HELIOPOLIS The Dream of a Baron

The audible rumble of the tram’s wheels herald its arrival to the station of Heliopolis, just as the date clock clicked over to 1910.

In the same era a Belgium Engineer, Baron Empain bought a plot of Egyptian desert, found a French architect to build an Indian Palace for a residence and a scale model of Saint Sophia’s Cathedral in Istanbul for a church.

Now time travel to present day Heliopolis and the characters are still as cosmopolitan. I am being given a history lesson by a Latin Catholic Priest about New Cairo or Masr El Gedida, now known as Heliopolis which means City of the Sun.

In the early 1900’s Cairo was a fashionable place for Europeans to have a second residence, particularly on the banks of the Nile. Enter the Baron; his vision was to create Utopia in the middle of the Desert. His business was electricity and trams, thus providing the means for residents to travel to their workplaces in downtown, a 12 kilometre journey through empty desert with sand as far as the eye could see. His original reason for being in Cairo was to create a railway from Cairo to Ismalia. Being a Man of foresight, his other business interests included banking, so he set up a bank to finance this dream.

Heliopolis was quickly considered “the jewel in the sand”, and became an envied location. The government required that 5/6 of the 25 square kilometre land site be allocated for the people to use. This impacted on his town plan with a wide promenade leading from his palace past the church to a racetrack. The resulting affect is a lavish feeling of wide-open spaces.

The Baron’s Palace (Qasr al-Barun) is a replica of one of the Indian temples of Madora; Hindu inspired reliefs of snakes, elephants, Shivas and temple dancers adorn the ornamentally rich facades.

The Basilica is in the historical heart of Heliopolis. Modeled on Istanbul’s Aya Sofya and its Byzantine style, it is affectionately known as the “Jelly Mould”. The interior has its own riches, stained glass windows, a large organ from Belgium towers over the congregation while granite pillars floated from Aswan provide the foundations for the light filled unadorned dome.

Father Mattie, my historian offered another hidden gem, the Baron’s mausoleum which is housed in the floor of the church. With a wonderful sense of theatre the carpet is rolled back and a portal is opened by a 3 ft turnkey placed in the altar floor. As the key is turned the floor at the base of the altar moves and steps appear; Oh! a hidden room. He beckons, down the marble steps and into the crypt of Baron Empain and his son. It’s sombre with a large dark sarcophagus, 2 photographs of father and son and the family crest, which signifies the Sun of Heliopolis, the River Nile, 2 lotus flowers and the Belgium crown. On the walls marble plaques tell of the 2 men’s achievements, which are filled with remarkable deeds and accolades. The senior Baron was also responsible for the Paris Metro and other rail projects from the Congo to China.

Around the Basilica are towers built to resemble Istanbul and its neo-Moorish skylines. During the earthquake of 1992, the top portion of these towers fell off. Looking north in front of the church is Al-Ahram Sharia in the past it was also known as “the street of the Pyramids” as it ran in a line to the pyramids of Giza.

The next stop on the town plan is the racecourse built on the present Merrylands gardens. Father Mattie tells a delightful story: the racetrack had a secondary purpose apart from entertainment. All the fastest horses in town would race there so the Officials and the Wealthy bought the fastest winners in case there was a rebellion. Whether it was to enable them to catch the bad guys or to run away, we shall never know.

Heliopolis celebrated its 100th birthday last year and I am sure the Baron would be delighted to know that 75% of the buildings erected before 1937 are still standing. His dream has become history and the trams still rumble past echoing life.

Sydney Cove

Returning to Australia and not residing in my home state, I felt like a tourist
in my own country. Being Australian does not mean I know all about Australia; take for example the area known as Sydney Cove in New South Wales.

What did Captain Cook see? A green forested backwater. Imagine his shock if he was able to see today’s images of the Australian shoreline with its 21st century skyline. The First Fleet chose Sydney Cove for the colony’s birthplace, thus began an exciting saga in a foreign land.

The convicts were sent ashore onto the rocks to build crude structures for shelter; this area “the Rocks” is now described as “Sydney’s outdoor museum” with the biggest concentration of historic buildings in Sydney.

Sandstone buildings echo history with the oldest dwelling , Cadman’s Cottage is dated at 1816. Today, restaurants, art galleries, museums, terrace houses and pubs dot “the Rocks”. Legends, ghost stories even an archaeological dig add to the mystique. The Hero of Waterloo Hotel has a tunnel where drunken sailors were kidnapped to nearby wharves, giving a new meaning to “last drinks”.

During storms water gushed down the uneven narrow cobble stone lane known as “Suez Canal”. Gang controlled Villains with murderous intentions waited in dark hidey-holes for the drunken or unsuspecting passer by; even water rats are part of “the Rocks” history due to an outbreak of bubonic plague.

Next-door to the “the Rocks” is the Harbour Bridge colloquially referred to as the Coat Hanger because of its striking arch-based design. Design of the day called for an all steel structure fabricated in England, shipped to Sydney then riveted together like a Meccano set. The bridge has its own chequered history: when the Premier of NSW was about to open the bridge in 1932, a man in military uniform rode forward on horseback and slashed the ribbon with a sword, declaring the bridge to be open "in the name of His Majesty the King and the decent and respectable citizens of New South Wales". He was promptly arrested. The ribbon was hurriedly retied and Lang performed the official opening ceremony. For its 75th anniversary, 250,000 people walked over the bridge. For the adventurous you can climb the arches and enjoy views far and wide; not for the faint hearted!!

Sydney Cove was chosen for settlement because it had ‘the finest spring of water’. When the supply was threatened convicts were ordered to dig holding tanks in the hope of maintaining a water supply. This proved to be unsustainable and the Tank Stream was progressively covered and is now a storm water channel lost among a maze of tall buildings. A remarkable thought when you walk up Tank Stream Lane and think about a trickle lost to progress, out of sight and out of mind.

“Concrete frame and precast concrete ribbed roof” is not quite the description you expect for the Opera House. One of the world’s most recognizable buildings and an Australian icon, it has been nominated in the election to determine the New Seven Wonders of the World. Performances grand and intimate in theatres and concert halls ricochet in the sails. Light, like musical melodies resonates throughout the startling wondrous shapes. Morning, noon and dusk’s hues are like the arc of a rainbow falling on the tiles, their dappled palette shimmering in the aqua of Sydney Harbour.

No longer quiet, Sydney harbour bustles with container ships, oil tankers, cruise liners, ferry boats and pleasure crafts of many designs and nationalities, all jostling for position and timetables, embarkation and destination for their treasures and passengers. Architectures new and old are neighbours, residential and government sharing the same splendid foreshore. History is etched by brass discs in the footpath showing the original shoreline from 1788 and mirrored in glass filled skyscrapers reflecting the Governor’s residence and motifs from the past. Australia’s original inhabitants, Aboriginals share their “Dreamtime” stories with tourists at the Quay, all part of the rich tapestry of life in Sydney Cove.

I joined a group of foreign tourists for a harbour cruise and like them marvelled at the wonders of this location which shares the title of “Most Beautiful Harbours of the World” with Rio de Janeiro, Capetown, San Francisco and Vancouver. Delighting in the Bridge, Opera House and “the Rocks”, contemplating on all the history and adventures past and present in the small space called Sydney Cove, I felt privileged to be an Australian.

Tiger, Tiger, purrrrrr

Adventure comes in many forms; we thought India and Tigers, were an irresistible combination for variety and the unusual.

Corbett National Park, is India’s first national park, located in the foothills of the Himalayas and inspired the India wide Project Tiger programme which started in 1973 and saw the creations of 22 other reserves, the Lonely Planets guide advises. Elephants in national parks are becoming rather special, we believe there are only 3 parks in India that offer the opportunity to tiger spot from elephant back. This is one of the reasons we chose Corbett.

A predawn start, with a cast of many: Guide, Cook and Driver, Peter and I journey by Jeep with trailer to the jungle. Forty minutes later we met up with our elephant (Laxmi) and his two handlers (Mahawats) who washed his back clean of any small stones before placing and tying on the seating platform. Standing four metres high we had no intention of following the handlers who ran up the elephant’s trunk to take our positions. An embankment was found and we gingerly mounted the seat. After swaying around for a while we both noticed our knuckles were white. It is a very odd sensation travelling on elephant back; you are seated sideways and yet travelling forwards.

In our quest to spot a tiger, we journeyed through dense jungle, vegetation that was lush and green, past raging rivers, surrounded by cloud shrouded hills and mountains. Jungle noises a plenty, monkey cries, shrill and alarming, birds, called and sang, a few deer but alas no sign of a tiger. However we kept our eyes wide open and after seeing some footprints in the sand by the river we were a little less casual, about how we hung on to our seat. Imagine a dinner plate, that is roughly the diameter of the tiger’s paw print large and scary, exciting , also the fact that the indentation they were only 12hours old, heightened the excitement .

After a couple of river crossings we pressed on towards the Forest Rest House. Set high above the river, this 100 year old structure was built by the British with 18 foot ceilings and a fireplace in each room. It was rather romantic, dinner by candlelight, warmth by fire and a bird bath from a bucket of hot water, great fun. Being winter we appreciated the log fire with some of the logs being broken by Laxmi, he is a strong boy. Heavy rain on a tin roof and feeling snug seemed a long way from the reality and frantic pace of city life.

We bid Laxmi goodbye, he had a two day trek back to the resort and we pressed on by jeep due to the inclement weather. Fording the swollen rivers was an adventure, to be surpassed only by the narrow tracks around the mountain a couple of hundred metres above the river. To the north lay the foothills of the Himalayas covered by a dusting of overnight snow. India is full of contrasts. Wrapped in blankets to combat the wind chill factor of our open jeep, we took in some wonderful sights of fertile valleys with their terraced fields of wheat and mustard seed, layer apon layer of vivid green and earth coloured soils. Our guide Hem, told stories of local lore, of leopards and the men who went off to the military in order to feed their families. Life is hard here.

Leaving the valley a narrow track took us high onto the hills above the tiger reserve. Fresh Tiger scratch marks on the base of a tree, the liquid sap, caught, the attention of our guide we were given a lesson in animal behaviour. The scratches were from the tiger cleaning his paws after a kill. The marks were long and deep, menacing, you could almost feel the animals power, it is easy for your imagination to run away unchecked, is he up or down the hill, watching us, you expect to hear a low growl.

Safely in the grasslands and a couple of river crossings later we pulled up at another rest house which housed an elephant. We were quick to accept the opportunity of a ride while the cook prepared breakfast.

This time we had a platform to mount the elephant; we were old hands at this. Fifty metres from the clearing the handler pointed to fresh tiger tracks in the creek bed, hearing the monkeys calls signalling danger to the other prey of the tiger, we were off up the creek. We needed little encouragement to hang on and be silent. When the Mahawat, pulled up the bottom of his hat to uncover his ears so he could hear better, we straightened up and hung on. This adventure was removed from our daily lives, our heart raced, this was intense and exhilarating!!!

The elephant made his way around and through the thick undergrowth but alas the tiger was not to be seen. The Mahawat decided the other side of the valley might yield a better result. Not until we got to the river did we realise we had to cross this fast flowing stream. Had we known there were crocodiles around we would have hung on even tighter!! More thick undergrowth, more tiger paw marks in the sand; more sharp shrill alarm calls from the monkeys. The handler listened intently. Our elephant navigated the narrow animal paths and pushed through the straw coloured undergrowth. No doubt the elusive tiger watched us from an obscure vantage point. Meantime there were plenty of deer, monkeys and birds. Even a tortoise swam around in a small pool. Being on elephant back, the other animals did not see us as a threat. We could have reached out and touched the deer. We were really glad we had chosen to ride elephants; this was so much closer to nature than in a motor vehicle and was really a lot of fun. The elephants were delightful, they looked at you with a twinkle in their eyes, I think they shared the fun.

TURKEY, A LAND OF CHOICES

What would attract you to an adventure in Turkey? Would it be?

∑ Turkish Architecture, Imperial mosques, Ottoman mansions and palaces
∑ Ancient Cities, strolling among Greek and Roman archaeological sites
∑ Museums housing Byzantine icons, Ottoman calligraphy, Turkish folklore
∑ Hiking along the Black sea, the surreal valleys of Cappadocia
∑ Cave churches around Goreme
∑ Skiing in the mountains of eastern Turkey

∑ Marine cruising, travelling in a gullet – a traditional Turkish motor-sailer
∑ Keyf the Turkish art of quiet relaxation.
∑ Hamams, the Turkish bathhouses direct successors of the roman steam baths of two millennia ago
∑ Enjoying the 7000km of coastline, bays and inlets the Aegean and Mediterranean waters
∑ Browsing through the 4000 shops in Istanbul’s Kapali Carsi

Architecture, History, Exploring and lots of Keyf; let the adventure begin.

Today Istanbul’s skyline is a fusion of present and past fringing the Bosphorus with Old Istanbul containing a treasure cache of Palaces, mosques and museums, all world renowned, enticing international tourists.

Sultanahmet with its Ottoman houses, mansions and historic buildings was where we established ourselves to explore the riches of the city. It is around the corner from the Golden Horn, a historic harbour which houses the freshest seafood markets and restaurants, just hours from sea to plate. Here we met the first of many interesting characters; George from Georgia who organised the best table in the closest restaurant to the Sea of Marmara, so close we could taste the salty spray from the trawlers on their way to work. The owner introduced himself as Ali Baba, true story. George also tried to extend some local cheers to us at 10 in the morning by offering a glass of Raki, he suggested it had great medicinal properties, but George didn’t look much like a doctor.

A local ferry ride up the Bosphorus, towards the Golden Gate look a like bridge that joins European to Asian shores was our exploring choice. Crossing over to Asia at Uskudar we wandered through local markets. Sampling Turkish delight was a delight. There were dozens of variations, we preferred the traditional. The fruit and veg were garden-fresh, crisp and enticing. Turk’s seldom eat frozen food, with so much fresh produce around why buy second-hand! There was little evidence of genetic engineering in the fruit. Except for a new watermelon where the seeds have been crossed with ants; when you cut it open the seeds run away. Bingo: seedless watermelon!!! (George from Georgia told us this one.)

Our time in Istanbul was limited, so we caught taxis everywhere. Turkish Taxi Drivers are a capricious group of people; we decided to group them into “the 40 thieves”. Guess we looked new to town! They certainly did not reflect the everyday Turk. We found the Turkish people warm, friendly and generous; always a smile and a delightful sense of humour.

The Kariye Museum found off the tourist path and little known, was a notable find. Originally the Church of the Holy Savoir, it was erected in the 5th century and now houses stunning 14th century mosaics and frescoes depicting biblical scenes from Adam to the life of Christ. Domed Byzantine paintings that glow adorn the interiors, intricate details, radiant pigments, they dazzle the eye; and enrich the heart and soul.

This tourism business is hard work, nothing like a nice cup of apple tea. The Pera Palais offered a historic and nostalgic spot for a cuppa. The hotel was built to accommodate guests arriving on the Orient Express, carried to the hotel by sedan chairs no less. The guest list is a repertoire of who’s who; room 411 was where Agatha Christie wrote, “Murder on the Orient Express”. Mata Hari strutted her stuff and Mustapha Kemal Ataturk’s room 101 has been converted into a Museum. Ataturk became Turkey’s first president when he overthrew the Ottoman Empire in 1924. Capturing the faded opulence of a rich past today the art deco interiors and original elevator exude a tangible aura of escapism.

With Independence came a 25 year ban on the practice of “The Whirling Dervishes”. The mystical sect of Islam, Sufism has been practiced for nearly 700 years. Mevlana the master- believed whirling and circling created a union with God that could induce a trancelike state of universal love. We saw the Sema, the whirling dance, communing with their faith; the believers dressed in white flowing robes and fess hats.

Breakfast from the balcony of our hotel previewed the Sultan Ahmet Camii – the Blue Mosque. The mosque’s vantage position dominates over the city. The blue of the mosque’s name comes from the Iznil tiles, which contour the domes. Access of choice is via the Hippodrome which contains an Obelisk brought from Aswan 3000 year ago, an unexpected sight; Egypt in the heart of Istanbul. Climbing the stairs, the mosque’s many domes and minarets come into view, a path to spiritual heaven harmonious lines in true Ottoman style.

Superb examples of Ottoman houses lovingly restored: ornately carved ceilings, tiered levels, segregated sections adorned with fabrics, textiles and tiles, we left behind as we journeyed to Kutahya in the north Aegean region of Turkey. It was around the 1500’s that Kutahya’s tile making industry fired up. There are 3 general grades of work; the lowest is Turist isi or tourist work, then Fabrika isi (apprentices’ work) and Ozel isi (the Master’s work). We enjoyed Keyf in a hot springs resort in the foothills; great in summer but frozen in winter.

Still in the north Aegean, Eskisehir is a modern city with trams; waterways and an energized buzz. Many travellers come to Eskisehir to purchase meerschaum, a soft material – German for sea foam, Iuletasi in Turkish. Meerschaum is used for carving, with pipes being the most popular design. Devotees even wear gloves when smoking their pipes to prevent them from being tarnished by skin oils.

One of our choices led us to Konya in South Central Anatolia, regarded as the breadbasket of Turkey. The home of the Whirling Dervish is the Mevlana Museum, a holy site. Omar Khayyam the noted Poet came from this region. South east of Konya lies Catgal Hoyuk discovered by the British archaeologist James Mellaart in the 1960’s and proclaimed to be the world’s oldest known human community. The evidence of a civilisation 9,000 years ago makes the Pharaohs of Egypt youngsters.

Trekking in the outskirts of Konya through pine forests, glimpsing distant snow peaks, up hill and down dale. Sharing the location with sheep farmers and their fierce guard dogs armed with barbwire collars and ferocious barks. Their role is to protect the sheep against wolves. We passed gypsy camps made of fabric, toured through old villages where only the men were to be seen, drinking Turkish tea or selling wild mushrooms.

My choices took me to the region of Cappadocia in Central Anatolia, an area of about 50 square miles, transiting along wind swept topography and undulating grasslands with snow capped mountain ranges on the distant earth line then into a terrestrial universe of shapes, shades and surfaces. I experienced sensory overload. Centuries of nature’s erosion have sculpted the soft volcanic tufa cones into minarets, rocky pinnacles, spires and fairy chimneys; shades of creams, pinks and milk coffee browns, the tufa soar as high as 5 stories. In the Valley of the Fairy Chimneys, tufa cones are topped with flattish darker stones that resemble hats angled with attitude as if to say “look at me”. The wind playing around the cones felt like fairy dust; there was magic in nature’s genius.

Goreme is some 250 kilometres east from Konya. Walking is a feature of the region. The awe-inspiring valleys around Goreme and Zelve settings not easily forgotten as they bewitch you, open-air museums and national parks all come under the UNESCO heritage umbrella. It is not hard to understand why this is a special place

Ancient inhabitants hollowed out the cones and cliffs and created troglodyte style caves that resemble honeycomb; they are still lived in today. Further south are the primordial underground cities of Derinkuyu and Kaymakli, 8 levels deep and as you go down it is like entering a huge and complex earth toned Swiss cheese.

Cappodocia was on a major trade route and was home to a dozen civilizations. Early Christians arrived in the 4th century and sculpted rock domed churches with vaulted ceilings and pews; it is said there was once more than 400 churches, some with a rich bonanza of Byzantine frescoes. When invaders struck the Christians simply rolled stones across the entrances and moved underground.

Returning to above ground we ran out of time but not choices. Turkey is tourism must see with even more choices than the introduction suggests.

Sufi Dancing

The rhythm of life in Cairo begins around dawn with the first call to prayers. This tempo continues throughout the day. Islam and the faithful are seldom out of sync.

Nowhere is this more apparent than in Sufi dancing, the nature of which is a spiritual religious ceremony transcending into performing art. For over 700 years the Sufi, a mystical branch of Islam has honored the tradition.

Twice weekly in Cairo there are Sufi (Whirling Dervish) performances, although performances do not accurately describe the pleasure the dancers and musicians derive and generate. The Persian word “darwish” (literally the sill of the door) is accepted in Arabic as “dervish” to describe the Sufi who is the one at the door to enlightenment. Originally the dance, more accurately a movement, was performed in “tekkes” or dervish schools which were also prayer lodges.

The smiles, the passion, the mischief; the astonishing ability to spin and whirl without pause for extended periods draws delighted sighs and amazement from the audience.

Held at an arts centre in old Cairo, seating is in a star filled open-air walled section. The setting is simple, allowing music, song and dance to take centre stage.

Musicians gather, dressed in pure white flowing galabayas with woven turbans, fess hats and tassels. Drums, flutes, string instruments, tambourines and an Egyptian version of castanets all tinker. The viewers sit forward anticipating a treat.

The first notes begin; a soft breeze catches the tune and delivers it to the audience; it’s exotic; it’s strong. It is beautiful and takes the listener on a journey through a sacred faith. Musicians play for themselves, for each other and for you, the audience.

The harmonies are rich, the melodies are a tapestry and infectious. Select performers move forward to serenade with their own instruments, the castanet’s player clicked and jingled, his arms and expressions rose and fell in tune with the troupe. The audience was his, to do with as he wished. His eyes twinkled. His long white robes floated as he pranced and strutted across the stage sharing his humour and delight; his rhythms become your rhythms.

A solitary figure clothed in robes of many colours and layers magically next appeared on centre stage. He acknowledged the audience then began to move clockwise to circle time and time again. One of my companions timed the dancer’s seamless circles, which were without pause for 30 minutes. The dancer had 5 coloured patterned tambourines, which he balanced, arranged and reordered many times. The circling was mesmerising; the rhythm a journey. The tambourines were retired; their part in the ritual completed. The dancer next removed his jacket; all the while his step was unbroken. The fabric of his skirts extended an arms length from his waist, there were 3 layers of skirts, which moved with their own energy and pulse. Fluid, full, a visual circle that seemed to extend the space occupied by the dancer.

Traditional Sufi Dervish chant a “dhikr”, the repetition of "la illaha illa'llah" (there is no god but God). However, some Dervish may only repeat "Allah" because they know man can die at any moment, and they want only the name of God on their lips and in their hearts. The left foot of the whirler should never be raised, but sometimes it is, in a moment of ecstasy.

The top skirt was loosened and raised in a slow transit. Imagine water, liquid in nature but in a contained space. The removal of the top skirt was flowing and uninterrupted; the colours vivid and alive, all the while the dancer’s circular journey seemed to defy the laws of motion. Rhythm and grace in an unbroken worship. His face took on a tranquil trance-like veneer, his arms gently travelled from across his chest, as if in prayer, to above his head; a celebration of his faith, a thanksgiving. His feet, covered in soft pale shoes continued an unhurried clockwise dance; turn, turn, turn.

The music complimented the orchestral beat; the next layer of skirt was removed in a gentle flourish of swirl and colour. The last layer was lighter; the oscillations providing the momentum, the flow of the fabric rose and fell in tune with the synchronized gestures.

To an unknown note the celebration stopped. The dancer ceased his movements. He focused on the audience, re-establishing contact, his sight clear, his smile full and his state of being blissful. The dancer’s rhythmic prayer had peaked and ended.

The rhythm of daily life in Cairo was drawn to a close with the evening call to prayers.