Returning to the cliff, the film crew performed like seasoned mountaineering professionals as they confidently descended to the tomb and the gear was once again hauled up the cliff. Now that we were finally filming inside the tomb, I was able to explore its interesting features. A sloping corridor led down where it makes a sharp right turn that leads to the room where Carter found the sarcophagus. The walls bear evidence that this tomb had been nearly filled to the ceiling with water-deposited debris. From this room a small tunnel leads down to a tiny chamber, which I was surprised to find flooded to an unknown depth with clear water. I hesitated to clamber on and wade, as the presence of bats within suggested that the water might be rather polluted. This little chamber in this isolated tomb provided dramatic evidence that rain surely does fall in the Theban mountains and can accumulate in ancient structures. The cleft and the gully down which we rappelled serve as natural conduits for the delivery of water, and the whole phenomenon dramatically illustrates the threat to similarly situated tombs in the Valley of the Kings and elsewhere in the region. We revisited the tomb in April, and there was still a significant quantity of water left from the winter despite the processes of heat and evaporation.
The rest of the filming within the tomb proceeded rather uneventfully, and we were relieved to be finished with it. All that remained was for me to rappel down to Christopher Frayling waiting at the bottom, who would interview me about Carter as I dangled from the rope. When I reached the ground, I removed my helmet and disengaged from the rope. “Thanks, old chap!” I replied to Frayling as he handed me my hat, a hat that covered a nearly fatal souvenir I still carry in the form of a dent and a scar.
Several little scenes we filmed in the Theban mountains sadly never made it past the cutting-room floor. Presented with the spectacular cliffside desert scenery, my alpinist instinct demanded that I stand on a precipitous promontory and yodel in the best mountaineering tradition. As the somewhat out-of-place sounds echoed off the steep canyon walls, Frayling calmly surveyed the surrounding arid landscape. “Switzerland it isn’t!” he concluded. Another scene had me running at the very edge of the cliff in order to promptly report to Frayling that we were indeed properly situated above the Hatshepsut cliff tomb. “He’s running!” proclaimed a surprised Christopher. “It’s too hot to walk!” I explained à la Clint Eastwood. Snip! Snip!
There were many other memorable incidents working with the project—for example, a staged outdoor party that nearly turned into a riot. The scene was to illustrate Howard Carter’s affinity with the local people, and we invited some of the village workmen who had helped us. The setting was dramatic, with the darkness of night illuminated by the uneven light of flaming pots of kerosene. I arranged for a singer and some drums, and Frayling and I thoroughly enjoyed the dancing and other frivolities. Things took a bizarre turn for the worse, however, when the roast goat arrived. It caused quite a bit of excitement, and the table where it lay was rushed by several hungry guests with outstretched hands. With the cameras rolling, the “chef” swung at the interlopers with a large knife, no harm intended other than to shoo them away until all was ready. But then out of the darkness emerged an elderly man wearing a black robe and brandishing a whip, who then proceeded to beat the eager goat-grabbers. This provoked quite a stir, and although I’m not sure if the chef thanked him, I do know that Mr. Whip afterward approached me and asked me for some money for his services. I rejected his suggestion, and the party carried on to become strange yet again.
At one point not long after, I turned around just in time to see a small child toddling toward one of the fire bowls with a plastic cup full of liquid. A moment later a large fireball erupted, which nearly singed the clothes off my back as the little fellow ran off giggling. These kinds of incidents certainly weren’t suitable for the television program we envisioned, and the worst was yet to come. Someone began to throw rocks at us, perhaps someone who was disgruntled at not being invited to the party (or was it something arranged by the unrewarded whip man?). With our little lighted area surrounded by the black of night, it was impossible to see their source, and that was the final straw. “Enough!” declared Derek Towers, and we quickly shut down the show. Two smiling anonymous local men approached me and introduced themselves as guards, declaring that they had been working for us all evening. I showed them the bruise on my arm from one of the flying rocks. “Nice job!” I commented sarcastically as I walked away.
Still, there were many wonderful moments on this first foray into television, including fine Luxor evenings with new friends and afternoon interviews in the Theban necropolis. Frayling and I can still joke about “the curse” in relation to my bashing from a rock and his subsequent horrifying plunge in a Cairo elevator when its cables snapped. Aside from the scars and memories, perhaps the most notable thing I gained from the whole experience was a sincere respect for Howard Carter. Having had the opportunity to literally walk in his footsteps, I realized that the man with the bow tie was tough, bold, driven, and a true explorer. The Face of Tutankhamun nicely portrays the Howard Carter not many people knew. Though his abrasive personality won him few true friends in his lifetime, he surely led an amazing life, and most Egyptologists no doubt envy his accomplishments. From then on I felt that I understood the man and could relate to his personality and circumstances.
The Face of Tutankhamun debuted as planned on British television in November 1992, just in time for the seventieth anniversary. I was in London for the occasion, and the British Museum celebrated with a wonderful exhibition entitled Howard Carter: Before Tutankhamun. I attended its opening reception with Derek Towers, Christopher Frayling, and some of my other filmmaking colleagues along with an interesting selection of prominent Egyptologists, including Harry James, Carter’s biographer. On this same trip, I also planned an excursion out to Putney Vale Cemetery to visit Carter’s grave. I had written a review of James’s book for Archaeology magazine, and the magazine inserted a little sidebar by archaeologist Paul Bahn pointing out the dilapidated state of the grave site. Bahn and I got together (a trip that became quite interesting for other reasons) and visited the cemetery, and indeed it was a pathetic sight. As the opening scenes of The Face of Tutankhamun indicate, Carter’s funeral was attended by few, and here the grave of the best-known archaeologist of all time remained obscure and mostly neglected, the sparse words engraved on its headstone barely legible and continuing to fade.
Paul and I decided to begin a fund to rehabilitate the site and at least replace the headstone with one that was worthy. At home I set up a bank account in which I placed some of my own funds, and it wasn’t long before I learned that the British Museum itself had announced that it was going to restore dignity to Carter’s grave. There was no need to compete, and I turned my money over to the British Museum as a gift from my infant son. In a year or two, I was delighted to learn that a beautiful new gravestone had been produced and that young Samuel’s name was noted during its dedication.
With its large budget and superb production qualities, The Face of Tutankhamun serves for me as a high standard of comparison for all other programs in which I have been involved, some more successful than others. One that proved particularly bad was a show about mummies. I was to be the featured archaeologist, and the show would begin with the royal mummies in the Egyptian Museum in Cairo, then proceed down to the Valley of the Kings, where I was working. I got the idea that there was trouble afoot when a friend of mine who was facilitating the program in Cairo sent me a fax in Luxor. It was a copy of the crew’s travel schedule, in which their arrival was noted as “will probably be met at the airport by Don Ryan, a thirty-something Indiana Jones wannabe.”
“Watch out for Gigi, the director,” warned my friend. “She’s a bit of trouble.”
This “wannabe” business was both rude and wrong, and the Indiana Jones reference tiresome. With all the fascinating work and discoveries of archaeologists worldwide for at least a century and more, it’s interesting that a fictional
movie character has become the primary archaeological frame of reference for many Americans. Nearly any archaeologist who has received any sort of press has been called the “Indiana Jones of [fill in your town—Poughkeepsie, for example—or the name of your school—Farm Town Community College]. The allusion that there exists some sort of dangerous, swashbuckling life for the typical archaeologist is ridiculous. You see Indiana Jones neither spending hours on his hands and knees tediously revealing or documenting artifacts in the earth, nor spending hours in a laboratory or in a library preparing reports. No, what you actually see is a kind of grave robber, snatching high-value objects while pursued by various thugs with accents. “Yeah, archaeologists are just like Indiana Jones,” I have often commented sarcastically. “Let me show you the scars on my chest where I’ve been dragged behind a truck by Nazis!”
Still, I’ve known some who love to play off the image and will milk it for all it’s worth. One archaeologist of my acquaintance even made great efforts to support the myth in hopes that it would help him meet women. The hat and the talk might initially have impressed, but the faux swagger and whip would eventually scare nearly anyone off. I’ve heard of others who claimed to have been the inspiration for the Jones character, including an amateur American archaeologist whose actual last name is Jones and another who claimed that the stories were based on his own lost diaries. From what I’ve heard, though, Indiana Jones is very much a fictional character, a creation of the imagination of screenwriters. His original name was to be Smith, and Indiana was the name of George Lucas’s dog.
Is there adventure in archaeology? Sure, such is often the case. Especially working in places like Egypt, but it certainly doesn’t require Nazis in hot pursuit, fistfights, or gun battles. Indiana Jones, as entertaining as the films are, is essentially a cartoon; archaeologists such as myself are real, and archaeology is even more fascinating because it’s real.
Gigi and her film team eventually arrived in Luxor, and my informant was correct. I was immediately told that they had been denied permission to film what they wanted in Cairo, so she didn’t have a show. “Hmmmm,” I replied. “I thought I was the show.” She was obviously new to working in Egypt and easily frustrated, especially with the notion of having to adapt to evolving circumstances. In the next few days, things became very silly. At one point the crew lacked a vehicle, so I ran alongside a moving truck and hopped onto a railing on the back to be taken up the hill to the house of my driver, who could be hired for the job.
“That jumping on the truck thing,” commented Gigi. “Let’s get that on film.”
I shrugged my shoulders at the suggestion. “Okay, if that’s what you want!”
We found someone who would be willing to drive his truck by for me to jump on, and each time, as the cameras rolled, another vehicle, donkey, or other obstruction would appear to block the proceedings. I was filmed here and there, making my way to the valley, even solo climbing a cliff in the process. The whole farce was annoying, but the greatest offense involved keeping my Egyptian assistants after hours in the heat, which resulted in one of them becoming ill.
Gigi finally left, and the Cairo Museum sequence was substituted with scenes of a mummy being examined using modern technology in an American hospital. It took me months to be paid for my work, and I sent a complaint about my awful experience to the production company. The only response was from the company’s kindly phone receptionist, who apologized for the lameness of her coworkers.
Another memorable program involved my demonstrating an ancient Egyptian skill, making rope from papyrus. My participation began at an evening reception in the Los Angeles County Museum of Art. A friend informed me that someone he had just met was producing a program on the topic of “great builders of Egypt.” He pointed out a tall, bushy-haired fellow, and I introduced myself. “I hear you’re doing a program about Egyptian construction, and frankly,” I jokingly claimed, “you don’t have a show unless you’ve got rope.” I explained the importance of the technology, and the producer, Joshua Alper, seemed almost convinced. I sent him some articles on the subject, and it wasn’t long before I was flown from Seattle to Los Angeles to make a little cordage, Egyptian style. The setting was at a rock-climbing area named Stony Point, where I was filmed ascending a rock wall as an explanation for my interest in rope. I brought with me some stalks of papyrus, which I prepared by pounding with a hammer before placing the strands between my bare toes and twisting them in the proper fashion. It was similar to the techniques I had seen on the walls of ancient tombs and witnessed in rural Egyptian villages. Joshua thought it was great, and I heard many comments that it added much to a program that could have so easily defaulted to the usual fare of befuddling pyramids and forests of sacerdotal stone columns.
The increasing quantity of archaeology-and history-themed shows, many cheaply produced or playing to the sensational or fringe, is also a bit disturbing. Mummy curses, intergalactic aliens involved in ancient cultures, lost continents, and Martian pyramids are regular viewing fare, seducing the public with a heap of nonsense and giving such notions an air of credibility. After all, “I saw it on television!” More than one channel that began with noble educational intentions has sold out to this kind of sadly appealing programming. Fortunately, conscientious TV addressing the past can still be found and tends to stand well above the rest. The best of the genre serves to excite, delight, and educate viewers and enhance private and public support for archaeology and other scholarly endeavors.
ELEVEN
PYRAMIDS IN THE ATLANTIC
WHEN I WAS TEN YEARS OLD, I used to fantasize that I was a member of the crew aboard a strange raft adrift in the ocean:
The sky began to darken as another wave broke over the bow. Only an hour remained of my watch with the steering oar before I could take a well-deserved break. Fearful thoughts of an impending storm dissipated as the raft glided over each swell like a buoyant cork—after all, this vessel was made from balsa, and any water crashing aboard would seep back into the sea through the cracks between the lashed logs. It had been a busy day. Knut and Eric caught a few sharks, grabbing the sandpapery tails with their bare hands and tossing them up on the deck. It was a crazy kind of sport, born of a search for novelty on a voyage that had already lasted over three months. “Stay away from the end that bites!” yelled a cheery Norwegian voice from within the cabin. The voice belonged to the raft’s captain, Thor Heyerdahl, who came up with the wild idea of floating across the Pacific on an experimental replica of a prehistoric South American raft.
There’s a lot of provocative evidence suggesting that there were people from the New World in Polynesia, perhaps even before the Polynesians themselves. It was a heretical idea for sure in the world of anthropology, and critics often cited the notion that the seafarers of South America, as well noted by the Spanish conquistadores, were shore huggers and that their sea vessels were incapable of surviving the rigors of an ocean voyage. “There’s one way to find out,” Thor challenged the critics. Build one, launch it into the ocean, and see what happens. Experimental archaeology, one could call it. Not only would the voyage prove possible, but it was relatively easy, as the winds and currents of nature’s conveyor belt can readily transport one to beautiful island destinations.
Every day aboard the raft named Kon-Tiki was an adventure. Yesterday Torstein found a strange, unknown fish that hopped from the ocean onto his sleeping bag, and we were still talking about the whale shark that passed below the raft last week, a terrifying yet utterly fascinating creature whose power and mass rivaled those of even our hefty collection of floating logs. Our friend from Peru, a parrot named Lorita, provided constant amusement, as did the sprays of flying fish that would spontaneously erupt from the sea, a couple even landing in our frying pan. Thor emerged from the cabin and glanced at the sky. A few seagulls flying above caused a smile to break across his face. “Land is near, young man!” he confidently assured me. Since I was the youngest member of the Kon-Tiki expedition, Th
or went out of his way to make sure I was comfortable, informed, and busy. “Climb the mast and give us a report,” he encouraged as he took over my position at the oar. I gingerly climbed up toward the crossbar and blocked the sun with my hand over my eyes. Scanning the horizon, I caught a glimpse of something curious: a thin line of green that broke the monotony of the seemingly endless sea. “Land ahead, Thor!” I yelled exuberantly. “Land ho!” Terra firma at last and, more important, a successful test of a radical idea.
“Donald!” called the female voice from nowhere. “Donald! Time for dinner!” At that moment the illusion was shattered and the Kon-Tiki yet again reverted to a pile of crudely assembled lumber perched on a Southern California hillside, the ocean transforming back into a sea of long green grass. Thor and the crew all vanished as the sun began to set behind the avocado groves and I answered my mother’s call to return to the house. It was a great voyage that would resume the next day and the day after that. It all started with a little paperback book placed in a child’s Christmas stocking. A paperback called Kon-Tiki, selected by a Santa who resembled my father, a man who knew the sea, having served as an officer on a battleship and captained his own sailboat. Why that book? I can never answer; he had no doubt read it himself and thought it would be a fine treat for his bookish son. He was right. Thor Heyerdahl and his Kon-Tiki lit in me a fire for adventure that has never been put out.
The voyage of the Kon-Tiki expedition took place in 1947, ten years before I was born, but with millions of copies published in over fifty languages, the wonderfully written book about the expedition was an international phenomenon. An obscure Norwegian with a background in zoology quickly became a world celebrity and a symbol of bold adventure. Thor’s shaky home movies of the voyage, accompanied by a wildly compelling story, brought him an Oscar for Best Documentary in 1950, while anthropologists cringed at his ideas and the methods of pursuing them. Thor, as both his fans and critics would learn, was just beginning, and would spend the next fifty-five years challenging traditional scientific dogma, backing up his notions with scholarly publications and lectures, and appealing to the common sense of the public with books that served to question and inspire. A few years after the famous expedition, Thor published an impressive, competently written scholarly explanation of the scientific theories behind the Kon-Tiki voyage, called American Indians in the Pacific. This impressive tome, with over eight hundred pages of closely spaced print and hundreds of bibliographic references, was barely read then and even still remains practically unknown. Inside, Thor presented a wealth of information supporting his notions, which suggested that the history of the Pacific was a far more interesting one than most could imagine.
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