Sunday in the Valley of Salts

My screeching alarm clock coincides perfectly with the call to prayer from a nearby mosque. It’s before dawn and I’m both disoriented and angry.

Where am I again? Oh yeah. Cairo.

Why am I awake so early?  Oh yeah. Emil.

I’ve just worked two weeks straight and, regardless of the opinions of the muezzin or my travel alarm, I should still be fucking asleep.

I’ve stayed in Egypt for an extra week beyond the end of a recent trip: just catch a little downtime and have some R&R after two intense weeks of pilgrimage and group travel. I have access to an apartment in Cairo, so this made it easy, and cheap. I’m looking forward to my first morning of sleeping late and having nothing to do or anyplace to be. So when my friend and guide of 12 years, Emil, calls the night before to say “You must come with me tomorrow” I’m a little hesitant. But I have learned over the years to say “yes” to the universe – especially when it shows up as Emil saying “You must come with me.”

“Where are we going?”

“Wadi Natrun.”

I like the name. “Where is that?”

“Halfway to Alex.” Anybody who’s been to Egypt more than once knows you don’t call it “Alexandria.” It’s just Alex.

“What’s there?”

“You will see. You will love it!”

That’s always the clincher. When Emil says “you will love it” I do.

Wadi El-Natroun, which translates roughly as “the valley of the minerals” (natron is actually a salt used in the mummification process), is not only the current epicenter of Coptic Christianity in Egypt, it was one of the very first areas to adopt Christianity during the first centuries of the Common Era.  In fact it might actually be the oldest enclave of Christianity in the world.

During the second Jewish revolt Rome not only destroyed Jerusalem, renaming it Aelia Capitolina, it forbade Jews to return to the city on pain of death. As a result the very earliest forms of Christianity, which were in truth a mutation of Judaism, flourished in areas outside of Jerusalem itself.

While the Diaspora flowed in many directions around the Mediterranean and into Anatolia and Europe, the delta region of Egypt made a natural refuge and provided a ready environment for the new religion to take root.

Coptic Christianity is, indeed, the oldest form of Christianity in the world, having been brought here by St. Mark in the first century A.D., and is a fascinating syncretism of Christian and Egyptian belief. The Coptic liturgy, performed in the Coptic language, is the closest thing to the sound of the ancient Egyptian language.

I have been many times to the Coptic areas of Old Cairo, but the opportunity to visit the Coptic equivalent of The Vatican is truly exciting, even at this God-forsaken hour.

It’s cold, even for January, so I throw on a down jacket over my galabayah – the long traditional “man dress” worn by many Egyptians. It might be a pretense, but it just feels strange to wear western clothes when I’m here.

Emil cackles when he see me.

“You look like a baggage handler!”

“Should I change?”

“No this is perfect. You’ll blend in.”

With my blonde hair and blue eyes, I doubt that.

We drive Emil‘s powder blue 1975 Mercedes sedan – which I have lovingly dubbed “The Blue Ghost” – for an hour down the “desert road” between Cairo and Alexander, before rendezvousing with “the key” (as Emil described him) Emil’s cousin. Many things in Egypt work this way: access to a place, a site, or a person, are dependent on some form of personal relationship: an uncle, a brother, a friend from school or the army, who becomes the facilitator, the opener of the ways.

We pull to the side of the highway behind a sand-colored Peugeot and I realize I am included in a very special family outing. Emil’s wife, Fatin, and son, Mena, as well as assorted cousins, uncles and aunts are all headed to the Church at Dier An Ba Beshoy to partake in a big communion service. “The Key” is well known to the monks and brothers of the church both for his sizeable contributions and for all the craft work (wood carving, glass work, general repair) that he provides to the church.

As we drive into Wadi Natroun I am immediately struck by how much the valley reminds me of Israel. The soil is sandy, but the landscape is green and verdant: lush with olive, orange and date trees and fields of onions, beans and lettuce.

Dotted throughout the wide shallow valley are the distinctive spires and domes of Coptic churches and monasteries – all topped with the “dimensional” crosses with four arms bisecting a central post, so that an arm projects into space in each of the four directions.

We drive past the Sunday worshipers streaming into the area (on foot, in cars, on horse or donkey carts) and head toward an ornate and formidable iron and marble gate at the back of the rather sizeable compound.

The guard raises his hand in the universal gesture for the “back the fuck on out of here” but the instant he sees “the key” his demeanor pivots completely. After a brief conversation, hugs, and traditional kisses on the cheek, he smiles broadly and the gate rumbles open.

“You see!” Emil chortles. “He is the key! They love this man here! No one gets to come here. And never, never touristes!” (Emil has a charming way of pronouncing the word – adding an extra syllable on the end). He tells me that his elderly aunt is such a frequent visitor that she is called “the mother of the monks.” I am obviously rolling with the right posse.

We walk the back alleys of the monastery – past the monks’ tiny cells, many, many centuries old. Here a man can find complete isolation from the world. The doors are only a few feet high and there is a small “pass-through” window where meals can be handed off.

“There is a monk here who has never left the grounds for 50 years and who only comes out of his cell once a month on communion days.”

“How old is this place?”

“From the third century, maybe the second.” Emil replies.

“I want to try and take communion.”

Emil stops, looks at me like I’ve suddenly grown a second head.

“No. You can’t.”

“Why not?”

I’ve had this conversation before, in many parts of the world, but I always keep trying. I guess I’m just weird this way. I’m always being turned away from communions, but I keep asking.

Emil explains: “You had to have fasted the past 12 hours. And you must be baptized.”

“No problem. I haven’t eaten since last night and I have been baptized.”

“Okay.” Says Emil “We will see.” This is polite code for “no fucking way.”

We turn an ancient corner and run smack-dab into the local bishop, heading into the cathedral to prepare for the communion service. I can tell from everyone’s reaction that he’s a big and important fellow. Falling into single file, one by one they each take his proffered hand and kiss it.

Whoa. I’m the last and the line is moving faster than my synapses are firing this morning.

What do I do? Do I kiss it? Do I shake it? The occidental and the oriental battle in my soul.

It’s my turn. Fuck.

My protestant genes rise up in revolt, but my need to fit-in wins the day and I go for the kiss, not the shake. Ah! There’s a ring! I get it. Kiss the ring!

But just before my lips reach either his hairy knuckles, or the ornate wad of gold lodged there, he quickly pulls his hand away. Shit! He’s suddenly realized that I’m not Coptic – that I don’t belong. That, like the bread and the wine, his hand is off-limits because as a baby my fontanel was bathed in a different brand of baptismal water.

I laugh. I can’t help it. This is my nervous travelers’ tick. It escapes when I’m uncomfortable. I laugh the way a dog rolls over and shows its’ belly. To say “I’m okay. I mean no harm.”

I can feel the mouths gaping all around. There’s the sound of in-drawn breath. The shock is minor, but palpable.

Motioning at me, Emil speaks to the Bishop in Arabic. A complex, musical, conversation ensues. Arabic can be the most beautiful language. As he speaks the Bishop eyes me, sidelong, as I grin stupidly back.

I learn later that this is “His Grace Bishop Serapamon.” Wow. The current bishop and abbot of the Coptic Monastery of Saint Pishoy is named after not one, but two, pagan gods: Serapis & Amon. I must be in Egypt.

The Arabic has become a little guttural, clipped, angry-sounding. I’ve encountered this before and have learned not to misinterpret. Just because they sound angry doesn’t mean that they actually are.

Bishop Serapamon flings me some more stink-eye, before shaking his head in a stern and definitve “No.”

He says a fond goodbye to everyone else, punctuates the pronouncement with one final glare my way, and stalks off to the church.

Emil slaps me on the shoulder. “Mitnaki! You can’t laugh at the Bishop.”

Shit. I’m really off balance now. Flustered.

“What did he say? Can I take communion?”

“No. He says absolutely not. It is the law.”

I love the way Emil says “law.” Again with an extra syllable, but this time in the middle: “laow.”

Emil’s wife Fatin says something to Emil. His son, Mena, joins in. Emil shrugs back at them.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“Fatin thinks you should be allowed to have the communion. She says what’s important is what’s in your heart.”

“I agree” says Mena.

If I had a tail it would be wagging. The alpha might not have been impressed, but the rest of the pack seems to like me.

“So… ?” I ask, a ray of hope gleaming forth from my eager little self.

“So?” Emil responds “So nothing. He’s the Bishop. He outranks even my wife.”

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To be continued…