photo courtesy of Ali
I’m a little surprised we can’t see them yet. I mean they’re like mountains right? Man-made mountains thrown up in the middle of the desert by billions of hours of slave man hours, or something. For the first time in my life it disturbs me how little I know about the pyramids.
“Do you know much about the pyramids, Gamal?”
“Do I know the pyramids?” He sounds incredulous, but then he always sort of does. “Of course I know the pyramids, I am Egyptian. They are beautiful – wonders of the world.
“Who built them?”
“Who built them?” Gamal loves to repeat my questions. He is constantly amazed at my questions. “The kings built them – the pharoahs.” Gamal must have fallen asleep in front of the same Discovery Channel program I did. “You need a horse.”
“I need a horse?” I seem to have picked up Gamal’s habit.
“Yes, you need a horse to see the pyramids.”
“Why do I need a horse to see the pyramids?”
“Patrick, it is the best way.” He makes a hard turn.
“I don’t want a horse.”
“You need a horse.”
“No I don’t.”
“Yes, you do.”
“Why?”
“To see the pyramids.”
“I don’t need a horse to see the pyramids, I can walk.”
“You cannot walk.”
“Why not?”
“You will die.”
“I’ll die?” This is the first I have heard of this.
“Yes, this is Egypt, it is very hot, you are not used to it, the pyramids are far, you will die.”
“Well, then lets drive to them.”
“No, we can’t drive to them, you need a horse.”
“Jesus.”
“You just look at the horses, then you decide. If you like, you take, if not you walk, but you will probably die.”
“I don’t know how to ride a horse.”
“These horses are very good, they are no problem.”
Claiming an allergy to horses seems a stretch, but I consider it.
“Fine.” I’ll play along. I’ll go look at your friend’s horses, Gamal, but after I do I’m walking to the goddamned pyramids!
“OK.” He takes another turn, and pulls to a stop in a large, dusty yard in front of a row of stables made of some sort of mud brick. I wonder if there is a mud brick museum nearby. The yard looks like it would turn into a rutted, muddy mess in a hard rain, but then it doesn’t look like it has rained here in about a thousand years, so I guess they’re not worried about it. My plan of walking to the pyramids from here is somewhat dashed by the fact that I can’t actually see them, and I imagine asking for directions from the owner of the stables is pointless. The blazing afternoon heat is making me start to believe that maybe Gamal is right – maybe I would die if I tried to walk to the pyramids.
A large man in a dishdasha robe and a loosely wrapped turban emerges smiling from one of the stalls as we get out of the taxi. He greets Gamal warmly, shaking his hand and then hugging and kissing him. After Gamal introduces me, the man shakes my hand enthusiastically as well.
“Welcome!” His huge smile breaks through his thick, black beard. “You’ve come to see the pyramids, my friend?”
“Yes.” I want to say, ‘no, I’ve come to see the horseshit museum,’ but I’ve learned that sarcasm doesn’t translate that well.
“OK, my friend, very good. You are a good rider?”
“Uh, actually, no, not really. I don’t think I’ve ever been on a horse.”
“Never on a horse?” He laughs the way only fat men with beards are able to: like he’s going to break something inside.
“Yeah, no, not really, no.”
“It is no problem. My horses are so good a baby can ride them. They know the way to the pyramids themselves.”
“Maybe they could just tell me then.” He doesn’t understand my joke, and politely ignores it.
“If you like, you can ride a camel.”
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