Mummy Do-It-Yourself

Making a mummy is relatively easy. As the ancient Egyptians discovered, anyone can make one, even you, esteemed reader. Dig a hole in the sand, throw in uncle Ebenezer—make sure he’s dead first, and that doesn’t mean shooting him with a revolver—throw in a few of his beloved possessions (TV remote, favourite power tool, lucky baseball, etc) to keep him company, cover the whole thing with sand, add some desert heat for several years, and voilà, you have a bona fide mummy, minus the bandages. Still, the ancient Egyptians thought there was room for improvement, so they improved the process.

The actual practice of mummification started probably around the fourth dynasty—during the pyramid age—and lasted well over three thousand years. I should mention that mummification wasn’t performed just in antiquity. We also have modern-day mummies; Vladimir Lenin is a mummy. Even though the former Soviet leader is not wrapped—there’s no linen on Lenin—his body has been preserved for decades via a top-secret process, leaving him looking very lifelike, and resting in his glass coffin in the middle of Red Square. But let’s leave Russia with its Lenin, glass-enshrined à la Snow White, and get back to ancient Egypt. 

Over the centuries, the art of mummy-making improved, but not all changes were beneficial. By the New Kingdom—the period during which Ramses II ran around building temples and children (he had over one hundred kids)—the process had been perfected and refined resulting in spectacular mummies. By the Late Period however, some innovations intended to improve the preservation of the body had the opposite effect. The mummies deteriorated, often ending up looking worse than if they’d been left in the simple sand pit in the first place.

Depending on the wealth of the deceased and his or her family, there were different mummy management options from which to choose. For the not well-to-do, the cheapest method involved removing the stomach, and sometimes the intestines, giving the inside of the body a good wash, and covering the body with natron—a naturally occurring compound of sodium carbonate and sodium bicarbonate. After a month or two, uncle Ebenezer, had he been the subject, would be as dry as parchment paper.  

Those who could afford to pay for a somewhat more involved embalming process were treated to the “dissolve and dry” method. The abdomen was filled with oil of cedar—or the oil of some other coniferous tree—through the body’s natural opening. (And you thought enemas were just for the living!) The oil was left in place for several days to dissolve the internal organs. I don’t know why they didn’t think to use camels to do the dissolving bit; it would have been cheaper, quicker, and I daresay, more fun. Anyway, after a set time, the oil was drained along with all the internal organs, now themselves in liquid form. Eeeuhh! From there, it was on to the natron heap for the drying phase.

For the wealthy and royal patrons, mummification became quite intricate. First, the brain had to be dealt with. The embalmer, borrowing the crochet hook from his grand mama’s knitting basket, would shove it up the deceased’s nose. Okay, not an actual crochet hook, but a similar sort of tool. After twirling it around the cranium for awhile, the brain, now in a state of pulpy slush, was removed and discarded. Why? Because, to the ancient Egyptians, this organ was thought to be utterly useless, and in the case of some people I know, they were right on the button.

Next, an incision in the lower abdomen was made and everything was more or less taken out. The cavity was then rinsed and washed with wine and spices. Sometimes, the empty abdomen was stuffed, turkey-like, with sand, sawdust, linen, or straw to help with the desiccating process. This, along with having the whole body covered in natron, ensured that Ebenezer would be reduced to a state akin to that of a spring roll past its best before date by a few centuries. 

Once the dry cycle was finished, the inside stuffing was removed from the mummy under construction, then, new stuffing of linen, sawdust, and natron crystals was inserted to help keep the mummy’s shape somewhat humanoid. This ensured that we wouldn’t mistake Ebenezer for a cat or a crocodile. You laugh, esteemed reader, but they did mummify animals. Lots of them. 

At times, linen was also used to pad the nose, mouth, and other areas to preserve a realistic appearance. Again, we don’t want Ebenezer resembling Fluffy. The heart, which had been removed, washed, and wrapped in linen, was reinserted into the body. The Egyptians believed that the soul resided in a person’s heart, and in order for the Gods to judge Ebenezer’s worthiness to enter the Afterlife, he had to have his heart with him, nice and clean. Then, after all the stuffing, padding, and organ spring-cleaning, the turkey-mummy enjoyed a final treatment with precious oils and ointments. 

This done, the bandages—long strips of linen—were applied, wound around the body as well as each limb. In some cases, the bandaging became quite elaborate and each toe and finger was wrapped individually. During this process, jewellery and amulets were inserted throughout the bandages to confer protection to the Newly Wrapped. 

It was traditional to mummify kings with both arms crossed against their chest. Other royal persons were wrapped with one arm crossed and the other straight along his or her side, while wealthy non-royals had both arms straight. So, if you ever run across an animated mummy after dark, look at the position of its arms and you’ll have an idea as to its status. Therefore, as you turn around and run like the dickens, screaming in terror at the top of your lungs, you’ll know if you’re being chased by royalty, nobility, or peasantry.

After the wrappings and amulets were in place, the mummy was finally laid in the coffin. Accompanied by religious ceremonies and rituals, the coffin was then interred in the deceased’s elaborately decorated tomb. 

The heart having been dealt with, some of the other organs that had been removed were similarly dried and individually wrapped in linen, then stored in canopic jars, all set to accompany their owner into the tomb. I guess this was done so that Ebenezer could have access to his liver should he need it after a drunken Afterlife party. I expect the canopic jars were appropriately labelled, “In case of emergency, break jar, unwrap liver, insert, and set on detox for thirty minutes.”

Canopic jars were vessels made of stone, ceramic, and even gold, covered with head-shaped stoppers. There were usually four jars, each containing a specific organ, and each with the head of a different god: human-headed Imsety for the liver, baboon-headed Hapy for the lungs, jackal-headed Duamutef for the stomach, and falcon-headed Qebehsenuef for the intestines. I guess this really isn’t much different than my kitchen pantry where the containers are labelled flour, sugar, tea, and cookies, but I digress. 

Those of you who know something of human anatomy will have noticed some omissions. You may ask, “What about the kidneys, spleen, and pancreas? What happened to those?” Nothing. Very little mention is ever made of them. Unlike the organs worthy of a canopic jar—Mummy’s Favourites—these were probably deemed as useless as the brain, and simply discarded.

In later periods, instead of going into jars, Mummy’s Favourites were dried, gift-wrapped in linen, and actually returned to the body before it was bandaged, creating an Egyptian piñata of sorts. This probably made liver retrieval easier for Ebenezer, although he would have to be careful around gangster mummies armed with baseball bats, otherwise after one whack, he might spill his guts, literally. You may ask, “Why would there be gangster mummies? And why would they be armed with baseball bats?” I don’t know. In my world, they just would. And stop asking silly questions.

In some instances, before the tomb burial, a mixture of resin or pitch was poured over the mummy and the coffin. Perhaps this was done in an effort to better preserve the body, but unfortunately, it often did the reverse, the mixture reacting with the tissues and causing damage to the mummy, resulting in some remarkably ugly specimens. 

Unattractive mummies aside, for most ordinary wealthy individuals, this was it; one mummy, one coffin, one tomb. For kings though, one coffin was not enough. Neither were two coffins or even three. Take, for example, King Tutankhamun. He was buried encased in layer upon golden layer of coffins and shrines. The head of his mummy was covered with the famous gold mask. He was then placed in a solid gold, mummy-shaped coffin which was then placed in another coffin of wood gilded with gold. This was in turn fitted into a third coffin, also of wood covered with gold.

As if that was still considered too common, the whole thing was enclosed in a massive granite sarcophagus which was itself entombed inside four shrines, all fitting one inside the other, all made of wood entirely gilded in gold. This done, Tutankhamun the Onion was ready for the Afterlife.

The whole point of mummification and elaborate burials was to preserve the body and the soul so that the deceased could enjoy the Afterlife for eternity; a way of achieving immortality. In a way, you could say that Tutankhamun has indeed achieved immortality. There are pictures of his gold mask displayed the world over in museums, homes, and tattoo parlours, its serene face looking on, much the same as it did when he was buried over three thousand years ago. If that’s not being immortal, then I don’t know what is.

With visions of mummies, sarcophagi, nose hooks, and liver-containing canopic jars swirling about and jostling for elbow room in my overcrowded cerebrum, I close the mummy recipe book and get ready for bed. 

By the next morning, the lush foliage has disappeared and the countryside along the Nile has become very rocky. It is from this area of Egypt that much of the limestone and red granite were quarried for the building of palaces, temples, and obelisks. From the river, areas where quarries existed in ancient times are easily recognizable by the square and symmetrical edges of the rock facades from which the stone blocks were cut. In some places, doorways can be seen carved in the stone although, from the ship, it’s impossible to tell whether these were tombs or houses for the workers. 

It’s fascinating to just float by and witness these vestiges of the past. I can almost hear the voices of the workers and the sounds of the tools on the rock. This is the land that nurtured a civilization which lasted thousands of years, and it’s easy to imagine it lasting thousands more given that the landscape appears virtually unchanged since that faraway time. 

As we sail into Aswan, in the heart of Nubia, I check out the coming day’s schedule. We’ll start with a tour of the High Dam and then visit the Temple of Isis at Philae, often simply referred to as Philae Temple. No matter what it’s called, I won’t get to see it up close.