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.