Adventures in Old Cairo: Finding a Family Grave

My great-grandfather, Frank Madden, was an Australian Doctor who moved to Cairo in 1898. He worked as Professor of Surgery at the Egyptian University. He died in 1929.

I have always been interested in him and wanted to find his grave while in Cairo.  All I had to go on was a 50-year-old photograph of the grave (below) and a reference in his obituary to the cemetery in Old Cairo.

An interesting adventure lay ahead…

Grave of Dr Frank Cole Madden.
Cairo War Memorial Cemetery.

I had a relatively decent map of the city, which clearly marked an area of Christian cemeteries in the Old Cairo quarter. So, John, my travelling companion, and I set off from our hotel in Zamalek, in the city centre, to explore the sights of Old Coptic Cairo and have a look for the grave.

From our hotel we took the 26 July Bridge over the Nile and headed down Sharia El Corniche for the ferry stop opposite the Ramses Hilton Hotel.

The heat in Cairo is overwhelming, especially in August, and just walking down the road in the full glare of the sun can be an exhausting experience. Coupled with the dust, car fumes, donkeys and roaring traffic, it needs to be seen to be believed.

Walking down the street we would be approached every few paces by enterprising touts who would try to sell us trinkets, leather belts, little wooden chess sets, pocket handkerchiefs, paper serviettes and even chewing gum ! They were frustratingly persistent and eventually left us in peace after countless ‘no thank you’s’ and shaking of the head. We soon developed a thick skin and were able to put them off more easily.

On our way to meet the ferry we passed the Egyptian Television and Broadcasting Studio which was ominously guarded by armed soldiers, menacing-looking armoured cars and even sandbagged machine gun posts !

At the ferry stop we bought a ticket and joined the queue of local Egyptians and waited for the incoming ferry to arrive and unload its passengers before we could board. The ferry was an old wooden river barge with rows of plastics seats fixed to the floor inside. There was a good deal of pushing and shoving to secure a seat and we managed to find somewhere to sit out of the glare of the sun.

Once on board, we were pleased to leave the city for the relative calm of the river. The ferry ride was hectic with people jumping off and on at regular intervals with all kinds of bags and bundles being passed on and off along with children, old women and the occasional small farm animal. The ‘captain’ seemed to spend most of the journey chain-smoking Turkish cigarettes and chatting to a friend with a few glances at the river ahead and the odd adjustment of the wheel to keep us on track. The ferry is a wonderful way to see Cairo and we chugged along at a snails pace enjoying the views and watching the city go by.

After half an hour we arrived at the Masr al-Qadimah ferry stop and hopped off to investigate Old Cairo. After navigating our way through the winding streets and over an old railway footbridge we arrived at Mar Girgis and the gateway to the Coptic Orthodox complex. The main entrance is through one of the oldest structures in the city, the western gate of the Roman fortress of Babylon built in 98 AD by Emperor Trajan. We went down an old flight of stone steps and through a narrow passageway under the walls along a narrow street lined with old houses and dusty stone buildings.

Our first stop was the 4th century Church of Abu Serga (St. Sergius), supposedly built on the spot where Joseph, Mary and the infant Christ, rested at the end of their journey into Egypt. The church was incredible, obviously ancient with the feel of a building that is steeped in centuries of uninterrupted occupation and devout worship. The walls were lined with fading icons and pictures showing the life of Christ and scenes from the Last Supper. There were rows of old wooden pews, worn down by centuries of churchgoers, and an altar surrounded by wooden panelling and adorned with tapestries and worn altarpieces. Mercifully there were a series of ceiling fans which kept the air circulating and we paused for a while to appreciate the building and its atmosphere.

We moved on to visit Ben Ezer’s Temple, a charming old synagogue and stopped by an early convent to see the nuns at work. After seeing the sights I poured over the map to try and identify where we were in relation to the Christian cemeteries. They were located behind the Coptic citadel and we could see them through the gates at the far end. There was building work going on and we passed the workmen, avoiding most of the mud, and into the walled Christian cemetery district.

The cemeteries are huge and are divided into separate walled areas one next to the other. Each section is devoted to a different Christian denomination with enclosures for Greek Orthodox, Armenian Christians, Catholics, Coptics, Protestants and some that I had never even heard of.

The area was vast and we spent a while searching through the crumbling headstones and ramshackled monuments. We hunted around for a while looking at graves with cross-shaped headstones with no luck. Most of the graves were either very ancient or were for Arab Christians or people of Greek and Turkish origin. From the photograph, I knew roughly what I was looking for but it soon became apparent that we were looking for a needle in a haystack and I wasn’t even sure whether this was the right place.

Every gateway and entrance in Egypt has a doorkeeper perched on a stool in the shade sipping tea and drawing on a cigarette. The cemeteries were no different and the old man sitting at the entrance kept giving us curious looks and I soon approached him to explain what I was looking for. I showed him the photograph and he nodded and seemed to know where I should go. He gestured towards another large walled graveyard on the other side of the street and John and I headed in that direction.

We came across the attendant, an old Egyptian man playing cards with some friends in the shade. They first looked surprised to see two westerners wandering around the old cemetery quarter but the gatekeeper soon beckoned for us to come in. Once inside the walled enclosure I showed him the photograph and he indicated that we should follow him.

We set off down a dry and dusty track lined with a maze of crumbling monuments, tombstones and fading memorials. We walked for a little way and stopped at a small mausoleum with a prominent cross set at the top. It soon became apparent that he didn’t really know where we could find the grave and that we were probably in the wrong place anyway.

I indicated that this wasn’t the right place and gave him some baksheesh (a tip), thanked him for his time and we left. It seemed to be getting hotter and we were tired and needed a cold drink so we set off down the street in search of rest and refreshment. At that moment I didn’t think that I would find the grave and left it at that.

Over the next few days we explored more of the sights of Cairo and took in the Museum of Antiquities, which houses the spectacular Tutankhamen collection and spent some time browsing through the great bazaar at Khan El Khalili.

Throughout that time I thought that I may never return to Cairo again and what a shame it would be not to have another look for the grave. I had been thinking about where the grave might be and was convinced that it would not be in the old cemeteries that we had explored the previous day. The graves were just too old and did not resemble the headstones in the background of Uncle John’s photograph.

I studied the map again and identified another Christian cemetery in Old Cairo marked ‘Pr’ for Protestant, close to the hospital where great-grandfather worked.

In the afternoon of our last day in Cairo I decided to have one last look and hailed a taxi for the cemetery.

The traffic was very heavy and progress was frustratingly slow. I asked the driver to stop, paid him his fare and got out to walk the final few blocks.

I soon realised that navigating by a tourist map through the streets of Old Cairo is not an accurate science and after a few wrong turns and a quick dash across a busy road I turned down an old street with a high stone wall on my right.

I followed the wall down a broken pavement and found a gate where an old man was enjoying a hookah pipe outside a little hut. I greeted the man and gestured at the photograph to indicate what I was looking for. He seemed disinterested and when I looked around the cemetery it was much the same as those we had seen the other day.

Then a group of 3 or 4 Arab children appeared and took an interest in me as a foreigner. One spoke a few words of English and kept saying David Beckham, David Beckham when I mentioned that I was from England. I showed him the picture and his face lit up and he signalled that I should follow him. We trotted off through the headstones with the other kids in tow, passing an endless series of dilapidated monuments and deteriorating gravestones.

We came to the edge of the cemetery and scrambled up a low bank where the boy pointed over the perimeter wall at the adjoining cemetery.

Before me, I saw rows and rows of neat graves with a mixture of headstones and crosses set among well-kept trees and manicured green lawns. The cemetery was surrounded by a high stone wall with a large iron gate at the far end. It looked just like the war cemeteries of France and Belgium. I didn’t know it then, but I had found the Cairo War Memorial Cemetery.

I knew this must be the right place and the kids immediately picked up on my optimism. I nodded vigorously and shook them all by the hand to show my appreciation. I headed back to the gate and distributed some baksheesh much to their delight.

I walked back along the broken pavement, following the wall to the corner and then turned left down a narrow dirt alleyway following the perimeter wall to the main gate. The alley turned out to be the local market which was lined with small wooden stalls, baskets of fruit, boxes of vegetables and other household goods.

The local people had made good use of the cemetery walls by building lean-to-shacks and market stalls against the side facing the street. The market was an interesting sight with dogs running around, little children playing and men and women hard at work selling their produce to passers by. I was a long way from the main tourist trail and the locals stared at me in surprise as I passed along the road.

At the end of the market street, I turned the corner into a wide dusty road with the front cemetery wall on one side and a series of rundown shacks and dilapidated buildings on the other. There were a few thin-looking horses and donkeys tied to a post and groups of people cooking over open fires and sitting around.

A few cars and trucks passed by including an army jeep, which slowed for the occupants to give me a good look over. They were obviously in a hurry and thankfully carried on their way. I couldn’t help but feel a bit conspicuous, even a little vulnerable, being in an Arab city well off the beaten track. I thought that an air of confidence was my best defence and carried on up the street in search of the main gate.

After a hundred yards or so I came to the gate but it was firmly locked with a large chain and padlock. Through the bars I saw rows of graves and could make out regimental badges engraved on the nearer headstones. The sprinklers were watering the grass in the distance and I looked up to see a small brass plaque on the wall stating that it was a Commonwealth War Graves Commission cemetery.

Next to the plaque was an electronic buzzer, which I guessed would hail the gatekeeper. I pressed it a few times and could hear it ringing in the distance out of view. I kept a lookout for anyone approaching and waited for a few minutes to see if anyone would appear.

No one did.

It was getting late and the sun was going down and within half an hour it would be dark.

I couldn’t contemplate the fact that I had got this far and was unable to get any further, especially on my last day in Cairo.

Looking around I saw a group of people on the other side of the street sitting outside a little house. They had noticed me and were looking in my direction. I decided to enquire about getting access to the cemetery and went over and spoke to a man who was sitting out with his family enjoying the evening sun.

He spoke no English and I gestured at the gate showing him the photograph while making a key-turning motion with my hand.

He immediately understood and dispatched one of his sons down a little alley to fetch the key holder. I waited for a few minutes and an old man appeared from behind the house with a bunch of keys. He smiled and seemed pleased to see me and I showed him the photograph of the grave.

He motioned towards the gate and we walked across the street where he unlocked the gate and let me in.

He spoke some English and I was able to explain by writing down the date that great-grandpa was buried in 1929. The gatekeeper led me down the main lawn counting the rows of graves until he stopped indicating the row for that year.

By this time I was quite excited and started to look at the individual headstones reading the names and dates. Sure enough, a few graves in on the left-hand side I found a grave with a stone cross and plinth which bore the following inscription:

By the Grace of God and
In Loving Memory of
Dr Frank Cole Madden CMG
Dearly loved husband of
Madeline Madden

Died April 26 1929 aged 56
Blessed are the departed
They rest from their labours
And their works do follow them

I was thrilled to finally find the grave and was quite moved by the experience. I had a copy of a photograph of great-grandfather and spent a quiet moment contemplating the surroundings while the gatekeeper stood a respectful distance away.

The grave has changed a bit since Uncle John was there and it has obviously aged. The stone surround has long since been removed, but the cross and stones bearing the inscription remain.

I immediately noticed that someone had attempted to rub away the word God from the inscription on the top stone. However, the remainder of the words are still visible and have not been interfered with. The damage probably happened some time ago and may have resulted from local resentment for Christians at some point in the past, possibly during the Suez crisis.

The sun was setting and the light beginning to fade so I took some photographs of the grave and the cemetery before making my way back to the gate with the attendant.

I gave him some baksheesh for his troubles before walking back along the street to the main road to catch a taxi back to the hotel.

Alladin, the Pyramids and Dodgy Duty Free

We rose in good time and breakfasted on bread rolls, hard-boiled eggs and coffee on the hotel balcony.

This was our first opportunity to examine our surroundings.

Zamalek is an affluent neighbourhood at the north end of Gezira, an island on the Nile right in the city centre. We overlooked a quiet tree lined street opposite the French Embassy and the first thing we noticed was the high level of security with armed guards outside almost every building and regular patrols up and down the street.

We talked over our plans and decided to start by taking it easy and getting our bearings.

The Pyramids and the Sphinx could wait until the following day.

We set off from the hotel in good time and walked up the street to the main road, stopping at a small shop to buy bottles of cold water. The August sun was very strong and the heat oppressive.

Sharia 26 July, the main road through Zamalek, was dominated by an enormous concrete flyover which carried the traffic into and out of the city centre.

At street level we passed small shops, jewellers, a few local restaurants and a little supermarket, open to the road, which acted as both a chemist and food store.

Everywhere were cafes and smoking houses, most were a simple room, open to the street, with a collection of tables, a counter serving Arabic coffee and fresh hookah pipes.

The streets were bustling with people, selling, buying, chatting in the shade and going about their business. We walked by taking in the scene and trying to be as invisible as possible.

We crossed the 26 July Bridge, admiring the great river Nile as it flowed beneath us to the sea. The traffic poured over the Bridge into the city. Cars, old buses, vans, bicycles, donkey carts and mopeds vied for position, honking and hooting.

We found some shade under the trees which lined the far bank of the Nile and rested a while. Hawkers and chancers approached us, trying to sell everything from wooden chess sets to paper napkins and chewing gum.

We dismissed them with a smile, but refused to be drawn. The people were friendly and regarded us with inquisitive good humour.

We continued into the main city centre.

After a while, a young Egyptian approached, enquiring about where we were from and how long we had been in Egypt. His English was excellent and we chatted about football and our impressions of Cairo.

He soon introduced himself as Alladin, an arts student from Giza.

I was a little suspicious at first and was convinced a sales pitch would materialise sooner or later. something like, “come and see my brother’s carpet factory, no need to buy, just look” or “my friend runs a government ceramics shop, very nice, very cheap. You want to see it, it is very near !”

We talked in the street for while and he asked if we had seen the Pyramids to which we replied that we were going tomorrow.

I can’t remember exactly how, but he suggested that he show us around and that we go with him to Giza where he lived. John and I exchanged glances and soon agreed.

A local guide would be a bonus.

We walked up the street to the main junction by the bridge and darted through the traffic to a small bus station. There were a number of small dilapidated minivans, each controlled by a hawker shouting in Arabic, collecting fares and herding people aboard.

Alladin directed us towards a small white minivan and we jumped aboard, grabbing seats at the back. We paid a small sum and sat back to enjoy the ride. We were soon on the move and chatting freely with our new guide, who delighted in pointing out the sights as we nipped through the traffic.

The van sped through the streets, an Egyptian shouting our destination from the window as we stopped to deposit passengers, and pick up new fares. We passed Cairo University and made our way out of the city towards Giza.

We pulled to a stop and Alladin motioned that this was our destination.

The Pyramids loomed large and dominated the skyline. I was impressed by their sheer size.

He said that he lived nearby and invited us to join him at a local café for a cool drink. Walking down a small side street, we came to a local café and sat around a small table in the shade, facing the street. A boy appeared to take our order and we sat back enjoying the scene and talking about where we were from and our impressions of Egypt.

The street was narrow, lined with small houses and shops, building work was going on a few houses down. A few cars inched their way down the street, avoiding groups of people, horses, carts and piles of building material and rubble.

It was refreshing to enjoy the shade and see a local area, undisturbed by tourism. We sat in the café for an hour or so, enjoying the atmosphere, sipping on Arabic coffee and sweet karkadi tea.

Alladin asked whether we wanted to see the Pyramids and told us about a friend who hired out horses for trips into the sand dunes around the Pyramids. He promised us a good deal and we agreed to go over and talk with his friend.

We paid for our drinks and Alladin led us through little alleyways and streets in the direction of the Pyramids.

We passed markets, little shops and stalls stocked with everything from petrol to crisps, fruit and tobacco. The dirt streets were narrow and strewn with rubbish and debris, stray dogs scavenged among the litter and scrawny cats darted away on our approach.

We followed Alladin, a little self-conscious that we stood out among the crowds. Young children took an interest in the two foreigners and every now and then shouted ‘hello’ and ‘welcome’ in our direction.

We crossed a wider street with a large central ditch, down a little alleyway and emerged onto a street which faced the open sands of the desert. The street was lined with stables and notices advertising riding trips around the Pyramids on both camels and horses. We soon arrived at the yard of Mohammed. Alladin showed us into his small office.

The room was covered in carpets and wall hangings. We sat on a low couch. Mohammed introduced himself in good English, switched on all the fans for our benefit and dispatched a young boy to find us a cold drink.

He told us about his stables and showed us a visitor’s book full of postcards and comments from tourists and visitors from all over the world.

He soon got down to business and offered us a trek through the sand dunes, a visit to the Pyramids and the Sphinx on horseback and an evening trip into the desert to see the sunset.

He also threw in a quick photo opportunity on a camel and was quick to offer us a discount as ‘friends’ of Alladin.

On day one of our world trip, our haggling skills weren’t up to much and we soon agreed a price. The boy arrived with cold drinks which we enjoyed before heading out to meet our guide and view our horses.

I hadn’t ridden a horse in years and was a bit anxious about suddenly mounting up and heading off into the desert.

As soon as I saw my mount, all my fears faded away. I was faced with a thin, bony, old nag, which I doubted would carry me. John was given a larger, healthier looking beast with a bit more life about it.

Solomon, our guide, assured me that my horse, amusingly named Michael Jackson, was fit and able, so I mounted up and we set off across the sand. The horses plodded along at a walking pace.

We crossed the sand dunes surrounding the Pyramids and passed by the Sphynx, before heading out again that evening to see a spectacular sunset across the desert.

Arriving in Cairo

Cairo was the first stop in the round-the-world trip and we booked a budget hotel over the internet a few days before we left.

The hotel arranged for a local taxi to meet us at Cairo airport. Our flight was delayed by bad weather at Heathrow and we eventually arrived in Cairo at 3.30am on 10 August 2001.

We worked our way through immigration, collected our rucksacks and headed through arrivals to locate our driver.

The taxi was a rusting Peugeot with an old Egyptian at the wheel, we stowed our bags and hopped in.

Driving in Cairo is an experience in itself and the car squeaked and groaned with every bump and twist in the road. Being early morning, the traffic was light by Cairo standards and we raced along the main highway towards the city centre.

We immediately noticed that the driver didn’t bother with the headlights, despite the dark outside.

He manoeuvred through the traffic with only the dim orange glow of the street lamps to go by.  There are absolutely no road rules in Egypt, traffic lights cheerfully ignored, lane discipline non-existent and the horn constantly employed to warn other vehicles of our rapid approach.

There was one particularly hair-raising moment when another vehicle swerved into our path as we approached a large fly-over. With lengthy blasts of the horn and some wild gesticulating out of the window, we veered sharply across the road and around the obstacle.

Needless to say it was an exhilarating ride and we pulled up outside the Mayfair Hotel, 9 Aziz Osman, Zamalek, with some relief.

We checked in and went straight to bed.