I arrived at the pool to find Driss off his head and a local guy very chilled by the poolside.

‘He’s a brewer of whiskey,’ giggled Driss. I had a swig, it knocked me out, at least 60% proof high-octane white spirit. The brewer and I became drinking friends and we stumbled back to town together through the fruit gardens. A local law states that you can eat whatever you want from the gardens as long as you do so on the spot; take any food away and it becomes a crime. We gorged on plump dates until we could eat no more.

Sat on top of Shali one morning waiting for the sun to chase the cold away I listened to the dawn chorus of birds and donkeys, their voices clear in the still air. To the far northwest of town the mountains created inviting reflections in LakeSiwa so I rented a bike for £1 and cycled past vast expanses of Roman tombs and lush gardens before finding a silent lakeside picnic spot. The area is well known amongst alternative healers as a centre of high natural energy, it was certainly the most beautiful scenery that I'd witnessed for years. Hiking in the nearby hills I stumbled upon tomb after tomb, all open. Bones of long dead Roman citizens lay bleached white in the searing heat. I chose my steps carefully, who knew what was around the next corner. Jewels, ancient artefacts? Just recently the police had caught locals smuggling 2 mummies out of the region loaded with gold. It is even said by many that Alexander himself is buried there somewhere, waiting patiently until his turn comes to be dissected by scientists and leered at by tourists.

After 2 weeks I tried to leave Siwa on a night bus, but the ticket seller said, ‘Sorry, full!’ I would’ve left it at that had I not seen some locals buying tickets for the same service after I’d been turned away. So I complained to Mahdi at the tourist office, he in turn told the police chief, who called the mayor.

‘Tourists are being cheated!’ he said, ‘we must do something! This is a disgrace to Siwa!’ The Mayor spoke no English so an old guy who happened to be passing translated. We confronted the bus clerk, who sheepishly handed over a ticket to me, and as I offered my thanks the translator said,

‘May I introduce myself. My name is Mohammed Heida.’

‘You’re the man whose father met Rommel!’ I gasped.

‘Yes, I am. Would you like to come to tea?’

Mohammed served tea and dates picked from his own garden as we sat in a cool room lined with photos of Siwa, his father, and General Rommel. He spoke methodically, with long pauses. We talked of why the Italian army was hated in Siwa (cowards and brutal with it), why the British weren’t missed when they left (yobby - whats new), and of course the meeting between his father and the German General Rommel, who is still honoured in Western Egypt as a great liberator.

‘Rommel came here because he wanted to know if there was any other way get to Cairo other than the coastal route. It was here that he learned that the Qattara Depression was too steep for his tanks and that the road to Bahariyya too long, around 900kms to Cairo, for his fuel reserves. My father said that Rommel was that day a sad man. He knew he’d be beaten if he went via El Alamein, but he also knew that he had no choice but to try.’

Near Cleopatra’s Bath remnants of the Temple of Ammon saluted the sun. Pillars, heavy with ancient carvings showing the outstretched wings of Horus under a starry sky still flecked with original cobalt blue paint, lay in a pile, facing the earth. The famous Eye of Horus glowed, I returned it’s stare ignorantly until suddenly…

The ancient Egyptians revered 2 eyes, the left eye of Horus and the right eye of Ra. I looked at the distant temple of the Oracle using only my left eye, then again using my right. I could see fragments of the scene each time but only when I opened both eyes fully did all become clear before me. Was Siwa, and ancient Egypt, telling me that before I sought answers I had to re-evaluate how I used my senses, so that I could view that which lies beyond the physical?

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