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!