Places: The Journey of My Days, My Lives

by Penghlis, Thaao

  My guide instructed me to descend slowly as the hill was slippery. I carefully began walking down the unwieldy slope, and my feet struggled to get a firm grip on the ground. Momentum had me walking faster and faster and I was losing control. Now I was running. Halfway down, I caught a glimpse of a large bush, hanging at the edge. I spun my body quickly into the air and landed in the bush full of large thorns. I let out a loud cry as the needles penetrated my back. My guide carefully walked over and pulled me off. He took my arm and we reached the bottom safely. He repeatedly apologized for the incident because he felt it was his responsibility to keep me out of harm’s way. I assured him I was fine until I took off my shirt and the pain began. It was intense.

  He slowly removed the piercing thorns from my back, wiped away the blood with my handkerchief, and rubbed alcohol over the wounds. This guide knew his business, always keeping his medicine kit with him for emergencies.

  Covering up my discomfort I said, “It’s Mother Turkey welcoming a Greek into her arms.”

  I laughed away the pain with my little act of bravado, thinking if I had gone flying onto my face, as I could have, I might have lost the love of my producers back at the studio in Burbank where they would have had to alter the story to compensate for my accident. When you work on a soap opera, death is a wonderful way of punishing the actor. After all, I had been resurrected six times, and I was not in the mood to die again.

  I am grateful for the respective deaths and resurrections of my characters because they afforded me the opportunity to take my journeys and receive the reward of a great education. It also filled me with such strength and knowledge that I was able to incorporate these experiences into my roles. That was the secret to my survival in this competitive world—to fill myself with life and get paid for expressing it.

  After this latest escapade I spent the rest of the afternoon sitting in a shaded café in a village called Avalos, taking in the worn faces of men with huge mustaches and colorful costumes retelling stories of their ancestry and how they fought the enemy in battle. They somehow brought me into their conversation by sending me a tray of sweets as a gesture of friendship. I was touched by their generosity, realizing that this was once an enemy of my ancestors. You would never have known it. We shared our history and spoke of the great warriors of Greece and Turkey in the War of Independence at the turn of the 19th century. It finally brought the withdrawal of the Ottomans from Greece, after four hundred years of Turkish occupation. By not arguing and just enjoying our differences, I could feel their passion, reflected through the way they sang and played their instruments.

  In the end we took photos of each other, kissed respectably and knew that something had changed within us. Somehow the pain of the past lessened a little, the trust increased a little more. In this neck of the woods life was not in a hurry. And speaking of trust, I found another carpet shop across the street. Remembering my previous experience, and not wanting to repeat it, I entered the premises without fanfare. Standing in front of me was the exact size and design of carpet that Uncle George had tried to sell me for $23,000. When the salesman approached I asked, “Just out of curiosity, how much is that rug?”

  Charmingly he responded, “Just 5,000 U.S. dollars, would you be interested? I could work a deal with you?”

  Here are some simple rules I’ve learned if you’re inclined to make large purchases during travel:

  No is a very handy word to apply when in doubt.

  Leave the building when they’re expecting a sale, giving you the upper hand and returning on your terms and your price.

  Really low-ball them, and if they have too many excuses, leave. And watch the chase begin.

  Cappadocia, Turkey. (Author’s Collection)

  The final stage of the trip was going into the underground cities where the Christians lived as a place to hide and protect themselves during wars or when battling the elements. The only city I visited was nine stories deep. When I entered, the temperature dropped thirty degrees, a great relief from the heat. With narrow halls opening to the empty living quarters and tapered steps leading to its unbelievable depths, I walked down four floors until I began to feel claustrophobic. There were bright neon lights to show the way through, but I could hear what sounded like hundreds of German tourists coming down toward me. I went back through the complex and squeezed my way through the tourists going in the opposite direction. The air was so stagnant that I felt it difficult to breathe, but eventually I found my way out. As I fought to catch my breath, my guide burst into laughter when he realized we both had the same phobia.

  Now it was time to get back to the airport and say my goodbye to my wonderful guide. He graciously waited and made sure I got off safely to Istanbul. That’s when I tipped especially well for good services.

  It was nearly midnight when I arrived back to my hotel. The same agents who had taken me to the airport picked me up, and I brought up how they had abandoned me without my flight information when they had dropped me off. They responded with no apology, just disinterest. When we arrived at the hotel and they opened my door, I stepped out of the van without tipping them. They shouted at my back in Turkish, and from their tone they were none too pleased.

  “In America that’s how we handle people who take their clients for granted, no tip,” I calmly explained.

  As I entered my hotel, they swore at me again. I went straight to the concierge who had recommended this company and reported their behavior. He apologized and in traditional fashion, swore he would “kill them.”

  “No, teach them,” I said. “Because without tourism a country’s economy falters, and you see this happening now in the Middle East.” He agreed.

  For me, there still remains a great mystery to Turkey. As I tried to investigate the nature of this ancient culture I realized that some things seen and experienced are never completely explained. I traveled to illuminate what’s within through the connections I had made with my own heritage, from Istanbul to Gallipoli and Cappadocia, and through the sources of myths and the tales of becoming.

  For thousands of years Turkey was a melting pot of many civilizations—from the Hittites to the Greeks, Romans and Asians, all contributing to this veiled society waiting to be exposed. The Armenian massacre, the illegal invasion of Northern Cyprus where they still remain today, and the brutality Turks imposed on the Greeks for four hundred years all influence my impressions. Turkey has received a great deal of attention as a result of its unsuccessful bid to join the European Union. But the leaders of Europe have indicated that before Turkey can join, it must improve its human rights record. It’s been the subject of much controversy and international condemnation. Between 1998 and 2008 the European Court of human rights made more than 1,500 judgments against Turkey for violations on human life, particularly the torture of people who speak out against the State. When more than sixty journalists had been imprisoned, the U.S. State Department issued a statement that it had “broad concerns about trends involving intimidation of journalists.”

  Turkey became a NATO member and a valued ally to Europe and the United States during the Cold War because of its strategic location between Europe and Asia, yet little attention was paid to their poor human rights record.

  I finally came to the end of this particular journey. When I returned to the United States and walked back through my own front door, I thought of my old adage “By coming full circle, a change in thyself will have transpired.” I wondered what changes had taken place? I felt that by consciously going through the history of my ancestors I could clearly see a map now, imprinted by my family’s footsteps. It was an acceptance of the broad strokes they made by struggling and overcoming their identity, their Christianity in a Muslim world.

  Walking the path of my ancestors has enabled me to acknowledge and embrace all of the history that had finally become part of my being. Having gone through it, and feeling wealthy because of it, I could move forward now and begin to trust the unknown before me. The lesson was this: �
��It’s okay to look at your past, just don’t stare.”

  View of the Bosporus, Istanbul. (Author’s Collection)

  Hatshepsut and the Valley of the Kings

  Above Hatshepsut’s Temple at Deir El Bahri in Luxor, Egypt. (Photo: Jack Betts)

  It was dawn when my archaeologist guide, Mansour, and I began to climb the eroded cliffs of Deir El Bahri in Luxor, Egypt, situated 2,300 feet above the desert floor. After a couple of rigorous hours we reached the top of this arid landscape where we viewed the east and west banks of the Nile. That light that shined upon this civilization for thousands of years was awakening once more.

  To the ancient Egyptians the sun rising in the east represented new beginnings demonstrated by the temples of Karnak and Luxor, while the west side, where the sun set on the Valley of the Kings and Queens’ burial sites, symbolized death. As we continued along the ridge where so few, if any, tourists were now allowed, I was struck by that vision.

  From high above, Hatshepsut’s temple was on my right side and the Valley of the Kings on my left. As we sat taking in the remains of this phenomenal history, Mansour began to narrate the terrible tragedy that took place in front of this great temple in the early morning of November 17, 1997. Six Palestine terrorists arrived in Luxor joining a large group of tourists on their way to visit Hatshepsut’s remarkable godlike structure. This mortuary temple is one of Egypt’s greatest icons, and yet so little security was found protecting it. The terrorists blended in with the tourists and proceeded to slowly climb the steps leading up to the three-tiered temple. What followed was one of the most horrific attacks in Egyptian history. Throughout the complex, sixty-eight tourists were mutilated with machetes, blasted with bullets and stuffed with propaganda pamphlets right into their wounds. The murderers had left a note inside one of the victims praising Islam. It was signed “The Brigade of Devastation and Destruction.” Five policemen were also killed. More security arrived and a battle ensued.

  Desperate to escape, the terrorists began climbing the rugged terrain behind the temple and hid in the caves. The assassins ran out of ammunition and then smeared their faces with chemicals in order to destroy their identities. Seeing no way out because the military was closing in, the terrorists committed suicide. Their “ideal” in all of this was that a massive terrorist attack would devastate the Egyptian economy and provoke the government of Mubarak into repression. And so it did. For many years after, this massacre brought tourism to a halt.

  Standing at the edge of the ridge, I was now facing those same caves where that final battle took place. I thought how cynical it was that they chose to ignite this modern-day massacre in front of a 3,500-year-old mortuary temple. Politics, will they ever evolve? I found it creepy, and I kept looking around as if they were still there.

  But where was Hatshepsut’s mummy? When British archaeologist Howard Carter discovered her tomb named KV20 at the beginning of the 20th century, he found it empty. He then proceeded to find another tomb called KV60. Without any knowledge of whose tomb it was, he climbed down four hundred feet, and found it full of bats. It was slippery and the most uncomfortable tomb he had ever walked through. Two female mummies were found. One was a wet nurse, and the other was torn apart and discarded out of its coffin. The riddle had begun. Carter took out the wet nurse, donated her remains to the museum in Cairo, and left the other mummy as he found it. He closed the tomb and regarded it as insignificant.

  When we passed the caves I came across something unusual at this level, a tomb bolted and hidden away from the Valley of the Kings. I asked Mansour what was discovered at the bottom and he said it is where Hatshepsut was found.

  As in step with previous experiences of coincidentally finding what I was looking for, I had found myself in front of the very tomb I was seeking. Before he could elaborate further, a loud scream in Arabic was heard from below the edge. It was a group of secret police running up the cliff’s face, shouting, “What the hell are you doing here?” Since Mansour was a registered archaeologist, he animatedly explained our situation. We calmly took out our documents, knowing all too well the dangers of being interrogated by these unpredictable forces. They screamed back at him for not having a document giving him permission to be there. I understood their concern because of previous attacks, and so I kept quiet so as not to arouse any further scrutiny. They double-checked my documents, wrote my name down and left as quickly as they had arrived. We took a deep breath, but had to leave.

  Finding our way down, the heat began to rise. At 9 a.m. it was already 115 degrees. I kept wondering, “Who was this mysterious and powerful Pharaoh who had taken charge of Egypt and morphed herself as a man?” She brought great prosperity and stability to Egypt and controlled the country for twenty-one years, and yet there is no record of how she met her end. Behind that crowning ridge in the Valley of the Kings lies her empty tomb, KV20. There was more to discover.

  Finally on ground level I began to climb the steps to her temple, ignoring the oppressive heat. It seemed different to me this time around. Because of the massacre story, I found myself checking every space we passed through, even though the police presence was strongly visible. I still didn’t feel safe, as the atmosphere remains so unpredictable here because of all the fanaticism. Today, the human element is gone, and what we’re left with is the uncertainty of the times.

  When I reached the top tier of her temple I found myself facing a bolted door that led to a secret tunnel ending at her empty tomb in the Valley of the Kings. At three hundred feet long, difficult and dangerous to access, it is the longest known tunnel in Egypt. Senenmut, her architect, was the steward of her possessions but lacked noble origins. Due to this they had to meet secretly through the tunnel and into her tomb. It was not until this century that the archaeologist Zahi Hawass discovered they were lovers.

  He found hieroglyphics hidden in a small corner behind the door in Senenmut’s tomb, revealing their great love for each other. It was indeed a well-kept secret. Love was obviously forbidden due to Hatshepsut’s position. When Hatshepsut died around 1458 BC, her co-regent and ultimate successor, Thutmose III, had most of the images of her as Pharaoh systematically chiseled off temples, monuments and obelisks, negating all memory of her reign. It was to prevent her journey into the afterlife. He did this so that when he took reign all evidence of her existence as the king was eliminated and the male line would continue again without interruption. Even Hatshepsut’s only daughter disappeared under the new Pharaoh’s rule.

  One of Egypt’s greatest Pharaohs, Thutmose III became the Napoleon of his time, and a warrior without peer.

  It was not until 1989 that archaeologist Donald Ryan rediscovered the tomb. Finding the disheveled remains, a wooden coffin was made for this nameless woman. Even after she had died it appeared she had been brutally attacked. With new technology available, a scan was performed on her and the wet nurse as well as two other unidentified women. Still no clear solution. Hawass, who was the head of antiquities in Egypt at the time, spoke one evening on how he remembered finding a small wooden box carrying Hatshepsut’s seal and internal organs locked in a nameless tomb. It also contained the remains of many Pharaohs hidden from looters during ancient times. Now the puzzle of her life was slowly evolving.

  He immediately ordered the scanning of the box and its contents. What it revealed was a molar tooth discarded in the intestines. They examined the X-rays of the four women’s skulls to see if there was a missing tooth.

  Lo and behold, a missing molar was discovered in the X-rayed skull of the disheveled woman. It was a perfect fit, and so Hatshepsut’s identity was revealed at last. But why was her body so violated? She was an astonishing woman who lived as Pharaoh and brought great prosperity and stability to Egypt. Her mortuary temple symbolized the beauty of that power. Obviously she had her enemies.

  I left Hatshepsut’s temple feeling melancholy, having walked through her ruins and studied this Pharaoh King’s most unusual life. The beautiful and powerful statues th
at guarded her temple and the obvious desecration of her images are held within the most unique structure for its time. It was so contemporary in its execution that it was hard to believe it was over 3,000 years old.

  My journey was not yet over. I was compelled to witness her recently revealed mummy, which was now in the Cairo Museum. My travels are really like a mystery novel, searching for clues that bring about revelations.

  I entered the Cairo Museum and headed straight to the Mummy Room where Pharaohs of Egypt’s Golden Age were housed. The first King I spotted was Ramses II and, boy, did he give Egypt a heritage, including fifty-two sons. He died in his nineties and outlived most of them.

  As I looked past him I caught a glimpse of Hatshepsut and I just wanted to go and pick her up and hold her. I felt like I knew her, having explored and read about her mysterious life. I walked around to the other side and watched her mummy intensely. She was different from all the others as she was covered in beige linen right up to her chin, not allowing us to see her as she was found, disheveled and discarded.

  Covered in dignity she had been reunited at long last with her extended family of fellow New Kingdom Pharaohs, a world from which she had been separated for over 3,500 years. But her eye sockets were packed with black resin, her nostrils plugged with rolls of cloth and her head was completely without hair. She had no jewelry, no finger coverings or golden sandals, and yet she looked more beautiful than anything, simple, like someone happy to be home after such a harried journey.

  By trying to destroy her memory and violate her spirit, Thutmose III made her even more famous. The discovery of monuments and hieroglyphs built during her reign, covered through centuries of wind-blown sand, gave us a clearer picture of how she lived. On one of her monuments resonates her charming insecurity as Pharaoh: “My heart turns this way and that, as I think what people will say. Those who see my monuments in years to come, who shall speak of what I have done?” That answer was easy. The world of archaeology certainly has spoken.