photo courtesy of Vagabondblogger
The city begins to sprawl, as we leave the tightly-wound core, and move further out toward Giza. Passing beaten looking flatbed trucks loaded down with I have no idea what, we speed through the increasingly tan landscape honking politely at lonely looking pedestrians, and men who look like they’ve been squinting for fifty years driving donkey carts. It turns out Gamal has more than one friend on the way to Giza.
“You are interested in the history of Egypt?” he asks.
“Sure.” I was – not interested enough to have actually ever read anything mind you – but I’d watched my share of Discovery Channel.
“Have you been to the papyrus museum?”
“The papyrus museum?”
“Yes. Very, very good.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“All of the ancient Egyptian writings and pictures were done on papyrus. You must see the papyrus museum. You can see how it is made, and learn about the hieroglyphs.”
“Oh.”
“OK, very good. I will take you there now.” Before I have a chance to say anything to try to keep us on course, Gamal cranks the wheel over hard left, and we leave the pavement of the main road. Two more, less violent turns on dusty side streets and we are in front of a cinderblock building that, in another culture – my own – would probably house a liquor store. But instead of “Liquor” or “Cold Beer” the plastic, box shaped sign over the door reads “Papyrus Museum.” This is the place. When I agreed (or failed to protest) moments earlier that, yes, I should go to the papyrus museum, I was thinking of it as more of an abstract concept – something I should do, but probably won’t, like flossing, or exercise.
A young man opens my door, and shakes my hand as he assists me out of the car. Taking a pass on the papyrus museum at this point looks to be out of the question. An older man emerges from the “museum” and greets Gamal warmly. Gamal’s friend ushers us both inside, where he and Gamal disappear to another room, leaving me with the young man who brings me a glass of hot, sweet Egyptian tea on a silver tray. He introduces himself as Ahmed, and explains that he is a student at the University studying “Egyptology”. He proceeds to show me a thick binder full of laminated pages of official looking documentation of the museum’s accreditations. It’s all very impressive, and I have no idea what it means.
When I admit to him that, no I am not familiar with how papyrus was made in ancient Egypt, his face brightens. It seems he was worried that I might not need the demonstration. Tapping into a new reserve of patience, I sit back, sip the tea, and prepare to be educated. A note to those of you who find yourself at some point in a similar situation: if you were ever in the second grade, you probably made paper one day at school, and, therefore, the correct answer to the question of whether you know how the ancient Egyptians made papyrus should be, “yes.”
After the pulp demonstration, Ahmed proceeds to give me a detailed explanation of every papyrus painting in the place. The walls are covered from floor to ceiling with them, like a T-shirt shop at the mall in 1977. Each one depicts a scene and contains a row or two of hieroglyphs. Ahmed explains what is happening in each scene and what the various hieroglyphs mean. Given the wall space and the number of paintings on display, this is going to take a very, very long time. As luck would have it, the paintings are for sale – all of them. There is truly only so much nodding in feigned appreciation I can manage, and Gamal is nowhere to be seen. We are working our way through depictions of Isis and some king, and I can’t take this hell of images in flat profile any longer. I know the only thing I can do is buy my way out.
Ahmed obviously has an affinity for the larger, and more expensive paintings, though he assures me that they can be rolled up and made quite small. I begin to steer him toward the smaller ones – a size that would be appropriate for a bathroom. A small depiction of several people on a sailboat catches my eye mostly because of its size. Ahmed explains that this is a “Solar boat,” which was used by the dead to cross the river into the afterlife. Life size boats were buried full of treasure and provisions for this purpose in the tombs of kings.
Negotiation over the price is friendly but tough, and we finally reach an impasse which causes more tea to be brought out. Realizing that I am deep down rather cheap, Ahmed, changes tactics and directs me to a chest of drawers containing rolled up sheets of what must be the second string papyrus paintings. He tells me that they are just as good – just maybe not quite as nice – as the ones on the walls. There is some mention of natural vegetable dye pigments in the more expensive paintings, and he explains that the rolled paintings might be more in my price range. I assure him that vegetable dyes are not a deal breaker for me, and soon find a small solar boat painting that he is willing to let go for eleven pounds, down from twenty.
Ahmed seems genuinely surprised and disappointed when I don’t want to go through the whole process again for a different theme – perhaps an Isis or a Ramses? – but he relents and Gamal appears from the back room as if on cue. After profuse goodbyes and thank you’s, we are finally back in the cab rattling down the parched side streets again.
Gamal asks if I enjoyed the “museum.” I don’t want to be an ass, so I lie and tell him I did. He assures me that I made an excellent purchase. I feel like an idiot, but I’m not going to let it bother me – it’s the price of doing business. Gamal leans back in his seat and smiles. The streets are quiet and the sun flashes like a strobe from behind the buildings as we pass. He seems pleased, and I decide to be pleased too. I have a replica of an ancient Egyptian papyrus scroll rolled up in my hand, what will likely turn out to be a replica of an Egyptian train ticket in my pocket, and we are heading toward one of the seven wonders of the ancient world. There is much to be pleased about.
“Patrick,” Gamal looks over at me, “do you have a wife?”
“No, I don’t.”
“No? No wife? How come?”
“I don’t know.” I am about to explain, but he is uninterested in my excuses.
“You have a girlfriend?”
“Uh, actually, no, not right now.”
“No girlfriend? Why not?”
I start to formulate an answer without knowing one, but he interrupts me, which is probably best.
“You don’t like the girls?”
I don’t think I like where this is going.
“You like the boys?”
This is pretty much where I thought it was going. It’s not that I mind Gamal thinking I’m gay, I just don’t want him to offer to help me find a guy, which is where I think this is going. “No, Gamal, I like the girls. I really like the girls.”
“Ah, you like the girls. You have lots of girlfriends?”
“Yes.”
“Yes!” Gamal looks at me and laughs, more excited about my false entourage than I am.
“You have an Egyptian girlfriend?”
“No.”
“You don’t like the Egyptian girls?” Gamal sounds a bit insulted.
“Oh, no – I mean, yes, I do like the Egyptian girls.”
“You like them?”
“Yes, very much.”
“I can take you to meet the most beautiful Egyptian girls.” I should have seen this coming. There seems no way to avoid it.
“Oh, no, no thank you.”
“No?”
“Well, no, not today, Gamal, thank you. I’m sort of tired . . .”
“Too many girlfriends at home? They make you tired?” He laughs, nodding at the road ahead.
“Yes. Indeed. I’m afraid I need a rest from women at the moment.”
“You need a rest!” Gamal repeats my words laughing like I’ve said something much funnier.
“That’s it.” I nod, looking over at him, and then back at the road wondering what exactly is so funny. I have elevated myself from hapless loner to international player in one deft stroke.
“You need to buy your girlfriends some gifts from Egypt.”
“Yes, you’re right I do,” I agree, picturing a few of my imaginary girlfriends.
“They like perfume?”
“Yeah, sure,” I answer from another place, not really paying attention to what my new friend is saying. My trance is broken by the passenger window glass cracking against my skull as Gamal makes another ridiculous left turn.
“I know the best place.”
“What are you talking about?”
Before I can protest, we are stopped in a cloud of dust outside a building proclaiming itself the “Perfume Museum,” and a smiling man is welcoming us. I have to put a stop to this.
“No way, Gamal.”
“What?” He motions for me to get out of the car and follow him. I keep my seat as he walks around to my window, which I roll down. “What is the matter?”
“Look, I’m not going in there.”
“Why not? The girls love perfume. It was invented by the ancient Egyptians.”
And here I always thought it was the ancient French. “Not my girlfriends.”
“What? They don’t like perfume?”
“Nope.”
“Why not.”
“They’re allergic.”
“They’re what?”
“They’re – I’m allergic to it. They don’t wear it because I’m deathly allergic to perfume.”
“Allergic? What is allergic?”
“It means I have an allergy.” This explanation proves as helpful as it sounds, and I resort to acting out a sneezing fit, and then gagging holding my throat, and ultimately slumping over like I’m dead. “There is no way I can go in that building – in fact I shouldn’t even be this close to it.” A perfume allergy! It is absolutely fucking brilliant!
The man from the museum looks even more confused than Gamal. Apparently, my portrayal of an agonizing death by sneezing did not resonate with him. Gamal says something to him in Arabic and shrugs. The man says something back, and Gamal tells me, “he says you don’t have to come in he will wrap up his finest perfume and bring it out to us.” Jesus, these guys are good.
“No way, Gamal, if that stuff even touches me I swear to god I’ll fucking die.” I make a grab at my throat again, and Gamal looks worried.
“OK, no problem, no perfume then.” He says something more to the man, who shrugs again and nods. I wave from the taxi and open my hands palms up trying to convey to him that the situation is, regrettably, entirely out of my control.
Back on the road to Giza, I am afraid my refusal at the perfume museum may have pissed Gamal off. We drive along in silence for a while, the hum of the tires through the open window softened by a fine layer sand/dirt coating the road.
“Do you have a wife, Gamal?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Children.”
“Yes, two sons.” I see him smile to himself.
“Good.” I don’t really know what to say, but it is good.
“Yes, they are very good boys.”
“Do they play football?” Of course they play football, but it’s something to talk about, and I can’t really ask if they eat or sleep.
“Yes, yes of course, they love football – soccer.”
“Yes, soccer.” I nod, and smile, genuinely glad for him and his family. Ahead of us the road and sky meet in a dusty haze that cancels the horizon.
“How come you are not married?”
I guess it’s fair, I asked him. “I don’t know.” I’m about to launch into some half-baked reasoning, but Gamal cuts me off.
“You have too many girlfriends, yes?” He grins, looking over at me.
“Oh, yeah that’s right.”
He laughs. He loves that one; it absolutely slays him. Hell, I love it too and I laugh with him.
We chuckle, then lapse into an easy silence. We are solid again. Rolling through the Egyptian countryside, heading to the ancient pyramids, which will, no doubt, provide some kind of mind blowing, spiritual experience. And we are more than hack and fare; we are like two buddies on a road trip. All we need is the camera to pan out, and music come up, and we’re in the movies.