Beneath the Sands of Egypt

by Donald P. Ryan, PhD

  During the mid-1950s, Heyerdahl led the first major scientific expedition to explore the archaeology of Easter Island. This remote island in the Pacific, known for its iconic giant stone heads, poses many questions, and, like Egypt, it’s been fertile ground for both scientific and fringe ideas. The expedition’s impressive work and publications continue to serve as a foundation for all further work on the island, and Thor’s popular account of the whole adventure, Aku-Aku, was another bestseller. Apart from Kon-Tiki and a couple of my dinosaur books, it was a real favorite of mine and still is.

  In 1969, Heyerdahl built another experimental boat, this time from papyrus. Proceeding on his belief that the oceans weren’t obstacles but manageable highways, he noticed that a lot of ancient people in different parts of the world used what can be generically called “reed boats.” These vessels were typically constructed out of bundles of naturally buoyant reeds or sedges and could be made in a variety of sizes. There seem to be many depictions of reed boats in pre-pharaonic rock found in Egypt’s deserts, noted by their upturned bow and stern. As with Kon-Tiki, Thor wanted to test the seaworthiness of an ancient type of boat, and he did so by building the Ra near the base of the pyramids at Giza. The boat was then transported to Morocco, where it was launched into the Atlantic for a voyage to the Americas, complete with Thor and his remarkably diverse crew. For a variety of reasons, the boat began falling apart well short of its goal, and Ra had to be abandoned.

  The following year Thor built another, christened Ra II, and the crew’s easy and successful crossing took fifty-four days. I excitedly followed the story of the Ra expeditions as they happened, and when the documentary film came to the theater, I enjoyed every minute of it. Thor had done it again!

  As I learned years later, there was a lot of confusion about what Thor was doing. The public certainly loved the adventures, but what was he trying to prove? Some believed that he was trying to prove that the ancient Egyptians came to America before Columbus. The style of the boat, its name, and the location of its construction were suggestive. The fact was that evidence from ancient Egypt provided the best models from which to reconstruct what was meant to be a testable generic model of a reed ship. For several reasons Egypt was a good location for putting it all together. In reality Thor never believed that the Egyptians had come to the New World, and at least during the time of the pharaohs they didn’t seem to venture much away from the shores of the eastern Mediterranean and the Red Sea coast. But others might have and probably did, and I’d venture to say that someday there will be conclusive evidence that will rewrite the history books.

  A third reed boat, named Tigris, was built in 1977 with the intention of connecting three locations of ancient civilization that seemed to have developed around the same time: Mesopotamia, the Indus Valley, and Egypt. There’s evidence to suggest that all three areas had such boats and might have been in contact during the formative years of their cultural development. The Tigris was afloat for months, sailing from Iraq through the Persian Gulf and the Indian Ocean, to Pakistan and into the mouth of the Red Sea, where it was burned in protest against the wars taking place in that region.

  After Tigris there would be other Heyerdahl expeditions, including archaeological excavations in the Maldive Islands, in Peru, and a return to Easter Island. Through these years of provocative expeditions, he became a beloved figure, not only in his native Norway but throughout much of the world. He also became a major international spokesman for global cooperation and environmental issues, the latter especially in matters involving the world’s oceans. The man’s adventurous spirit and “thinking out of the box” mentality continued to inspire me and my archaeological work, and I followed his work to the extent I could.

  I finally met Heyerdahl, and I can thank both Howard Carter and Giovanni Belzoni for the privilege. I was in London in November 1992 for the exhibition at the British Museum, discussed in the previous chapter, celebrating the life of Howard Carter on the seventieth anniversary of the discovery of Tutankhamun’s tomb. During my weeklong visit, I hoped to accomplish a little of this and a little of that, including the excursion to Howard Carter’s grave and a visit to the headquarters of the Royal Geographical Society. The society is a distinguished organization, established in 1830, and its members are a veritable who’s who of exploration during the last two centuries. In days gone by, its lecture halls hosted reports of searches for the sources of the Nile and expeditions to the poles, and it remains a prominent institution to this day, addressing all aspects of geography. The society also houses a vast archive of material relating to various and sundry geographical projects, and I found, much to my surprise, some items related to Giovanni Belzoni.

  I spent an afternoon scrutinizing this interesting stuff, and as closing time for the archives approached, I packed up my notebooks and headed for the door. Nearly out of the building, I was startled by the approach of a large entourage heading inside, consisting of what appeared to be journalists, photographers, and a host of other people. At its center was a man whose visage I immediately recognized. It was Thor Heyerdahl himself. The one man in the world I would choose to meet if I were ever presented with such an option. Thor was in London to give a lecture, a fact of which I was unaware, and now here he was—confident, charismatic, and a few feet away. I joined the surrounding crowd, and after a few moments I decided to make a bold, spontaneous gesture totally against my nature. I rudely pushed my way through the throng and stretched out my hand. “Thor Heyerdahl!” I exclaimed. “I’m an archaeologist, and I’ve wanted to meet you my entire life.” Thor, I would later learn, was rather embarrassed by his fame and probably took advantage of the moment to escape from his adoring fans. I was one, too, of course, but at least one who claimed to be an archaeologist. On top of that, there was only one of me versus dozens of the others.

  Thor excused himself, and we were directed to a small, comfortable room, where we sat and began to chat. I was terrified of making some sort of mundane, starstruck comments, and no doubt I did, but Thor set me at ease and made me feel as if I were at least as interesting as himself. He was also accompanied by a beautiful woman, Jacqueline Beer, a former Miss France and television/movie actress who would become his wife a few years later. The details of the conversation are hazy because I was so overwhelmed. I did mention that I had once sent him a copy of an article I’d written on the subject of papyrus, and in response he had sent me a lovely postcard, which I kept as a treasure. Again the details escape me, but I do recall the conclusion: “Thor,” I offered, “should you ever need some guy with a Ph.D. to carry your water bottle on a future expedition, I’m your man!” Thor graciously handed me his card with an invitation to “stay in touch.” I wasn’t sure what to believe. “Stay in touch…” Why would this international celebrity want anything to do with a pipsqueak like me? Nonetheless, I exited the Royal Geographical Society walking on air and couldn’t wait to return to my hotel to call Sherry and tell her what had just happened. “Guess who I just met!” I yelled into the phone. Naturally, she couldn’t guess…another Egyptologist, perhaps? “Mighty Thor! I met Mighty Thor!” She had of course heard of the man for years and was impressed. The very next day, strangely, would bring me a completely unexpected counterpoint to the whole experience.

  The following morning I had an appointment to meet archaeologist Paul Bahn, who shared a mutual interest in Carter’s grave site. We met at the appointed hour in the morning and I immediately found him to be a friendly, bright, witty fellow. His academic credentials were impressive: an author and editor of many archaeological tomes (including the textbook I myself used in teaching), a protégé of the esteemed British scholar Lord Colin Renfrew, and an expert on, among other subjects, the enigmatic Easter Island. Our initial interaction was quite pleasant, and I enthusiastically described my own work in Egypt. Sometime within the conversation, I excitedly announced that I’d actually met the world-famous explorer Thor Heyerdahl the previous night. Paul’s demeanor immediately change
d to one enraged with anger. “That man,” he announced, “is a fraud and a liar,” and the vitriol continued despite my attempts to moderate it. Didn’t everyone love Thor? I thought naïvely. Did he not command the respect of even those who disagreed in detail? Apparently not. My encounter with Paul was a reality check. In less than twenty-four hours, I had met not only my boyhood hero and the foremost inspiration for my archaeological career but, coincidentally, the one individual, as I would learn, who could justly claim the title of Thor’s most aggressive opponent. The subject was abruptly dropped, and we focused on the cemetery visit. Just a few years later, Paul would write a book about Easter Island, with a whole chapter—and then some—dedicated to “debunking” the Kon-Tiki expedition and Thor’s ideas about Polynesian prehistory.

  Welcome to the world of Thor Heyerdahl: beloved global celebrity, explorer, author, and occasional academic pariah! Some of his ideas were just too radical for the mainstream, many of whom objected to the dramatic nature of his experiments or were envious that his unconventional theories were better known and more appreciated by the public than theirs were. Paul Bahn was not alone, just the latest in a series of critics who’d attacked Heyerdahl for over five decades. I would meet many academicians, however, who would come up empty when pressed to articulate what it was that Thor was actually doing; they really didn’t know and might have been merely holding a negative opinion that had been passed on to them by their colleagues or former professors, who themselves might have known little. Yes, Thor represented a volatile mixture of science, adventure, and controversy, but for those who took a careful look, there was much to appreciate.

  In 1994 my proposal to work in Egypt was dismissed by a high antiquities official whose reputation for being difficult is still clearly remembered. I had requested permission to reopen one of the best-known yet most poorly documented sites in Egypt, the famous Deir-el Bahri royal mummy cache. The cache was a well-hidden tomb used to secrete the bodies of the New Kingdom pharaohs when the Valley of the Kings fell out of use. Local robbers discovered the tomb around 1871 and quietly looted it for several years. When the cache was made known ten years later, the antiquities authorities quickly emptied it of its many mummies, coffins, and other leftovers from royal burials. Very few notes were taken in the process, and I knew that much could be learned from examining the site of this great discovery. The tomb’s deep entrance shaft eventually filled in, and no one had been inside in many decades. I would have greatly enjoyed the challenge of revisiting the cache and seeing what might remain to help reconstruct its history. Alas, “Dr. No,” as he was known, rejected my proposal. An annual expedition to Egypt was something I so much looked forward to, even during the summer with its oppressive heat, and with permission denied I felt a sincere frustration and was anxiously looking for a way to fill the void. (The tomb has since been reexamined.)

  I fumbled Heyerdahl’s calling card between my fingers. Should I really take him up on his “stay in touch” offer? Surely I must be just another one in a million to whom he kindly extended wishes. I mulled over the idea of contacting him constantly in my mind and eventually decided to act. Why not? The worst that could happen was that I would hear nothing from him or be given some sort of generic negative reply. If so, I was back at square one, and if not, perhaps the great explorer would share at least a kind word. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, I concluded. I would contact Thor, for better or worse.

  I didn’t dare call him on the telephone, as I was intimidated by the prospect of having a meaningful conversation, stuttering my way through a “remember me?” introduction. Instead I decided to call the Kon-Tiki Museum in Norway, an institution that displayed Thor’s work (including the actual Kon-Tiki and Ra II vessels), in hopes that I could talk my way into obtaining Heyerdahl’s fax number. They graciously provided the information, and I composed a carefully worded message of inquiry. I gingerly fed the letter into my fax machine, making sure that everything was in order before carefully dialing the number and listening for the characteristic screech sound indicating that some sort of analogous machine on the other side of the world was ready to receive whatever I had to offer. The paper fed its way through, successfully emerging out the other end, and the waiting began.

  It was only a day or two afterward when I returned home to see the message light blinking on my phone answering machine. The usual mundane stuff, I assumed—a dentist-appointment reminder, some junk solicitation for installing vinyl siding on my perfectly adequate home, or other such nonsense. I pushed the button and was utterly startled. The voice that emerged from the depths of the phone was unmistakable, its thick, Scandinavian accent readily identifiable. “This is Thor Heyerdahl. I received your fax, and maybe you’d like to come out and visit me and we can talk. Please contact me, and we can discuss the details.” I couldn’t believe it. Thor Heyerdahl himself was calling me at my little house in Tacoma, Washington, expressing an interest in meeting me. I was stunned and played the message back over and over again. Sherry, too, was somewhat excited, and I immediately set about constructing a reply indicating that yes indeed I would come out to visit; I just needed a place and time. Needless to say, the message on my phone was not erased for many weeks.

  As I continued to communicate with Thor, I was quickly informed that he currently lived on the island of Tenerife in the Canary Islands, a place whose name I had heard of yet had no idea of its location. A perusal of an atlas indicated that this cluster of eight volcanic islands was located several dozen miles off the African coast of Morocco and was politically considered to comprise two provinces of Spain. What a curious place for a Nordic man to live, but I concluded it did make sense. Thor loved warm climates and islands, whether it was in the South Pacific or South America or the Canary Islands. Before moving to Tenerife, in the early 1990s, he had been living in Peru, where he spent several years excavating at the magnificent mud-brick pyramid complex known as Túcume.

  Looking for a change of pace and a fresh venue, he was lured to the Canaries by some photographs sent by a Norwegian friend, Fred Olsen, which depicted what appeared to be seven stone step pyramids situated improbably in a large vacant lot in the middle of a rural town named Güímar. Thor paid a visit and was impressed. The Pirámides de Güímar, as they became known, were impressive and puzzling, and if one were shown a picture of these structures without the accompanying context, one’s first guess might be that they were ruins located in Mexico. Given Thor’s belief in the probability of contacts across the oceans in antiquity, these pyramids were in fact strategically located where the currents will sweep a seagoing vessel across the Atlantic Ocean from the Old World to the New. Even Columbus had stopped in the Canaries for supplies before making his way west to transform the world forever, and the Ra expeditions watched these islands pass in their wakes.

  I managed to find enough money for a plane ticket and flew to Tenerife, not knowing what to expect on the other side. To my surprise, Thor and Jacqueline both were waiting for me at the airport, and I’m sure if I had not waved, they wouldn’t have recognized the obscure archaeologist they had briefly met two years before. Once again I tried hard not to sound too much like a groupie, which required considerable restraint, and I was taken to a small apartment in the village of Güímar and given instructions as to where to meet the following day. Thor at the time was living in a temporary house while a small, walled estate was being restored nearby.

  Our first full meeting together was remarkable. While Thor discussed his many projects, our conversations were occasionally interrupted by Jacqueline reporting the latest news from the seemingly unending series of arriving faxes. “It’s Gorbachev, sending Christmas wishes” or “Fidel says ‘Happy Holidays.’” It was truly a different world I was entering, with Thor being the consummate global citizen, admired, and well liked by all manner of world leaders and other movers and shakers, including European royalty, Nobel Peace Prize winners, and dictators from both the left and right.

  Nearly every se
ntence out of Thor’s mouth was fascinating, and he had plenty of questions for me. What I didn’t realize then was that I was essentially being interviewed for a job, and as I found out at the end of that first wonderful week I spent in Tenerife, I passed the test. Over the years I had unintentionally accumulated the proper and necessary skills to work with Heyerdahl. I had a broad knowledge of ancient history and archaeology, abilities with several modern and ancient languages, experience as a director of field projects, and a record of both scientific and popular writing. Very importantly, I had a substantial knowledge of, and appreciation for, Thor’s own research and philosophy.

  Indeed, the entire first trip to Tenerife was a real eye-opener. The Thor Heyerdahl I imagined from my youth was just as impressive in real life. There is a fear, I suppose, that we might meet our heroes or idealized role models and find ourselves disappointed, reality not matching expectations. I had no expectations as to how we might get along and merely hoped that Thor would somehow tolerate me for a week. As it turned out, we became nearly instant friends. He was amazing, and he continually impressed me with his insights, born of an unconventional mind, decades of travels matched by few, and a persona unafraid to confront dogma. He was a gentleman and a gentle man, with a wonderful sense of humor that was clever and never vulgar and, as I would learn, a true humanitarian, just as much at home—if not more so—sharing a simple meal on the floor of a mud hut in an impoverished country as he was at a state dinner with a king or a queen.