Hatshepsut, Where Are You?

 After these incredibly weird mental callisthenics, I feel drained. My deliriously victorious and impressionable neurons are celebrating, and my logical brain is sulking. The rest of my grey matter, that which stayed out of the conflict altogether—the Switzerland portion—is trying to ignore the other two while enjoying the bus ride over to Hatshepsut’s mortuary temple, so named because it harbours her burial chamber, deep beneath the temple. 

Whether or not Hatshepsut was ever buried there is still under debate since she apparently shared a tomb with her father Tuthmoses I, in the Valley of the Kings. 

For a long time before coming to Egypt, I’ve been reading up on its history, people, and culture. As you know, I like Hatshepsut, and to my advantage, much has been written about her and Tuthmoses III over the years. Their relationship appears straightforward at first glance, but aspects of it remain unclear, shrouded in mystery. 

Hatshepsut, you’ll remember, is the queen regent who crowned herself pharaoh and ruled prosperously for two decades after usurping the throne of her nephew/stepson Tuthmoses III. Her accomplishments as pharaoh are many, including an expedition to the land of Punt, now modern Ethiopia, and the building of several temples and shrines. Best known of all is her extraordinary mortuary temple, which I’m about to see first-hand. 

At this temple—according to the books I’ve read—there are clear signs of the apparent discord between the two royals. Of the many statues of Hatshepsut, lining the massive court, only a few remain intact, most of them having been demolished by order of Tuthmoses, Mr. Tantrum-of-the-crooked-obelisk, after gaining power following his stepmom/aunt’s death. At least, that’s what most people believe, and the story does have a certain melodramatic flair to it. 

This long-accepted tale of the vengeful Tuthmoses, smashing statues and monuments, hacking away engravings, and defacing images of Hatshepsut, all in a fit of rage, has recently been challenged. Some scholars argue that the relationship between stepmother/aunt and stepson/nephew was that of a long co-regency, rather than Hatshepsut completely taking over and leaving Tuthmoses out on his ear. 

And there are facts that support these allegations. In the first place, co-regencies were common in pharaonic Egypt. The older monarch would “show the ropes” to his heir over a period that could span several years, during which, both would rule the country jointly. Hatshepsut may have done just that, assuming the throne while grooming her successor for kingship.

Secondly, when he became old enough, Tuthmoses entered the army, eventually becoming Commander in Chief. Now, why would you permit that if you’d stolen someone’s throne and crown? If you’re the pharaoh, are you going to let your enemy take control of the army? No, because that would leave you deposed and, most likely, dead. Tuthmoses was young, healthy, athletic, and powerful, and yet, he let Hatshepsut rule for over twenty years. Clearly he wasn’t her enemy.

Still, there’s the undeniable massacre of the monuments, statues, and images. Somebody went on a rampage, trying to erase traces of the queen pharaoh. A hypothesis, put forth by renowned archaeologist and Egyptologist Dr. Joyce Tyldesley, may explain this. 

Perhaps the damage was not done for the purpose of revenge, but to beef up Tuthmoses’s pharaoh résumé. By destroying all records of Hatshepsut as pharaoh, and hoping that succeeding kings would forget all about her—out of sight, out of mind—Tuthmoses could add the years of her reign and her massive achievements to his own, and therefore become one of the greatest pharaohs ever. So, instead of brooding and sulking for two decades over a lost crown, then finally getting into enough of a snit to ransack the place, he simply tried to rewrite history to fatten up his curriculum vitae. 

Ding, ding, ding! Does that not sound familiar? Ramses II?  Did he learn to reverse-forge from Tuthmoses? At least, Ramses stuck to putting his name on other people’s monuments. He didn’t try to delete fellow rulers from history and shove all written accounts of them into his scribe’s recycle bin.

Looking at this differently, to account for Hatshepsut’s censure from the pharaoh club, some may propose that the male egos of ancient Egypt couldn’t handle the successful reign of a woman, and so, refused to acknowledge her kingly contributions, but that would not be accurate. Hatshepsut was not the first woman to rule as king, nor was she the last. She definitely was the best, though. Plus, several queens had the power to rule as regent when their husbands were out on military campaigns, during inspections of faraway building projects, or other business trips. So, that wouldn’t be it. 

Well then, is it possible that, after the death of Hatshepsut, something snapped in Tuthmoses’s brain, and in a moment of insanity, he went postal on her temples and statues? Not if you consider the evidence: the attempted obliteration of Hatshepsut’s reign wasn’t a rash act, done in haste. It was sporadic, far from complete, and was carried out over a long period of time, some of it taking place when Tuthmoses was an old man. That brings us back to the theory of Tuthmoses putting a new spin on history for his own benefit.

So, we still don’t really know the motivation for the destructive measures taken against Hatshepsut. We’re lucky, however, that enough archaeological evidence remains of her existence to keep her memory and kingly accomplishments alive and well.

Let’s put away the history lesson. Our bus has now reached its intended target and the temple of the legendary pharaoh stands before us. This exceptional structure is comprised of two very large terraces each accessible by a long and wide stone ramp. Ramps, there are ramps! Hatshepsut, bless her heart, knew I was coming. She did, for she had her temple built with integrated wheelchair access. The entire temple is nestled against the massive rock cliff. A handful or statues bearing Hatshepsut’s youthful features, escapees of the slaughter, can be seen standing defiantly along the upper terrace. 

That’s about as much as we get to see of it. Regrettably, we have no time to visit the complex before heading back to the boat; we can only quickly admire it from afar, unable to see the sanctuaries and shrines inside, or the burial chamber. 

I should have known that the curse would be of the extended-release kind, the jinx that keeps on jinxing. This is the first temple seemingly built just for me, and I can’t go in and bask in its splendour. Knock it off Ramses! You’ve had your fun, now cut it out.

Seething, I recall another excursion that was denied me because of Mr. Ramses’s antics: a visit to the Egyptian Museum in Cairo and its world famous artefacts and exhibits. One of its most popular exhibits is that of the royal mummies, including the miscreant himself, Rammy Number Two. While my tour mates were visiting this lofty institution, I was busy dodging cholera in the hospital. 

It makes me wonder if the purpose of this whole curse thing was to keep me away from His Royal Person. Was he worried that I would pull on his toes? Stick my tongue out at him? Tell him awful mummy jokes? 

If that really is him.

The Author of the Curse

For tourists, different burial sites are open at different times. It’s a tomb rotation of sorts, although there doesn’t seem to be any set schedule as to what’s open on any particular day. It’s almost like a lottery. You show up, and if you’re afraid of heights—or say, have a broken ankle—you just have to hope that the only tomb open that day is not the one that is solely accessible by scaling the sheer rock face with the help of a skimpy rope ladder. You think I’m kidding, but there is such a tomb, according to Yasmin, our fountain of knowledge. 

Today, for our viewing pleasure, we have access to a couple of tombs from the Ramses clan. No rope ladder required. First up: the sepulchre of Ramses IX. The entrance’s large opening is kept secure by a sturdy metal grille equipped with a padlock the size of a grapefruit. Beyond the entrance, past the grille and the unlocked grapefruit, the descent along the tunnel to the burial chamber is easily manageable with the crutches, and I marvel at the beauty of the hieroglyphs and the sumptuousness of the images on the walls. 

Amongst all this grandeur, I’m unaware that in a subconscious corner of my brain, a small stack of neurons is busy at work, trying to ascertain which pharaonic bozo is responsible for sending me the complimentary gift of the airplane restroom disaster. As I proceed deeper into the tomb, the clandestine neuronal network gains momentum until, at last, the rest of my brain gets invited to the party and is informed of its assignment: find a clue as to the identity of the villainous dispatcher of the curse. 

Although the logical and analytical part of my brain dismisses the idea of a curse as pure hogwash, on the other side of my skull, the small but tenacious group of impressionable and theatrically-minded neurons keep whispering, Just wait, you’ll see.

 

At this, the logical part retorts, Why don’t you also look for signs of  little green men from Mars, the key to the Bermuda Triangle, and Godzilla’s hideout while you’re at it?

I ignore the internal verbiage and turn my attention to my surroundings. The tomb is serene, even welcoming. Is that to create a false sense of security for the unwary? I wonder. I look around at the hieroglyphs and paintings for any warnings of doom and gloom should the Unwelcome (that would be us) enter these premises. More specifically, I look for the ancient Egyptian equivalent of “Beware, foolhardy French Canadian pharmacist! After flying through the skies, sailing on the waters, and travelling over mountains and wadis, you are doomed to enter this sacred burial chamber with metal on your arms and metal in your foot, hopping like a miserable rabbit!” Either that, or the abridged version, “Marie, keep out, or else”.

It does make sense, after all, to look for something specific since the dozens of other tourists entering and leaving the tomb seem totally free of unholy curses, unscathed and unaffected by jinxes from the past. The impressionable neurons cheer me on.

I discover nothing. 

My tour mates and I leave the tomb and make our way to that of Ramses IV. Again, the descent is gentle and gradual allowing me ample time to inspect and study the walls for evidence. As with the previous tomb, fabulous decorations abound everywhere, but they’re nothing compared to the king’s massive granite sarcophagus which stands in the middle of the burial chamber. It’s enormous. At eight feet high and the size of a small garage, it boggles the mind as to how they got it in here. The tunnel leading to the burial chamber hardly looks wide enough to accommodate this behemoth of a box, let alone the weight of the thing. It must tip the scales at several tons. I’m tempted to knock on it to see if anyone’s at home but resist the urge. It would be a sure way to gain friends, influence people, or get myself hexed all over again. 

Annoyed at not finding any warnings or signs of any kind, I exit the tomb. The logical brain barks, You see? Hogwash, I say. Hogwash!

Perhaps the perpetrator is neither of these Ramses dudes. Yet, I’ve only entered those two tombs. Could another pharaoh have sent the curse knowing I would blame one of these two guys? Is there such a thing as a jinx by proxy? Or is the logical part of my brain correct in rejecting this curse theory as complete and unadulterated nonsense? I ponder and analyze the facts as I follow my group back to the bus.

·         Fact: People usually get cursed by entering the pharaoh’s tomb (as the popular legend goes).

·         Fact: I’ve entered the tombs of both Ramses IV and IX.

·         Fact: The last Ramses to rule was Ramses XI.

·         Fact: Ramses II, the reverse forger, liked to put his name on other people’s stuff and take credit for other pharaohs’ building achievements. Could he not, then, do naughty and mischievous things and blame it on others?

·         Fact:  IV + IX = XIII  and  XIII − XI  =  II

·         Conclusion:  Ramses II.  Numbers don’t lie. It’s flawless logic. As the saying goes, the proof is in the hummus. 

My logical brain is flabbergasted at having unwittingly aided and abetted the other side, but at long last, the theatrically-minded neurons are vindicated.

What's a Wadi?

Early the next morning, with Ammut having stayed on his side of death and no one having been devoured, our group gathers in the lobby of the ship, ready for our last day in Luxor. Although the largest part of the city of Luxor lies on the East Bank of the Nile, today we have an appointment with the dead, on the West Bank. 

This is the location of the Valley of the Kings, the burial place of the New Kingdom pharaohs. Burial in pyramids—beckoning beacons for tomb robbers—having been abandoned in favour of less conspicuous real estate, the mummies of the pharaohs, from Tuthmoses the First onward, were laid to rest for eternity, surrounded by untold treasure, deep in the bedrock of the West Bank. 

 

The ancient Egyptians were very keen on the idea of duality, their version of Yin and Yang. The pharaoh was known as the Lord of the Two Lands, King of Upper and Lower Egypt. There was the Black Land and the Red Land, referring to the sediment-rich black soil deposited by the flood of the Nile over the red sand of the desert. 

East and West also held great significance. The cycle of the sun, rising in the East and setting in the West, was seen as the cycle of life. Born in the East, the sun travels across the sky to die in the West. Thus, the East bank became associated with the living, and the West bank, with the dead. Because of this, as explained by Egyptologist Dr. Bob Brier, the deceased were sometimes referred to as the Westerners. So, we’re going to spend the afternoon with the Westerners. Yee ha!

After leaving the ship, we cross the Nile by bus via a relatively new bridge—before its construction, the crossing had to be done by ferry—and drive along the West bank through lush farmland abounding with sugar cane, one of Egypt’s major crops. Fifteen minutes later, the verdant riverbank gives way to the desert. Just like that. One minute, everything’s green, and the next, everything’s all different shades of beige; a drastic change in a very short distance. 

We reach the Valley of the Kings and there’s nothing but mountains and valleys full of rock, dusty and barren. There’s no vegetation whatsoever, not even a fake palm tree. The whole area is entirely desolate, utterly beautiful, and unbelievably immense. I cannot begin to fathom how they discovered any of the pharaohs’ tombs. Every mound, every recess, every rocky protrusion looks like all the other mounds, recesses, and protrusions. If I were an Egyptologist eager to discover a tomb, I would have absolutely no idea where to plant my shovel and start digging. 

Looking for a tomb here is like looking for a needle in a haystack, or more appropriately, a rock in a wadi.

 

Neither did they, according to a popular story. Once upon a time, a local man—I don’t know his name, so let’s call him Yousef—was walking in the wadi, leading his horse (or donkey, depending on who’s telling the story) across the rocky terrain, on his way home from a long day of wadi-walking. Suddenly, one of the horse’s hooves fell through a hole in the ground and he got stuck. Yousef, trying to free the poor beast, dug around the hole and found the opening of a tomb. 

The funny thing is, no matter which tomb is being discussed, and with whom the discussion takes place, this is always the story that comes up as to its discovery. Apparently, Yousef and his tomb-diviner-horse-donkey-extraordinaire discovered most of the burials in the Valley of the Kings. Busy fellow!

I think the heat is getting to my neurons, I hear voices. Oh, it’s you, esteemed reader. You have a question? What’s a wadi? It’s a dry valley or gully, and during the rainy season, a stream runs through it, somewhat like a kidney after too many beers. The Valley of the Kings is a huge bunch of old wadis. I don’t know the origin of the word, but maybe when the French-speaking folk first came here, they just pointed at the gullies and asked, “Wadis dis? Wadis dat?” And the name stuck. 

Let’s get back to the matter at hand. The kings’ tombs, built by digging down into the bedrock, were sealed and hidden in an effort to protect them from pillage by thieves. What’s that? Yes, I know the phrase pillage by thieves is somewhat redundant. Of course, pillage would be done by thieves. It certainly wouldn’t be pillage by dermatologists, or pillage by sushi vendors. But, at least, it’s not as bad as if I’d said pillage by pillagers. Now that would be very bad. It would be a waste of words, really. Waste of ink, waste of paper. Waste of my time writing it, waste of your time reading it . . .

Anyway, let’s continue. Alluvial deposits, the debris carried by the above-mentioned streams, would sometimes cover the tomb’s entrance and help camouflage it even more. Sadly this wasn’t enough to foil the more robust robbers as most of the burial sites, by the time of their discovery, had already been totally looted by looters.

Most of them, but not all. The small tomb of a relatively obscure pharaoh dodged the plunder by plunderers and survived almost intact until its discovery in 1922. Thanks to Howard Carter, the burial chamber of the boy king Tutankhamun was revealed to the whole world in all its glory. Its royal inhabitant and priceless contents have become famous. So much so, that King Tut and his gold mask have become almost synonymous with Egypt.   

So far, over sixty tombs have been discovered in the Valley of the Kings with undoubtedly more awaiting discovery, and of those, perhaps some that escaped robbery by robbers. Okay, I’ll behave now.

For tourists, different burial sites are open at different times. It’s a tomb rotation of sorts, although there doesn’t seem to be any set schedule as to what’s open on any particular day. It’s almost like a lottery. You show up, and if you’re afraid of heights—or say, have a broken ankle—you just have to hope that the only tomb open that day is not the one that is solely accessible by scaling the sheer rock face with the help of a skimpy rope ladder. You think I’m kidding, but there is such a tomb, according to Yasmin, our fountain of knowledge.