Beneath the Sands of Egypt

by Donald P. Ryan, PhD

  The decayed wooden face from the water-damaged Twenty-second Dynasty coffin of a woman in KV 45.

  PLU Valley of the Kings Project

  Just a few yards away, KV 44 is architecturally similar to KV 45 and was probably constructed around the same time. Like KV 45, the tomb apparently held Eighteenth Dynasty burials and was flooded to the extent that it destroyed these earlier burials. It was then reused during the Twenty-second Dynasty, with the later coffins unashamedly placed directly atop the debris of the earlier entombments. While even the later burials were woefully destroyed by water in KV 45, Carter found some amazingly well-preserved items in Tomb 44. In his own words:

  This Tomb-pit being already known to the reis of Western Thebes, I decided to open it, the work taking only two days to do. The rubbish being removed to a depth of 5 metres 50 cent., the door of the chamber was reached, and I entered on the 26th of January 1901, finding therein three wooden coffins, placed beside one another at one side of the chamber, covered with wreaths of flowers. These coffins, though untouched, were not the original burial, for there was rubbish in this tomb, occupying about one fifth of the space, amongst which were remains of earlier mummies without either coffins or funeral furniture. The sealing of the door, though complete, was very roughly done; and on the ceiling of the tomb were numerous bees’ nests. Each of these coffins contained a complete mummy, and was inscribed with the name of the deceased as follows, commencing with the coffin nearest the wall:

  No. 1. Heavy wooden coffin, painted black, with rough yellow ornamentation, and inscription with red filling, containing a well wrapped mummy which had nothing upon it….

  No. 2. Wooden coffin, painted black, with rough yellow inscription and ornamentation, the whole of which was coated with whitish wax, eyes inlaid with glass and bronze, containing a painted cartonnage covered with a cloth, both being coated with bitumen. The mummy was similar to that of No. 1….

  No. 3. Rough wooden coffin, containing a beautifully painted cartonnage, with a flesh coloured ground upon which was painted in colours the ornamentation and inscription…. The mummy was wrapped in fine bandages, but nothing was on it, except a pair of bracers made of red leather, the ends of which are stamped with an inscription and coloured yellow, bearing the cartouches of Osorkon I….

  The intact coffins were removed from the tomb, and “No. 3” is on display in the Egyptian Museum in Cairo. Its occupant is named Tjentkerer, whose visage presents a lovely and poignant portrait of a young Egyptian woman. The whereabouts of the other two coffins is presently unknown.

  The Twenty-second Dynasty coffins may have departed, but the flood debris containing what was left of the original burial remained for us to examine. The pile of dirt at first puzzled us; its surface was covered with what initially appeared to be rows of mud bricks. They proved in actuality to be the result of symmetrically cracked mud; the thick, fine silt deposited during flooding followed by drying was what produced their deceptive appearance. We sifted every remaining ounce of dirt from the tomb, and it was the extreme lack of artifacts that was notable. Unlike its neighbor KV 45, this simple tomb numbers only six items on our register of objects.

  What KV 44 lacked in artifacts, it more than made up for in human remains. What were once several wrapped mummies had through the destructive processes of water and mud become a large collection of bones. Our project’s physical anthropologist, my former professor Daris Swindler, made an initial assessment and determined that there were several individuals represented, including teens and some children. Years later, when Jerome Cybulski took a much more detailed look, he came to a startling conclusion: KV 44 contained the remains of thirteen individuals, eight of whom were infants, another being a six-or seven-year-old girl, and the other four being young women in their teens or early twenties. What had happened? Was this a family burial in which individuals were added as they passed away? Or was there some sort of catastrophe, perhaps an epidemic, that tragically took all at once? There is certainly a story there that at present awaits further exploration.

  Forensic anthropologist Dr. Jerry Cybulski, assisted by student Katie Hunt, sorting and analyzing the many human bones from KV 44 in a lab set up in the burial chamber of KV 21.

  Denis Whitfill/PLU Valley of the Kings Project

  The situation inside tomb KV 27 made the other tombs seem almost simple in comparison. Its shaft was mostly encumbered with dirt and garbage, and its four rooms were filled nearly to the ceiling with the debris from numerous episodes of flooding. It was a daunting challenge, and we purposefully left it for last, postponing the inevitable chore. To further discourage us, for a while at least, a vicious, protective mother dog guarded its entrance from intruders, her litter of puppies yipping in a back chamber. As a result it became necessary to make a wide detour around the tomb’s entrance, lest the snarling creature emerge and present a genuine threat. We observed that the dog left the tomb at least twice a day to beg scraps of food from tourists near the old rest house, and at one point we decided that we would have to make a move. As Mama jogged away for her lunch, we entered the tomb and collected the puppies. A couple of our younger workmen volunteered to take them home to their village and uncharacteristically raise them as tame pets. Mom of course returned and was sufficiently angry and aggressive for a few days. But another litter was no doubt soon on the way, and she finally left, perhaps finding a home in yet another abandoned grotto.

  We dug test pits in each of KV 27’s four rooms to determine the depth of the deposit and to assist in future planning. This also enabled us to make a map of its interior features. One of the pits, in a room we labeled C, produced a sample of pottery that provided at least a tentative date—as expected, in the mid-Eighteenth Dynasty—that generally fits with the other tombs we were studying. But given its complicated nature, clearing KV 27 would eventually involve nearly four field seasons.

  In 1993 we decided to dedicate several weeks to exploring conservation issues in the valley. It was a serious topic of general discussion at the time, and we felt we should make a contribution. Heading up this study survey was John Rutherford, a structural engineer who had worked in the valley in the late 1970s and knew the place quite well. There were numerous tomb-damage variables to consider, and the kind inflicted by flooding certainly stood out as the most threatening. The valley serves as great natural drainage for the surrounding slopes, and a rare cloudburst above the Theban mountains can send fierce, churning torrents of water into the tombs below. With surveying instruments, Rutherford supervised our mapping of the valley’s rim, taking note of hydrological patterns to assist in our threat evaluations.

  We developed a study matrix in which each tomb could be assessed for a number of potentially destructive natural agents, including flooding. We visited nearly every accessible tomb in the valley, both large and small, and some, including KV 60, seemed relatively immune. Others, though, including KV 7, the tomb of the great pharaoh Rameses II, made the devastation in Tomb 27 look almost negligible. Rameses’ tomb is immense, and those who aimed to explore it had to tunnel through corridors and chambers encumbered to the ceiling, the once beautifully decorated walls scoured by flood debris. We could see chunks of painted plaster embedded in the mess and were intimidated by the mere thought of clearing and documenting a tomb of such size and condition. The burial chamber, a large room with a vaulted ceiling and crumbling pillars, presented a sad and haunting, if not scary, appearance. Two of the most stunning surviving tombs in Egypt belong to Rameses’ father, Seti I, and Rameses’ wife, Nefertari. In its pristine state, KV 7 likely surpassed them both in beauty, but the power of nature easily surpassed that of even Rameses, leaving his tomb in utter ruin. (Fortunately, a dedicated French expedition has since taken on the immense burden of addressing the tomb, documenting and preserving that which can be salvaged.)

  There was also concern about cracks appearing here and there in the valley’s tombs. In the decorated tombs, cracks can severely damage beautiful paintings and, i
n the most extreme cases, cause pillars and ceilings to collapse. Water, too, can play a major role in all this, as the valley’s limestone bedrock and underlying shale both swell when drenched by rain or flood. The process of soaking and swelling, cracking and drying, can leave a tomb in ruins. For our part we installed “crack monitors” in three of our tombs for long-term observation. The monitors are devices that are glued over a preexisting crack whose crosshairs lined up on a grid will detect any movement in the rock.

  In 1994, the very year after our conservation study, a long-feared event occurred when a flood rampaged through the valley. There was damage to be sure (although not to the tombs we investigated), and there were lessons to be learned and a genuine call to action. In its aftermath many tomb entrances have been protected, and an impressive master conservation plan for the Valley of the Kings is well under way. Much of this is owed to the cooperative work of the Theban Mapping Project and the Egyptian antiquities authorities. The former spent years mapping the valley, collecting all known data on the tombs, monitoring their conditions, and facilitating a careful long-term strategy. As a result the valley’s still-very-fragile tombs have a much greater chance of survival than ever before.

  LEST ONE GET the idea that a digger’s life in the Valley of the Kings is all work and heat, there are plenty of things to do in whatever spare time one might have. I personally like to explore the incredible number of ancient monuments in the Luxor area, and I especially enjoy hiking in the desert mountains. My favorite excursion ascends the pyramid-like peak called “the Gurn,” which rises high above the Valley of the Kings. The view from its top is stunning: The stark contrast between the cultivated land and the desert, with the Nile separating the urban from the rural. The desolate desert valleys to the west, a Coptic monastery to the south, and the Valley of the Kings to the north. Many of the great West Bank monuments are visible, and across the river one can see the massive temples of Luxor and Karnak.

  There are a number of trails in the Theban hills, some of which are quite popular with trains of tourists astride donkeys. On one occasion I thought it would be fun to own and raise my own donkey. I found an endearing little fellow on sale for about twenty-five dollars and kept him in a village at the home of two young brothers who worked with me. I named him Monkeyshines, and he was rather cute, as most baby animals are. He was much too small to ride, so, unlike many of his hardworking comrades who bore passengers or pulled carts, he had it easy. A maiden voyage across to the Valley of the Kings was a must, but the distance from the village to the trailhead was a bit far for the four-legged beginner. My driver, Shattah, rebelled when I suggested that we give Monkeyshines a lift for a few miles in the back of his new van. “He’ll make a mess!” he complained, but finally agreed. Within minutes Shattah’s prediction came true.

  Monkeyshines was a good sport and seemed to enjoy the mountain hiking. When we reached the valley, Shattah hid his van off the road in fear that potential passengers might see us reloading the donkey into the vehicle.

  At the end of the field season, I bade what I thought was a temporary adieu to my little buddy, but when I returned the following year, he was gone. “We ate him!” claimed his young keepers with a smirk. I didn’t believe them. I’ve never heard of anyone eating donkey meat in Egypt. I suspect they sold or traded him for one necessity or another.

  And if trails, donkeys, tombs, and temples aren’t enough, there is the city of Luxor itself, a world of its own, with its busy urban streets and many luxury hotels. From the city’s location on the east bank of the Nile, one can comfortably gaze west across the river to a radically different land of villages, fields, and ancient cemeteries. A huge number of cruise ships can be found moored along the riverside avenue or “corniche,” sometimes four abreast, while buses loaded with tourists disgorge their passengers or move them on.

  Luxor seems to have two faces, one that caters to tourists and another that maintains itself as a typical, large Egyptian town. In the former capacity, it can be as obnoxious as the Giza Plateau once was, with aggressive taxi and carriage drivers, souvenir sellers, restaurateurs, shoeshine boys, peanut salesmen, and boatmen all vying for one’s attention. Some will relentlessly follow and harangue anyone who appears to be a foreigner—it must be a technique that works, otherwise such tactics would probably go extinct. As annoying as some may find them, most of these folks are just trying to make a living, and with full knowledge that the average tourist is only in town for a few days at most, they see it as their one chance to make a sale. And besides, some of the souvenirs are very nice, there are numerous places to eat with wonderful food, and a good cleaning of one’s shoes after a day exploring ancient monuments can be therapeutic. In fact, many of these street rascals are quite nice once you get to know them.

  As for the tourists themselves, they range from the respectful to the crass. Some make a genuine attempt to engage with the local culture, striving to garner as much as possible from their Egypt visit. Others seem to treat the whole thing as some sort of pharaonic theme-park vacation, where attractions are superficially viewed and dismissed for the next sight to check off on the list. Some rarely leave their hotel and instead spend their time baking at the hotel pool. Sure, you could do that at thousands of locations worldwide, but right outside the door are unique and amazing things to see and experience, like nowhere else you’ll ever be.

  My dig team and I enjoy renting a felucca—a traditional wooden sailboat—once in a while just about an hour before sunset. If the winds are adequate, a great triangular sail is hoisted, often assisted by a young boy scampering up the mast as the captain takes the rudder. Crossing to the west side of the river, one can quietly glide along its green banks while admiring the rich local population of birds performing their early-evening activities. The sunsets are spectacular. Even after a difficult day, all is made well. Conditions aren’t always perfect, and sometimes the wind dies and the feluccas drift north with the current, only to be collected by a motorboat that will tow home a string of stranded boats.

  There is a felucca captain in Luxor who goes by the nickname “Shakespeare.” It’s a well-earned name, as English literature is his forte and he can ably recite from the Bard and any number of other prominent authors. He is also a master of accents, from Cockney to cowboy, and if you’re in the proper mood, a journey on the Nile can be as entertaining as it is beautiful. You might even end up at Banana Island.

  Over the years I had many times been solicited for a boat ride to the legendary Banana Island, which was said to be located on the river just south of Luxor. “What goes on there?” I’d ask, and each time my question was answered evasively, with a smile, a wink, and a nod. Although I’d never met anyone who’d ever been there, the constant implications were that it was some wild place where the normal rules of society didn’t apply. “So,” I asked many times, “what happens on Banana Island?” “Bananas, my friend, bananas!” Smile, wink, nod.

  One day we decided to have a look ourselves and hired a motorboat that took us to its shores, where we were greeted by the “mayor of Banana Island” with his wide, toothless grin and his hand outstretched to receive “entrance fees.” We were led to a small, open-walled shack and told to wait. Soon a surly teenage boy emerged from the trees and angrily threw a freshly cut stalk of bananas at our feet, then stomped off. Two dogs came out of nowhere, attacked the stalk, and separated, peeled, and ate bananas while we watched. We joined in—the bananas were delicious. Afterward we took a walk around the island and finally learned the truth: Banana Island was exactly what they said it was—one big banana plantation. But we tend to keep that our secret and let others find out for themselves. “Oh, yes, I’ve been to Banana Island!” Smile, wink, nod. Yes, the sun sets and rises again, and it’s another day in Luxor.

  RETURNING HOME FROM WORKING in Egypt can be a startling transition, and sometimes it seems as if the work never ends. There are reports to write, classes to be taught, family matters to attend to, and house repairs t
o be made. Data from the field season must be analyzed and made accessible, as scholarship in such fields as Egyptology is relatively useless unless the information can be shared. Traditionally, the results of one’s research activities will be published in an appropriate journal, a formal report, or some other scientific venue. Before a formal publication is available, the information is often presented at conferences where the various players, contenders, aspirants, and armchair enthusiasts gather to consume the latest revelations. In North America the annual meeting of the American Research Center in Egypt is the primary such assembly attracting several hundred performers and spectators attending three days of talks and lectures.

  The presentations, or “papers,” are really the core of such gatherings, with a constant stream being presented about every twenty minutes, organized by theme and held concurrently in adjacent lecture rooms. The result is a beehive of activity, with a transient audience rushing to catch the paper of choice, carefully selected from program booklets that they’ve marked off like a racing form. Decisions need to be made: Should I catch the latest discovery at El-Hibeh or the new perspectives on the god Osiris?

  Mark Papworth occasionally railed at the state of scholarship often presented at such meetings. “A celebration of minutiae!” he’d derisively declare. “The exalting of the trivial!” It’s often amazing to meet the players in one’s field, some of whose papers are brilliant and expertly delivered, while other scholars, for whatever reasons, are completely incapable of giving an effective presentation. Some of the better presentations are animated and border on entertainment, no matter what the academic depth of the topic. I at least attempt to share a sense of fun and wonder in my work, in hopes that people will go away feeling that the twenty minutes spent with me were worthwhile, insightful, and maybe even amusing. Most conference lectures fall under the category of “competent.” They state their business well, even if the topic is absolutely obscure. I have, however, seen some real disasters—for example, a graduate student, eager to impress with his first paper only to be shut down by the moderator because his slide illustrations are out of order.