Exploring Egypt: A 'Death on the Nile' tour

The SS Sudan stood waiting for us, gleaming and moored in a quiet stretch of the River Nile at Luxor, once the ancient city of Thebes. We stepped into golden-age glamour as we crossed the gangplank with our trunks and Hercule Poirot-style straw hats, and were greeted by the delightful 60-strong crew, smartly dressed in maroon fezzes and pantaloons. Passing the original post box—still used for mailing letters—and the wood-panelled dining-room, we were shown to our expansive cabin with its splendid brass bedstead and spacious bathroom. A polished plate on the door identified each of the 18 cabins and four suites, which are named after a fictional or historical figure associated either with the ship or with Egypt. One paid tribute to Agatha Christie, while next-door we encountered the reassuring presence of her famous Belgian detective. In the 1930s, Christie had herself embarked on a journey aboard this legendary steamer that was to inspire Death on the Nile (one evening, to immerse us fully, the crew put on a screening of the latest film adaptation).

Resembling an opulent floating omnibus, the SS Sudan was commissioned by Thomas Cook, the pioneer of popular holidays to Egypt, and made her maiden voyage in 1921. She is the only surviving steam ship still paddling on the great river, offering her fortunate passengers an experience of the old glory days of travel. Once we had chugged away from Luxor’s noisy quay, the pattern of the days was as rhythmic as the movement of the water beneath us. Morning expeditions on land were expertly led by our guide Dr Mo, who took evident pleasure in sharing his encyclopaedic knowledge of Egypt’s history. During the first couple of days, we explored high above ground, visiting the gigantic temples of Karnak and Luxor, of Edfu and Kom Ombo, all representing some of civilisation’s greatest feats of engineering. Vast figures of gods, each with the head of an animal—a falcon, a cobra, a ram—guarded the entrances. Swallows swooped through vertiginous corridors illuminated by skylights carved into star-spangled blue-and gold ceilings. Every day, Dr Mo deciphered for us the minute hieroglyphics that cover every inch of wall space: the sensual curve of a woman’s body, the tenderness of a mother bending to feed her child, the plump grapes, and a perfectly-trussed chicken.

After these exhilarating expeditions, we’d return to the cool haven of the ship as the African heat began to build, to be welcomed onboard with glasses of ice-cold pink hibiscus juice. Following a delicious lunch of stuffed vine leaves, Nile perch poached with tarragon, and nectar-filled baklava, the afternoons became our own. A companionable hush would fall over the ship as we were propelled gently down river to the gentle whoosh-whoosh of the huge paddles, the engine’s pistons gliding silkily backwards and forwards. On the top deck, in the comfort of cushioned cane chairs, we’d doze, read, or simply gaze at the infinite variety of views. Sugarcane and reed beds lined the river bank, the red, sandy hills of the desert rising in the background haze. There were donkeys braying, bullocks grazing, children swimming, egrets fishing and tiny rowing boats nudging their way through countless small inlets. Once, a young man in a pale-blue djellaba galloped his horse into the river as the call to prayer echoed over the waters, dancing with green light. We basked in the sunshine, looking up at the buzzards that hovered above us and the billowing sails of the feluccas that sailed past. Myths and mysteries I had read about as a child suddenly felt real: I could imagine a basket containing a baby concealed among the bullrushes, or a golden barge with purple sails, bearing Cleopatra on her ‘burnish’d throne’; while the matriarchal goddess Isis, blessed with the power to heal the sick and bring the dead back to life, looked down on us from the walls of every temple, attired in her lovely sheath dress, presiding over us all.

On the fourth day, we had a dawn breakfast (taken early to avoid expeditions in the midday heat), before boarding a speedy little motorboat hung with rainbow bunting and crossing the river to the ‘Dead Side’, the bank where the bodies of the pharaohs were brought for burial. A short taxi ride later, we arrived at the Valley of the Kings. This astonishing cemetery, within a stark, heat shimmering panorama, has been preserved, like so many of the temples, by the huge sand drifts that for thousands of years covered the entrances to the tombs, where the kings who ruled Egypt between the 16th and 11th centuries BC were mummified and buried. They were then sent on their way to the afterlife from rooms adorned with brilliant multi-hued paintings and furnished with chariots, silver, food and possessions considered indispensable, such as a pair of sandals or a musical instrument.

In 1323 BC, the body of a boy king was placed within multiple coffins, his face protected by an electrifying gold-and-blue mask. Exactly a century ago, the British archaeologist Howard Carter uncovered the first of many steps that led down to Tutankhamun’s small tomb, which was crammed with treasures. Most of Carter’s sensational discoveries are displayed in the new £850 million Grand Egyptian Museum at Giza. But here, entirely alone in this profoundly moving space, we felt the real impact of the mystery of the underworld, the promise of the afterlife, the potency of the waiting gods. Being inside a grave that has fascinated the world for 100 years, and seeing the mummified body of this 19-year-old boy lying beneath a white sheet, his face and his feet blackened and wizened over millennia, felt humbling.

When the SS Sudan docked in Aswan, the wrench of disembarking from this enchanting ship was mitigated by a visit to the Old Cataract Hotel. It was here that Christie retired from the gaiety of shipboard life to a room overlooking the broad sweep of the Nile in which, in 1934, she wrote her famous murder-mystery. We took a turn round the city before enjoying a lunch of parsley and coriander infused tabbouleh that set us up for our last excursion, sitting beneath the wind-filled sails of a felucca that circled the bay, before mooring at Elephantine Island, home to a clutch of Nubian villages and some magnificent ancient temples. Back on the mainland, we braced ourselves to swim in the great river, which was reassuringly clean and crocodile-free, but surprisingly cold. 

Christie may have found that cruising the ancient waters of the Nile inspired her to write a grim tale of multiple murders, but it left us feeling refreshed, renewed, and full of the timeless joys of living.

 

This piece originally appeared in the print edition of Harper's Bazaar UK.

Feature photo: moju.95/instagram