The wild ride

Back in my room for a few hours of rest before dinner, I recline on the bed, as Cleopatra would most likely do, and cogitate on my next move. The doomed ankle is not deflating. It’s the size of a grapefruit and my leg is now joining in the fun by starting to swell as well. I could run, screaming, out into the streets, or I could call a doctor. Since I can’t run, let alone walk, I opt for the doctor. 

Yasmin arranges the call with the hotel’s front desk, and before long, there’s a knock at my door. Gee, that’s good service. Sitting in the wheelchair, I open the door and am confronted by an incredibly good-looking doctor. Now that’s really good service! Looking into those gorgeous eyes, I get lost. As I back away in the wheelchair to allow him to enter the room, I forget the ankle and blither on about how I saw the pyramids and the Sphinx and what a great country Egypt is.

 Assuming I’m delirious with pain, he takes a look at the monstrous foot and gently advises me that I need to go to the hospital for X-rays and a strong painkiller. I regain my senses and crash back to Earth. Did he say hospital?

 

Okay. Fine. I’ll take the X-rays but pass on the painkiller since the foot continues to bask in a state of blissful numbness. Nice Hotel Doctor leaves to make arrangements with the front desk, and minutes later, a hotel employee wheels me down to the lobby. 

I arrive just as my tour group is gathering, ready to leave for dinner. I’m briefly tempted to make a run (or is it make a wheel) for the bus and join my companions for the meal. Thoughts of escape vanish however, when Daniel, one of our Egyptian tour guides, takes a firm hold of the wheelchair while Nice Hotel Doctor explains the situation to him. A taxi has been ordered. Daniel will come along to help translate, keep me company, and make sure that, with the curse still looming over my head, I don’t somehow become a catalyst for the next plague of Egypt. 

With Cairo being a modern city, I should logically assume that we’re going to a modern hospital, and not to a tent in the desert to consult a medicine man wearing a feathered headdress. But since logic doesn’t always prevail in moments of stress, my overactive imagination uses this excuse to take little side trips away from common sense with visions of sand, camels, and Bedouins.

The taxi arrives and I revert back to coherent thinking. The taxi is a car, not a camel. That’s good news because, for the desert tent destination, we’d need the camel. Besides, Nice Hotel Doctor isn’t sporting any feathers and he did indeed mention X-rays. I’m almost certain that tents don’t regularly come equipped with radiological gadgetry. I hop into the taxi and we depart.

A wild ride ensues. For those who have never been to Egypt, traffic in Cairo is insane. Everyone drives according to the Crochet Principle. That is, everyone weaves in and out of everyone else’s lane without warning. The right of way goes to whoever wedges the nose of their vehicle in front of the other’s first. From a bird’s eye view, it looks as if the cars are knitting a doily. U-turns in the middle of four lane highways are not uncommon. Pedestrians add to the chaos by crossing higgledy-piggledy everywhere, including the four lane highways. Traffic lights exist but are obviously there merely to provide colourful illumination, as they are totally ignored. 

Then there’s the honking. It resounds, non-stop, in all different tones and rhythms. “It’s how they communicate”, I’m told. That must be true since the constant staccato of beeps and toots reminds me of messages transmitted in Morse code. I’m tempted to commandeer the taxi’s horn and blast the traffic jam with a rendition of Darth Vader’s theme from Star Wars in an effort to clear the way to the hospital before my swelling leg explodes.

Indeed, the camel and desert tent would have been way easier and less nerve-wracking, even with attempts by the camel to dissolve members of our little party.

Cleopatra comes to town

After the exciting morning, glowering camel notwithstanding, lunchtime is upon us. We arrive at the restaurant after a half hour drive in the Pink-Mobile. As I lumber out of the bus and catch sight of the imposing structure awaiting us, my heart sinks to depths it has rarely visited. All I see are the stairs, massive and vertiginously high. It’s as if I’ve stepped from the pink and white cosiness of the bus straight into the nightmare of an Escher painting. 

I can hop up a few steps, and certainly don’t mind doing so, but this man-made Everest is absolutely daunting, even with my ample adrenalin reserves. To make matters worse, I’m informed that there are two more sets of stairs to conquer inside the restaurant. The quandary becomes: to hop or not to hop = to eat or not to eat.

My stomach, being high up on the body’s hierarchy of ruling organs, takes precedence over mere muscles. Inhaling deeply, I start hopping. I manage to get to the first landing and am now close to collapse—at least it feels like it the way my hopping leg, overloaded with lactic acid, is burning and all aquiver. 

Kareem, our driver, offers to carry me. Not wanting to inflict a heart attack or a hernia on this gentleman, I wave him off with a forceful “la la la” (“no no no", in Arabic). My saviour has another idea. A few Arabic words are exchanged with the restaurant staff, and as if by magic, a cute little chair appears, the kind that would normally be found accompanying a frilly vanity. 

Taking the hint, I sit down intending to rest for a minute and catch my breath before ascending the rest of Mount Restaurant. All of a sudden, two men appear and they, along with Kareem, pick up the chair and carry it, with me perched upon it like a trophy, up the stairs, across the front lobby of the restaurant, down two flights of stairs at the back of the lobby, through a very lovely garden, and up another flight of stairs to the dining room. 

Just when I think the crazy ride is over, the men, still carrying me, start sprinting across the dining room, a rather large area filled with a multitude of guests. I hold on to the pitching and swaying chair with a death grip as I hurtle toward the buffet table like a football headed for a touchdown. 

Somewhere off to my right, someone heralds, “Here comes Cleopatra!” Curious, I look around to see where Cleopatra is, but everyone is looking at me. Everyone needs to have their vision tested! I cannot possibly bear any resemblance to the regal and dignified queen since I’ve been transformed, unwittingly, into a teetering projectile in full rocket mode, aimed straight at the food. 

Nearing the buffet, we come to a halt at a table where I’m mercifully lowered to the ground. After this spectacle of an entrance, I’m sorely tempted to crawl under the table, but that would mean missing out on the lunch which turns out to be excellent. Mortification aside, I manage to enjoy myself despite a repeat performance of the chair event after the meal. 

I definitely need crutches because I’m sure I’ll never get used to this style of transportation. Then again, if it were at a more ceremonious pace instead of the mad dash, accompanied by fan bearers and a few hundred musicians, I just might change my tune. Cleopatra would definitely be in attendance then.

With food in our systems, we get back in the bus and hit the road, heading for Saqqara. Soon, the main attraction looms into view: the Step Pyramid of King Djoser, the very first pyramid built, during the Third Dynasty. It is so called because its outline looks like steps instead of the smooth and straight sides of the later and more familiar pyramids. 

Before ever building pyramids, the Egyptians built mastabas to bury their dead. These were square, flat-topped structures severely lacking in curb appeal. Having obviously been potty-trained earlier than other kids his age—he was very smart—Imhotep, King Djoser’s architect, decided to break with tradition and build one mastaba on top of another, each smaller than the preceding one, thereby giving birth to the Step Pyramid. 

“So, whatever happened to Imhotep?” you ask. Because of his genius, he was elevated to the status of demi-god and widely worshiped throughout Egypt. I bet his mama was proud. Who knows, she may even have had the godly potty bronzed in his honour.

Looking at the Step Pyramid, I feel it taunting me with its stair-like profile. Try hopping these babies for size, it seems to shout at me. I shoot it a stern and dour look; I get attitude from Wonders of the World, I give attitude back. I even consider expelling it from the Wonders club. Perhaps this is what happened in the first place. All the pyramids were Wonders of the World, and one by one, they exasperated, irritated, or insulted the keeper of the Wonder’s list and therefore, were expelled. Only Khufu’s pyramid, having behaved itself, avoided expulsion. 

Getting back to the Wonder at hand, with the terrain being even less wheelchair friendly than at the other pyramids, I’m forced to stay in the bus and give attitude long distance. The others go off to explore this new site while I, putting aside the Wonders Expulsion Theory, contemplate installing skis on the wheelchair to make it sand-worthy.

My imaginary blueprints for the Sand-do evaporate as my companions come back dishevelled, windblown, harried, and spitting sand. A sandstorm has developed, and were it not for the glowing Pink-Mobile, I doubt they would have found their way back before being sandblasted to the bone. I sincerely hope this isn’t an omen of things to come. Yeah, right. The delusion continues.

Djoser's Pyramid. Mighty large steps and lots of swirling sand. Photography by our beloved Yasmin.

On the way back to the city, we stop at a carpet weaving school where everyone but me goes in to have a look and learn about carpets. As for me, cranky and tired, I decide to take a nap in the bus. I dream about carpets and learn the secrets of carpet weaving, all with my eyes closed and without having my butt leave the seat. Sleep and Learn: a technique mastered by students the world over. It’s most effective during lectures but seems to work well enough for me in the bus.

I wake up when the group comes back, and listening to their descriptions of the weaving process, start to have doubts about the authenticity of what I learned in my dream, especially the part involving a tuba and the cement mixer. Upon reflection, my dream carpet weaving lesson seems rather suspect. 

With the bus pointed in the direction of our hotel, we leave carpets, tubas, step pyramids, and sandstorms behind.

Napoleon, the first Egyptologist

Although Napoleon Bonaparte had come to Egypt as a conqueror, his military campaign ending in failure, he succeeded in another totally unrelated venture. He gave birth to the science of Egyptology. Say what? Under the guise of wanting to free the Egyptians from the Ottoman Empire, Napoleon’s goal was to make Egypt a province of the French Republic and extend French domination as far as possible. He didn’t succeed. Utterly defeated, he abandoned his troops and returned to France where he nevertheless crowned himself Emperor. That was the end of that, but not so for Egyptology. 

The defeat aside, 500 civilians accompanied the French army, many of them scholars, engineers, mathematicians, astronomers, naturalists, architects, draughtsmen, and printers. Having been brought to Egypt by Napoleon, these scholars and scientists undertook the drawing and cataloguing of everything from monuments, buildings, statues (including the noseless Sphinx), and temples to the flora and fauna abounding in the Nile region. They also included the Egyptians’ clothing and dress, household furniture, coins, musical instruments as well as detailed land maps. Basically, they recorded almost everything that could possibly be recorded. 

The engravers then started work on the publication of “Description de l’Egypte”, a project which took twenty years—about as long as the building of Khufu’s pyramid. The entire work, containing over 800 engravings and 3000 illustrations was published in ten volumes and two anthologies, and is still published to this day, albeit in one huge volume. 

In addition to the drawings and engravings, the French expedition unearthed the famous Rosetta stone, the key to understanding hieroglyphs. The stone, named after the location at which it was discovered, bore text written in three distinct languages: Hieroglyphs, Demotic (the spoken Egyptian language), and Greek. Using this, Jean-Francois Champollion, a linguistic prodigy—he apparently taught himself Arabic at the age of five—deciphered the hieroglyphs, a feat which many before him had attempted without success. 

All these accomplishments came about as the result of Napoleon’s thirst for conquest and glory. A defeated conqueror turned founder of a new science. Who’d have thought? The only thing I can think of is how funny Napoleon the Egyptologist would have looked in shorts, a Tilley hat on his head, and his hand tucked in his shirt, addressing his troops with his famous “Soldiers, from the height of these pyramids, forty centuries look down upon you. . .”

So close and yet so far

The next morning, there’s no improvement. The promised miracle is clearly overdue. No matter. Today’s program starts with a visit to the pyramids and I will not let a malfunctioning appendage get in the way. So I joyfully lather on more cream, return the bandage to the ankle, dress, put on my geeky hat, sit my butt in the wheelchair, and plan to head to the restaurant for a hearty breakfast.

Up to now, I’ve been lucky. Members of my travel group have taken turns pushing me about in the wheelchair. This morning, I’m on my own. Manoeuvring a wheelchair takes some getting used to, as I soon find out. Other than arm power, you need coordination, a sense of direction, and a sense of width. If you don’t have the latter, you end up getting stuck in places too narrow to accommodate the chair. Well, I don’t have it, which is why I’m stuck in the entrance to the bathroom, the wheels firmly jammed against the doorframe. 

The wheelchair, having been left in the room’s narrow entrance hall facing in, needed to be turned around before I could exit. My strategy, which made a lot of sense at the time, was to sit in the chair and do a three-point turn using the bathroom located off the entrance hall. Forward into the bathroom, backward out of the bathroom turning the other way, and I’d now be facing the door. Simple. Instead, I’m fully immobilized in the doorjamb. 

I shove hard with my good foot and make absolutely no progress. Since shoving any harder might damage the doorframe, there’s only one solution. I get up on my good foot, and leaning on the chair with one hand for balance, I fold in the seat with the other hand, thereby contracting the wheels. No sooner is the chair freed from its restraints, it immediately shoots backward into the hall, rolling away from the interfering doorframe, and away from me. I manage to grab hold of the wall to keep from falling on my face, just as the chair hits the hall closet with a thud. Lesson learned: it’s best to put the brakes on the flippin’ chair before attempting anything.

With new found respect for the chair, I manage to make my way to the restaurant without bumping into too many walls, pieces of furniture, or people. I start to think that crutches may not be a bad idea and decide to ask Yasmin about acquiring a pair later on. 

After breakfast, on our way to the Giza plateau, Yasmin gives us a short history lesson on the upcoming site. Of the three main pyramids at Giza, the oldest and biggest is that of the pharaoh Khufu, also known by his Greek name of Cheops. Just so you know, all the pharaohs have both Egyptian and Greek names because the ancient Greeks couldn’t leave well enough alone and just had to confuse everyone by renaming everything. Kings, cities, gods, cloud formations, you name it, they renamed it. 

Built over 4000 years ago during the fourth dynasty, the pyramid towers over the plateau, measuring over 450 feet high. Two and a half million blocks of stone, each weighing over two tons, were used for its construction, the whole process taking almost twenty years. Although the pyramid contains the king’s large stone sarcophagus, it appears unlikely to Egyptologists that Khufu was ever buried there. 

Personally, I think he was there, but, irate when the Greeks changed his name, he got his mummy wrappings in a bunch, and moved out. Really, what kind of name is Cheops? It rhymes with Cyclops! Cheops the Cyclops. How flattering is that? No wonder he vacated the pyramid and left no forwarding address. 

Khufu’s son Khafre, Chephren to the Greeks, is the owner of the second biggest pyramid, the very tip of which still has remnants of the original limestone casing. When built, the entire pyramid had been covered in polished limestone, giving it a smooth and shiny surface. Over the centuries, the limestone has been removed by depraved individuals, intent on using the blocks for their own building projects. Along with this pyramid, it’s widely believed that Khafre was also the builder of the famous Sphinx, situated not far away. 

Finally, the third pyramid, much smaller than the other two, belongs to Khafre’s son Menkaure (Mycerinus). Again, what were the ancient Greeks thinking? Mycerinus sounds wimpy, giving one the impression of a nerdy pharaoh with buck teeth. Bad name for the ruler of the Egyptian people, good name for a pet turtle. Now, Menkaure, that’s a strong and mighty name, one fit for a king. No wimps or amphibian reptiles here. 

As for the pyramids, to this day, no one knows exactly how they were built. Sadly, we will probably never know.

We reach the Giza plateau, home of the pyramids. Wow! The pyramids are majestic, magnificent, spectacular, and woefully out of reach of my little hands and feet. Every other tourist can walk right up and touch these eternal giants. They can feel the ruts and grooves on the stones made by the ancient builders’ tools, giving them a sense of what life was like in that far away time, a connection to that bygone era. I, on the contrary, remain well away, incarcerated in the blasted wheelchair which is not manoeuvrable through the sand and rocks around the pyramids. The injustice of it all! I’m doomed to gaze at these masterpieces of engineering from afar. Crutches, I tell myself, I need crutches.

It would be a much better story if I could tell my friends back home that I massacred my ankle climbing a pyramid. Or better yet, falling off  it. It would make a good headline: “Marie, the intrepid explorer, survives a mind-boggling plunge from Khufu’s Great Pyramid, the only surviving member of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World.” (That would be the pyramid, not me.) 

A question comes to mind: how come Khufu’s Pyramid is the only one that made the Wonders lists? Why not any of the others? Are they not wonders too? Just because his is the biggest does not mean that rampant pyramidal discrimination against the others should be tolerated. I inwardly mull this over and decree that, for me, all pyramids shall be considered Wonders of the World. 

This point settled, I return to the ongoing fantasy of Marie the Great Explorer and realize that none of this would actually happen since climbing pyramids is now illegal. Probably too many people falling off, getting lost—they are big—or dying of exhaustion or altitude sickness after reaching the summit—they are high. Then again, maybe there just weren’t enough bathroom facilities at the top. Regardless of the reason, the sport of pyramid climbing is now defunct, at least without getting arrested.

While gawking at the breathtaking scenery, I notice a camel looking straight at me, staring, scrutinizing, or whatever it is that camels do when they fasten their ocular orbits on you. With their huge doe-like eyes, they seem kind and benevolent, but I’m convinced they’re secretly trying to dissolve you into puddles of ooze with their hypnotic stare. 

The one that has its laser eyes aimed at me is a police camel. There are several camel-mounted police officers throughout the pyramid site, patrolling the area. I suspect that these are the elite camels, the smart ones, the crème de la crème of camels, specially trained for security purposes, protecting the innocents, apprehending marauders, and dissolving criminals. Since I’m a law abiding, non-pyramid-climbing tourist, perhaps the one glaring at me is not so much plotting my demise as trying to determine whether I’m within spitting distance and worth the effort. 

Me, the blasted wheelchair, and the snooty camel. He's still looking at me isn't he?

Obviously losing interest in me, the dromedary’s head pivots like a gun turret atop a tank. It has spotted a moving pedestrian, a clearly more challenging target than I, plunked in my steel cage on wheels. I get the impression that, for this snooty camel, spitting on me would be abysmally dull and boring, like shooting fish in a barrel. A moving quarry, on the other hand, offers a much more exhilarating spitting challenge.

After the pyramids, we set off to see the Sphinx. Well, the tour group goes to see the Sphinx. I stay in the bus due to the obnoxious sand and rock terrain, and manage a glance from far away. Mind you, a zoom camera comes in very handy. My far, far, far away pictures, when zoomed in, show the stately human-headed lion beast in all its glory. Looking at the pictures, I notice how some strange erosion has taken place over the years, resulting in the Sphinx’s head being covered in black spots. Zoom in. The spots are oddly shaped. More zoom. They’re pigeons! The poor creature is covered in pigeons. And where there are pigeons, there’s sure to be guano. Oh, the indignity of it! Reflecting on my own sorry situation, I share its pain. We’re not so different, the Sphinx and I. He gets pooped on by pigeons; I get pooped on by bad juju.  

Pigeon Sphinx

I contemplate the regal features of my friend the Sphinx: a full Nemes headdress set above wide eyes contentedly surveying the passing of ages, from long-lost pharaonic processions and pageantry to present day tourist hustle and bustle, high cheekbones, a sensuous mouth, not smiling but pleasant, and a strong square jaw. No nose. Just a jagged hole where the nose used to be. 

Many have speculated as to the reason for the Sphinx’s missing schnozz. One theory is that a sheik, in the 1300’s, didn’t like the looks of it and tried to blow it up. Another theory was that Napoleon Bonaparte broke it on purpose by pummelling it with cannon fire after a bad day on the battlefield, but sketches of the pre-Napoleon Sphinx have revealed that it didn’t have its schnozzola even then. I have my own theory: it disintegrated under the sheer accumulation of toxic guano over the last 4000 years. Bad pigeons. Bad, bad pigeons!