Fun and Games on the Nile

In addition to the good food, dinner is a lot of fun. Everyone is dressed up and I count at least seven Cleopatras in attendance. At first, this seems a tad excessive, but thinking back to the Ptolemaic period and the plethora of girls named Cleopatra, I figure we should probably have a few more. Mingling among the queens are some sheiks, harem girls, a large number of robed Egyptian wannabes, and one rather rotund pharaoh. 

After the dinner, we all gather in the bar lounge for the reception. Drinks are served and the games that have been organized for the guests get under way. One such game, the mummy game, involves six teams consisting of two coerced volunteers each. One member stands very still while the other person wraps the “standee” with toilet paper in mummy fashion. This ain’t no Charmin they’re using. The stuff rips and shreds at the slightest tug. The wrappers attempt to glue the strips with dabs from their drinks, or resort to tying the loose ends in knots which causes the paper to tear even more, resulting in the application of more liquor, the whole thing becoming a big wet mess. 

Should I offer them the use of my glue stick? I could even sell it to the highest bidder and make a killing. Or would that guarantee me another lecture from Angel Me? My mental debate is interrupted by a slight commotion involving one team of hitherto docile game players. 

One very tall rambunctious mummy, possibly inebriated from the alcohol fumes, refuses to stand still, and with his head fully engulfed in paper, insists on blindly tottering about with the much shorter wrapper in hot pursuit, feverishly trying to finish him off—wrapping, that is—with a few remaining squares of paper and half a glass of whiskey. The chase ends with the mummy hitting his head on one of the overhead hanging lamps, causing him to come to a sudden stop, causing the wrapper to rear-end him, causing the whiskey to leave the glass and splash all over the disobedient mummy’s butt, causing a very embarrassing wet spot and hysterical laughter all around.

After the allotted time for the wrapping phase has elapsed, the order to cease and desist is given, and the mummy facsimiles are put to a vote to elect the best one. There is no best one; they all look like rejects from Mummification 101. With such half-baked and wacky-looking mummies littering the Nile—this is, apparently, a popular game on all the cruise ships—the ancient Egyptian embalmers and high priests must be spinning in their sarcophagi. It’s all in good fun though, especially since I don’t have to participate: ankle benefit #2. 

I’m also exempt from taking part in the potato race, the next game on the entertainment menu, although this time, my ankle alone cannot be credited for saving me. This game requires men; thank the Lord for ovaries! Four great big guys are corralled into the game area and fitted with equipment for the competition.

Each man gets a rope tied around his waist. One end of the rope dangles down his backside, like a tail, stopping just inches off the floor. A potato is tied to the end of the dangling rope. Swinging their potatoes by making rude body gestures, each man must hit another potato on the floor, between his feet, to propel it forward, much like a twisted game of croquet. 

The winner is the first contestant who manages to get his potato across the finish line which consists of a length of leftover mummy bandage (toilet paper) set on the floor. Pretty simple, it would seem, except that there’s nothing pretty about it. From my vantage point at the back, all I see are spindly legs sticking out of squatting robes, gyrating hips, and flying potatoes. One gentleman is swinging his potato so hard that I’m afraid it will take off and hit him squarely in the forehead. Concussion by potato. How do you fill out that medical insurance form, I’d like to know? 

Another contestant—the rotund pharaoh—slips and falls on his butt annihilating both potatoes at once, thereby eliminating him from the race. A winner is declared among the other three players and everyone regains their seats, during which time, a staff member cleans up the potato road kill. I make a mental note to avoid mashed potatoes at the buffet for the next few days, just in case.

After the vegetable massacre, a few guests take over the dance floor and others gather about tables and sofas to chat and enjoy coffee, tea, and munchies. 

Gradually, the evening winds down and most guests retire to their suites. A few insomniacs head to the sundeck for a midnight stroll as the ship makes its way to Aswan, gliding gently and silently into the night. 

Having witnessed the making of barbaric drunken mummy zombies earlier this evening, I decide to retreat to my cabin and read up on the correct mummification procedure should I come across a dead body in need of preservation.