Beneath the Sands of Egypt

by Donald P. Ryan, PhD

  My second day in Egypt was as wonderful as the first, but carefree pyramid viewing was coming to an end, at least for a while, as the Fayyum expedition was about to begin the very next day. It must be mentioned that things are now much different on the Giza Plateau than they were during my first trip in 1981. Thanks to the Egyptian antiquities authorities, a serious archaeological site-management plan has been enacted for the long-term protection of the pyramids and for the greater enjoyment of tourists. The camel men and vendors are still around but are now confined to a specific locale well away from the monuments themselves. Their new venue is in an area that attracts tourists with a beautiful, commanding view of the site. And while the usual suspects are certainly there, their approach is much more low-key than before, and now the customers come to them.

  WE HAD BEEN TOLD to meet at an appointed hour in front of the building that housed the American Research Center in Egypt (or ARCE). I recognized a few of my new colleagues from the Big University, but most I had never before met. It was an eclectic mix of Ph.D.’s, graduate students, a lively Egyptologist, an expert in bones, and a specialist in ancient plant remains. The students, too, provided an interesting collection of skills and personalities, from Lucy, a spunky, free-spirited Egyptology student, to “Blazo,” a snooty know-it-all who tagged along as the archaeologist boyfriend of one of Dr. W’s students. Despite our differences, we were now a team. We loaded up several jeeps and began our drive out of Cairo toward the Fayyum.

  The road to the Fayyum passes the pyramids at Giza and heads straight out through the desert to the west of the Nile. The landscape then was rather bleak except for austere army outposts and an occasional long-abandoned vehicle. After dozens of miles, a few patches of trees began to appear on the sides of the road, and eventually the extensive ruins of an ancient Roman city, Karanis, gave way to the edge of a vast agricultural region, the modern Fayyum itself. This developed area skirts the southern edge of the now-brackish and shallow lake and extends west toward the Nile, which ultimately feeds a vast irrigation network.

  The Fayyum region was populated throughout the time of the pharaohs, and the diminished remains of several pyramids can be found occasionally punctuating the landscape. Later Greeks and Romans extensively colonized the area, establishing industrious agricultural estates and many towns, most of which now exist only beneath well-plowed and irrigated fields. The warmth and the palm trees of the Fayyum reminded me of my California home, albeit with the addition of donkeys and camels, and the overall effect was one of a pleasant, hospitable, and productive land.

  The journey to our “base camp” passed through lots of busy villages until we reached Qasr Qarun, just about a mile from the lake and a few miles from the very southwest end of the road terminating at the next village, Quta. Qasr Qarun was named for a nearby ancient temple that sits splendidly preserved at the desert’s edge. Our accommodations were in a large two-story white house with a roof deck. Though impressive from the outside, the inside was a dusty mess, and there were no bathrooms and no electricity to pacify American tastes. A large ditch in an adjacent orchard temporarily served as a toilet, and water was collected from a village pump in many large plastic jerry cans. Eventually a generator was hooked up, and a rooftop water tank made our living quarters acceptable. Roommates were assigned by gender or relationship, and I shared the “Boys’ Dorm” with a couple of male colleagues, where each of us had a small bunk rigged with mosquito netting hung from the sticks of stripped palm branches.

  It was not long before our daily routine was established. We would awake at 4:00 A.M.; have a sleepy breakfast of tea, bread, and marmalade at 4:30; and depart for the desert at around 5:00. Our caravan of four vehicles would leave our little compound and travel down the dusty road through the village, which was just beginning to stir with the rising sun. At Quta the jeeps would then turn sharply south into the desert; a five-foot-wide canal separates the rich, verdant agricultural land from a desolate sea of sand that continues across Northern Africa to the Atlantic Coast. The difference is as stark as that between the moon and the earth, and without constant vigilance the green would succumb in short order.

  The vehicles usually rode easily across the sand. Landmarks here consisted of dunes, an occasional looted grave, and a small police outpost. After a while a low ridge was reached, and our site of investigation was situated immediately behind in an empty stretch of desert. Apart from ourselves, the rare scrubby bush and a solitary lizard were usually the only obvious visible signs of life.

  A view of the desolate desert region in the southwest Fayyum. In prehistoric times this area supported a lush environment and was home to some of Egypt’s earliest agriculturists.

  Donald P. Ryan

  Despite the improbability that anyone would be living out in this remote wasteland, the evidence of human occupation was everywhere. The floor of the desert was virtually littered with ancient cultural debris. Flint tools, arrowheads, and, most abundant, the little stone chips left over from the manufacture of these tools could be found by anyone walking a few steps in any direction. Animal bones—many huge and fossilized—and gray rings of fire-cracked rocks from ancient campfires were scattered here and there. Large grinding stones and stone blades from sickles indicated that this was a site where early agriculture had been practiced. Incredibly, these remains still lay on the surface after many thousands of years, due to a natural process called deflation, in which the breath of the wind continuously blows the surface away from below the artifacts except for the occasional shifting dune that obliterates a section of the desert floor until it creeps on. During our time in the Fayyum, we were constantly reminded of the enormous environmental changes that had occurred since this material was originally deposited. The bones of fish and other animals indicated that this was once the very edge of a lake, now a fraction of its former size, and an area well occupied by people. With lush surroundings and an abundance of food, life was probably comfortable in the Fayyum six thousand years ago or so.

  Given such a large area to investigate, we had to content ourselves with merely sampling the site. Thus we established a large grid system across the area with surveying devices, and from this base map, five-meter grid squares were physically laid out on the surface with string. Inside a selection of these squares, artifacts, bones, and whatever else remained were intensely documented and collected. That was pretty much the agenda for three hot months. Day after day, laying out the lines, laying out the squares, and collecting, collecting and bagging, bagging and tagging. As monotonous as it all might seem, there were sporadic moments of genuine excitement with the occasional discovery of an exquisitely fashioned ancient projectile point or flint knife, or perhaps the remains of an exotic beast from days long gone by. It often bordered on fun.

  A lunch of bread, tuna fish, eggs, melons, and assorted items was consumed around ten o’clock, and work would stop by one. Did I happen to mention that it was hot? There was absolutely no shade to be had at our work site, other than that found beneath tarps stretched between the vehicles. Back at the house, a couple of hours of rest was followed by a few hours of lab work. There were always plenty of stone tools or bones to sort as well as artifacts to draw, and I tried a little of each. Each night’s dinner was a welcome mystery, followed by our gathering to listen to news from “the outside” courtesy of BBC on the radio, and then the evening brought pleasant breezes and easy sleep.

  The author’s first archaeological fieldwork involved a detailed survey of prehistoric sites in the southwest Fayyum. Here, team members collect artifacts and bones from the desert surface.

  Donald P. Ryan

  It’s hard to say what the villagers initially thought of the daily convoy of vehicles full of howagas (foreigners) that snaked its way at odd hours through their little towns. Our dig-house compound was surrounded by a low mud-brick wall that proved to be no obstacle for the inquisitive locals, who seemed entertained by our every activity. Though somewhat an invasion of our privacy,
their behavior was understandable. Imagine a large group of very peculiar people moving in next door. They speak an unfamiliar language, they appear to be quite wealthy, and they are in possession of all kinds of strange gear. For many weeks the mad fools travel at daybreak, accompanied by guards, to a shadeless, sandy hell in order to pick up rocks and old bones in a place generally unfit for human survival. They return hot, tired, and thirsty to spend the rest of the afternoon gawking at the insignificant refuse they collected during their daily efforts. After several months they pack up and return to their homes halfway around the world. No wonder the townspeople’s curiosity was piqued, and we were the biggest show in town!

  As perpetual novelties we were also targets for the irrepressible hospitality of the villagers. If we strolled a few yards from our compound, it would immediately evoke an invitation for tea, if not dinner. My first encounter with some of the citizens of Qasr Qarun was with our guards, who camped in the yard. They had noticed that I was at least as curious about them as they were about me and motioned me to join them. They made room for me on a flat woven mat, and a small fire was very cleverly and quickly built from local plant debris. A small copper kettle was filled with water, and a handful of tea was put atop it. (The Egyptians claim that if you drink hot tea on a hot day, it will cool you off.)

  We could not understand one another’s languages but made do with broad gestures to get our intentions across. Soon the tea was boiling, and one fellow produced a little paper cone from beneath his robe along with several small glasses for the tea. The cone contained sugar crystals, which were added to fill about a quarter of each glass. They passed me a glass, but the heat of it nearly caused me to drop it, so I set it down for a moment. The tea was hot, strong, and unbelievably sweet, and my initial urge was to run for my toothbrush, but after trying it several times I found that the experience grew on me, and it became a regular, enjoyable routine. Getting to spend time with my new friends was a wonderful way to occupy what little leisure we had. They were unflaggingly generous and willing to share anything they had. Our time together was also an excellent opportunity to learn Arabic from enthusiastic, patient teachers, and my vocabulary steadily grew. Appropriately enough, my first words referred to things I could point to in the immediate vicinity: “tea,” “water buffalo,” and “geese.”

  The hospitality of the Egyptians can’t be underestimated. A trip to another Fayyum village one day to retrieve water was particularly insightful. We found a local well and began to unload our plastic water jugs. The containers were immediately snatched away from us and taken to the hand pump to be filled as dozens of villagers emerged to become involved in the process. They formed a human chain from the well to our jeep so that the full jugs could be passed along and easily placed in the vehicle. With memories of the Giza Plateau fresh in my mind, I began to search my pockets for change. My colleague did the same as we anticipated paying off every one of these gregarious, uninvited helpers. We scrounged up a small handful of money to present to the man who appeared to be organizing the operation, for distribution among his friends. When we approached him, however, he refused the money. Despite our insistence, he and his fellow villagers would not accept any money for their services. They were neither exploitive pyramid “guides” nor manipulative camel men; they were extremely hospitable, everyday people who were simply looking to be helpful, even to mysterious strangers.

  Over the summer I learned many more lessons from my friends in the village. Most thought-provoking was an incident that occurred one day during a lunch break in the desert. As was my custom, I sat on the shady side of the vehicles with the guards and gulped down my food. The men would usually show me something that they had brought from home, or on occasion we would have an impromptu puppet show with our hats or cleverly folded pieces of clothing as we passed our break time. This particular day I was chewing a piece of the local bread, called aish baladi, roughly meaning “peasant bread.” It is made by threshing wheat on the ground to be turned into flour and then baked into flat, circular pieces. After a few bites, I painfully bit into a stray bit of gravel. I angrily spit out the bread, stood up, and spun the remainder like a Frisbee into the desert. As I sat back down, disgruntled, one of the guards stood up and strolled slowly out into the sand. Retrieving the bread, he walked back toward me and knelt down facing me. He slowly waved the partially eaten bread before me and gently stated, “Bread is a gift of God.” He handed the piece of bread to me, and we continued lunch. This poor, humble man provided me with a powerful lesson about wastefulness and how important it is to appreciate one’s blessings.

  During our expedition the vehicles were a constant source of concern. The trip to and from the desert each day could be relatively pleasant or a bone-rattling torture, depending upon who might be driving. One of our crew was notorious for accidentally hitting every pothole and dune in the relative vicinity. My personal record for consecutive bounces off the ceiling in the back of the jeep was three, and that’s not counting the many throws from side to side. Not only could the vehicles beat us up, but the heat and the dubious sanitary conditions took their toll as well. Most of us were sick, sometimes for weeks, and when it was all over, even the skinny people had lost at least twenty pounds.

  With each day I became increasingly struck by the marvel of my surroundings as the arid wilderness seemed ever friendlier and my appreciation for its many subtle wonders grew. A distinct environmental personality became evident, and the desert began to reveal itself gradually as much more beautiful and complex than I initially perceived. The surface, for example, possesses a tremendous amount of diversity, with its subtle variation in sand color and pebbles of different shapes and sizes. The wind also sculpts the sand in a myriad of ways; a few golden waves and ripples in one spot might merge into a smooth trackless arena, or some stubborn sedimentary crusts might suddenly come to dominate the desert floor. And little resilient towers of hardened sediment, called yardangs, occasionally interrupt the undulating white horizon.

  The desert certainly seems to have its own agenda and is an environment in constant motion, whether it’s due to dunes slowly shifting or flash floods that can violently and instantly alter the landscape. It exercises a relentless power that humans can attempt to control, but time and again the desert will reclaim its own. The ancient Greek town of Dionysias, for example, just adjacent to the Qasr Qarun temple, was excavated by the French and Swiss fifty years ago. When the digging stopped, nature took over, and the town is once again well on its way to obliteration beneath the sands.

  From my own frame of reference, I was surprised by how the desert’s expansiveness brought constant comparisons in my mind to the challenge of an enormous, forbidding mountain. The snow and ice of glaciers on a mountain can also be expansive and lonely like the desert, and at times I pondered how many of my beloved mountains could fit into this great space. But on the flip side, the oppressive summer heat, too, brought thoughts of the mountains as I longed for the icy coldness of an alpine morning.

  However, the lake near our dig provided a lovely distraction from the heat and sand. At the beginning of the project, most of our group would head down in the early evening for a nice swim, but after a few weeks the numbers dwindled so that I was often the only regular visitor, and I enjoyed the solitude of the mile-long stroll down the dirt road to the shore. Each night the fellahin, those who work the land, would be returning home from the fields, and a wonderful circuslike parade of men and creatures would pass me in the opposite direction: camels burdened high with fodder and resembling walking haystacks; the heavy man astride his small donkey, which managed to maintain a brisk gait despite the weight; and lumbering water buffalo and men with their tools slung over their shoulders. I would see the same faces daily, most smiling and appearing content with a simple life that few of us spoiled outsiders would have the strength or patience to endure.

  When I would occasionally jog to the lake, the sight of a foreigner running by in a colorful outfit never fai
led to cause astonishment. Invariably, the spectators would turn to see who was chasing me. Sometimes a boy on a donkey would challenge me to race his braying steed, the donkey often winning through sheer endurance and the noisy encouragement of his jockey. Down at the lake, I would wade neck-deep in its waters to witness the sunset, the cliffs in the distance evolving through a chameleon transformation from yellow to orange to purple, then gray and ultimately black. The emerging lustrous orb of the moon, the chirping of birds at dusk, and the silhouettes of palms all marked the end of another beautiful Egyptian day.

  APART FROM BEING my introduction to Egypt, the Fayyum project provided my first real lessons in excavation. “From the known to the unknown. That’s what it’s all about,” explained my vastly more experienced fellow graduate student Paul Buck as his trowel scraped across a blackened layer of earth to reveal more of the same as the sun’s heat screamed down upon us in an unequal contest of wills. “Marshalltown. That’s the brand you need, the archaeologist’s best friend.” Paul continued to scrape away at the ancient, fire-cracked encirclement of stone. Soon several fish bones were revealed, the remains of someone’s millennia-old prehistoric dinner. From the known to the unknown—it could serves as the credo for any explorer or a metaphor for archaeology in general.

  I learned a lot about digging from Paul in the Fayyum, and in later years I would meet Doug Esse, a master of the trowel, a young man eulogized as the best of his generation and whose impact on Near Eastern archaeology was blooming when he passed away while reaching what would have been a truly stellar prime. “A sensitive touch is necessary,” claimed Doug, so sensitive that sight is not necessarily a requirement. Under his skillful handling, a bewilderingly complex record of the past would be revealed, which would require an equally complex mind to interpret. Doug’s trowel was refined, its edges sharp, and its surface area reduced through twenty years of use. The handle fit his hand like a custom glove, and the tool was constant and at the ready. “It’s my magic trowel!” Doug would pronounce, grinning, as he repeatedly denied my many requests to give it a try during the first summer we worked together. “Nobody uses my magic trowel!” It did what it needed to do and had the amazing capacity to find what needed to be found.