Egypt, Ski Capital of the Ancient World

I sit in the designated waiting area, assured by the clerk that the shuttle will be here in less than twenty minutes. Shortly after I settle down in my chair, a middle-aged fellow, wearing jeans, a blue coat, a purple tuque, and carrying a large mushy-looking duffel bag, arrives at the shuttle desk. He’s swaying on his feet and has to lean against the counter for support, a clue to the identity of the main liquid ingredient of his lunch. Having given his name and destination to the clerk, he swivels around and weaves a path around imaginary objects, aiming toward where I’m sitting.

No, no, don’t sit next to me! I silently beg the Powers That Be. I close my eyes in an effort to augment the potency of my tacit prayer, and when I open them, the walking brewery is plonked in the seat next to mine, purple tuque askew, legs crossed, and feet propped on top of the duffel bag on the floor in front of him. 

There are twenty empty chairs in the waiting area and he has to pick the one right next to me. It figures. I’m a magnet for all the drunks, weirdos, and freaks this world has to offer. They’re drawn to me like moths to a flame, except that in my case, I have no capacity to incinerate those that get too close.

Don’t speak to me. Don’t even look at me. Maybe the Powers will grant me this small wish.

“Where you comin’ back from?” Purple Tuque intones, eyeing my suitcases and expelling alcohol fumes strong enough to dissolve concrete.

“Egypt,” I answer, hoping that my curt reply will discourage any further conversation.

He ruminates over my answer for a second before asking, “Is that where them Terracotta guys are?”

“Beg your pardon?” 

 “You know, all them warrior dudes. Hundreds of ‘em, all lined up in rows. Did you see ‘em?”

 “Hum, no. I believe those are in China,” I reply, wondering how he managed to associate Egypt with the Terracotta Army of Chinese Emperor Qin Shi Huang, even inebriated as he is. 

 “Oh yeah, yeah . . . Right . . . So you saw that Pant Anon then,” he volleys back. 

At my blank look, he prattles on, “You know, that thing with all them columns? On top of the Arco Police?”

Well, I’ve met my match in the eyebrow-raising department. Mine are about to depart my face permanently. “You mean the Parthenon on the Acropolis? In Greece?” I barely keep the sarcasm out of my voice, emphasizing the last word, for effect. I must remember that not everyone is blessed with a high school education. And even if they are, they weren’t necessarily awake during the history and geography lessons. 

“I didn’t get to Greece. I just stayed in Egypt,” I reiterate, then take out a book from my bag and pretend to read. Maybe now he’ll get the hint to shut up. 

Just when I think my plan is working because there hasn’t been a peep from Purple Tuque for five minutes, he starts to snore. Perfect! I can change seats and make good my escape. That way, if he wakes up, I’ll be at the other end of the waiting area, too far to be the target of his intoxicated chitchat. 

Just as I’m about to move, the shuttle driver picks this particular moment to make his appearance and call our names, one by one, his stentorian voice cranked up to deafening level. 

Purple Tuque springs to attention with a snort, nearly falling out of his chair, then gets up unsteadily, looking unsure as to which planet he has landed on. Or maybe he’s expecting to see “them Terracotta dudes” throwing fisticuffs out on the Arco Police. I don’t really know, and I don’t wait to find out. I grab Beatrice and George and stand up, ready to accompany the driver to the shuttle bus. 

Seeing me doing the tripod imitation, the driver kindly takes control of my luggage and I follow him out of the building and to the curb, where his vehicle is parked. Purple Tuque, still stunned and moving in slow motion, takes hold of his bag and brings up the rear behind an elderly couple, showing off Florida tans on skin that would make leather envious.

 At the bus, a large van really, the driver loads all the suitcases in the back and invites us to get in through the sliding door on the side. The leathery people go in first and select seats in the back. I get in next, with my eye on a single seat near the front, away from irritatingly chatty drunk people with really dumb questions. 

After watching me clamber aboard using my knee-climbing technique, Purple Tuque pipes up with yet another deeply philosophical question, “So, did you break your leg skiin’ in Egypt?” 

It’s all I can do to keep George, revved up and firing on all cylinders, from thumping him on the head or swatting him across the shins. 

I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. All I know is: Matilda is back!

When a Cape is not a Cape

In the big and sprawling Cairo International Airport, there didn’t seem to be that many people around, the human density factor (HDF) being fairly low. On the plane, it’s a different story. The HDF has skyrocketed to sardine level. We’re flying to Frankfurt on a fully-booked jetliner. I notice two guys, massively big and tall, headed for the same row in which I’m sitting, and sure enough, they sit down, one of each side of me. Wedged between the Green Giant and Big Foot, I manage to watch a movie and catch a nap, feeling confident that should we crash, I’m so well cushioned on both sides that I’ll hit the ground totally intact. 

Two hours into the flight, breakfast is served. Both human air bags on either side of me are sound asleep. Carefully, without waking Sasquatch, I succeed in deploying the folding tray from its housing in the armrest, upon which the flight attendant deposits the meal. 

Operating a fork and knife competently, while your forearms are compressed against your rib cage, takes great skill which I don’t possess. I end up looking like a praying mantis with limp wrists, trying to flick bits of cheesy omelette into my mouth. I give up on the coffee when my lips fail to fully stretch across the six-inch gap between my face and the cup in my hand, stuck in midair at the end of my immobilized arm. The praying mantis will just have to remain thirsty and decaffeinated.

Once in Frankfurt, the plane stops on the tarmac and I’m instructed to stay in the aircraft until all the other passengers have left; a special bus will come to pick me up. Okay, I can handle a special bus, just as long as the metal bovine stays away. I’ve not gotten over the COW. I don’t think I ever will. 

A few minutes later, the “special bus” arrives, looking amazingly like a regular, normal bus. I clamber down the stairs and board the special-regular-normal-bus which takes me to a dark underground area resembling a mixture of parking lot and loading dock. I sincerely doubt there’ll be a red carpet and fanfare awaiting my arrival. From the look of my surroundings, I’d more likely be greeted by a forklift. 

We reach our destination and stop in front of a glass door leading to what looks like a waiting room. I exit the bus, take a seat in a wheelchair, and an airline employee rolls me to the waiting area in which the other wounded, injured, maimed, or otherwise malfunctioning passengers have accumulated. My passport and boarding pass are collected and I’m told to wait; someone will come to get me. I wait, watching the clock anxiously. We only have an hour between flights and this isn’t Egypt where planes and ships wait for people. 

To take my mind off the passing time, I watch the other passengers, hearing bits of conversations in a myriad of different languages with a lot of English and German peppered throughout. Someone’s flying to Bangalore; another is waiting for a flight to China; one passenger, sitting in a wheelchair and wearing shorts and flip flops is waiting for a flight to New York. Considering that it’s February, and consequently, it’s cold in New York, he’ll be in for quite a shock I suspect. It makes one wonder if this gentleman even looked at the weather report for his destination before leaving home.

I know I shouldn’t make fun of people’s clothing faux pas. Lord knows I’ve made a few in my time. A smile comes to my lips as I recall one such incident: the cape caper. A few years ago, I was in search of a cape. Not a Superman cape, you understand, but a normal, chic, and classy coat cape. They were in all the magazines and I thought they looked very elegant. So, I got it into my head that I wanted one in the worst way. I looked and shopped and hunted, but could never find the right one. 

Then one day, I walked into this large store, a home accessories and clothing store, and there it was, a whole rack full of capes. And it was just waiting for my excited little hands to go through it and pick out the perfect cape that would make me look glamorous. Had this been a movie, there would have been a ray of light, suddenly appearing out of nowhere, illuminating The Rack, and heavenly music playing in the background. 

With my breath still stuck in my throat and my hands shaking in anticipation, I started foraging through The Rack. Although the capes were a bit shorter than what I was looking for and more colourful—red, green, some even had gold-threaded designs on them—I kept going. Short and colourful was better than nothing. 

Selecting a dark green one, I decided to try it on to see how it fit. After successfully putting it around my shoulders and doing up the ties in the front, I went in search of a mirror. That’s when I started noticing the funny looks from the other customers and some of the staff. At the time, I figured they were jealous of how great I must look with my green velvety cape, and continued on my way down the aisle, toward the mirror, trying to look alluring and sophisticated.

It was when I looked at my reflection in the mirror that I realized what was going on. They weren’t capes. They were Christmas tree skirts, and I was wearing one of them. It only took a nanosecond before the full impact of the situation slammed into my brain like a ten megaton warhead on a ladybug. After parading around the store proudly wearing a Christmas decoration, I was now admiring myself in the mirror, in full view of all the security cameras in the place, which, I have no doubt, were busily recoding every embarrassing second of this event. 

I have no recollection of removing the Yuletide Shroud or fighting the intense desire to shred it instead of calmly returning it to its hanger and leaving the store, as I surely must have done. All I know is that I didn’t return to that store for several weeks. And to this day, I do not own a cape. 

Pulling me out of my reminiscing trance, a young lady comes to collect me. She takes off at a run, pushing the chair, weaving and swerving around pedestrians in a mad rush to get me to the departure gate on time. Just as the plane starts boarding, we reach the intended destination where I’m reunited with my travelling companions. Before I can thank my driver, she’s off with the now empty chair, running to collect another passenger. I’m impressed with her stamina, but even more so, I’m amazed that she manages to run the airport marathon in three-inch heels!

The last leg of the trip is uneventful. Luckily, the plane is mostly empty so we get to stretch out and pick whichever seat we want, away from Yetis and Giants. The few times that I have to use the washroom, several pairs of eyeballs follow my progress. I think I’m even being timed. I can imagine that, past the allowed time, the cry of Red alert! General quarters! Battle stations!, accompanied by the sound of assorted bells and klaxons would resound throughout the aircraft. 

We land in Toronto without incident and zip through customs, an airline employee chaperoning me all the way. He helps me gather my luggage and delivers me to the shuttle service desk where I order my ride home.

Blimey! The Bathroom is Haunted

On the return journey to my room for an early night, I continue to marvel at the rich and sumptuous décor of the hotel. First built as a royal hunting lodge in the 1800’s, it was sold to Frederick and Jessie Head in 1883 to be used as their private residence. Five years later, the estate was bought by a wealthy English couple, Hugh and Ethel Locke-King. They expanded the residence and turned it into a luxury hotel. Its name, Mena House, was derived from Menes, the name of the first pharaoh.  

Back in my room, I retrieve the few items from my suitcase that I’ll need for the night, short as it will be. Suitcases need to be in the hall by 2:30 A.M. and we’ll leave the hotel at three o’clock to make our 5:30 A.M. flight. This doesn’t leave much time for sleep. Normally a night owl, I plan on getting to bed by an early ten o’clock. 

At the prearranged bedtime, I’m so wide awake that sleeping is out of the question. I decide to wash up and do my hair now to save time later. Afterwards, I repack my suitcases and get dressed in my travel clothes. 

Still wide awake. I turn on the television, play with the remote, and come across The Mummy, starring Boris Karloff. I settle myself comfortably in bed, propped up with pillows, and proceed to watch the movie, thinking how fitting this all is. I’m in Egypt, near the greatest pyramid every built, and am watching the classic mummy movie. 

Boris’s mummy is as hideous as 1932 special makeup could render it. Folklore has it that the mummy of Ramses III (not related to number II) was so ugly, they patterned Boris’s costume after it. If you’ve ever seen Ramses III, you’ll know he was indeed not very fetching but as far as being an ugly mummy, there are others much worse. Then, there are those that are rather nice looking as far as dead corpses go. Seti I, for instance, looks very peaceful and serene. He looks like he’s sleeping, that’s if you disregard the fact that his head is not attached to his body—an injury suffered at the hands of ancient tomb robbers.

With Boris lurching about onscreen, it’s now well past midnight and my eyes start to feel heavy. Closing them, I settle down for a nap. After a few minutes, I realize that I can’t fall asleep because there’s a dull clanging sound coming from the bathroom. It’s fairly regular, almost as if someone’s tapping on a metal pipe. It’s rather annoying, getting increasingly so the more I try to ignore it. I get up and crutch to the bathroom trying to locate the source of the bothersome noise. Strangely enough, when I arrive in the bathroom, the sound has stopped. Good! Back to bed.

I’m not in bed for five minutes, the clanging starts again. Ignore, ignore, ignore, I tell myself. After awhile, not being able to tolerate it any longer, I grab the crutches and again head for the bathroom. The minute Beatrice and George hit tile, the noise stops. Not wanting to keep shuttling back and forth, I decide to remain in place to see if it starts again. I sit on the lid of the toilet and wait. Not the most comfortable arrangement, but it beats the back-and-forth between rooms.

Everything is quiet. Could it have been another guest in an adjoining room doing callisthenics? I get up and play with the taps. Perhaps it’s the metal pipes expanding and retracting that are making the noise, as the ones in my house do on and off. The pipes remain silent. 

After ten minutes of waiting, I notice that it has gotten remarkably cold in the bathroom; I’ve got goose bumps all over. It must be the air conditioning blowing in the bedroom, I tell myself. I exit the washroom into the warmer bedroom, and stop. Why is it warmer? My subconscious is poking my brain with this seemingly irrelevant question. I then realize that the bedroom, if anything, should be cooler since that’s where the cold air is blasting in. 

The clanging noise breaks my train of thought. Crap! I spin around, very annoyed. The irritating sound keeps going and I re-enter the bathroom, listening intently. It’s not the pipes. It’s not coming from the ceiling, floor, or any wall. It’s coming from the middle of the room, from the air itself. It dawns on me: the cold + the noise = the bathroom is haunted. 

Totally creeped out, but wanting to appear calm and composed in front of this unknown phantom presence, I decide to address the noise. You never know, the manifestation could be someone really important, like Hatshepsut. Speaking in a loud and commanding voice I manage to utter “Stop this racket; you’re interfering with my beauty sleep! If you have to haunt something, go do it in the pyramid next door.” That said, I immediately turn around on trembling crutches and depart the ghostly washroom expecting objects to start flying about the room and apparitions to block my escape and suck me into the toilet.

The clanging becomes louder, and suddenly, I’m not wearing any clothes. Jiminy Cricket! The flippin’ ghost is a flippin’ pervert. Crutches flying madly, I make a beeline for my suitcases, aiming for a new set of clothes. By some unknown force and for reasons the Toilet Spook is not sharing with me, the luggage is instantly relocated to the bed, piled up on top of the pillows. In the next second, the bed is launched in the air where it remains floating three feet above the floor, the suitcases perched upon it. 

My brain is whirling at light speed. This won’t do, this just won’t do. I can’t go out in the hall naked. Suddenly, exiting the room is no longer an option; the door has disappeared. In desperation, I turn back to the bed and grab hold of the sheet. With strength I didn’t know I possessed, I rip it off the hovering bed and place it over my head, tent-like, creating my own version of a ghost costume. I then move Beatrice and George, concealed under the vast sheet, up and down as extensions of my arms, making what I hope are respectable ghostly movements, and aspiring to look like a short, but very wide, animated phantom.  

My intention is to imitate the enemy. Maybe it’ll think I’m The Spirit of the Bedroom and retreat back to the shower drain, or from wherever it came, I tell myself. Boris Karloff—or perhaps Ramses III himself—steps out of the bathroom in full mummy regalia and advances toward me. At the same time, the clanging noise mutates into a buzzing sound, loud and pernicious, uncomfortably close, as if it originates from inside my head.

I’m about to issue to the order for George—still serene and obedient—to attack when I’m jolted awake by the alarm clock, buzzing incessantly against my eardrums, a piercing shrill, even through the sheet in which my head is wrapped like hard candy in cellophane. It takes me a few seconds to comprehend that yes, I did fall asleep; no, I did not talk to a degenerate spectre in a loud and commanding voice; yes, Boris is back inside the TV where he belongs. It’s just as well. I don’t know how I would have explained the “not wearing any clothes” bit to the rest of my group. 

Still rattled by my ridiculously absurd, yet very vivid dream, I get the suitcases ready, put them in the hall, and head for the lobby to check out. Soon, the whole group is gathered together and the dynamic duo of Daniel and Kareem arrives to take us to the airport. I admire their dedication. It’s three o’clock in the morning and here they are, smiling and gracious as ever. 

We’re given a boxed breakfast to enjoy on the way. It’s a sad day, and no amount of scrumptious food will make it any better. Looking back on all the incredible experiences of the last three weeks, the friends that I’ve made, and the amazing places I’ve seen, I don’t want to go home. I still eat the breakfast though; I’m sad but I have two stomachs to fill.

The smooth and traffic-free ride to the airport, a normally joyous event, doesn’t lift the heavy hearts which we all have. At the terminal, we say goodbye to Daniel and Kareem once again, with a feeling of déjà vu. This time, the atmosphere is very glum because we know for sure that we’re not going to see them again. 

The airport check-in is fast and efficient as there aren’t many other passengers up and about this early in the morning. With our seats assigned, the flight is called and we board the plane, leaving The Mighty Egypt behind.

At The Foot of the Pyramid

The plane touches down in Cairo and taxies to the gate. On the way, we pass by an impressive sight. A jumbo jet sits on the tarmac, surrounded by armed soldiers, each standing at attention facing outward, their semi-automatic rifles at the ready. There must be at least thirty or forty guards in total, in a precise square formation around the plane. If I measured each angle of the square, I bet it would be an exact ninety degrees, so perfectly aligned are the soldiers. 

A long black limousine is parked alongside the aircraft, its doors almost flush with the stairs leading into the jet, ready to either receive or deliver its distinguished passenger. I consider waiving as we taxi by, but decide against it in case the gesture is misinterpreted as a secret signal for the start of an insurrection, eliciting a volley of gunfire from the assembled army. It wouldn’t do to have our plane transformed into a rolling colander with wings. Before we can catch a glimpse of the important passenger, our plane veers away, headed to its specified parking spot.

The COW is nowhere in sight today, and I get hustled with the rest of the group toward the waiting bus which will ferry us to the airport terminal. Perhaps the COW has broken down or is busy regurgitating other unfortunate prisoners onto other planes. No matter, I’m only too happy to deplane with everyone else. It’s strange how the COW has left such an indelible impression on my psyche. I’ve only once had the traumatic experience of the COW, and yet, every time I board or leave an aircraft, I get an overwhelming feeling of unease and the urge to moo uncontrollably.

We make our way through the terminal and airport security, after which, we’re greeted by the surprise: Daniel and Kareem. We hadn’t expected to see them again, so this is indeed a nice turn of events. Once aboard the good old Pink-Mobile, Kareem tackles the craziness of the ever present traffic on our way to the Mena House Oberoi, our posh hotel. The streets seem more crowded than ever and the reason becomes evident. This is Thursday afternoon and everyone’s getting ready for the weekend since, in a Muslim country, the weekend starts on Friday, the day for prayers. 

Kareem aims the bus into an intersection and all at once, every other driver decides to do the same. As a result, we are now at a dead stop in the middle of the crossing, face to face with a truck, another bus kissing our left side, and a bunch of cars trying to take a shortcut through the Pink-Mobile’s right side. Everybody is facing everybody else, and no one is going anywhere. Thinking back to the Crochet Principle, there’s now a huge tangle in the doily. 

Had I been the driver, my head would have long ago shot off my neck like a cannonball, propelled by a blood pressure equal to that of erupting lava. Kareem, calm as ever, sticks his head out of the window and launches a string of Arabic at no one in particular. As if responding to him, the mass of vehicles shimmies until, inch by inch, the intersection clears and circulation resumes. Kareem, the unsurpassed Moses of the Traffic! 

Mena House, a luxury hotel whose guests have included movie stars, presidents, and heads of state, is magnificently opulent. More impressive still, is the view from the restaurant and the pool area. The hotel is nestled at the foot of the Great Pyramid of Khufu.

I follow the bellboy through halls littered with antique furniture, sitting areas fit for a duchess, and lounges with marble-covered walls. We arrive at my room, spacious and inviting, where a snack of tangerines and cookies awaits me. Cleopatra has arrived. I inhale the snack, stretch out on the king-sized bed, and take a short rest. 

Recharged and ready to capture the mighty pyramid with my camera, I grab Beatrice and George and retrace my steps through the lavish establishment on my way to the lobby.

People with children often tell me that it’s when their normally-bickering, prank-playing kids are quiet and well-behaved that you have to worry. You turn your back on kiddies playing nicely together only to find them, moments later, playing with dad’s acetylene torch in the coat closet, or shaving the cat. That’s the feeling I have with George. Since the rebirth as a boy crutch, George has been docile as a lamb. Instead of feeling like I’ve mastered crutch psychiatry and resolved the attitude problem, as most people would, I keep waiting for the other shoe—crutch—to drop.

At the front of the hotel, I ask the doorman the best way to reach the pool. He gestures at someone and a van immediately pulls up. I get driven the two hundred feet to the pool. I don’t know if they do this for all their clients, or just for me because of Igor the Ankle, but I feel like a VIP. The view is fantastic and my camera gets the workout of its career. With a few thousand pictures of Khufu’s pyramid and that of Khafre—a bit farther away—in my memory card, I get driven back to the hotel, my driver having patiently waited for me. 

At dinner time, I head for the restaurant and am escorted by a friendly maître d’hôtel to a table with the pyramid view. A couple of my tour mates join me for a divine dinner of couscous, wine, and pyramid-gazing. Truly, at this point, I don’t mind all the troubles of the past weeks, the achy arms, buffet challenges, catatonic horses, and evil beaches. This makes up for everything, in quadruple.

The magnificent view from the pool area. Breathtaking, isn't it?