At The Foot of the Pyramid

The plane touches down in Cairo and taxies to the gate. On the way, we pass by an impressive sight. A jumbo jet sits on the tarmac, surrounded by armed soldiers, each standing at attention facing outward, their semi-automatic rifles at the ready. There must be at least thirty or forty guards in total, in a precise square formation around the plane. If I measured each angle of the square, I bet it would be an exact ninety degrees, so perfectly aligned are the soldiers. 

A long black limousine is parked alongside the aircraft, its doors almost flush with the stairs leading into the jet, ready to either receive or deliver its distinguished passenger. I consider waiving as we taxi by, but decide against it in case the gesture is misinterpreted as a secret signal for the start of an insurrection, eliciting a volley of gunfire from the assembled army. It wouldn’t do to have our plane transformed into a rolling colander with wings. Before we can catch a glimpse of the important passenger, our plane veers away, headed to its specified parking spot.

The COW is nowhere in sight today, and I get hustled with the rest of the group toward the waiting bus which will ferry us to the airport terminal. Perhaps the COW has broken down or is busy regurgitating other unfortunate prisoners onto other planes. No matter, I’m only too happy to deplane with everyone else. It’s strange how the COW has left such an indelible impression on my psyche. I’ve only once had the traumatic experience of the COW, and yet, every time I board or leave an aircraft, I get an overwhelming feeling of unease and the urge to moo uncontrollably.

We make our way through the terminal and airport security, after which, we’re greeted by the surprise: Daniel and Kareem. We hadn’t expected to see them again, so this is indeed a nice turn of events. Once aboard the good old Pink-Mobile, Kareem tackles the craziness of the ever present traffic on our way to the Mena House Oberoi, our posh hotel. The streets seem more crowded than ever and the reason becomes evident. This is Thursday afternoon and everyone’s getting ready for the weekend since, in a Muslim country, the weekend starts on Friday, the day for prayers. 

Kareem aims the bus into an intersection and all at once, every other driver decides to do the same. As a result, we are now at a dead stop in the middle of the crossing, face to face with a truck, another bus kissing our left side, and a bunch of cars trying to take a shortcut through the Pink-Mobile’s right side. Everybody is facing everybody else, and no one is going anywhere. Thinking back to the Crochet Principle, there’s now a huge tangle in the doily. 

Had I been the driver, my head would have long ago shot off my neck like a cannonball, propelled by a blood pressure equal to that of erupting lava. Kareem, calm as ever, sticks his head out of the window and launches a string of Arabic at no one in particular. As if responding to him, the mass of vehicles shimmies until, inch by inch, the intersection clears and circulation resumes. Kareem, the unsurpassed Moses of the Traffic! 

Mena House, a luxury hotel whose guests have included movie stars, presidents, and heads of state, is magnificently opulent. More impressive still, is the view from the restaurant and the pool area. The hotel is nestled at the foot of the Great Pyramid of Khufu.

I follow the bellboy through halls littered with antique furniture, sitting areas fit for a duchess, and lounges with marble-covered walls. We arrive at my room, spacious and inviting, where a snack of tangerines and cookies awaits me. Cleopatra has arrived. I inhale the snack, stretch out on the king-sized bed, and take a short rest. 

Recharged and ready to capture the mighty pyramid with my camera, I grab Beatrice and George and retrace my steps through the lavish establishment on my way to the lobby.

People with children often tell me that it’s when their normally-bickering, prank-playing kids are quiet and well-behaved that you have to worry. You turn your back on kiddies playing nicely together only to find them, moments later, playing with dad’s acetylene torch in the coat closet, or shaving the cat. That’s the feeling I have with George. Since the rebirth as a boy crutch, George has been docile as a lamb. Instead of feeling like I’ve mastered crutch psychiatry and resolved the attitude problem, as most people would, I keep waiting for the other shoe—crutch—to drop.

At the front of the hotel, I ask the doorman the best way to reach the pool. He gestures at someone and a van immediately pulls up. I get driven the two hundred feet to the pool. I don’t know if they do this for all their clients, or just for me because of Igor the Ankle, but I feel like a VIP. The view is fantastic and my camera gets the workout of its career. With a few thousand pictures of Khufu’s pyramid and that of Khafre—a bit farther away—in my memory card, I get driven back to the hotel, my driver having patiently waited for me. 

At dinner time, I head for the restaurant and am escorted by a friendly maître d’hôtel to a table with the pyramid view. A couple of my tour mates join me for a divine dinner of couscous, wine, and pyramid-gazing. Truly, at this point, I don’t mind all the troubles of the past weeks, the achy arms, buffet challenges, catatonic horses, and evil beaches. This makes up for everything, in quadruple.

The magnificent view from the pool area. Breathtaking, isn't it?