This here on the left is a highly surreptitious photo of Tutankhamun’s gold death mask at the back of the Egyptian Museum. Taking photographs in the museum is not allowed. Not even with mobile phones, as we are told at the ticket booth:

Hmm. I never did find the mobile phone cameras they were referring to, but luckily mine worked.

I have no idea why this might be the case, and I do not have the imagination to concoct a remotely feasible excuse. Forbidding flash photography I can understand, and some of the rooms have precisely this proscription on older signs affixed against the wall — a sure indication that the ban on non-flash photography is a recent contrivance.

And it is not as if anyone alive today can claim ownership over the intellectual property the ancient Egyptians amassed. If anything is old enough to outlast its copyright protection, then it is the stuff in this museum. Nor is the photography ban out of respect of dead pharaohs — there are plenty of photos of mummies in the museum shop.

While I think that the ban is indefensible — also because it is impossible to enforce without separating tens of thousands of mobile phones from their owners every day — at least nobody was trying to enforce it, and I was able to take pictures with impunity… save, of course, for one German tourist who decided to put her hand in front of my phone as I was trying to take that snapshop of Tutankhamun, screeching “it is forbitten, it is forbitten” in a thick Bavarian accent. The guard, meanwhile, was being completely laid-back about it. What a weird impression Egyptians must have of us westerners — especially westerners on package tours who would otherwise never set foot in a museum.

Just as with my visit to the pyramids last week, I wandered around the museum this first time without a specific objective in mind, zooming in on whatever caught my fancy. In this place, more than anywhere else I’ve been, it is impossible not to feel crushed by the weight of history — thirty centuries of unbroken collective purpose expressed through daring architectural feats and meticulous craftsmanship. This is the cultural patrimony of a people giddily sure of themselves; the confidence that these statues exude, in their smiles and in the deft hand of their craftsmen, is complete. Some of the statues I saw are surprisingly modern too, beautiful, erotic even — no fat fertility symbols here, oh no; these women are hot.

All this got me wondering as to how contemporary Egyptians might relate to their ancestors. The ancient Egyptians ran the most successful civilization ever, unmatched in its longevity and in the robustness of its heritage, with a sense of entitlement and superiority that was absolute. And yet now they are gone. Does this generate more confidence in one’s contemporary religious faith, as it is an improvement over previous deluded attempts, or is there an evident cautionary tale to be learnt here?

The Egyptian Museum itself evoked a split response in me. It is an archaic thing, an Indiana Jones studio lot, with wooden cabinets piled one upon the other and with handwritten labels so old that French was still the lingua franca. An army of men and women in blue overalls with dust cloths in hand seems to be perpetually wiping glass cabinets. All this is quite atmospheric, and I really wanted to try to catch that with my camera:

The museum’s collection deserves much better, though. A new modern center is being planned where a much larger portion of the collection can be put on display, with proper climate control.

I walked back to Zamalek along the Corniche, the embankment of the Nile. There were plenty of people strolling with me, and timid young couples were sitting on benches, touching — not quite holding — hands.

Today is the first day since I’ve been here that the city has been under a cloud of Saharan dust. Everything in the distance fades to shades of de-saturated beige. I don’t mind it, actually — it cuts the intensity of the sun, as if the sky comes with sunglasses — but you do get a vague sense that you’re inhaling something. I’ve just remembered where I last had that sensation — Wall Street, in the weeks after 9-11, as I worked two blocks from ground zero during the clean-up. It smelled the same, with a slightly acrid pinch in the back of the roof of the mouth.

As always, all these photos are georeferenced over on Google Earth if you download this file.As has been the case every day for the past week, I ended up swimming in the pool at the Marriott this evening, before writing this up over drinks at their excellent outdoor café.