What Was That Noise?

When the time comes for the return journey back to the ship, it has become quite dark. We leave the busy city centre, and bit by bit, the streets become virtually empty. Slowly, we make our way along the unlit and deserted country road—Jessica’s bad mood has blossomed into full refusal to switch out of first gear (a snail’s first gear to be exact). The other carriages are so far ahead of us, we can barely see them. Yet, given the sinister setting, I feel no tinge of alarm or fear. 

Indeed, throughout the whole trip, I’ve never felt frightened or vulnerable, which is truly a reflection of the kindness and amiability of the Egyptian people. The fact that there are armed guards all over the place also helps to develop a sense of security all around; that goes without saying. 

Perhaps I’m just naive, but I would feel a lot more nervous were I lost and stranded in the middle of Toronto than here, in Luxor. Not that we’re lost. Or stranded. But if Jessica continues to decelerate, soon we’ll be at a complete stop and we will be stranded. I don’t think that the Automobile Association is equipped to handle stalled ornery horses with stupid names (no offence to all the Jessicas out there). It’s just that Jessica is so not a horsey name.

We dawdle along—Jessica is close to catatonic by now—and I wonder if our driver has ever gotten lost, and being a guy, would he ask for directions if he were? It’s an accepted fact that most men, the world over, don’t ask for directions. They think they don’t need to ask because they think they know how to read a map. 

Ladies, when was the last time you saw your husband/boyfriend/partner reading a map? Probably the same time you saw him refer to the instructions on how to assemble anything that comes in detached pieces: rarely to never. And if you’re part of the infinitesimal portion of women lucky enough to have found a guy that will not let his machismo get in the way of regular map reading or instruction studying, then hang on to him because he’s a rare gem. You may want to rent him out too. You’ll make a nice little income.

The reality is that the majority of the males of our species will only refer to a map when they’re hopelessly lost and when no one’s looking and when they know for sure they’ll miss the hockey game if they don’t get “unlost” this very minute. Just as they will only look at the assembly instructions for the new barbecue when it ends up operating like a trash compactor, and turns their twelve-ounce porterhouse steak into uncooked hamburger croquettes, because the only flame in sight is the one shooting out of the bottom of the thing like a Soyuz rocket. So, ask for directions? No way. Need we be reminded of Moses in the desert? Looking for the Promised Land? Wandering for forty years? Hmmm? 

Now, a map’s one thing; a GPS, that’s something else entirely. Or is it? I bet if Moses had been lucky enough to have a handy dandy GPS, he’d have played with it, at first, because he’s a guy, and guys like gadgets. But then, instead of using it to find his way, he’d have dismantled it to see how it works because he’s a guy, and guys like to take things apart. Then, he would have put it back together with some improvements, or so he would claim. He would have “improved” it so he could play the video version of Escape the pharaoh and Split the Red Sea on it ‘cause he’s a guy, and guys like video games, and this is much more fun than finding one’s way out of the desert which he doesn’t need to do because he doesn’t think he’s lost. ‘Nuff said.

We finally arrive at the boat just after 7 P.M. and Jessica, alias the Equine Sloth, watches us disembark from the carriage with a look that has all the warmth of a night in Antarctica. I wink at her, knowing that my worry of her running amuck and ditching us proved groundless, since her top speed never surpassed that of poured molasses. She snorts and turns her head away, apparently insulted.  

At the dock, managing the gangway is a bit tricky in the dark, but enough light trickles out from the ship that I feel confident the crossing won’t end with a big splash in the Nile. 

Suddenly, there’s a big loud splash in the Nile, off to my left. Everyone stops in their tracks, looks, and listens. Before anyone can figure out who or what has gone for a midnight swim, another splash breaks the silence, coming from the same direction as the first. 

Dozens of logical explanations flood into my brain. It must be someone disposing of garbage in a less than environmentally friendly way. Or it could be someone disposing of a dead body. Yet, in the blackness of the night, in this strange and captivating land, it is but a minuscule leap to the least rational but most disquieting notion that Ammut has crossed over from the dark side, and swimming and splashing around the boat, has come to devour us. I don’t know about everyone else, but judging from the hurried scramble to get inside the boat, their thoughts must be paralleling mine. I aim for my cabin, lock the door, and stay there until dinner.  

I know what you’re thinking, “First she says that not once during the trip did she get scared. Then, a couple of little splashes in the water send her cowering in her cabin. She must be doolally.” And you would be right. I should have been more specific: I was never afraid of people or places. It’s the spooky Egyptian gods and the pharaohs’ wretched curses that give me the heebie-jeebies. I’ve had a taste of one ancient pharaoh’s malediction and I’m sure it’s nothing compared to the havoc that an infuriated god can wreak.

I just hope that tonight is not a harbinger of more devastation to come since tomorrow we’ll be visiting the Valley of the Kings and entering the sacred tombs. In other words, we’ll be flirting with the long-dead pharaohs, the gods, and the curses.