Beneath the Sands of Egypt (6 page)

These camel men were clever. Many spoke several different languages conversationally and possessed a smattering of several more. I was often approached in German because of my blond hair, though they have accused me of being from a variety of other places. On other visits to Egypt, my friends and I would attempt to confuse our trailing camel man by claiming we were from Botswana, Lithuania, or some other land presumed to be outside his geographical awareness. After a few moments of contemplation, he might reply, “Ah! Botswana! I have a cousin who lives there!” And it would not have surprised me if he could speak a few words of a relatively obscure African tribal language.

The camel-riding industry was not the only occupation found amid the pyramids. Horse-buggy drivers, cola vendors, and peddlers of illustrated papyrus paper aggressively plied their trades against the backdrop of the grandest of pyramids. On more than one occasion, I was approached by a robed teenager who, after first looking about in all directions to see if anyone was watching or listening, would whisper, “Pssst! Meester! Come have a look! Quickly!” The boy then reached into his coat, slowly and carefully removing a small, suspicious-looking envelope. Drugs perhaps? Illicit antiquities? Still maintaining vigilance to keep his potential customer in suspense, he opened the envelope. “Look, meester! Ten postcards for one Egyptian pound!”

The cola vendors had their own tricks. They would appear out of nowhere in the hottest places with an ice-filled metal bucket in
hand. These young entrepreneurs would grab a very warm bottle of soda from a nearby cache and secretly roll the outside of the glass on a block of ice before placing it in your hand. The unwitting foreigner would say, “Ice cold and refreshing! Give me two!” And then the smug young vendor would sit and wait for the return of the empty bottles as you tried to gag down at least one of the tepid, sickeningly sweet drinks.

Despite the constant interruptions from vendors on my first encounter with the “mountains of Pharaoh,” I decided to hire a local “guide” to show me the area. The “guide,” whom I contracted for a couple of hours and two Egyptian pounds, was an older man, perhaps in his early seventies, who offered to give me a tour of the Chephren (Khafre) Pyramid, the second-largest at Giza, along with some of the better small tombs in the area. He claimed to possess the keys to all the appropriate monuments.

Our trudge began in the severe noontime heat of June as the guide marched me across the sand of the Giza Plateau in a very roundabout fashion. Walking in the sand is tiring, and I was sure that I'd seen a paved road leading directly toward the Chephren Pyramid during my earlier stroll. Several stops for water later, I noticed that I was being followed by a camel driver who, it became apparent, was in collusion with the guide, presumably to garner a shared commission. The object of the game soon became clear: The guide was trying to wear me down in the sand and the heat until his friend would fortuitously appear to offer me a lift. “Forget it!” I exclaimed as I poured water over my head and shirt from my canteen and then continued my struggle as the water evaporated from my clothing in a matter of minutes.

As we arrived at our first destination, the guide said, “Well, here it is, the Chephren Pyramid, built by King Chephren. Come, I'll show you the palace of Cheops.” He turned around and headed
back across the sand in more or less the general direction of the Great Pyramid. I foolishly followed, the camel man once again trailing in my path.

At a convenient little dune, the guide stopped and pulled something “very old” from his robe. It was obviously a very cheap modern scarab—an amulet in the shape of a beetle—of the sort that are manufactured en masse for pennies apiece. “Special price for you, meester! America and Egypt, good friends. Look! Very, very old. For you? Fifty dollars!” I laughed and told him it was an obvious fake.

“I'm an archaeologist,” I explained. “I study this kind of stuff!”

“Then you know it's old!” he replied. Not receiving the desired response, he continued his “tour” across the desert. “How about this so-called Cheops palace?” I asked incredulously.

“Just a moment,” said he as we approached a group of dilapidated stone buildings. “This is the place! And here is Cheops's throne!” he exclaimed, pointing to a space on a low wall where several large stone bricks had been removed. “And over here is where Cheops ate his dinner every night, and if he wanted a drink of water, he came over here.” The guide walked about the ruined walls pantomiming the activities as he described them. “And over here is where the king washed his hands after eating,” he said, rubbing his hands together. I sat on Cheops's “throne,” secretly enjoying the absurd antics, until I realized that we should see some of the nice smaller tombs before time ran out. “And let me show you Cheops's bathroom,” he insisted. We rounded a corner to a small walled enclosure with dried human waste on the floor, obviously a latrine more recent than the time of Cheops. Sensing my frustration, the guide attempted to step over a low barbed-wire fence only to be rebuked by a cemetery guard.

“What happened to all your keys?” I inquired.

“This cemetery is closed for restoration today. I will show you
another one.” We proceeded down a path on the eastern side of the pyramid, passing numerous tombs, some with gates and locks. “How about this tomb?” I asked.

“Ah, it is not possible. The tomb is still full of gold, and inside there is the mummy of a small child.” Of course this was just one of many excuses to disguise the fact that he possessed no keys whatsoever that would lead to anything of significance. A short distance further, we reached a small opening carved into the rock. “This is where they found the mummy of Rameses II. Take a look!” The tomb door was open, and its interior was full of modern rubbish, its ceilings and walls blackened by fire. Rameses II? Hardly likely! His mummy was actually discovered in the late 1800s in an amazing secret cache several hundred miles south of Giza!

Enough was enough. It wasn't worth debating the facts with my alleged guide. The novelty of this escapade had worn off, and I suggested that he be freed from his contract and that I would pay him. As I handed him two pounds along with a one-pound tip, he looked at the money and placed it back in my hands. “Seven pounds!” he yelled. I reminded him of our agreement, and he became furious. Seeing that I wasn't about to budge in this matter, he mentioned that he had a number of hungry children at home. Still finding no response from me, he insisted that seven pounds was the minimum amount he was entitled to by law for his services and that my failure to pay him would result in my incarceration. I wasn't buying it. He then threatened to call the police. As a last resort, he clutched his chest and began breathing heavily. Exasperated, I reached into my pocket and grabbed another pound note and forced it into his hand before stomping away. The guide counted the money, smiled, and yelled “Thanks, man!” I am now convinced that Herodotus visited Egypt. And he probably had a local guide, perhaps a direct descendant of my “well-informed” escort.

Shaking my head in disbelief at the performance I had just witnessed, I continued to walk about the area as the late afternoon brought cooler temperatures. It was a Friday, the weekly day of rest, and there were many Egyptian families sitting around the base of the pyramids enjoying picnics, music, and dancing with their friends. An uneventful taxi ride returned me to Garden City House and thus ended my first of many unforgettable days in a land that had filled my dreams for years.

Because the Fayyum expedition wouldn't be assembling for departure until Sunday, I had a second free day to spend as I pleased, and I wanted to see the Giza Plateau yet again, vowing that I would not be misled or otherwise relieved of my money. This time I took the bus, which was far cheaper and an adventure in and of itself. It deposited me close enough to my destination, and I walked up the hill to the pyramids' plateau, where the daily routines were already in progress. Turbaned heads popped up over walls and inquired about my desire for a camel, the clandestine postcard boy was making his rounds, and the cola-vending children were filling their buckets with warm bottles from the back of an old truck.

A ticket is required to go inside the pyramids, and as I approached the sales kiosk, I noticed a young English couple negotiating for an educational tour with my guide from the previous day. “Don't bother,” I informed them. “He has no authority here, no keys to anything, and he doesn't know a thing. You're better off reading your guidebook.” At this the guide became extremely angry, cursed vulgarly in English, and stalked off in a rage.

I purchased my ticket and approached the steps to a tunnel that led into the Great Pyramid. There a guard directed me inside through a crude passageway that led to an ascending ramp. The tunnel had been carved by early treasure seekers, who forced their way through stone blocks until they intersected an interior feature.
It has since become the most common means of entering the structure. As I learned from many subsequent visits, the ascent through the galleries to the burial or “King's” chamber can be relatively simple or quite hellish, depending on the number of tourists. The interior can be sweltering from the humidity brought on by the accumulation of human breath and perspiration, and certain passageways require one to bend over while descending groups pass by. The uncomfortable and variable climes mean that few people stay in the pyramid for long.

The King's Chamber is an incredible, smooth-walled granite room, empty except for a large stone sarcophagus. The body of Cheops likely lay here over several millennia ago, but, as is the case with all known Egyptian pyramids, his mummy never survived despite the incredible efforts to secure it for eternity.

The chamber is a draw for various and sundry New Age metaphysical persuasions, and their numbers can sometimes be seen wielding dowsing rods or pendulums in search of some sort of truth. Others come to meditate, to chant, or to “absorb the vibrations” there. Fortunately, pyramid explorers of any stripe were few during my initial visit, but I nonetheless left the pyramid drenched with sweat, thankful to be cooled by the light breezes outside. In moments it was time to run the gauntlet of vendors and camels again.

My second day in Egypt was as wonderful as the first, but carefree pyramid viewing was coming to an end, at least for a while, as the Fayyum expedition was about to begin the very next day. It must be mentioned that things are now much different on the Giza Plateau than they were during my first trip in 1981. Thanks to the Egyptian antiquities authorities, a serious archaeological site-management plan has been enacted for the long-term protection of the pyramids and for the greater enjoyment of tourists. The camel men and vendors are still around but are now confined to a specific
locale well away from the monuments themselves. Their new venue is in an area that attracts tourists with a beautiful, commanding view of the site. And while the usual suspects are certainly there, their approach is much more low-key than before, and now the customers come to them.

 

W
E HAD BEEN TOLD
to meet at an appointed hour in front of the building that housed the American Research Center in Egypt (or ARCE). I recognized a few of my new colleagues from the Big University, but most I had never before met. It was an eclectic mix of Ph.D.'s, graduate students, a lively Egyptologist, an expert in bones, and a specialist in ancient plant remains. The students, too, provided an interesting collection of skills and personalities, from Lucy, a spunky, free-spirited Egyptology student, to “Blazo,” a snooty know-it-all who tagged along as the archaeologist boyfriend of one of Dr. W's students. Despite our differences, we were now a team. We loaded up several jeeps and began our drive out of Cairo toward the Fayyum.

The road to the Fayyum passes the pyramids at Giza and heads straight out through the desert to the west of the Nile. The landscape then was rather bleak except for austere army outposts and an occasional long-abandoned vehicle. After dozens of miles, a few patches of trees began to appear on the sides of the road, and eventually the extensive ruins of an ancient Roman city, Karanis, gave way to the edge of a vast agricultural region, the modern Fayyum itself. This developed area skirts the southern edge of the now-brackish and shallow lake and extends west toward the Nile, which ultimately feeds a vast irrigation network.

The Fayyum region was populated throughout the time of the pharaohs, and the diminished remains of several pyramids can be
found occasionally punctuating the landscape. Later Greeks and Romans extensively colonized the area, establishing industrious agricultural estates and many towns, most of which now exist only beneath well-plowed and irrigated fields. The warmth and the palm trees of the Fayyum reminded me of my California home, albeit with the addition of donkeys and camels, and the overall effect was one of a pleasant, hospitable, and productive land.

The journey to our “base camp” passed through lots of busy villages until we reached Qasr Qarun, just about a mile from the lake and a few miles from the very southwest end of the road terminating at the next village, Quta. Qasr Qarun was named for a nearby ancient temple that sits splendidly preserved at the desert's edge. Our accommodations were in a large two-story white house with a roof deck. Though impressive from the outside, the inside was a dusty mess, and there were no bathrooms and no electricity to pacify American tastes. A large ditch in an adjacent orchard temporarily served as a toilet, and water was collected from a village pump in many large plastic jerry cans. Eventually a generator was hooked up, and a rooftop water tank made our living quarters acceptable. Roommates were assigned by gender or relationship, and I shared the “Boys' Dorm” with a couple of male colleagues, where each of us had a small bunk rigged with mosquito netting hung from the sticks of stripped palm branches.