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.”
“Really?”
“Yes of course.” He points toward a small corral where three camels sit hobbled, silently chewing something.
As someone who has seen “Lawrence of Arabia” three times, the thought of riding a “ship of the desert” is tempting, but they stare back at me with incomprehensible dark eyes. Their attitude and cleft lips remind me somehow of cats. I’m getting a definite, “don’t fuck with us” vibe from them, and no matter how terrifying horses may be, giant cats sound worse. This is just as well, as the fat man tells me horses are cheaper.
“How much?”
“For you, friend of Gamal’s, only twenty pounds.”
“Ha, ha, ha, ha.” I do my best to conjure up a belly laugh to rival his own, without causing myself to choke. “Surely, you are joking, my friend.” I keep smiling. I am not at all sure he was joking.
The fat man looks a bit stunned at my display, and looks over at Gamal. Gamal flashes him a quick grin and a weak chuckle, then looks at me. The fat man looks back at me. I continue to smile insanely. Finally, the fat man smiles again too, and begins to rock with an even bigger belly laugh. “OK, my friend, no problem. For you I will give you my best horse for only fifteen.”
I really have no idea how much renting a horse to ride to the pyramids is supposed to cost. In fact I have no idea how far the pyramids are from here. I don’t laugh at him again, as I seemed to come dangerously close to pissing him off.
Apparently, my standing there saying nothing is negotiation enough, because without any prompting the fat man sweetens the pot. “OK, special deal for you, because I like you, I give you a horse for only thirteen pounds.”
Again, I say nothing, and it is now that he delivers his final, killer, closing stroke.
“My friend, this price includes entrance fee to the pyramids, and a trained guide.”
This is something I had completely forgotten about. While I can’t remember how much admission to the park is, I recall hearing from someone – admittedly probably someone who had lived off jam sandwiches for the past four months – that it was pricey. That seals it. When you factor in the admission, and the fact that I will likely die if I walk, the horse rental seems like a pretty good deal, I tell myself. “OK, I’ll take it.”
“OK?” The fat man seems a bit surprised.
“Yeah, OK.”
“OK, very good.” He immediately yells something toward the stalls. A small boy who looks to be around ten emerges, leading an emaciated horse. “This is Ali, he is your guide.”
Ali smiles a disinterested smile, and says “hello.” I give him my best “’as-salaam alaykum” in response, but he doesn’t seem impressed. “This is, Sophia Loren.” He looks at me and then looks at the horse.
“The horse’s name is Sophia Loren?”
“Yes, Sophia Loren,” Ali replies as if nothing could possibly be more normal.
“OK, good.”
“You know how to ride a horse?”
“No, not really, no.” I don’t know why a man in this day and age should feel the least bit embarrassed about not knowing how to ride a horse, but suddenly I do.
“No problem. Sophia Loren is a good horse, she can take care of you.”
“Great.” Honestly, Sophia Loren looks so old and broken down, I’m not sure she can even carry me. She is a sort of mahogany brown with white markings on her forehead, chest and legs, which, if I were a cowboy or a wrangler, I would probably refer to as “paint.” Her back is curved in a gentle, downward arc from bony hips to shoulders, no doubt from the hundreds of thousands of pounds of tourists she has carried over the years. I feel guilty climbing on top of her, and adding my over-fed body to her burden, but she remains motionless and doesn’t seem to mind. As I sit gripping the saddle horn, Ali adjusts the stirrups, and hands me the reigns.
“Don’t worry, you don’t have to steer, she knows the way.” Ali disappears, and reemerges on the back of a small, fat donkey which he rides without a saddle. “Do you have a hat?”
“Yes.”
“You should wear it.”
He’s right, and I pull the white, terrycloth hat out of my pack. Immediately I notice the difference; the sun had been boring into my head. Ali has probably saved my life. “Why don’t you wear a hat?”
Ali ignores me. “This is how you go.” He gives his donkey a kick with his bare heels and the donkey begins to trot ahead, Ali’s sandaled feet hanging over the sides of its round belly. This is the extent of my riding lesson. I give Sophia Loren a gentle kick and she plods forward, following Ali and his donkey. She may indeed know the way, but Sophia Loren doesn’t seem to want to go there, and I have to give her constant nudges to keep up with Ali. Leaving the yard, we weave through blocks of a quiet neighborhood of narrow dirt streets. Ali must live here, because he knows everyone we pass. Finally, frustrated by my slow progress, Ali drops back and takes the reins from me. He holds them behind his back, leading Sophia Loren, as I sit holding the saddle horn, bobbing along behind like a captive.
Soon we leave the road, and skirt along the mud wall of a large cemetery. The trail climbs and we are eventually more or less walking on top of the wall, which at this point is holding back the desert, with the cemetery spread out below on the right side. Rows of mud tombs sit above the ground. Each one has a slab on top that looks like the lid to a sarcophagus, and at one end of each slab are two bumps, which, Ali tells me, are for the feet of the person buried there. I’m not sure I believe him.
“It is because this is a Muslim cemetery, and they are all buried with their heads toward Mecca.”
“I see.” I don’t really see, I’m actually really disoriented, and can’t tell which way is east. Is Mecca southeast from Cairo?
“You are Christian?” It is only sort of a question.
“Yes, well, I guess so.”
“I am Muslim.”
“Yeah, cool. As-salaam alaykum.”
“As-salaam alaykum.”
Still climbing, we reach the corner of the cemetery retaining wall, now about twenty-five feet above the floor of the cemetery. If Sophia Loren should slip, or, more probable, I should fall off her sideways, I will land among the headstones. It seems appropriate, but not at all comforting, and my death there would probably defile the whole place, creating a crisis for the entire neighborhood. Ahead, the path winds up, and through a series of sand dunes, which looks much safer, and more picturesque.
“Where are you from?”
I don’t feel like carrying the weight of being an American today with Ali, so I tell him I’m Canadian, which isn’t exactly a lie. “I’m originally from Canada, but –“
“Ah, Canada Dry.” Ali gives me a weak smile, like he knows how lame the joke is, but feels compelled.
“Yeah, ha. Actually, I don’t think that’s all that funny.”
“Sorry.”
“No, it’s not like it’s offensive or insulting or anything, it’s just sort of stupid – I mean it’s just not that funny.”
“OK.”
“Don’t worry about it.” I decide to change the subject. “How come you’re not in school?”
“Holiday.”
Something tells me Ali’s school holiday is going to last a long, long time. “What holiday?”
“It’s an Egyptian hoiliday.” I guess he had me, though I sort of figured it was an Egyptian holiday – not a French one. “I thought you were a German, because of your hat.” I’m not sure how to take that.
“Can you speak German.”
“Of course. I can speak every language – I am Egyptian, man. It is my business.” Ali proceeds to rattle off a series of phrases in German, French, Dutch, Spanish and Japanese. He seems most proud of the last one, though for all I know he is making it up. The average Egyptian tout’s command of languages is impressive.
“Where did you learn all that?”
“School.”
Nicely played, Ali. Nicely played.
Another boy, bigger and a little older than Ali, passes us in the opposite direction leading two men perched on top of camels. They both wear shorts, sandals, t-shirts, sunglasses and kafiyehs wrapped around their faces and then tucked back into their headbands as if they were gutting it out through a sandstorm. Ali and the other boy exchange a few not overly-friendly sounding words as they pass. One of the men yells to me in a muffled American accent, “you look like a tourist.”
You look ridiculous.
We top the small dune behind the cemetery, and Sophia Loren begins to saunter down the loose sand of the other side. In front of us is a larger dune, and still no sign of the wonders of the ancient world I came here to see. Between us and the dune is a small gully or wash, and in it stands a little building that looks sort of like a lone toll booth. As we get closer, I can see two lifeless looking forms slouching in metal desk chairs in front of it. Their khaki pants and shirts with black epaulets are the uniform of the Egyptian tourist police. I saw them in front the museum in Cairo. These guys are basically the park rangers of the pyramids, but they are seriously armed, and not at all helpful. We must be at the back gate to the pyramids.
Instead of heading straight for the booth, Ali angles us a little away from the sleeping guards, and further into the desert. Keeping his head turned toward them, he urges is donkey on, and pulls me and Sophia Loren along. He looks back at me and smiles.
“Hold on. This is when we go fast!”
He kicks the donkey hard, and yanks on Sophia Loren’s reins. I squeeze the saddle horn with both hands as we break into what I am pretty sure is a gallop. There is commotion from the police booth. Terrified that if I look any direction but straight ahead I will fall off, I only manage glances out of the corner of my eye. One of them stands up from his chair and raises his arm yelling something at us. I wait tensely for the bullet that will certainly tear through my back and knock me to the sand. I wish I knew how to make Sophia Loren zig-zag.
After what seems like a couple of lifetimes, Ali finally slows us to whatever the speed is on horse that comes just before gallop, and we come to the top of the dune. I manage a quick look back at the police, who are now a surprising distance away – but not out of firing range – and am relieved to see them both sitting again. I believe I have just exercised my “free admission” to the pyramids. I have to hand it to the fat man, it’s brilliant.
My horse is stopped, and I don’t know why until I turn back around, away from the tourist police. You’ve seen them in thousands of pictures, you know what they look like, and that is exactly what they do look like – they look just like the pictures. But something about seeing them strung out on the horizon, like a string of ships, after thinking you were going to be shot in the back; something about sitting atop a scrawny horse, looking out ahead, and seeing absolutely nothing of interest but the motherfucking pyramids! Something about that is, well, it’s amazing.
Ali sits atop his donkey, and sweeps his hand across the scene as if he had discovered them. He tells me something – their names, and how they were each covered with a different material: alabaster, onyx, and maybe something else – I have no idea what he’s talking about. I’m too busy looking at the goddamned pyramids. I sit on Sophia Loren, letting the hot wind dry the sweat on my back for a moment, and try to take it all in.
It has never been entirely clear to me how one takes it all in. How do you know when you’ve gotten it all? Spalding Gray’s idea of the “perfect moment” seems like a good one: once you’ve had it, you can go home.[1] This could be it – my perfect moment – but I can’t go home yet.
“You want me to take your picture?”
There is no better way to ruin the perfect moment, but yeah, I do want Ali to take my picture. I want him to take a picture of me riding a horse through the desert, over a sand dune to the pyramids. I mean it’s too fucking perfect! I dig into my pack, and hand my camera over, trying to explain how the panorama setting works.
He looks disgusted. “I know how it works, I’m a professional. This is my job.” He rattles off all of the different types of cameras he is completely familiar with, and who typically carries the nicest/most complicated cameras. It is, of course, the Japanese. He informs me that they are crazy for pictures, the Japanese. It is a small comfort to know that I am not the only one prone to shallow racial stereotypes. He concludes with something which may or may not actually be Japanese, but which he obviously intends to sound like Japanese.
My camera is no problem for him. In fact, the simplicity of my point and shoot appears to be almost and insult to his level of skill, not to mention the majesty of the scene. I make him take another shot just to make sure he gets a good one.
The ruining of the perfect moment utterly complete, we lope off toward these wonders. Crossing the foreground of this postcard takes much longer than seems realistic. Gradually, the pyramids give up the smoothness given to them by distance, and the serrated edges become visible, then individual stone blocks. It is like driving to the foot of a mountain, and discovering it is made of rocks and dirt. If one were not careful, they could let it put a dent in the majesty. The nearer they get, the more the truth of the hugeness of their individual footprints becomes clear, as does the distance between them. It is like walking city blocks in Las Vegas.
Around the bases there are small knots of tourists wandering around, with slightly larger knots of vendors trying to sell them things. Being on horseback I am largely protected from the vendors’ efforts. With a nudge of Sophia Loren I can easily move out of their economic range. I am like cavalry to their foot soldiers. My superiority is quickly countered, however, by another group of vendors, themselves on horses and camels. Mine, apparently, is not a niche too narrow. Not only can these guys match me in speed, but they can also control the direction of their mounts. My only weapon against offers of film, bottles of Fanta, statues of the Pyramids and Ramses that you can whistle and smoke marijuana through is the trusty, “No, sukran, thank you, no, sukran . . .”
A young man trots beside me on his camel. “My friend, you want to ride my camel?”
“No, sukran.”
“Why not? His name is Charlie Brown.”
“I already have a horse.” While obvious, it seems worth pointing out. We are about to get into the Canada Dry discussion when Ali comes up beside me.
“The people here, they try to sell anything to the tourists. Sometimes they sell a lot of things.” Ali is not apologizing, he is just telling me how it is.
“Yeah, I know. It’s fine, I don’t mind, but I don’t really want to buy anything. I just want to look at the pyramids.”
“O.K., no problem. If you want to buy, you can tell me. I will help you get the best price.”
“Thanks.” I appreciate the offer, but I have film, don’t want a Fanta, and don’t have any pot to smoke out of a statue.
Sophia Loren comes to a stop near the base of the largest pyramid. Horses are not really like cars. I don’t really have control of when Sophia Loren stops or goes, and I don’t know when she’ll stop again, so I decide this is a good time to dismount.
“Patrick, what are you doing?”
My foot has just hit the sand. “Getting off my horse.”
“Why?”
“I want to see the pyramid.”
“You can see the pyramid.”
“I mean I want to see it up close, and climb on it.”
“You can’t”
“What do you mean I can’t?” I look over at a group of sunburned tourists scrambling up the side.
“We can’t stop here.”
“Why?”
“Our ticket.”
“What?”
“We can’t get off the horses, because we have a special ticket.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“We have a ticket that is only good for riding, not for stopping.” Ali is looking around and seems a bit concerned.
“We don’t have any tickets at all, because we ran through the gate.”
“Patrick, we cannot stop here. If we stop, the tourist police will ask to look at your ticket.”
I can’t believe I’m being prevented from climbing on the pyramids by a ten year old. He has a point. I don’t have a ticket – not even a “riding ticket” – and I don’t want trouble with the police, especially the ones I just ran past. Annoyed, I hoist myself back up into the saddle.
We ride around the pyramids for another forty-five minutes or so like bandits, before heading back into the desert from where we came. There are no guards at the shack when we hit the bottom of the sandy hill. I am relieved. Ali presents me with a gift of small pieces of each of the three types of stone that once covered the pyramids. One of them is carved into a beetle. I don’t really want them – except maybe the one that looks like a beetle – but he insists that they are mine to keep. He then informs me that if I want to give him a tip, it would be best if I do it now, before we get back to the stables. An image of the fat man stealing Ali’s tips, like something out of Oliver Twist, comes into my mind. Most disturbing is that the image in my mind is a musical. Well played, Ali.
The wad of Egyptian money in my pocket is nowhere near the size I started out with this morning, but I pull out a ten pound bill. The look on Ali’s usually stern face dashes my intention to ask for change. I like to think that he puts it in a coffee can hidden behind a brick somewhere along with his other tips, and that he’ll use it to go to college one day, but even if all he does is buy a sack of chickpeas, a pepsi, and comic books, that’s OK with me too.
Ali had been leading my horse by the reins as we descended back along the cemetery wall, but now back in the neighborhood, he hands them back to me, and says that, if I like, I can drive Sophia Loren myself until we get back to the stables. “It looks better for you,” he explains. Looking around at the women carrying groceries and laundry down the street, children playing and men drinking tea and smoking, I realize that Ali is trying to provide me with some dignity. I’m sort of touched.
As we enter the dirt yard, I see Gamal napping in the front seat of his taxi. “Patrick.” He waves. “You have seen the pyramids?”
I nod, and tell him that I have.
“It was amazing?”
“Yeah, it was great, really great.” I guess I’m at a loss for words. I give Sophia Loren a pet on the neck as Ali leads her away toward the stable. The fat man emerges pulling straw from his beard. He has been working on a nap as well.
“Hello my friend.” He smiles. “You have a good time?”
“Yes.”
“The horse was good, yes?”
“Yes, very good. Very strong.” I feel a responsibility to do what I can to keep Sophia Loren from the glue factory, or the falafel stand, or wherever Egyptian horses end up. “Excellent guide too.” I nod toward Ali. I am not actually concerned about Ali being made into glue or eaten, but it’s always good to help a fellow out.
The fat man nods at Ali. “If you like, you can give him a tip.”
“A tip?” This was something I had not foreseen.
“Yes, baksheesh, but only if you think he did a good job for you.”
“Of course.” A refusal would undermine my endorsement. Nicely played, fat man. My wad of cash continues to dwindle. The fat man assures me that he will give the money to Ali. It is getting late and after generous farewells, Gamal and I get back into the taxi.
[1] See Spalding Gray’s excellent monologue, “Swimming to Cambodia.”