In antiquity the Nile was worshipped as a god and the people prayed for its benevolence: Too much flooding could be destructive, too little could bring about drought. The river, though, is no longer free to come and go as it once did. The immense dam at Aswan, built in modern times in the far south of Egypt, changed all that. While electricity is supplied for industry and floods are controlled, the new need for artificial fertilizers exhausts the soil, coastlines are eroded when sediments are trapped behind the dam, and the rise in water tables contributes to the deterioration of ancient monuments.
The Nile is quite impressive at Cairo, flowing smooth and wide. Too many bridges obscure the current panorama but are a necessity for a city whose growth knows no bounds. Travel just a few miles farther south of downtown, though, and the river flows unobstructed for great distances. River barges plow through the water, while local boats called feluccas hoist their sails to travel upstream with the north wind or track with the current toward the Mediterranean.
After taking in my fill of the majestic Nile, I located a taxi and settled in with great anticipation. The route to the pyramids crosses the river and then proceeds through the crowded suburb of Giza. Eventually we reached the Pyramids Road, a busy stretch of street whose opposing lanes are separated in part by occasional topiary bushes in symmetrical pharaonic shapes. A surprising number of garish discos were visible, but the ultimate culture shock came at the first sight of an indomitable American institution, Kentucky Fried Chicken. And also nearby was a Wimpy’s hamburger outlet, a British chain. Dismayed, I found it best to stare straight ahead, keeping a lookout for pyramids. Soon the very edge of a distant, dusky shape could be seen lurking behind the onslaught of tall apartment buildings. The shape became increasingly more distinct until the first full view of the Great Pyramid hit with all its impact. The words that came to mind were “amazing,” “incredible,” and “stupendous.”
In its pristine condition, the Great Pyramid stood around 480 feet tall—about fifty stories high—and it covers an area of about thirteen square acres. It is estimated that over 2 million stone blocks were necessary to construct the structure, with some of its interior chambers utilizing immense granite slabs transported from quarries located hundreds of miles away. In its day the exterior of the Great Pyramid was clothed with smooth limestone casing blocks that reflected the rays of the sun, creating a gleaming beacon, visible for miles.
I have often heard two opposing kinds of first impressions of the Pyramids of Giza from visitors. Some express a sort of disappointment, stating that “I thought they would be bigger!” while others are thoroughly overwhelmed at their immensity. But nearly all are impressed by the fact that these massive constructions were built by human ingenuity and manual labor thousands of years ago without the benefit of modern technology. They were just a little smaller than I anticipated, but unbelievably impressive nonetheless.
I had a similar experience when I first visited the famed ancient monument known as Stonehenge on the Salisbury Plain in England. From my reading and viewing of pictures, I had always imagined the celebrated megaliths as being truly gigantic in proportion, perhaps forty or fifty feet tall. Alas, had it not been for the security fence barring me, I felt that I could have run up and slapped the top of the standing stones. It was much the same with the Great Pyramid. And the closer one gets, the more apparent it becomes that the pyramids are no longer the smooth-sided models of geometrical virtue that they once were. Much of their outer casing blocks has been quarried away for quality building material in the millennia following their construction, when pyramids were no longer appreciated nor understood. A complete stroll around the perimeter of the Great Pyramid of Cheops, though, will cause even the disappointed to truly appreciate its tremendous size. The pyramid, like others in the vicinity, is still surrounded by a huge number of rectangular stone mastaba tombs and shaft graves of relatives and officials that are also remarkable and indicate that Cheops was served by an immense ancient bureaucracy.
One of the most impressive facts of the pyramids is their great age; they were built around forty-six hundred years ago, during the time period that historians refer to as the Old Kingdom. The pyramids were already well over a thousand years old when Tutankhamun, Rameses II, and even Moses were on the scene. By the time Herodotus allegedly visited Egypt as a tourist around 450 B.C., the Giza pyramids were already over two thousand years old. Herodotus includes an interesting chapter about Egyptian history and culture in his writings known as The Histories, and until the decipherment of the hieroglyphs in 1822, and even to some extent still, his commentary was a major source of information.
Herodotus reported many curious things about Egypt, some of which are so improbable that a number of scholars have questioned whether he actually visited the place. Others believe that he was merely a victim of misinformation or fanciful tales provided by local guides who themselves were very shaky on the true details. There is also speculation about a cultural and linguistic gap—after all, he was Greek in a foreign land. Whatever the circumstances, Herodotus relates the story that the Great Pyramid was built by hundreds of thousands of slaves under the orders of evil King Cheops. It took ten years to build a magnificent decorated track used to drag the stone blocks and twenty years to build the pyramid itself, using a system of levers to lift each block into place. When money for the construction ran short, the depraved Cheops prostituted his own daughter to obtain additional funds, according to Herodotus.
There is little to substantiate or confirm any of these notions. First of all, the use of slaves in the building of the pyramids is greatly disputable. (Despite the fantasies of Hollywood, Hebrews weren’t on the scene for another thousand years!) One of the better theories suggests that the pyramids were not built with slaves but were great public-works projects whose labor force was supplemented by employing a huge number of idle farmers and other laborers during the time of the Nile’s annual flood. Supporting this theory is the fact that the rising floodwaters would also allow for closer access to the building site by quarry barges. Although the actual building techniques are not fully known, it is more likely that some kind of system of earth ramps was used, rather than levers. Doubtless, huge numbers of workers were required, and some recent excavations in the vicinity of the Giza pyramids are revealing the barracks, bakeries, and other facilities necessary to keep a gigantic workforce in operation. As for Cheops—or, more accurately, Khufu, his ancient Egyptian name—there is little known about his life or personal disposition.
Until just a few years ago, when new regulations were put in place, walking around the pyramids wasn’t always an easy or relaxing activity. It was never dangerous, unless you tripped on the uneven terrain, nor was it particularly strenuous, unless you met the intense summer sun as you traipsed through the sand. The difficulty began when the unsuspecting tourist encountered the enthusiastic local entrepreneurs who raised persistence to an art form.
Interactions generally went like this:
“’Scooz me, meester, want to ride a camel?” one of half a dozen or more hawkers would inquire, beckoning any and all approaching tourists. A simple no would never suffice and was countered by insistent pleading and a likely chase lasting up to several hundred yards.
“I’m a student, and I don’t have any money,” I’d insist within a few minutes of arriving at the Giza Plateau.
“No problem, my camel is a special student camel. Special price for you! No charge! Pay what you like!” If naïve travelers ever took the bait, they’d find that getting up on a camel could indeed be free, but getting back down from their awkward perches would cost plenty. After it became gradually clear to the entrepreneurs that a sale was not going to be made, the camel man would usually trot off on his bellowing, sandy-colored beast to seek out the next potential customer.
These camel men were clever. Many spoke several different languages conversationally and possessed a smattering of several more. I was often approached in German because of my blond hai
r, though they have accused me of being from a variety of other places. On other visits to Egypt, my friends and I would attempt to confuse our trailing camel man by claiming we were from Botswana, Lithuania, or some other land presumed to be outside his geographical awareness. After a few moments of contemplation, he might reply, “Ah! Botswana! I have a cousin who lives there!” And it would not have surprised me if he could speak a few words of a relatively obscure African tribal language.
The camel-riding industry was not the only occupation found amid the pyramids. Horse-buggy drivers, cola vendors, and peddlers of illustrated papyrus paper aggressively plied their trades against the backdrop of the grandest of pyramids. On more than one occasion, I was approached by a robed teenager who, after first looking about in all directions to see if anyone was watching or listening, would whisper, “Pssst! Meester! Come have a look! Quickly!” The boy then reached into his coat, slowly and carefully removing a small, suspicious-looking envelope. Drugs perhaps? Illicit antiquities? Still maintaining vigilance to keep his potential customer in suspense, he opened the envelope. “Look, meester! Ten postcards for one Egyptian pound!”
The cola vendors had their own tricks. They would appear out of nowhere in the hottest places with an ice-filled metal bucket in hand. These young entrepreneurs would grab a very warm bottle of soda from a nearby cache and secretly roll the outside of the glass on a block of ice before placing it in your hand. The unwitting foreigner would say, “Ice cold and refreshing! Give me two!” And then the smug young vendor would sit and wait for the return of the empty bottles as you tried to gag down at least one of the tepid, sickeningly sweet drinks.
Despite the constant interruptions from vendors on my first encounter with the “mountains of Pharaoh,” I decided to hire a local “guide” to show me the area. The “guide,” whom I contracted for a couple of hours and two Egyptian pounds, was an older man, perhaps in his early seventies, who offered to give me a tour of the Chephren (Khafre) Pyramid, the second-largest at Giza, along with some of the better small tombs in the area. He claimed to possess the keys to all the appropriate monuments.
Our trudge began in the severe noontime heat of June as the guide marched me across the sand of the Giza Plateau in a very roundabout fashion. Walking in the sand is tiring, and I was sure that I’d seen a paved road leading directly toward the Chephren Pyramid during my earlier stroll. Several stops for water later, I noticed that I was being followed by a camel driver who, it became apparent, was in collusion with the guide, presumably to garner a shared commission. The object of the game soon became clear: The guide was trying to wear me down in the sand and the heat until his friend would fortuitously appear to offer me a lift. “Forget it!” I exclaimed as I poured water over my head and shirt from my canteen and then continued my struggle as the water evaporated from my clothing in a matter of minutes.
As we arrived at our first destination, the guide said, “Well, here it is, the Chephren Pyramid, built by King Chephren. Come, I’ll show you the palace of Cheops.” He turned around and headed back across the sand in more or less the general direction of the Great Pyramid. I foolishly followed, the camel man once again trailing in my path.
At a convenient little dune, the guide stopped and pulled something “very old” from his robe. It was obviously a very cheap modern scarab—an amulet in the shape of a beetle—of the sort that are manufactured en masse for pennies apiece. “Special price for you, meester! America and Egypt, good friends. Look! Very, very old. For you? Fifty dollars!” I laughed and told him it was an obvious fake.
“I’m an archaeologist,” I explained. “I study this kind of stuff!”
“Then you know it’s old!” he replied. Not receiving the desired response, he continued his “tour” across the desert. “How about this so-called Cheops palace?” I asked incredulously.
“Just a moment,” said he as we approached a group of dilapidated stone buildings. “This is the place! And here is Cheops’s throne!” he exclaimed, pointing to a space on a low wall where several large stone bricks had been removed. “And over here is where Cheops ate his dinner every night, and if he wanted a drink of water, he came over here.” The guide walked about the ruined walls pantomiming the activities as he described them. “And over here is where the king washed his hands after eating,” he said, rubbing his hands together. I sat on Cheops’s “throne,” secretly enjoying the absurd antics, until I realized that we should see some of the nice smaller tombs before time ran out. “And let me show you Cheops’s bathroom,” he insisted. We rounded a corner to a small walled enclosure with dried human waste on the floor, obviously a latrine more recent than the time of Cheops. Sensing my frustration, the guide attempted to step over a low barbed-wire fence only to be rebuked by a cemetery guard.
“What happened to all your keys?” I inquired.
“This cemetery is closed for restoration today. I will show you another one.” We proceeded down a path on the eastern side of the pyramid, passing numerous tombs, some with gates and locks. “How about this tomb?” I asked.
“Ah, it is not possible. The tomb is still full of gold, and inside there is the mummy of a small child.” Of course this was just one of many excuses to disguise the fact that he possessed no keys whatsoever that would lead to anything of significance. A short distance further, we reached a small opening carved into the rock. “This is where they found the mummy of Rameses II. Take a look!” The tomb door was open, and its interior was full of modern rubbish, its ceilings and walls blackened by fire. Rameses II? Hardly likely! His mummy was actually discovered in the late 1800s in an amazing secret cache several hundred miles south of Giza!
Enough was enough. It wasn’t worth debating the facts with my alleged guide. The novelty of this escapade had worn off, and I suggested that he be freed from his contract and that I would pay him. As I handed him two pounds along with a one-pound tip, he looked at the money and placed it back in my hands. “Seven pounds!” he yelled. I reminded him of our agreement, and he became furious. Seeing that I wasn’t about to budge in this matter, he mentioned that he had a number of hungry children at home. Still finding no response from me, he insisted that seven pounds was the minimum amount he was entitled to by law for his services and that my failure to pay him would result in my incarceration. I wasn’t buying it. He then threatened to call the police. As a last resort, he clutched his chest and began breathing heavily. Exasperated, I reached into my pocket and grabbed another pound note and forced it into his hand before stomping away. The guide counted the money, smiled, and yelled “Thanks, man!” I am now convinced that Herodotus visited Egypt. And he probably had a local guide, perhaps a direct descendant of my “well-informed” escort.
Shaking my head in disbelief at the performance I had just witnessed, I continued to walk about the area as the late afternoon brought cooler temperatures. It was a Friday, the weekly day of rest, and there were many Egyptian families sitting around the base of the pyramids enjoying picnics, music, and dancing with their friends. An uneventful taxi ride returned me to Garden City House and thus ended my first of many unforgettable days in a land that had filled my dreams for years.
Because the Fayyum expedition wouldn’t be assembling for departure until Sunday, I had a second free day to spend as I pleased, and I wanted to see the Giza Plateau yet again, vowing that I would not be misled or otherwise relieved of my money. This time I took the bus, which was far cheaper and an adventure in and of itself. It deposited me close enough to my destination, and I walked up the hill to the pyramids’ plateau, where the daily routines were already in progress. Turbaned heads popped up over walls and inquired about my desire for a camel, the clandestine postcard boy was making his rounds, and the cola-vending children were filling their buckets with warm bottles from the back of an old truck.
A ticket is required to go inside the pyramids, and as I approached the sales kiosk, I noticed a young English couple negotiating for an educational tour with my guide from the pre
vious day. “Don’t bother,” I informed them. “He has no authority here, no keys to anything, and he doesn’t know a thing. You’re better off reading your guidebook.” At this the guide became extremely angry, cursed vulgarly in English, and stalked off in a rage.
I purchased my ticket and approached the steps to a tunnel that led into the Great Pyramid. There a guard directed me inside through a crude passageway that led to an ascending ramp. The tunnel had been carved by early treasure seekers, who forced their way through stone blocks until they intersected an interior feature. It has since become the most common means of entering the structure. As I learned from many subsequent visits, the ascent through the galleries to the burial or “King’s” chamber can be relatively simple or quite hellish, depending on the number of tourists. The interior can be sweltering from the humidity brought on by the accumulation of human breath and perspiration, and certain passageways require one to bend over while descending groups pass by. The uncomfortable and variable climes mean that few people stay in the pyramid for long.
The King’s Chamber is an incredible, smooth-walled granite room, empty except for a large stone sarcophagus. The body of Cheops likely lay here over several millennia ago, but, as is the case with all known Egyptian pyramids, his mummy never survived despite the incredible efforts to secure it for eternity.
The chamber is a draw for various and sundry New Age metaphysical persuasions, and their numbers can sometimes be seen wielding dowsing rods or pendulums in search of some sort of truth. Others come to meditate, to chant, or to “absorb the vibrations” there. Fortunately, pyramid explorers of any stripe were few during my initial visit, but I nonetheless left the pyramid drenched with sweat, thankful to be cooled by the light breezes outside. In moments it was time to run the gauntlet of vendors and camels again.
Beneath the Sands of Egypt Page 5