V. WEDNESDAY
We arrived in Luxor and hurried to get off the train. At least a number of people hurried. I’d been up for hours. “Susie” thought that wake up call was at 4:00am, when it was really 5:00, but Susie and myself (along with the pair of girls next door that our room connected with) had gotten up more than an hour early. We were done long before we needed to be and had ample time to gather our things and get ready. Unlike most other people, who had no idea we were getting off at five thirty and who just had time to change out of their pajamas. Some of the guys hadn’t shaved, others were in an amusing state of half-shaven-ness. Greg brushed his teeth on the train platform while everyone was collecting their bags. His excuse was that he “hadn’t had time on the train.” My response to not having tooth-time would have been ‘where’s the gum?’ But we can’t all be like me. Only I am me. Gee, that sounds like philosophy. …and I’m NOT trying to rhyme—that was incidental. Anyway.
We loaded onto another bus and after settling in for ten minutes (reaching that point where you’ve just gotten comfy) we had reached the opposite shore of the Nile and had to get off the bus. We reached our destination early to make use of the cool morning air; which of course lasts only fifteen minutes after sunrise. Even so, a few degrees can make all the difference in…none other than…the Valley of the Kings! For those of you who don’t know, Valley of the Kings is a small canyon near the ancient city of Thebes, today known as Luxor. The Pharoahs of the New Kingdom (1550 - 1070 BC) were buried there, including the well known King Tutankhamen. Also Rameses III, Thutmosis—the biggies. With the exception of King Tut, all of the kingly tombs have been open since antiquity.
I’m sure you’ve all heard of King Tut. You’ve probably also heard that he was one of the “minor” Pharaohs, un-significant and un-wealthy…comparatively. Having been inside his tomb, as well as the tombs of the other dead guys around him—I can say that it’s true. His tomb is TINY in comparison. Tye-knee. Okay, imagination time.
Early morning. A sun that has not yet risen casts a pink hue through the deep gorge before you—a narrow valley set between pale-buttercream pebbles and stone. There are no trees. There are no shrubs. There are no birds. There are no bugs. There is only parched stone. A bone-dry wilderness—whose bones were long since carried away.
Over your shoulder you see your exploratory party. Your comrades-in-travel carry laughter and words. Focused on the other travelers, they care for each other, speak with one another. Their eyes see and they walk, but do not stop and hear. Smiling at your friends’ cheerfulness, you walk out from them to meet the canyon. And walking ten feet from the group is like stepping away from a boisterous party into an empty room across the hall. It’s a world apart.
It’s like stepping into a fog of diplomatic dignity. It’s everywhere, and hushed. The stone of the canyon watches you. It sneers at you with nonchalance as if to take notice and then look away with indifference. The stones seem to know why you have come; they’ve seen it all before. Why should you be any different? It’s like they are the sentries of the Kings. They take note of you—as if writing your presence on their list of ‘those who dared trespass on the home of the dead.’ But are silent, as if with all they have seen—decades of artisans coming and going, funerary processions, conspiracy, murder, thievery, discovery, centuries upon centuries of sight seers—the stone speaks silence. It knows all but keeps secrets with out intention of revealing a single detail. It keeps mum (but no mum-mies….ahahahhaa.) Reverie over. Promise. But it was really eerie. …just so you know.
Then everybody else caught up to me. We took a tram further up the gorge, dust clouds going everywhere. We passed old arab men wearing their mu-mu equivalents: gala-bay-ahs. (I have NO idea how to spell it.) Very old, weary men, sweeping dust off wooden plank sidewalks. It’s horrible to see; they execute a task they do all day, every day, all the time. And with no satisfaction, because the dust will only come back. And you know they do it because it’s their only option. And you think to yourself how awful it is that you have everything and can travel to a foreign country just for fun when they have nothing---and have probably never seen anything but Egypt. Their dismal existence is all they have ever known. And what hope do they have? No bright horizon, no bends in the road, no vacations or rests—just blah. Poor man in an constantly impecunious state. And you think, “I don’t deserve this….I really don’t…why am I here? Why me? Someone else deserves this…they would do a better job…” And what would he do with my opportunity? What would he see and feel, what would he do?
And then Greg and Brandon came up behind me laughing; the source of which started the battle of the puns. Horrible puns. …the best kind. “What were you thinking about?” Asked Greg. “I was pondering the condition of our hotel,” I replied. “Hmm,” Greg answered, “I’ll bet it’s very Luxor-ious.” Ogh! Hahaha. It was splendidly awful.
We picked up our tickets from Bro. Ludlow, vaguely paid attention to our tour guide, and then filed inside tomb #’s 1-3. They were all the same, sans the name of the King in question. Well, no they weren’t all the same. Each was in a differing stage of completeness. Rameses III, I think was most impressive. Here, I’ll walk you through. Each tomb has a “false door,” or a façade placed in front of the real door to make it look like any other rock to any passersby. After that there is a long cubical-corridor. I say cubical because it is square. Floor, ceiling, walls—they might not be, so don’t take my word for it—but they seem to be equidistant from each other, like a square. The light diminishes as you walk deeper, but can-lights spotlight significant features every few feet, lighting the way. What is called the “book of the dead,” is a record of things the pharaoh has done, what the gods have done for him, how he takes his place among them, how he is “innocent” of all sin, etc. The examples of “the gods” presenting eternal life, or holy power are VERY intriguing. You remember that as horrid as Egyptian theology was they did still possess “doctrinal debris,” as Elder Maxwell put it.
On the left wall near the ceiling, 10 ft past the door, his cartouche (or his “royal” name) repeats again and again, followed by a proclamation of his unimpeachable guiltlessness. Reading thus: [cartouche, innocent of all ______]. Over and over for 6ft down the hallway. Here’s an example. “I Akhenaten, am innocent of any murder.” The next would be similar. “I Akhenaten, am a pure being…..I Akhenaten, have never been rude or inconsiderate or committed adultery or unjustly taxed my subjects or conquered nations and subjected them to brutality or belched or farted or forced artisans to carve me a tomb hewn of stone hidden in the middle of the blistering desert.” “I Akhenaten am a god, worship and fear me” might come next.
The opposite wall would have incredible depictions of the journey of death, chiseled into the stone and painted. Elaborate work—amazing to see and believe that it is still there, still in color, still so much of it intact. I’m sorry I couldn’t take pictures of anything inside a tomb—ever. Not inside the pyramids, not inside the Prime-minister’s tomb in Zozer, not in anyplace not previously exposed to sunlight. Sheesh. I suppose my descriptions will have to do the work. *sigh* (I WILL finish this blog post. I will! Stupid, long-winded tendencies….)
Anyway, the whole tomb is really a long square-ish corridor with chiseled paintings on the walls and ceilings, doorposts, supporting beams, and pretty much everywhere you don’t walk on. Five-pointed stars especially adorn the ceilings. They are representative of the privileged mortals who have passed on and now live among the gods. SO amazing. And there were hundreds! White five-pointed asterisk-looking stars on a navy blue painted background; astonishing, even with a few chips of paint missing. On one of the ceiling beams (“beam” only used to describe its location—it’s still solid rock,) there is a large falcon with outstretched wings. Think Timpview thunder-birds if you’re from Provo.
I promise that I’m getting to the point—at least I’m describing all six tombs at once and not individually—then I’d NEVER finish this, would I? Any-way… the farther into the tomb you get, the less finished the tomb becomes. Soon the ceiling isn’t blocked off or painted, walls aren’t chiseled, the burial chamber itself is…hastily and sloppily completed. In point of fact I don’t think any of the tombs we visited in valley of the kings were completed. One of them had outlines of hieroglyphics drawn out on the wall around the account of the pharaoh’s innocence, but no chiseling had been done. I told Greg that he had lived a “sketchy” lifestyle. (YES! I finally came up with a pun! Huzzah!)
King Tut. How sad it is that most modern people know a little about King Tut and nothing about Akhenaton or Thutmosis. Very sad. Even my BYU friends, poor dears, had never even HEARD of Akhenaton. My sixth grade teacher would have been crushed. King Tut is pathetic in comparison to the other Pharaohs…even his tomb is miniscule in comparison to the others in Valley of the Kings. Not even a 1/3 of the size. Why wasn’t Tut’s tomb raided like the others? Well… a fresher tomb is in-between Tut’s and an older guys…sorta like the alphabet being A-B-D-C-E, and Tut’s tomb being C. When the tomb for D was cut out, the rubble was piled on top of the entry door for C—thus hiding Tut’s tomb underneath a thick pile of rock chips. Soooo, finding Tut’s tomb was a real discovery. Valley of the Kings had been excavated over and over and gone over with the fine, soft, er…brush… and an overlooked tomb really was an extraordinary find. Especially with that much GOLD inside. Incredible.
So yeah, I’ve been to Tut’s tomb. Whoopee. Haven’t even been to Mount Rushmore, and I’ve been to the tomb of a snotty, rich dead guy. Go figure.
A few days later I had the privilege of seeing the Cairo Museum’s exhibit of the King Tut cache. And now, having been inside the tomb it all came from I am ah-maze-ehd. There is no WAY they fit it all in there! I can’t describe it—you’re going to have to look up the exhibit if you want to hear about it all—but imagine a small bedroom, imagine that the walls are made of wood and lined in gold, and then make it a box instead of a room. Have the picture in your mind? Okay. Now take that box, squeeze it down a shimmy-able passageway, through a 4ft ceiling balcony spot and then, I don’t know, re-inflate it inside it’s actual size space.
Impossible! I don’t know how the Brits got the box OUT of the room, let alone how the Egyptians fit it inside. We (the students) figured that they had either built it inside the tomb or re-assembled it inside. Either way it’s still impossible to get in and out. I felt sorry for the artisans having to do it everyday to get inside to paint.
The next thing on our itinerary was Hatshepsut’s temple. Which…we didn’t end up seeing. It was a security risk; we drove by it. Kind of. I couldn’t even see it from where I was—on the wrong side of the bus, you see. Hmph.
We went to our hotel next. Hardly a step in the right direction. At least it wasn’t the train. The hotel, “Mercure,” in Luxor. Poison water. And I will make no mention of the condition of the bedclothes. Trust me—you DON’T want to know.
After lunch…where I ate nothing but meat, potatoes, and dessert…we went to my favorite place in Egypt. Well… I say “favorite” loosely. It was my favorite experience—where I had the most fun. Karnak was the most impressive… but that was the next day. Where did we go? Ah ha! The Funerary Temple of Rameses III—“Medinet Habu.” (which is just another name for it.) Nothing more than the ordinary fare—hieroglyphics, pillars, and stone. And of course the creepy Arab men that pop up behind you as if you WANT to get a picture with them. Ihhhhhh…[shudder.] And they’re there to yell at you if you stand on something you shouldn’t, touch something forbidden, etc. But unlike Karnak and the flashy pyramid-esque touristy places, Medinet Habu was deserted except for us. And the…creepy men. So we wandered around taking pictures and having a good old time. Yes, a grand time under the broiling sun. Sunburns and squinting, anyone?
We went swimming at the hotel—first time I’ve been swimming in public in ages—and it was fun! The water was cold and it was so nice to be immersed in water (that was safely chlorinated). After drying off we went for a faluka ride on the Nile. What’s that? That’s what happens when you’re trapped on a ramshackle sail-boat with two Egyptian men wearing galabayiahs sitting cross-legged…likely with no underwear under their skirts (their already see-through skirts,) moving three feet per minute across near-stagnant water. All the while the sun is glinting off the surface of the murky plain while you’re cursing yourself for not wearing sunscreen, dying of the heat, and thinking ruefully of the phrase, “water, water everywhere, but not a drop to drink.”
I wanted to get back to shore and fast. I could have been doing SO many other things. I could have seen the Mummification museum that I ended up not having time to see. Oh! Well it might have been better if there had been any wind. Though I doubt there ever is such a thing as a breeze in that country. However, that may be a blessed thing indeed…I doubt the sands would allow the breeze to be pleasant at all. Still, there was one funny thing. I realized where I was, and started thinking of all the movie references I’ve seen when they’re on the Nile, or they mention it… you can bet the Ten Commandments was running through my head—when Nefretiri corners Moses and calls him a “man of mud.” But I think my crowning moment was when I turned to Carlee and said, “Quick! Wish for something outrageous, wish for the Nile—“ and she said, “I…I wish for the Nile?” And I said, “No way! Ahahahaha,” Just like the Genie does on Aladdin. It was great. In fact that was then end of great, and we were back to hot, sticky, and trying not to sit by the arab guys. FORTY minutes later, we were taken back to shore.
We went back for the hotel for dinner…or should I say for bread, meat, and dessert? Poison water. Poison vegetables. Lots of dessert, yes. Only edible things to be had. Which really was a shame because there were plenty of nice vegetables to be had. And fruit. The watermelon smelled nice. Which reminds me of a story…
Once upon a time there were two American college students who spent a week in Egypt. Their names were Caleb, and Sam. And while they were in Luxor, the ancient city formerly known as Thebes, they walked into a dinner buffet. Both boys were very hungry, and the tastes and spices of the Nile twitched their senses as their tummies grumbled a hungry roar. They loaded their plates with potatoes, bread, and chicken, and when they saw dessert they snatched up cakes as well.
“Wait,” said Sam, before they went to seek their seats. “Check it out,” he finished, pointing to a bowl full of watermelon.
“But we can’t, can we?” asked Caleb. “Won’t we get sick?”
“They were exaggerating,” said Sam. “We’re healthy. We’ll be fine. Besides, it’s the rind that’s touched the water, and we’re not eating that anyway.”
And with that, Caleb and Sam each took a plate full of watermelon back to their table along with their meal. They went to bed and all seemed well. But oh, the awful feeling those two had the following afternoon! Poor Caleb couldn’t sit up straight and had to lay down, even in the airport terminal on his way back home. His face turned a queer shade of chartreuse, and his stomach churned and spilled its contents multiple times.
And what is the moral of this story, children? The moral of the story is to OBEY THE RULES FOR HEAVEN SAKE, ESPECIALLY AFTER THEY’VE BEEN QUOTED TO YOU SEVERAL TIMES. For goodness sake. Caleb really was green though. I felt really bad for him, but it was his fault, after all. Stupid boys. What were they thinking? As it turns out they might have been okay… BUT…and there is a big but, the fruit vendors often inject extra water into their watermelons to make them feel heavier. And of course this water is just like all the rest of the water in Egypt. Hmm. Yummy.
VI. THURSDAY
Karnak! Kaaaaaaaaaaahrnack, Karnak, Karnak! EEEEEH! Okay okay okay, it was SOOOOO great! YAY! I loved it loved it loved it. So much better than the pyramids. But then again, lots of things are cooler than the pyramids. Like…Alaska. Hahahaha, okay, no. Well, yes, Alaska’s colder, but no, it isn’t even in Egypt, so a comparison between the two is moot. I liked how many commas I used in that last sentence. Wow, am I on a zainy kick or what? WHOO! Haha. This is kind of the way I felt before Karnak, so I guess I’m reliving the experience. I was so excited to go; I was giddy while I was drying my hair, and hyper at breakfast. I had gotten most of my enthusiasm when we walked out to the street for our taxi…carriage. First time I’ve ever ridden in a carriage. But I don’t think it counts as a normal carriage, because it wasn’t a normal one. “Normal,” being the tourist carriages I’ve seen in American cities, anyway. I probably sobered up because bubbly enthusiasm and Eastern culture do not mix. You want to get molested? Get caught smiling at the wrong man…easy as that. In affect, I was excited because I realized where I was, and I was sober because I realized where I was.
I walked across the enormous parking lot that they’re building… it’s going to be huge…and I realized that our faculty had us go in carriages of four people instead of bringing the buses. It’s much easier to get in and out of that place without a bus, and since it’s one of the few places that isn’t a security risk, we took the chance. We could have walked from the Hotel to there in 10 minutes, but where would the fun have been in that?
And there it was. Karnak!
And everything I knew about the place evaporated in ten seconds. I knew it was a temple finished and extended by many successive Pharaohs, and that there were a lot of pillars. I had no concept of just how big it really is. Standing next to the giant pillars, (to quote a phrase from Into the Woods,) “little more than a glance is enough to show you just how small you are.” The pillars! There are so many of them! A soaring forest of stone.
Since coming to Israel and Egypt the monologue of Katherine Brooke on Anne of Avonlea has run through my mind repeatedly. She recounts that as a child she stared at a painting her uncle had of camels in the desert, around a palm spring. She said, “I have always wanted to travel and see that place, to see the Taj Mahal, and the pillars of Karnak. I want to know, not just believe, that the worlds is round.” And I thought of that as I stood beside the towering stone…and my good fortune to get to see these things. I mean, who gets to see stuff like this? Schweet!
After Karnak we went to the “Luxor Temple.” Every year during the appropriate season a court procession would start from the Luxor Temple and bring offerings down the nile and through the streets to the Karnak temple. A big hullabulloo: fanfare, rituals, pagan-god offerings, yadda yadda yadda. The Luxor Temple had a large columned hall, a courtyard, and four large statues of Rameses out front. Toward the back of the temple evidences of crusaders appear. They chiseled out sections of hieroglyphics and replaced them with large crosses. (One icon for another, I suppose. Oops…did I say that?) My favorite part of the Luxor temple was the part where Alexander the Great had ordered a relief of himself made in the usual trappings of a Pharaoh. VERY amusing. Looks just like any other Pharaoh, but with a great big schnozz. It portrayed him sending an offering to Amun Ra. I was all sad that he was wearing the traditional hat-crowns because it would have been so funny to see if he had either a) been portrayed with straight black hair, or b) had his traditional curls done in Egyptian style. It would have been funny either way seeing his prime characteristics defined, but I guess the beak-protuberant-nose was good enough.
We walked back to the hotel from the Luxor Temple. Yeah—it was within walking distance. No way, right? Our walk home involved strutting down a lane flanked with three dozen or so sphinxes 9ft tall, and then walking through another market place-mall. A “mall” is usually a place where goods are openly viewed, usually linked by a hallway/street with the doors and windows of the shops facing the trafficable lane. In the near-east the owners of the shops sit or stand at the entrances and invite you in. (That should conjure the image of Ursula saying to Ariel, “come in, my child.” …a tad unnerving because of understandable trust issues.) Walking through this mall with all the shop keepers trying to draw me in I felt that I was on display more than the shop-wares. Ick. Thankfully I was with fast-walking friends so it was a little less uncomfortable.
After eating, more of a chore than something to look forward to (since you know you have to eat something but also know that deciding what is edible and what isn’t yields less than satisfactory results,) a few of us went to the Luxor Museum. The museum had been renovated the previous year, and had an excellent interior. It was air conditioned, dimly lit, and reminded me distinctly of the MOA (museum-of-art, aka the “mow-ah”) on BYU campus. The items on display weren’t that spectacular if you compare them to the Egyptology department of the British Museum, but were fascinating all the same. A few stelas, some busts of _____ the IV, two mummies, statues of various gods, and domestic tools and furniture of the common people. The only sad thing about the museum was that there were no plaques to tell you anything informative—only a nameplate telling what the devil it was.
Greg is an advantage to the near-eastern traveler. In Egypt he was great to have around because of his previous job experience; he worked in a mortuary this summer. He’s seen enough modern embalmings for his perspective on the conditions of mummification to be of note. (in my opinion at least.) When we saw the 3000+ year old corpse of this general-advisor dude Greg was fascinated by the toenails and hair. “No way—this is what a body normally looks like after three days,” he said. “It’s incredible,” he finished. He also would say things like ‘what the Egyptians could have done with _____ fluid, or such-and-such needles.’ His enthrallment added to our experience.
I provided a similar enthusiasm when we rounded the corner and saw the sign, “Egyptian Military Advancement and History Exhibit.” My first thought was, “Dang, my Dad would love this room.” And he would’ve! There was a Hyksos chariot that was discovered only three years ago preserved by the desert sands. There was a display case of long bows, short bows, composite bows, armor, shields, and etc. There was a rack full of spears and such. So cool.
Again, sadly there was no information or historical stuff to be had. I spouted off everything I knew about the Egyptian military, why they had so much control, why they were feared, common materials for armor, and the one-or-two tactics I could remember from my previous readings. In short—not much. (Five days later I called my Dad and told him about it and he instantly let loose floods of information about the Iron chariot wheels and why they were so advantageous, and he answered my questions about the differences between a long bow and a composite bow and why they were so nice to have. Honestly, the man’s a genius, I’m amazed he can fit all of his information in his head.)
Upstairs there was a guard who very energetically introduced himself and made conversation with me. And the other girls. He didn’t talk to the guys we had with us…which I at least noticed. I shooed the girls away from him and herded our party away from his post. He followed us. One of the guys with us noticed my irked expression and he came over to say “hello,” to him, with various undertonings of “you’re not allowed to talk to them, thank you, goodbye.” Then he left us alone. Urg—that’s Egypt for you—even in a quiet museum they make advances.
The upstairs exhibit showed how pots and baskets are made today; noting that they’ve been made the same way, with the same materials, for thousands of years. A large building-model of a sailing barge was in a case, with a label stating only that it is one-of-a-kind. I have no idea what it was. But it was very big, very old, and mostly intact. In historical museums that should be enough to illicit “ooohs and ahhs.” Mostly we were thinking, “yeah, we’ve seen a lot of this stuff this week.” If I had to pick a favorite Egyptian Goddess I’d probably pick MUT—a woman’s body with a panther head with a moon headdress. Eye catching to say the least—and easily identifiable. There were three statues of Mut (Moot) upstairs, too.
My favorite exhibit from the museum (Aaron and Diana please pay attention to this one,) was a golden amulet with the eye of Ra on it. It kind of made me smile, thinking of Stargate, but then I read the identification placard. It read, “Found at Abydos Digsite.” BWAHAHAHAHAHA! Ahahaha hahahaha hahaha. PROOF! I thought. Full on proof that Stargate is real. Ahahahahaha. (For those of you who haven’t a clue as to what I’m saying, just smile, nod, remember that I like science-fiction-tv, and move along.) Photos weren’t allowed inside the museum, but if they had been I would have taken a dozen of that amulet. Priceless.
After dinner we went to the Luxor airport to fly back to Cairo. It took less than an hour to fly back, but I’m glad I had the experience of flying on Egyptian airways. All of their English stuff is British-ified, so it was amusing to watch British computer animated “in the case of an emergency” videos. I was laughing hard, and I wasn’t the only one. Do you remember that I said that everything in Egypt has a metal-detector, and that they’ll let you in regardless of whether you beep or not? Well, how does this policy work in an airport? Emma Hanks, a great friend of mine here, had to remove her hat for the metal detector lady to “pass” her and wave Emma on through. The metal grommets on her hat set off the ‘beep.’ The best part about that story though is that her HAT set off a metal detector when her POCKETKNIFE, at the time residing in her jeans… made no sound at all. Isn’t that great? Heaven forbid her hat be taken on the plane, but the lethal weapon is okay. Hahahha.
During the flight I read a magazine article about the GEM—the “Grand Egyptian Museum” that is being built soon. It’s gonna be enormous, state of the art, and very expensive. Luckily they’ve gotten tons of gazillionaires to donate. The author of the article expressed his wish that certain items of importance taken by other nations (namely the Italians, Germans, French, and esp. the Brits) be returned to Egypt. He was saying that he hopes they’ll lend them to the GEM when it opens. Items of importance specifically mentioned as the head of Khufu, the bust of Nefretiti, and the Rosetta stone. I agreed with him on those three objects, especially the bust of Nefretiti. It’s one of the most famous artifacts ever discovered in Egypt, and I thought it should be returned. (I THOUGHT that. I do not think so anymore. I’ll explain later….)
We arrived in Cairo. We flew over 300 miles in little more than an hour, but it took the next two hours to get across the city from the airport to our hotel. But I liked that! We got to see a lot of the city that way without ever setting foot off the secure bus with our safe American-Mormon compadres. We saw enormous sky-scrapers, extreme poverty, ridiculously large billboards, and camels on the freeway. We saw piles of garbage, palm trees, and the pyramids—all in one glance. And I got to see what I’d been waiting for—I saw the Cairo museum! I was so happy I squealed. For some reason excitement for a more-than-hundred-year-old museum is a strange thing for a twenty year old girl, but I enjoyed my friends’ looks of incredulity. I was super excited to get to go there the NEXT DAY! When we finally reached the Oasis Hotel I was more than happy to see the nice clean bathroom again. Sure, the water was still poisonous, and the bedding was untrustworthy, and I wouldn’t have walked barefoot on the carpet for thirty shekels, but it was better than nothing.
Greg told me a great joke that night. The concierge says over the phone, “At this establishment we take pride in the fresh bedding….yes, maam, we change the sheets every day,” he says, hanging up the receiver. “Change them from bed to bed, that is.” Hardee har har, Greg. That kid is always good for a chuckle.
I brushed my hair, laid out my clothes for the next day, changed into pajamas, washed my face and teeth as best I could with bottled water, re-stuffed my suitcase, and settled myself in to sleep. I put my own towel over the pillow so as to not infect my face with the sheets from the hotel. My last thought as I closed my eyes was “Goodnight, Mom. Goodnight, Dad. Goodnight, Sparky.” And from there my thoughts dissolved in the slumber of the exhausted traveler.
VII. FRIDAY
Bright and early. I ate the cautionary breakfast of a hard-boiled egg, rye bread, and pre-packaged butter tabs. Mmm. If I could have had some of the orange juice my breakfast would have been complete. I was nonetheless pleased. I hadn’t had real eggs since leaving Utah, because at the center they serve fake-scrambled eggs. (And YES, I can recognize the difference.) It was then that I had a revelation. I watched sixteen other BYU kids eat hard-boiled eggs (I counted). ALL of them picked out the yolk and ate only the white part. What were they thinking? I couldn’t believe it. I thought at first that it might have just been the skinny-conscious girls doing it, but nope, three boys did it too. I ask you what the point of eating an egg is if you don’t eat the yolk? No fat, yes, but thus no nutrition either. Go figure. “What’s the matter with kids these days?” ; )
We loaded our luggage, and then we were on the bus again. We tried not to fall asleep in the middle of our tour-guide’s lecture. Usually its quite a struggle, but I was too excited to sleep. The Cairo museum! I was going to the Cairo museum! Who was the first person off the bus? (not me.) Who was the second person off the bus? Me! (right after the security guard.) I knew cameras weren’t inside the museum, so I didn’t even try to get it through security. I didn’t even take it inside the courtyard. Don’t worry—I still got a picture of me in front of the gate with the museum behind me. Then I was pacing back and forth trying to get inside as fast as possible. Brother Ludlow made that difficult. I had to wait for the other class to go first! Grrrr. When I finally did get inside, I was surprised. VERY surprised. It wasn’t at all what I was expecting. But it was almost more cool the way it was. Almost.
The inside was humid, smelly, and hot. That’s disappointing when you’ve been looking forward to a few hours inside a climate-controlled environment. That was surprise #1: the museum didn’t even have air-conditioning. Now, there are reasons why museums are climate-controlled, and it isn’t to keep the visitors sweat-free. It’s to keep the visitors’ sweat off of the artifacts. And to keep ancient mummies that are supposed to be in DESERT conditions from being gooified by humidity! I couldn’t believe it. The entire place was humid from millions of carbon-dioxide-exhalations, and I couldn’t believe it. What on earth was going on? Curse the Egyptians for not spending their private funding on a decent air-conditioning system. It’s dangerous for the exhibits! This is how I suddenly became glad that the British museum is full of Egyptian artifacts that they’ve stolen. At least in London the bust of Nefretiti is residing in perfect climacticly controlled state of the art preservation. (I still think she should be returned for the opening of the GEM, but she should never ever ever go to the Cairo museum on loan. Not ever!) …excuse the outburst. I have now regained my composure and will continue with the rest of the experience.
I saw the duplicate model of the Rosetta stone (it looked authentic, but then I remembered that it’s in London.) I was a mini-factoid tour guide for my friends Rebecca and Greg that went with me through the museum. We had so much fun. Neither of them know much about Egyptian history, so it was fun for me to get to explain stuff to them. They hadn’t even heard of the Rosetta stone! Greg ended up saying an hour after we had seen it and I had made reference to it at least five times, “and why is this rock so special?” I was startled, but then I explained and their faces lit up with OH expressions. It was so fun.
FYI: The Rosetta stone is named for its location of discovery, near Rosetta, Egypt. It is a black stone with a single message repeated in three different texts: Hieroglyphics, Demotic, and Greek. Why do we care? Because in 1822 that stone became the key to unlocking the code of hieroglyphics, and until then, ancient Egyptian texts had been impossible to read. Basically because someone could read Greek and Demotic they figured out that they were the same thing, so they figured out that the hieroglyphs said the same thing, and they figured out how to decipher it after that. Get it? Yeah, that rock is a big deal. And I got to see the fake! Yay. Ahem.
Remember how I said the museum wasn’t what I expected, but that it was almost cooler because of it? Almost? This is because of the format of the museum. Imagine a very large late-nineteenth-century building is a bookshelf, and each of the shelves is packed with a number of incredible articles to see. That’s what the Cairo museum is like. There are very few labels or explanations of what an item is. Often the DATE & DYNASTY was available, but nothing else. Mostly there are a bunch of huge statues crammed into every available nook and cranny. Which is good—anything other than stone in that place would deteriorate very quickly. I was afraid for the mummies.
We only had two hours to spend in the museum, so we moved pretty fast. The next room we went into was full of animal mummies. The crocodile mummies were awesome! Why anyone would want to mummify one of those is beyond me…someone probably wanted to pacify the gods. Again, Greg was invaluable here. He pointed out details I would never have noticed; things like textures and isolated areas that “must have been difficult to preserve” were especially of note to him. He was almost as excited by them as I was of the leather rugs that we saw next. How can leather last over 3,000 years? I guess the desert dryness can do amazing things.
I saw over a hundred 10ft statues of various pharaohs and queens, false gods, etc. I saw the Amarna letters. I saw Ptolemaic reliefs. I saw the Mernepta stela. I saw dozens of things I’ve read about. I saw the entire King Tut exhibit. Yeah—all of it. And yeah, there’s that much gold. I couldn’t believe that they fit it all inside his tomb. Even the most space-conservative organizationalists couldn’t find enough space in that cave for all of that stuff. There’s just no way it would all fit. And let me tell you, whoever makes “the next Tut” discovery is going to be one rich man. When I was looking at all of his loot I thought, “just a handful of this stuff would make me richer than the sultan,” (from Aladdin,) and it made me laugh.
The museum is incredible, and not just because of the stuff inside. It’s incredible because it’s little more than a stash of incredible artifacts. You can stroll through a hallway crammed to the gills with things you’ve only seen in encyclopedias. It’s amazing. It’s a treasure trove that’s unorganized. So surreal it reminded me of the words from a musical, “The Light in the Piazza,” when Clara sings, “I’m just a someone in an old museum, far away from home as someone can go…I don’t understand a word they’re saying. I’m as different here as different can be,” and I sang the song to myself in my head. (It’s great musical, in case anyone’s interested—came out in 2005. My favorite modern actress, Kelli O’Hara, plays the lead.)
My favorite thing from the museum was a statue of some Greek guy. I have no idea who. Why was it my favorite? Because it was evidence of conquest and change in Egyptian history. The statue was at least 15ft tall, sandstone, and very unusual. The torso and legs were fully Egyptian, in form and style. The headdress was also Egyptian. The face was not. The face was three dimensional and had multiple facets and planes to the expression—very un-Egyptian. It was extraordinary. It reminded me of the face from Michelangelo’s David. …but attached to an Egyptian statue’s body. Unique. It was a surprise. And I like surprises.
Towards the end of my allotted two-hours I went to the gift shop and bought postcards for much more than their worth. I figured it was worth it, but now I’m not so sure. I think if I could go back in time I would rescind my purchase, but I have them now; what’s done is done. And so that was all. I walked outside into the scorching sunlight once again. And back onto the bus. This time it was a short trip—only twenty minutes. To where, you ask?
Hard Rock Café. In Cairo. Whoo yeah, baby! It was the first Hard Rock I’d ever been to. I can honestly say I have never been more happy to see American culture again. I was so happy to hear American music that I wasn’t even upset by its lack of taste. Lunch was okay. I ate three helpings of Enchilada soup, and I ate two pieces of Double-Chocolate fudge. I didn’t dance with the over-enthusiasts, but I did sing a few choruses and bob my head a lot. After lunch it was time to leave the safety of the pseudo-american lifestyle and enter the most untrustworthy part of Egypt we had seen yet: the Khan el-Khalily Bazaar.
Everyone that’s seen Aladdin (hopefully that’s all of you,) picture the “market place” in your head. All the shop keepers that say, “Would the Lady like a necklace? A pretty necklace for a pretty Lady…” “Fresh fish! We catch ‘em, you buy ‘em!” “Sugar dates! Sugar dates and beets! Sugar dates and Pistachios!” and the Persian rug sellers, and the guy that sells dung on the corner? That’s it! Welcome to the Bazaar! No, really. That is exactly what it was like—only dirtier. And you fear for your safety. Groping is rampant in Egypt, and we were told that if anyone was going to be groped it would be here.
I was on edge before I even got off the bus. This was not a friendly place, and I could tell. I made sure I was with a guy I trusted (I ended up going with Greg,) and I tried to stay as close to him as possible. I wish the other girls that were with us had done the same. I was panicked for them! They started walking up alleyways on their own, walking 10 feet ahead of everyone else. I wanted to scream at them—they were just asking for it. It’s like they were oblivious to the eyes that were following them everywhere they went. Sheesh. One of the girls ended up saying, “thanks, Mom,” to me. I wasn’t perturbed at all. It’s all fine and good for you guys to think I’m obsessive. I’ll note that YOU didn’t notice when that guy started following us, or when I deliberately moved us so he’d have to keep going. And I’ll note that you didn’t complain when three minutes later I noticed he was following us AGAIN, and I said loudly, ‘hey Greg, that guy is following us,’ and Mr. Creepo bolted. Yes, I noticed that. I also counted how many times my butt was tapped when we were in a huge crowd of guys coming back from Friday-Muslim-services. And yeah—a girl got groped. She was horribly shaken up about it for days, and she’s likely emotionally scarred. So excuse me for trying to take care of everybody.
But seriously, how stupid can you be? When a twenty-something year old jumps out at you and says ‘come to my shop over here, I have it cheap,” and leads you down a secluded alleyway that’s even farther off the beaten path, WHY on EARTH would you walk AWAY from the group you’re with to FOLLOW HIM? Dunce! Clueless! Gaa! And one of the girls in my group did that. Twice. I could have killed her. I was always having to say, “whoa, guys, catch up with her please.” EGADS, she could have been pulled into somebody’s shop and gagged and raped and we’d never have found her—what was she thinking? Obviously she wasn’t.
I was MORE than happy to get back on the bus and get out of there. With our tight security I was surprised they let us go there at all. I didn’t see any other tourists the whole time. We were a novelty there. Therefore, we were a target. I may have been the only one to notice the fact that our faculty was tense about it—oh man. Mark my words, that’s the place we went that parents should have been concerned about. Ohhh man. I’m tense just thinking about it.
We went back to the hotel that night, and Greg, Brandon, and Rebecca and I sat on a table and chairs outside on the grass for a few hours talking. Mistake. That’s where I got all my bug bites from. They were grotesque, too. I dunno, maybe I had a reaction or something, but they were really big and really red and really gross. (not to mention really swollen and itchy. *whimper*) Special reaction or not, these bug-bites were the start of something ugly. Ugly in the sense of the Three Musketeers, “Whoa, ugly!”
VIII. SATURDAY
I know that the title of this section reads, “Saturday” but it should really say something like SUNTERDAY, or SATURUNDAY, or summat similar. Why? Well, because I didn’t sleep in-between the two days. All right, that’s a lie. I slept for an hour and a half. If you ask me, that’s more of a nap. And a nap is simply too small to separate a Saturday from a Sunday, thus creating the hybrid day of SUNTERDAY/SATURUNDAY. But for the sake of common clarity, it shall remain “Saturday.”
We visited “Old Cairo.” This means that we drove to a bunch of what I would normally call “really old” sites, but considering that the relative age of a really old place in Egypt must range more than 3,000 years before the discovery of the Americas, I should call these places slightly-new. We visited a really old Mosque. (Yes, you read that right. I got to go inside a mosque!) It was the Muhammad Ali Mosque (Ali Pasha, not Ali-the-boxer,) at the Citadel; otherwise known as the “alabaster” mosque, because it is covered inside and out with the material. Built during the first half of the 19th century. The minarets (towers that the call-to-prayer is broadcast from,) stand more than 80 meters high, but have bases only three meters wide. It is quite spectacular inside. Follow the link for a quick peek at pictures of the place. (http://www.touregypt.net/featurestories/muhammadalimosque.htm)
What was the real experience? Well, I’d never been to a mosque before, but you take off your shoes, and you can’t set them down on the carpets. I thought this was a holy-site thing, but I was told by our tour guide that it was actually just to preserve the more than 130 year old carpeting. !!!! Oh-kay, that’s the oldest rug I’ve ever seen. (No wait, it’s not! Hahahaha, I saw a leather rug in the Cairo museum that was thousands of years old! Hahahaha, I take it back!) Ahem. What else? Before entering a mosque be sure to wear modest, conservative clothing. Otherwise you’ll be “invited,” to cover up with the one-of-a-kind shawls that have touched who knows how many tourists. And whatever else. (Yeck.) The lights came not from the thickly grimed windows, but from hundreds of lit orbs hanging from the very high ceiling.
We sat on the floor holding our shoes in our lap and stared open-mouthed at the people and the sights, taking pictures when we could. We listened to our tour guide as much as possible too, picking up a lot of basic information about mosques and the history of this particular building.
The balcony on the west side of the Citadel was nice—it overlooked all of Cairo. I stood and looked out over one of the largest cities I had ever seen, thinking to myself, “Thirteen million people.” Thirteen million in one city. There are approximately 13 million members in the whole religion of my religion, and there are more people living in one city than… whew. And I thought about them—the thirteen million I had never seen. And I thought of what a difference it would make to those thirteen million if they could only know the things that I do, feel the things I feel, and have the privileges and conveniences that I do. What would they do if they had my life? I had no answer to that; only the thought that they’d likely be a much better steward over my life than I have been. With many quick thoughts of gratitude that I am where and who I am, I got back on the bus and headed out for a few more quick trips to churches and a synagogue, again of the “old” variety.
I don’t remember the churches. (That should tell you how notable they were.) The synagogue has two claims to my memory. First, it looked remarkably like the synagogue in the movie Yentl with the balcony for women, and second, we heard the story of how they had collected piles of written prayers that had been stashed in a box daily for more than 300 years. These prayers became part of an on-going archaeological recovery project. Our guide said that the details of the individual prayers provided information about the populace during the times they were written, and that it was thus a valuable piece of cultural-anthropology… yakkity yak yak yak. Since Judaism changes so much over time, it is rather nice to see benchmarks through history of how today’s heresy was yesterday’s doctrine. I say “yak” however, because at this point all we students wanted to do was get back on the bus, sleep, and drive to Sinai. Which, thankfully, we did. Forty long minutes later.
Have you seen the great epic film, Lawrence of Arabia? I have. Twice. (I recommend it, but it might be better to watch in stages. We tried watching it at the center and out of the forty students who were watching at the start oft the film, only six held through to the end. I noticed the second time that there were places in the film where the dead space can last an awfully long time, however, I find that the suspense enhances the experience…if you don’t fall asleep.) I love epic films, and L.of.A became much more significant to me after I had seen so much of what the movie is all about. For those who have seen it I hope you remember this part—after taking the port city of Aqaba and riding across the desert to get to Cairo, Lawrence loses his compass and becomes lost in the desert. Close to the point where he can go no further, he collapses in the sand. He hears a strange noise. When he looks up to investigate, he sees a ship that appears to be floating behind the sands. After ruling out hallucination you realize that he’s actually looking at the Suez Canal, a water channel cut through land adjoining the Red Sea with the Mediterranean.
I’VE SEEN THAT! It’s so crazy! Through the windows of my tour bus, I saw a ship smoothly sliding along—seemingly through the sands. When we drove a little closer, we saw a bit of the canal itself. We nearly got into a heap of trouble for doing so. It’s a sensitive area for military security because control of the canal is of major importance. I understood this, but was still a little surprised that we weren’t allowed to take pictures—even from inside the bus. So while I can’t share my experience, it was still awesome and I’ll never forget it. I also got to drive under the canal in a tunnel. Using the l-o-n-g tunnel as an indicator, I’d say that the canal is a heck of a lot wider than I expected. And knowing even a little of the history about the canal, I consider it to be one of the engineering marvels of the world. Truly it is an extraordinary accomplishment.
The bus turned away from the canal and we plunged into the fiery furnace of a desert, snug inside our air-conditioned bus.
And then there was nothing but desert. Two more things from Lawrence of Arabia (the movie): 1) he refers to Qur’an, saying that “the desert is an ocean in which no oar is dipped.” I think that’s a perfect metaphor. Like an ocean, the treacherous desert stretches as far as the eye can see, with no “land” in sight. 2) When asked what he liked about the desert, he replies “it’s clean.” I didn’t understand this the first time I watched the film, but this last time I laughed my head off because it’s so true! The sun bleaches the desert. It is an environment no germs could ever withstand. It’s the water from the Nile that makes Egypt a filthy place. I learned quickly to fear Egyptian water, but once you learn to overcome the menacing heat the desert really isn’t so bad.
Another great thing about the desert is that you feel very little pressure to stay awake to capture the scenery—because there is nothing to see. If you ever drive across the Sinai Peninsula, I recommend that you remain alert just long enough to capture the essence of what you’re seeing. Appreciate the harsh climate, imagine the harsh endurance of the poor souls through history that had to make such a trip, and then fall asleep. Preferably with a neck pillow, or your neck will regret it after your head floppily sways back and forth for a few hours. My mom almost lent me her “bucky,” a buckwheat neck pillow she heard about on Martha Stewart—she loves that thing—but I turned her down, thinking that it would take up too much space in my carry on. I have since repented of this, and have kicked myself repeatedly for not taking her advice. Kids, please—listen to your parents—they’re right more than you are.
We drove. And drove. And drove. The sunset across the desert reminded me of the one in Forrest Gump when he’s running across the US, and he talks about how pretty is. That was the only highlight. Then we drove at night. And drove. And drove. Then the overhead lights started to flicker and the headlights went out. Next the engine started to sputter. The air conditioning blew. When it came time to climb a small hill the bus moved so slowly I was afraid it would give out and roll helplessly backwards and that we would be stranded in the Sinai, condemned to wander aimlessly for forty years. Aren’t I dramatic? Katie Vargo asked everyone around her if the bus stalling was an omen that we’d get to spend the night on the bus. Brandon asked Brother Ludlow if we were going to have to collect manna in the morning for breakfast, and if there would be any quail on the menu. “With the right spices I think quail could be quite tasty,” he said. Bless him, it was funny. But we got to our destination soon enough.
Then it started. The beginning of the end. Imagine a swarm of lethargic ants, slowly making their way over the land to their food source—that’s Jerusalem Center students trying to get their luggage after a long bus trip. I gathered my things as fast as I could and got the key to my room. “Susie,” my designated roommate had made friends with one of the porters who saw her struggling with her bag—he started carrying it for her. I wondered if she realized he was going to want a tip, or rather, require one. On the way to our room, she got distracted by someone and left the porter with me. And her bag. All the way to the farthest building. Turned out I was correct in assuming she had not remembered that he was wanting a tip. When we got to our room, he opened it. And went inside. I had to follow him to put my stuff down, and then I was in the room with him alone—glad that I had left the door open and that there were BYU kids in the hallway, but cursing Susie for being such a dunce. He put down her stuff and stood looking at me. I paid him: mad that I didn’t have smaller change, but relieved that he was leaving my room. To this day Susie remains unaware of this. But that’s not the best part.
The best part is that while I was setting out my alarm clock and such Susie came back with her friend—and her friend’s luggage. Sorry they said—we were exchanging rooms yet again. I was amazed at my composure when I said it was no biggie, gathered my things and left her the key. I discovered that my new room was on the other end of the complex. And I re-discovered just how heavy my bag could be. I shuffled the sidewalk, growing increasingly bitter about the cluelessness of certain people. The nicest thing about Sinai was that the stars were pretty bright. I searched and searched for it—my favorite sight in the heavens—but he wasn’t there yet. Stars are so hard to see in Jerusalem, I had been looking forward to seeing the stars—especially my favorite constellation, but I still couldn’t see it. The moon was bright though. (This became very important a few hours later.)
I roomed with Rebecca Price—to this day I think I hit the jackpot with her. I couldn’t have asked for a better roommate. She had led dozens of sunrise hikes over the summer, and told me all the ins and outs of preparation. All I had to do was copy-cat what she was doing, and I ended up great. It was the only thing Susie did right for me.
I went to dinner expecting the same buffet type foods you always get in Arab countries, but was astonished to see pasta! And rolls! And… the rest of the same buffet type foods. But rolls were a lifesaver. Until it hit me. The sensation of being overheated combined with a strange unease in my midsection. I am often overheated, it comes naturally to me, but the queasiness was something else. It was almost time for our brief church services however, so I ignored it.
I saw Brother Ludlow at dinner. I informed him that Susie was staying with the other girl again, that I’d taken her spot, and asked if it was okay. He looked at me, and said “Susie is with her, and you’re with…” I repeated the information, and he nodded that it was okay. Then he looked me in the eye and said, “is it okay?” His words asked me if I was okay with switching rooms, but his expression and tone of voice said a whole lot more. He was letting me know that my ordeal was not unnoticed. I knew that he knew how I felt, but also that he knew I was putting up with it anyway—and that meant a lot to me.
We held church services in a room that reminded me of my grandfather’s barn—only empty, and with chairs and cats. Yup. Cats that were inextricable from the premises. That’s something I don’t think I’ll ever see that again—cats playing with the tablecloth from the sacrament table, and cats pouncing on the speaker’s shoes while he was bearing his testimony of the divinity of Christ. But I was barely registering any of what was going on in the meeting. Why?
Nausea: “a feeling of sickness with an inclination to vomit,” combined with moderate abdominal pain. I say moderate not because it wasn’t so bad—because it was—but because it wasn’t severe. The overheated feeling came back. I tried to cool my head down with my hands. Didn’t work. The lights in the room seemed awfully dim. Weren’t they brighter when I came in? I wondered. I started to lose it and almost fell off my chair. I wanted to rush outside into the cool mountain air, but instead focused all my will into sitting straight so people wouldn’t notice my intense… discomfort. That word is important because while I sat there fighting to stay awake and fighting the urge to hurl, the meeting was very good. So good that instead of bolting outside I stayed to listen, and then rolled my eyes to myself when I twisted lyrics to say, “dis-comfort, but joy—let nothing you dismay.”
I held out until the start of the next speaker, and then charged to the door, scattering cats as I went. I knew everyone saw me leaving since I always sit front and center, but I didn’t care. I needed to get out. I laid down on the cold stone outside, doing what I always do when I’m physically off plumb—I regulated my breathing to the count of eight. Inhale for eight counts, exhale for eight counts and you’re guaranteed to stave off panic, if not hyperventilation. Sorry—I’m making this into a long story that leads nowhere. Compare reading this blog to watching Lawrence of Arabia—if you can stand the sluggish bits and not fall asleep you’ll feel more of the scope of the experience and not just the highlights.
I scooted out of sight when everyone left our church meeting to go sleep, (at this point it was fifteen minutes before midnight,) and then went inside the church to Sister Hayes, our doctor’s wife to see if she had any idea of what was going on, and if there was anything I could do to feel better. I was nervous about this because she has a habit of withholding participation rights to those who are “infirm.” She wised up the situation quickly.
“Rachel, tell me how you’re doing,” she ordered. “Um, I’m… (lying slightly about the severity of my symptoms…) not feeling 100%. ” She nodded. “How would you feel about skipping the hike in the morning?” She asked. “I was afraid you’d say that,” I said. “There is nothing, not nobody, not nohow, no way, that I am skipping this. I’m going,” I said with finality. Much to my surprise, she didn’t argue. She didn’t rule out food poisoning, but decided that more than anything I was dehydrated. Bless the woman, she went on a wild goose chase trying to track down some bottled water for me. She was a saint! And she was right about me being dehydrated—I hadn’t been able to get anything safe to drink since lunch…more than 13 hours before.
IX. SUNDAY
Water in hand, I shivered back to my room and changed out of my skirt and into my hiking clothes for the climb, using Rebecca’s advice to sleep in my clothes to save time getting ready. I fell asleep instantly. Less than an hour later I turned off my alarm, fixed my face and pulled my hair back. I donned a jacket and scarf, picked up my Camelbak, and headed off to the common building to get my sack-breakfast. I filled my Camelbak with water—and greedily sipped as much as I dared, careful not to drink too much in case of… whatever. I stuffed my breakfast into my Camelbak, and my jacket too. The rather tight stuffing of the bag made my breakfast interesting later on. But I’ll explain that once we reach the summit.
Brother Ludlow organized our class into groups that organize certain events. Sort of like student government; there is a music government, a first aid committee, a memories committee, etc. Each group is named after a person from the bible. We got to pick the names, but then he translated them all back into ancient Hebrew. Moses=Moshe, M’Noach=Noah, Daveed=David, Shlomo=Solomon, and Boanerges=Bne’re’am… we usually call ourselves the “sons,” which is short for Sons of Thunder. I say we because that’s the group I’m in—I named us—something I’m proud of even if you think it’s ridiculous. We take roll call in groups and it makes brother Ludlow’s life easier. I didn’t mind the groups until he commanded that we all get into our groups, hike with our groups, and remain in our groups at all times—the entire way up the mountain. Then I was very much against groups of any organized nature.
If I hadn’t felt so dizzy I would have been able to summon the energy necessary to be furious. I should have, actually. Not only were Susie and her friend in my group, but they moved at a snail’s pace and insisted on using their flashlights the whole way up. [A) swirling flashlights make you dizzy, B) they ruin your night vision, and C) they make the stars disappear.] It was also horrible trying to stay with them, mostly because they started and stopped, started and stopped, started and stopped. That more than anything was increasing the feeling of “barf, barf, get a plate… two-four-six-eight, regurgitate.” Thankfully Brandon was in my group as well. He’s so spry I have no doubt he could have bounded up the mountain before I made it halfway, but what a sport, he saved my life that morning.
The two of us moved farther and farther ahead of the rest of our group. When I explained that the starting and stopping made me feel a little dizzy (understated,) he made the decision that we would let the rest of our group fend for ourselves and just keep going. Brother Ludlow was with our group anyway—and they seemed to be the take-your-time-we’ll-make-it-eventually people. So Brandon and I kept going by ourselves. Here is where my narrative becomes more interesting, I promise.
Mt. Sinai in the moonlight is a red-black jagged bed of rolling razor rocks. I don’t how they did it, but someone carved a path of stairs out of the rock up the face of the cliffs. For those of you who’ve seen Lord of the Rings, the stairs of Cirith Ungul (or however you spell it) should ring a bell. Bless Brandon’s heart I turned to him and said, “Please tell me there isn’t a giant spider at the top of this mountain waiting to paralyze us and suck out our blood,” and without missing a beat he slipped into his Gollum voice and said, “soon they will be eaten.”
We quoted I don’t know how many references to that movie on the way up. It was blessedly distracting. There is no way I could have made it up to the top without Brandon. He never complained or even seemed halfway annoyed when I had to stop and get my bearings, and every time I almost fell over (several times) he would grab my backpack and haul me upright. “I’m fine!” I’d say. “I know.” Was all he would ever answer. Bless him, he deserves an honorary medal for what he did for me. …or perhaps a plate of brownies. We’d talk about Star Wars and Lord of the Rings and he’d chastise me for not reading the books, and promise to read them to me. I pointed out the constellations and told him as many of the corresponding myths that I could remember. He didn’t even make fun of me when I told him that Orion is my boyfriend. (Though I guess that isn’t as strange a joke as when another girl here explained her obsession with Alexander the Great—she has a laminated picture of his statue!)
Climbing Sinai will always stand out in my memory. I don’t think anything could pry it out of my skull. The purple hue that the red rocks turned in the gray moonlight, the campfires from the Bedouin camps in the valley below, the vivid stars twinkling overhead, the fresh mountain air that I hadn’t tasted since leaving home—so many lovely pictures to remember. Of course, I wont forget the edgy feeling I had everytime Brandon and I would pass a group of Bedouin camel-ride-sellers that would insist that you take a camel up the mountain. Persistent little buggers, too. They followed us a lot. With the camels, of course, who attempted to eat my scarf and left just enough perfumed packages on the stairs to make you have to watch your step. The smell of Camel dung and the Bedouin’s cigarette/cigar smoke was around just often enough to catch attention, but most of the time it was intermittent.
Stars. Blue velvet darkened stars. I kept watching the south-eastern peak of the mountains, waiting for Orion to appear. I kept checking the tilt of Cassiopeia to orient myself to where he should show up. When 3:30am rolled around, I saw him completely—and consented to tell Brandon the story and why I like Orion so much. The story started in sixth grade with my favorite teacher, Mrs. Fossum, who introduced me to both my passion for astronomy and ancient history. I asked Brandon all about why he wanted to study Molecular Biology. We had a great conversation, watching the pigment of the morning sky evolve from misty gray to yellow blush.
After holding me steady for the fifteenth time (“Brandon, I’m fine.” “I know,”) we stopped to turn around again and look at the steep descent and how far we’d come when Brandon started laughing fit to burst. “Share, please,” I asked. He laughed harder. “I just realized the miracle of the burning bush!” he said. “The miracle wasn’t that the bush wasn’t consumed by fire, the miracle is that there was a bush at all.” I looked around to check, and sure enough, he was right. I hadn’t seen a speck of anything green for hours. After laughing some more, and drinking some more water, we plodded on. Brandon prevented me from falling over a few more times, I tried not to hurl a few more times, kept my eyes on Orion, and climbed up and up and up and up.
Just before 4:30am we found the top. (Just before I was ready to collapse, I might add. From the nausea—not from exhaustion.) Brandon and I wedged our way in between Greg and Rebecca and pulled out our breakfasts. Remember how I said that I’d shoved my jacket into my camelback? As it turns out, the force behind that action burst a container of honey all over the rest of my food. I have not have good luck with liquids on this trip—my shampoo burst all over my suitcase on the trans-continental flight, my sunscreen gushed all over my clothes in Cairo, and now honey had exploded all over my food. It was sticky.
I yanked a hunk off of a dried roll that could have been a stand-in prop for British hard tack, and dipped it into some butter that only had trace amounts of honey on the wrapper, only to find at the first taste that it did not taste the way I remembered butter tasting. After a little investigative sniffing I determined that the butter was rancid and warned people not to eat it. Rebecca said, “You know, I thought that tasted funny,” and Brandon, who had just buttered his entire roll and eaten a bite said, “Aw, sick—you’re right!” and spit it over the edge of the cliff we were dangling our feet over.
The sky’s hue was really starting to brighten as I pulled out a hard boiled egg and started licking the honey off it so that I could peel off the shell. “ARE YOU LICKING AN EGGSHELL?” Brandon yelled. “Why yes, Brandon, I am.” “YOU SAID YOU TOOK CATERING, I ASSUMED YOU HAD HEARD OF SALMONELLA.” “Of course I’ve heard of Salmonella, Brandon.” “THEN CUT IT OUT! I DIDN’T DRAG YOU UP HERE SO YOU COULD DIE OF FOOD POISONING BACK IN JERUSALEM,” he said. I tried to pacify him by promising to stop licking the eggshell, but he was still irked when he saw I had only stopped because the honey was already gone. Ha hahahha. It was light hearted and fun—and that egg was the only thing edible in my breakfast so it was a good thing I had licked the honey off.
I’ve gotten up before sunrise many a time, but had always managed to be inside during the actual event. Besides that, my home is so close to a mountain that sunrises are completely hid from view, so it’s difficult to watch one in the first place. Anyway, I am proud to announce that the first sunrise I have ever seen was viewed from the top of Mount Sinai. I took a gazillion photos, and I’m willing to bet that sunrises over Sinai are unlike any others in the world. In fact, I’d say that the sunrise at Sinai was the only thing I saw in Egypt that could not be experienced through a photo or movie. I did make a video, however. I ran around commanding people to smile and wave, starting to feel a bit better. Rebecca made a really funny face in the movie too—it was hilarious.
We had a class devotional after the sun was fully up, singing hymns that made Greg and I giddy at the context: “High on a Mountain Top,” and “The Day Dawn is Breaking.” I laughed so hard. All of the good seats were taken, so Greg, Brandon, and I ended up sitting on a platform behind Brother Ludlow during his speech about Moses and the ten commandments. I remember seeing Bro. Ludlow’s teary face when he looked at us and said, “Seeing you gathered here—Moses would have been proud.” And then I remember feeling much better than I had all morning. I also remember the sun being very warm, but bright in my eyes. I remember closing them because it was so bright I couldn’t see when they were open anyway. And then I remember waking up.
To my everlasting shame, I fell asleep during the speech I had been looking forward to most. And, to my everlasting shame—I had fallen asleep behind Bro. Ludlow on a raised dais—right where everyone’s cameras were angled. I still am upset about it.
After all of that, Bro. Ludlow pulled two packages out of his backpack, and started to explain that the more senses you use in a memory, the more vividly you can recall it. The two packages held Date-Newtons. Not even fig newtons, but DATE newtons. Ohhhh, they were scrumptious. “From now on, every time you eat a Newton of any flavor, I want you to think of Sinai,” he said.
Fifteen minutes later when we were scaling down the mountain Greg said, “Aw, no. No no no. From now on every time I smell Camel Dung I’ll think of Date Newtons.” He’s actually held true to that. Every time we’ve seen camels since he says, “Ope—there’s that Sinai taste again.”
As pleasantly cool as the hike up had been, the trek down was itchy and hot. And the landscape had completely altered from muted hues to vividly bright browns and reds. I pulled my scarf over my face to prevent a sunburn—it was so hot! I remember thinking, “well, at least the camel dung is easier to spot.”
X. THE WAY HOME
We made it off the mountain and back to the kibbutz to stay for a few hours before leaving on the bus. We were told that it was three hours to the border between Egypt and Israel, and that it would be four hours from there back to the JCenter. That estimated total of seven hours actually took ten; we were held up by Taba border control, and then trapped inside a tunnel less than half-a-mile away from the center.
The Taba border control Israeli’s are quite good. They scanned and interrogated all of us thoroughly. I was the first girl to get through. When the girl saw my passport and asked, “What is your purpose here in Israel?” I explained that I was a student at the Mormon University in Jerusalem, and that I would be staying until December. “It is illegal for you to be a student here in Israel. It says here that you are a tourist, but it is obvious that you are not. You are here illegally,” she forcefully said. It took some explaining. Then when she asked me how many people were in our group, and I said eighty, I thought steam was gonna start comin’ out of her ears. She picked up a phone and started to yell. A lot. Very fast. I was starting to get a little nervous when another guy came out, asked Jason Bentley twenty questions about where he was from, etc. what we were doing, and then turned to me and did the same… they let us through. Another girl from our group had her camera confiscated and some of the pictures were erased by the time she got it back—pictures of her with signs that said, “Welcome to Egypt,” and her pictures of the Suez canal that she wasn’t supposed to take in the first place.
While the remaining few of us were being interrogated, the rest of us had been playing along the rocky shores of the Red Sea. I saw some really cool fish and picked up a bunch of shells and rocks. Lauren jumped in—fully clothed. People thought it was so charming, but I was more than a little upset that she had done something like that—she had nothing to change into, and was therefore going to be sitting soaking wet on the bus next to someone—smelling like the sea, and ruining the bus cushion too. Whatever. I’m glad she enjoyed herself. Anyway, we made it home.
“Home again, home again, jiggity jog.” I can’t describe how nice it was to be back at the Jerusalem center where I didn’t have to worry about bed bugs, poison water, and molestation. The air smelled better, and it was so nice to see familiar surroundings. Not only that, we had modern conveniences again. Air conditioning! Yay! Laundry! Yay! Fruit and vegetables, porridge, and clean utensils, yay! Class the next morning at eight am—not so yay. Brushing my teeth in the sink and not having to rinse off my invisalign trays in my mouth with bottled water… priceless.
{Here concludes the ridiculously long saga that you wished I hadn’t written in the first place. THE END. Fhew, what a relief. Now if I could just get Jordan finished…}
