During our time at the temple of Amun a little crowd of interested onlookers had gathered. Hakim, naturally, being the sociable person that he is, immediately befriended the old man who was the guard for the site.
He was a jolly man, small with white hair, white beard, and a little white beanie perched on his head. It was, after all, still spring for the Siwans and they don’t put their winter clothes away until at least May, the hotel manager informed us.
The old guard roared with laughter, his toothless grin and heartful chuckles making us all smile.
“He is inviting us to see where he stays and take a look at the crafts he makes. It is just over there. Would you like to?” Hakim asked us.
“Oh, yes please!” we all answered happily, which seemed to please Hakim immensely. That is an interesting quality in him I have observed; he genuinely cares for his fellow countrymen. It is almost as if he feels a sense of responsibility for them and wants to help in some way, however small, even if it’s a hand on the shoulder. It’s actually a quality of a good leader and I wonder if he recognises that he has it.
The old man led us to a small, thatched dwelling made from palm leaves, with a dirt floor and a rug to sit on. A little stream passed by the front of his hut, which he used for various things including soaking the fibres he was using to make cordage. Cordage and weaving! This is right up my bush skills street.
Our host showed us inside and offered for us to take a look at his crafts. They were traditional Siwa style baskets woven with palm leaves. Using a simple weave pattern, he made baskets that were serviceable and quite charming, especially because they were made by him.
Sadly, we couldn’t take baskets on the plane with us but Corina and Hakim wanted to get some things for their new apartment and baby nursery. The bought several things from him, much to his humble delight.
While Corina and Hakim decided what to buy he settled down outside the doorway of the hut with a load of palm fibres he was twisting into rope. It was an interesting technique. He would take some fibres and rub them between his palms in a practised motion before twisting. I watch him a bit and my fingers itch, longing to try.
Tentatively I sit down next to him and gesture to the fibres and then point at myself. He smiles and nods and starts to show me how to work them.
This is peace. Moments like these. Sitting in the shade of the trees, by a clear stream, in the desert, in front of an ancient temple, twisting cordage, with nowhere to be and nothing pressing on me to do.
“Hakim, would you ask the driver if there is anything special about this mountain?” I ask, indicating my special mountain, the one that keeps calling me. The one I know has a place in the alignment of things. Perhaps of all things. I love being dramatic.
The two talked for some time in Arabic before he turned around to translate to us in the back.
“He says that every year they have a festival called the Festival of Reconciliation. It lasts for three days. The elders of the community stay at the base of the mountain and the community in front of them. There is feasting and such things. He also says there is a shaft in the mountain.”
He went back to talking with Khalid and I was left daydreaming about what secrets we would find in the cave. If we find the cave that is. That is up to the mountain - and the gods. I have no expectation. I know enough about answering the call of spirit to know to have zero expectations of what may happen.
Soon after, we pulled up in front of the Temple of the Oracle, again in a cloud of dust.
I imagine how I would edit this in a movie.
A series of shots of us pulling up to different sites in a sand haze. Click of side door sliding open. Hakim jumping out. Khalid leaning on his door window contemplating – life? Corina gets out. Side seat flips up. Catches and drops down. Side seat gets flipped up again, properly this time and stays. I get out. Mum gets out. Door is slid shut. Always the same rhythm. Always the same sounds. Tac, tac and tac. As the French say.
If we were all conscious, would every move we make contribute to a symphony rather than our current cacophony? I ponder that for a bit as we look up to the tower perched on the remains of the temple above us.
The temple of the Oracle has a proper ticket booth and guard house. It is also more substantial than the other site having been repopulated and rebuilt in more recent times. Homes have been built up close to the oracle hill and there is definitely more of a feeling of a scene here.
Two little girls run up with some of their crafts to sell. They are shyly pleased when we buy two of their fans. Which actually turned out to be very useful indeed. Not only can they shade your eyes but most importantly they are great for batting flies away.
This temple was where Alexander the Great came when Egypt welcomed him in as a liberator from Persia. His army wanted him to continue east in pursuit of Darius and to strengthen all they had gained along the Levant but he was adamant he had to make the perilous journey across the Great Sand Sea to visit the oracle.
In those days this was quite an undertaking. Already for us, driving on potholed roads we had a near accident. Imagine being on camels with difficult to read markers to guide your way through the perils of an unknown desert.
I’ve often wondered why he did it. Scholars say it’s because he knew that the Egyptians would only accept him if he had been anointed at the oracle, as had all previous pharaohs of the later dynasties. But could there have been some other reason that drove him to face real dangers in pursuit, of what? A vision? Divine guidance and clarity of purpose?
The oracle had been well known in the ancient world for centuries, the earliest mentions of it being around 2000BC, although little is known of this period of its history. For millennia, Siwa has continued, unnoticed, it’s place in our story all but forgotten.
In 524BC King Cambyses of Persia held a grudge against the oracle for predicting his failure to proceed with his advancements into Africa. He sent an army of 50,000 men from Luxor to Siwa to destroy the oracle. Somewhere, in the desert, the entire army disappeared and there has never been so much as a hint of them since.
The desert takes care of its own.
As it turns out, Alexander did make it to Siwa and it was here that he received the vision of his divinity. Here that he saw himself as one with God. Could he have had a vision of our oneness with source? How would such a vision have been interpreted by a mind shaped by the notions of kingship?
Nowadays, there isn’t much left of the original temple. Not in comparison to what it was. Even that is hard to imagine, especially with all the later additions.
Khalid tells Hakim there is a tunnel leading all the way to the mountain. He shows us where it is but the entrance has been blocked.
But it does go all the way to the mountain, I’m sure. He assures us.
So, there is a connection. I knew it.
The tunnel also connects with the mountain of the dead, apparently. From where we stood we had a good view across the palm groves to the sacred mountain on one side, with the temple of Amun in between. And on the other side of where we were was the mountain of the dead, the old citadel and a third strange, cone shaped mountain that has a café on top.
It’s like a map or some sort of chart, I thought. But of what? Astrological? We need more information.
We were all having similar ideas, excitedly flitting about freely exploring, pausing to confer on something now and then. Corina was talking of some sort of astrological map. It could be. Wouldn’t that be exciting. Again, I think we ned a map. We need to map out the key sites and find the pattern and alignments.
The Indiana Jones vibes from earlier were still vibing hard with us. I clearly missed my calling. I should have done that damned archaeology degree instead of spending three years being a tree or a washing machine (I did drama and theatre studies instead).
Everyone was occupied in different parts of the site, including some of the other small family groups being led by a guide. I stood by a section of wall that has quite a good vantage point of the main entrance below and the routes taken by the other groups. To my west a whole section of the site is out of bounds, separated by a stone wall.
This is rather frustrating because from here it looks like some of the stones in the walls could be interesting. I’m looking for large stones, any that have unusual joins or are of a particular type of stone because these could indicate the presence of an older site that was repurposed.
So, high on Indiana Jones juice, I tucked my dress in really well, climbed over the wall, jumped down with a smooth leap and scrambled onto the forbidden side like a dust-covered ninja.
I know it’s breaking the rules and all that but no one saw me and although I was moving quickly, I was being careful. I didn’t stay long because I was paranoid about getting caught and getting the others in trouble. But I did flit through the various rooms like a shadow. An apparition of a desert woman. It hits me that I actually look a bit like my spirit guide in this dress. All I need is a falcon friend.
Apparently, they do have surveillance cameras in there and caught my whole escapade. Yeah, not so stealthy after all. Luckily, they didn’t kick up a fuss.
The temple feels like the showpiece, the front man, for where the real work happens. As if somewhere down there, underground, the real Oracle lived. Or maybe it is an energy field that different humans can tune into and so they become the go between, the oracle. Selected when young for the role, based on their resonant frequencies.
Whatever energy the temple today holds, I found little resonance with it that day.
Nevertheless, we did take a moment to connect and ask for guidance.
For a long time, we have been asking where do we belong and where should we go to next?
Show me the way forward, I asked with every fibre of my awareness and being.
I sang our request into the void, watching it worm its way through underground channels towards the light. Trusting that the universe will respond.
Whatever you do, don’t eat pizza in the restaurant in the centre of Siwa village, next to the beautiful mosque. You can’t miss this restaurant. It has a grill, does pizza and has a roof terrace overlooking old Shali. Don’t get me wrong, it’s a cool place to grab a drink and snack (something grilled), I’m just warning you not to sample the pizzas. Or do, at your own peril. If you know you know.
The town comes alive at night and there are some wonderful craft stalls with beautiful textiles and baskets. There is also a carpet shop full of gorgeous rugs and you can’t not buy olives and dates when in Siwa. These are their specialties and they’re delicious and highly nutritious.
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