Abu Simbel or Bust

With my heart racing, I lie in bed listening, trying to determine who they are and how they got into my suite. Everything is quiet. I hear nothing. I see nothing, not that I would since the room is pitch black, but my eyes are wide open and scanning the dark nonetheless. I hold my breath. I wait. Nothing. I gasp for air. Still nothing. 

I decide to investigate. I activate the light switch by the bed and the room erupts into view as a million photons hit my retinas. Crap! I forgot about the blasted lighting setup and managed to turn on half the lights in the cabin with the flick of one switch. After recovering from the sudden jolt of brightness equal to that of a thousand suns, I look around. Nothing is amiss.

I sit up and grab a crutch baseball bat style, ready to swing at anything that moves or twitches, be they harmless Egyptian piñata mummies or murderous armed bandits. Of course, this makes no sense. No one in their right mind and armed with a gun would approach gimpy me, sitting on the bed and brandishing my crutch, close enough to get clobbered. With silence still reigning supreme, I put on my cast, grab the other crutch, and carefully head for the bathroom. 

The victim is lying in the bathtub in a wet pile, amidst several little bottles of complimentary shampoo, conditioner, and aloe vera shower gel. The cause of the ruckus is immediately apparent. One of the clothesline’s suction cups has mutinied and released itself from the wall, causing the clothes to tumble into the tub. During the fall, the clothes knocked over the bottles that sat on the edge of the tub, and it was these little bottles, falling, bouncing, and ricocheting madly about the tub that had me convinced I was under attack by fearsome desperados.  

Feeling like an imbecile, I fix the mess and drape the wet clothes on selected pieces of furniture around the cabin so they’ll dry without causing any more uproar. I grab the evil clothesline and shove it in the bottom of my suitcase. I’ll burn it once I get back home.

After a few hours of sleep without further interruption, I wake up excited at our planned visit to Abu Simbel. The clothes are not dry, but a good session with the hair dryer makes them wearable. I fix my hair, apply some makeup, and then head to the dining room for a hearty banana breakfast. 

Soon afterwards, we set off for the Aswan airport where we’ll board a plane for the thirty minute flight to Abu Simbel. The airport terminal is not overly big, but it’s bright and devoid of crowds. We make our way to the departure area where I find out, through basic eavesdropping, that there’s no COW service at this location. Halleluiah! This is my lucky day. I get to behave like a normal person, take the shuttle bus to the plane, and clamber up the steps all by myself. 

This is not my lucky day. Our flight should have taken off two hours ago, but we’re only now boarding the plane, having sat inside the terminal and twiddled our thumbs all this time without a clue as to the cause for the hold-up. I’m hoping that this delay doesn’t in turn shorten our visit to Abu Simbel in order to make the return flight. I torture myself with visions of our bus arriving at the site, slowing down for a quick look with my face squished against the window, then returning to the airport without stopping, and without seeing anything of touristy value. 

As the bus slows down, perhaps I can trick the driver into opening the door by feigning a sudden and unexplained attack of claustrophobia. Or maybe I could suffer from a bout of twenty-four-hour scurvy complicated by rickets, requiring wide open air and a dose of every vitamin in the alphabet. I could even claim temporary possession by an evil entity and fling open the door myself. I could then throw myself out of the vehicle before anyone could make a move to restrain me. I must see Abu Simbel, or die trying. That’s it. Those are the choices. Even if I have to crawl to the temples, uphill, through scorpion-infested deserts, or swim in waters teeming with crocodiles armoured with sharp teeth and beady eyes. I will survive. I will get there. I must. 

My plans for escape from the bus and subsequent foray into hostile environments are shoved aside by Yasmin’s steadfast assurances that the plane will wait for us. And so will the boat, according to our tour guide, which is due to sail at two o’clock this afternoon. I entertain severe doubts about the veracity of these statements. In this day and age of timetables, schedules, and hectic lives, this is a concept totally foreign to me, but one with which I will not argue at this time for the sake of my sanity. 

I sit back and try to enjoy the ride as the plane taxies down the runway for the takeoff. On the positive side, at least the attendants are convivial, unlike Vlad the Impaler of the previous flight. Furthermore, half an hour later, the aircraft delivers us to hot and sunny Abu Simbel without crashing: another very good sign.

One at a time, like dutiful children, we board the bus that will take us to the temple complex. Out of the corner of my eye, without making it look obvious, I observe the driver, analyzing his demeanour. He looks relaxed and friendly. Not in a rush, not in a crusty mood, not in any way perturbed that we’re two hours late. I take this as a good indication that I won’t have to jump out of the moving vehicle, or have to survive on rations of roasted crocodile with scorpion sauce. I take out my travel book and review the Abu Simbel section once more, even though I know it almost by heart. 

The site is home to two breathtakingly superb temples built by Ramses II, better known as Ramses the Great, or as I like to think of him, the reverse forger. He ruled for some sixty-seven years and had ample time to build and build and build, and then build some more. 

Both temples, relocated by UNESCO—like the temple of Isis at Philae—to prevent being swallowed up by the lake, are nestled in the bedrock at the edge of Lake Nasser. The relocation, begun in 1964, was accomplished by cutting the entire temple complex into huge blocks, and reassembling the site sixty-five metres higher and almost two hundred metres further back from the river. The massive project took four years to complete, at a cost of forty million dollars. And by golly, judging from the pictures in my travel book, it was worth every penny, especially since they accomplished this without jumbling up the blocks and ending up with Ramses’s foot sticking out of his royal ear.

The Sun Temple of Ramses, dedicated to the king and to the sun God, is the larger of the two temples. Two giant pairs of seated statues of the king, each sixty-eight feet tall, flank its opening, accompanied by smaller statues of his mother, wife, children, and statues of the sun god Re-Harakhty. 

Inside, the pillared hall is lined with more statues of Ramses, four on each side, and each measuring thirty-three feet in height. The walls and pillars are decorated with scenes of the pharaoh in various battles, smiting enemies, and inspecting prisoners. The famous battle of Qadesh with its victorious outcome (according to the Egyptians) is gloriously depicted on one entire wall. Other scenes, religious in nature, showing Ramses and Nefertari making offerings to the gods, are also present in abundance.

At the far end of the temple is the main sanctuary, deep in the bedrock where three statues, representing the gods Ptah, Amun-Re, and Re-Harakhty, are joined by yet another statue of Ramses. With an ego so gigantic—judging by the size and number of his statues—I’m not sure how Ramses managed to squeeze into his palaces and temples without getting his overinflated head wedged in the doorway. But then, maybe his width radar is better than mine.

Twice a year, as the sun rises, its rays reach deep into the sanctuary to illuminate three of the four statues which, in antiquity, were likely covered with a layer of gold, making them as resplendent as the sun itself. What a magnificent sight that would have been! Somewhat blinding, actually, but magnificent nonetheless.

Everyone basked in the light, except for Ptah, the god of the city of Memphis. He’s the one whose statue is left in shadows. But if you think Ptah is in perpetual darkness through sheer accident because they didn’t build the temple—or reassemble it post-relocation—correctly so that all four statues share the light equally, think again. This was done on purpose. Yessiree Bob. You see, Ptah, according to some, had connections to the Underworld and was sometimes referred to as the God of Darkness. So it’s only fitting that he should remain in the dark. 

There’s also another motive for keeping Ptah in the dark. When the light shines in, the three statues illuminated are those of Amun-Re, Ramses, and Re-Harakhty. Ramses, centered between these two important gods, formed a triad, and triads, in ancient Egypt, were very popular. In this one, Ramses is in the middle, making him the most important of the three dudes. Coincidence? Not on your life.

During pharaonic times, it was normal practice for the king to have many wives, of both royal and non-royal birth. From the royal bunch, there would be one chief wife, also called Great Royal Wife. Sounds important, doesn’t it? Well, it’s not, really. 

If you want to get an idea of the relative importance of wives, children, or other family members, you just have to look at the size of their statues compared to that of the king. At Ramses’s temple, his statues tower over the entrance, while that of Nefertari, his chief and favourite wife, comes up to just under his knees. Even his own mother is represented in this diminutive fashion. His children fare even worse, having their statues come up to just above his ankle. I guess if the ancient carvers had included statues of Mr. and Mrs. Common Folk, these would have been relegated to lofty positions between the king’s toes, like sock lint and toe fluff.

The second temple at Abu Simbel is dedicated to Nefertari and to the goddess Hathor. This structure is smaller but no less impressive, with six statues of the king and queen forming the front façade, three on each side of the entrance.

One noteworthy detail is that, at her temple, Nefertari’s statues are the same size as those of her husband, an indication of his high esteem for her. How magnanimous of him! Yet, Ramses’s mammoth ego is still evident by the fact that he has four statues of himself versus two of Nefertari.