Blithely

You wield lies

as if they were simply

a protective shield

but they are poisoned daggers

that cut to the quick.

Long to close,

the scars are painful

and threaten to tear

far into the future.

And yet you wield them blithely.

Cairo (Finale)

Our last night in Luxor was the fanciest hotel we'd been to yet, so of course we were only there about 12 hours. Up early, yet again, we were off to the airport and, one ludicrously inexpensive flight later (270LE/$50), we were back in Cairo.

There was nothing left on the official tour. Most of the group talked with Magdolin about renting a van to take them to a local bazaar. As neither David nor I shop, we had Magdolin get us a driver to take us, along with Ryan, out to Askara, Dashur, and Memphis so that we could see the Red Pyramid, the Bent Pyramid, the Step Pyramid and the capital of the Old Kingdom.

As we headed out to Sakara we left the tumult of Cairo and entered the lush palm jungle/forest groves beyond. Gone was the uniform brown/dirty white of the city and instead all was brown or green covered in dust. The road ran alongside an irrigation/sewage canal. The farther from the capital the more ramshackle the vehicles sharing the road with us got, to the point that we passed men leading and riding camels and donkeys.

I stared at the palms. Planted however long ago in tidy rows, they had unknown green crops growing beneath. In less than 100 yards we went from the lush yet dusty palm jungle to the absolute, lifeless desert. Out there were the Red Pyramid and the Bent Pyramid. Formerly these had been in some sort of demilitarized zone. That fact is obvious as there are no vendors and no tour buses.

The Red Pyramid is named for either red graffiti that once used to be on it or the reddish-orange blocks used to build it. It was built by the father of Cheops/Khufu, the builder of the Great Pyramid. It's only 30-40 feet shorter than the Great Pyramid. Unlike it, there were no throngs of tourists. There was one car parked in front of it. The entrance was halfway up.

Up we went as an Indian family came out huffing and puffing. "It smells terrible in there. Like bat poop," the father informed us. I paused. If an Indian says something smells bad, that means something.

At the entrance sat a robed peasant. He was trying to pass himself off as an official, but I'd already bought tickets for the site at the entrance to the park. There was no ticket to enter. He wanted baksheesh. We told him, "On the way out."

Unlike the Great Pyramid, we didn't ascend at forty degrees, we descended at forty degrees, a looooooonnnnggg way. It didn't smell like bat poop to me so much as acrid urine or ammonia. It was bearable. The small corridor opened up into another corridor leading to the burial chamber. Unlike the smooth surfaces of the King's Chamber in the Great Pyramid, the burial chamber had vaulted ceilings and the floor looked like it had been dug out. I took another opportunity to Gregorian monk chant "Ice Ice Baby."

As we crawled up the shaft on our way back out, I mentioned to Dave to prep his pocket so he would have 5 to give the "official." When I exited, I handed him my 5LE. He wanted more. He wanted American money. I lied to him and, for one of the few times in my life, didn't regret it. "All my money's in the car. Sorry." I'd given LE, but Dave gave him dollars. Oops.

From there we drove over to the Bent Pyramid, so named because halfway up it changes slope. No one is quite sure why. It's the only pyramid that still has its limestone casing intact, but the sheen, if there was one, was very dull indeed.

From there, we rode over to Memphis, a still thriving metropolis that was at least 2500 years old when Herodotus wrote of it. It's didn't make it another 2500 years. "Memphis" now is little more than a garden with some statues in it. The greatest of these, a massive one of Ramses II, had fallen over long ago and was lying on its back. The guidebook said it was badly preserved; as with nearly everything else we've seen, in any other country it would be a national treasure.

From there we headed to Dashur to see the Step Pyramid, the one that started them all, supposedly designed by the great architect/magician/wise man, Imhotep. On our way, our driver tried, yet again, to convince us to stop at the "Carpet School! Ten minute tour! Good deal! You buy!" "No! No! No! La! La! La!" we told him repeatedly.

The Step Pyramid was undergoing a spot of restoration so it had some scaffolding on it, but it was still neat. We probably should have gone there first because it couldn't help but be a bit of a let down after the Red and Bent. There were tombs next to it that we walked into. "Tour guides" (aka locals) grab hold of tourists at the entrance and start blabbering and make you pay them whether you asked for the service or not. The guidebook had warned us about them so we waved them off. I figured I can make up just fine for free. I told David and Ryan how the Step Pyramid was built as a monument to Napoleon after he'd defeated the Dragon on this magical chariot driven by penguins. I guarantee that's as close to the truth as what the "tour guides" were telling the tourists.

Back at the hotel, we met up with most of the group for one last meal at a restaurant nearby. Local men kept offering to escort us but that was only so they could get baksheesh from the restaurant for bringing customers. A plain-clothes police officer, decked out with a walkie-talkie and pistol, shooed away our unwanted escorts and walked us to the restaurant, even though we told him we knew where we were going. He tried to get baksheesh from the restaurant and then us. Someone gave him money and he went away.

Most of us weren't really hungry so we just dabbled with appetizers. We really just wanted to have one last time together. As David and I agreed, the trip had easily surpassed our wildest expectations and the only way we could have gotten a better tour group was if we got the Swedish Bikini Team.

To finish, I feel it must be said: The Bangles are dirty liars. All over Egypt and I saw no one, living or engraved, "walk like an Egyptian."

P.S. As I told the group: other people tend to want to talk about majestic antiquities seen when they recount fantastic vacations, but I'm the ur-American so I stick to sexy body parts, alcohol induced antics, and looking down on poor people who are simply trying to make a living. I'm a travel writer the way the proud owner of a crushed velvet painting of dogs playing poker is an art connoisseur

Valley of the Kings and Hatshepsut's Temple

Up early, we made our way to the Valley of the Kings, burial ground for many pharaohs of the New Kingdom, including, most famously, Tutankhamun. Though virtually all but Tut's have been raided (though isn't Carter a glorified tomb raider?) they are still marvels for their artwork.. Unlike the outdoor temples, the tombs don't have a little bit of paint; they're awash in colors. There are over a dozen tombs open to the public, but the admission ticket only got us into three (any three) of our choice. I paid for an extra ticket to see Ramses VI tomb because Magdolin said it had good paintings. Others paid to see Tut's tomb, but I'd heard the treasures (which we'd seen in Cairo) are great but the tomb isn't worth seeing.

Though we could all pick different tombs, we all, as a group, went to Ramses III tomb on Magdolin's advice. We'd been told photos were prohibited (as they were at Abu Simbel) so we didn't take our cameras. Monica, our Australian movie producer, took a photo with her iPhone and some bastard American tourist ratted her out to security. Supposedly, the fine is 1000LE ($200) per photo taken. The guard made Monica get Magdolin and extorted 100LE of baksheesh from her to get the phone back. We teased Monica often after that.

As for the tombs themselves, same as I've said before: words can't do them justice. I went to Ramses III, Ramses IX, Merenptah, and Ramses VI.

I had my own moment with a guard when the peasant watching Ramses VI tomb thought he might be in line for some baksheesh of his own. He saw me listening to my iPod (before you judge me; I was in there w/o anyone from my group and I didn't want to hear the incessant drivel of the other tourists) and somehow decided it was a nefarious camera with headphones coming out of it. Fortunately, a tour guide was in there and told the guard to sit back down because it obviously wasn't a camera. Foiled, he angrily motioned for me to put it away. I did.

Just from the other side of the mountain from the Valley of the Kings is Queen (King) Hatshepsut's Temple. Hatshepsut was the daughter of Thutmose I, who ended up not having any sons with his royal queen. Thutmose II, Thutmose I's son through a concubine, was married to Hatshepsut, his half-sister, and derived his authority through her since she was fully royal. Thutmose II and Hatshepsut only had daughters, so like their father, Thutmose II had to put forward Thutmose III, his son from a concubine, to succeed him as well. Of course Thutmose II had one of his royal daughter with Hatshepsut marry III to legitimize him as well.

When Thutmose II died while III was still a child, Hatshepsut decided it was all a buncha bullpuckey. Her husband ruled through the legitimacy of her purely royal blood; she was gonna be damned if his non-royal son was going to rule. She was regent for III but ruled as though she were a king, even making her statues look male. When the regency should have ended, she tried to retain rule. Unfortunately for her, her step-son/son-in-law/nephew (Egyptians were apparently proto West Virginians) turned out to be "the Egyptian Napoleon," their greatest warrior pharaoh. Sometimes you catch a bad break. Thutmose III took back his crown and proceeded to destroy every image of Hatshepsut he could find, the Egyptian equivalent of sending her to oblivion since images/engravings were essential for the afterlife/immortality.

Uppity usurper that she was, Hatshepsut had built a colossal temple which Thutmose did not destroy (he only tore down her statues and chiseled out her likeness). That's where we went. Time had not been so kind to the temple so, while it was impressive enough, it was all virtually modern reconstruction.

After we left Hatshepsut's Temple we stopped at the Colossoi of Memnon, famous in antiquity, but the first objects we've seen here I can truthfully call "ruins." They'd be treasures and top of the list of must-sees in most any other country.

On our way back to Luxor, we stopped off at another planned shopping opportunity, this time at one of the myriad "Alabaster Factories" on the road. Thoroughly sick of vendors, I was the one to stay on our minibus.

Luxor

Amazingly I didn't get off the ship horrifically hung over. Oh, I felt peculiar for sure, but better than the others as they stumbled down for breakfast. I apologized to the group and Kim and her husband, but they said it was nothing and I was fine. Pfew.

Luxor. Karnak Temple. Our first purely Egyptian temple (ie. not built by Greeks or Romans) and we get the Grand Poobah. The temple complex covers 65 acres. The site was continuously added to for something like 1700 years. I honestly don't know what I can say. Immense. Spectacular.

Oh. Wait. I know. On the way in, we saw vendors hocking cheapo statues, one of which was missing an arm and the opposite leg, but then had an erection so large I thought perhaps the gods had used his missing arm and leg to make it.

Sure enough, there in the temple, there was a massive engraving of the pharaoh presenting Mr. Impressive with gifts.

"Here, this is all I got! Please don't rape me!" I joked to myself.

Crass tour group that we are, we had Magdolin tell us who he was. At some point, when the army took all the men to go off to war, they left one guy back to look after the women. The army was gone so long he and the women figured they'd been killed in the war so he felt it was his duty to repopulate. After he unleashed that thing, apparently the women were on board with his plan, because he impregnated all of them. Then, of course, the army showed up.

Understandably annoyed that Mr. Too-Weak-To-Fight-So-We'll-Leave-Him-To-Watch-Over-The-Women was actually Mr. Tripod, they cut off one of his arms and one of his legs, but didn't kill him, supposedly out of respect for his incomprehensible fertility. They were so impressed, in fact, that they made him the fertility god.

Personally, I think they thought better of killing Old Kickstand because an entire generation, his kids, were probably not going to take too kindly to their daddy being offed. I think the lesson to be learned is this: if the guy seems scrawny and constantly complains of a bad back, you take him on campaign, dammit.

That night we were treated to a "belly dancer". I put belly dancer in quotes because she wasn't a belly dancer like you'd think. She didn't gyrate her hips lasciviously in the usual way. She had a pretty good sized belly, covered in panty hose material, and she was dancing. That would be how she could claim being a belly dancer. Sorta. Mostly it seemed like she was trying to slap her shoulder blades with her boobs. Her top, thankfully, kept her from achieving that particular goal.

I had an amused smirk on my face the entire time. This was apparently the Egyptian version of Naughty Time, but it was very tame. I'm not bragging about US strip clubs, but back home I can get a woman to degrade herself for a solitary dollar. Just saying.

I'm not sure if it was the dancer or the fact that I'm 31 years old, but I was actually much more impressed with the guy whaling away on the bongos the entire time. "Boobs. Yawn. Man, how does he keep that rhythm up?!"

A Paraphrase (Luxor Trilogy: 3 of 3)

Jesus was from Nazareth.

He said, "Love God and love each other" and many other things that he said were all variations of that.

Though he didn't lie, cheat, steal or harm anyone the authorities beat him senseless, whipped him, and held him down and drove sharp metal spikes through his hands and feet (or ankles and wrists, but having that whole debate sort of isn't what matters). Then, they watched and waited for him to die. He did.

Apparently that's what happens when you tell people many variations of a simple idea.

Jesus was the Son of God.

Jesus was just a man.

Jesus didn't exist.

Everyone who's heard of Jesus thinks one of those three things.

Paul had heard of Jesus. But Paul was then Saul and Saul hated people who worshipped Jesus. He wanted them dead because they tried to live by Jesus' idea.

Saul became Paul because he said God told him Jesus was His Son. And so Paul worshipped Jesus and tried to live by his idea. He wrote and wrote and wrote and preached and preached and preached, doing his best to explain "Love God and love each other" in an astonishing number of ways without just sticking with "Love God and love each other" and repeating it ad nauseam.

Apparently, people won't listen to a simple idea if it's presented as a simple idea. It needs to be made more opaque and confusing so they can feel smart if they get it and so their minds can take hold of it. Simple ideas don't leave much for a mind to hold on to. Paul wasn't doing anything wrong, by the way. Jesus made his variations of "Love God and love each other" very opaque and confusing too sometimes, even though he had given people the key of "Love God and love each other", and they debated what Jesus really meant even though he'd told them. People really are quite silly sometimes.

Back to Paul. Paul existed, or at least there's not the argument that Paul existed like there is over whether Jesus existed. That argument sort of isn't what matters either. Jesus' idea was alive. Paul had sharp metal spikes driven through his hands and feet and was hung out to die too because he tried to live by that idea and wanted others to as well.

People who tried to follow Jesus' idea and believed he was the Son of God are called Christians. For a long time, Christians were hated, beaten and killed because they tried to "Love God and love each other."

Then, they became the majority in their world and everyone lived happily ever after.

Except that the Christians felt that people who didn't believe that Jesus was the son of God needed to be hated, beaten and/or killed (mostly killed). Though that somehow really didn't seem to be a part of "Love God and love each other."

Still, sometimes people gotta die.

Christians, who believe Jesus is the son of God and a host of things that all go back to "Love God and love each other", also hated, beat, and killed other Christians, who believed that Jesus is the son of God and a host of things that all go back to "Love God and love each other", but in a way that is slightly different. That latter group of Christians hated, beat, and killed the former group of Christians right back. This hating and beating and killing over slightly different Jesus has been going on for millennia.

None of the disagreements among the Christians are over if they should "Love God and love each other."

None of the Christians can know if their version of Jesus is right until they die.

All the while, there have always been people who decidedly do not believe that Jesus was the son of God or that he existed. These other people believed in other things or nothing at all even. Some of them hated the idea of Jesus being the son of God so much that they thought people who follow his idea are bumbling idiots (actually worse) and so they hated, beat, and/or killed because of "Love God and love each other." Something about this seems amiss.

Somehow, a good many Christians forget to live by Jesus' idea, which he died for telling people. These Christians make the Christians who try to live by "Love God and love each other" look very bad. So bad, in fact, that non-Christians lump them all together and say that Jesus' idea was an awful one since the Christians who don't follow it don't follow it and hate, beat and kill. This is known as "throwing the baby out with the bath water."

Jesus didn't tell his followers to hate, beat or kill anyone and that wasn't a part of his idea, but, because a good number of his followers don't get that, a good number of people, critics, think anyone who tries to live by "Love God and love each other" are simpletons and that the world would have been better off if Jesus hadn't told people "Love God and love each other." The critics consider themselves enlightened.

Jesus' idea is "Love God and love each other."

That's pretty much that.

A Boy and A Computer (Luxor Trilogy: 2 of 3)

There was a boy.

There was a computer.

Everything the boy saw or heard or smelled or felt or tasted, the computer recorded.

Computers are logic based. Boys are not.

Even though the computer has all the information that the boy has, in the order that the boy got it, it will not be able to predict exactly what the boy will do. Even though the boy has all that information, the boy himself will not be able to predict exactly what the boy himself will do.

People who believe the computer can predict what the boy will do tend not to believe in God. People who believe the computer can't predict what the boy will do tend to believe in God. These guidelines are handy, but they're by no means absolute. You can't predict them.

The computer does not predict if the boy believes in God. Or does it?

The Normal Ordinary Thinking Fish (Luxor Trilogy: 1 of 3)

There was a fish.

It was a normal, ordinary, thinking fish. It was not smart, per se. It was not good at calculus like the mathematical fish. It did not know the history of the castle as well as the historical fish, which could recite various events of fishdom in relation to the castle all the way back to the myths of the Great Feeder, who'd supposedly placed the castle. No, as mentioned, it was a normal, ordinary, thinking fish, who was not smart, per se.

The normal, ordinary, thinking fish did think, however, that it had a perspective that made it, apparently, quite unique. It was aware that it was in an aquarium.

It couldn't necessarily tell how it was aware it was in an aquarium, but aware of that idea/fact, it was. That idea/fact had just sort of struck it. Before the aquarium idea/fact struck it, it was perfectly content to be a normal, ordinary, thinking fish. After, for good or for bad, nearly everything was colored by its awareness.

The normal, ordinary, thinking fish could not prove it was in an aquarium.

The mathematical fish and the historical fish had heard of the "aquarium" belief before (indeed, it was quite pervasive), but the thought hadn't taken root. "Quite silly", they thought when the normal, ordinary, thinking fish had mentioned it. "I'm plumbing the depths of the square root of negative one," explained the mathematical fish. "I think I may have found the cipher for the hieroglyphs that the 3rd Fish Dynasty left on the castle," admonished the historical fish.

Indeed, other fish had long before told of the time of the Great Dumping and had all sorts of fantastical tales in relation to it. The normal, ordinary, thinking fish didn't know if any of those stories were true. It didn't know what was outside of the aquarium. It didn't know if the Great Feeder had blue scales or white scales or green scales or what have you. It didn't know if the Great Feeder was even a fish.

The others who'd told of the Great Dumping didn't know anything about the Great Feeder either, but had factionalized nonetheless. Thus, there was the Fish Church of the Green Scales. There was the Fish Mosque of the Blue Scales. There was the Fish Temple of the White Scales. A good many fish had eaten each other over the color of the Great Feeder's scales.

The normal, ordinary, thinking fish didn't want to eat the mathematical fish or the historical fish. They were perfectly good fish. The normal, ordinary, thinking fish was not smarter than they were, per se. They couldn't see that they were in an aquarium was all. The normal, ordinary, thinking fish was simply aware that it was in an aquarium and it tried to content itself that it couldn't know more than that, no matter how much it might want to, or not.

The normal, ordinary, thinking fish swam.

Edfu and Kom Ombo

Another early wake up. Though chilly, I wear shorts and flip flops. We debark at the temple at Kom Ombo. Our boat got off earlier than the rest of the flotilla so we get the temple mostly to ourselves. Even the vendors aren't there; praise Jesus.

Kom Ombo is dedicated to the crocodile god. It's another Ptolemaic/Roman temple. It has more paint. It's bigger than Philae. Somehow, at the end of each day here, I think that I can't be dazzled any more than I already have been. And yet, sure as rain, the next day I'm overwhelmed by something else. It's nigh on ridiculous.

Back on the boat we go. Back to bed I go. In a few hours, just before lunch, we arrive at Edfu. I've never heard of Edfu. We pile into a van. Carriages line the street next to where we debarked, but Magdolin explains that the tour company stopped using them because the carriage drivers mistreat the horses and don't maintain the carriages and then race them. We note the protruding ribs of the horses as the drivers whip them to run on the asphalt. I'm glad I'm not, but there are times I wish I were a(n expressly) violent man.

Edfu is gigantic, even compared to the places we've been so far. My words will fail describing it (as they fail at describing most everything I've seen so far). There are a few gods we haven't seen so far. When Magdolin points out the goddess of Mathematics and Building, I, of course, can't resist making a joke.

"Yeah, yeah, even as enlightened as the Egyptians were, they still didn't let women drive. Notice all the chariot drivers are male."

Krista takes the opportunity to attempt to knee me in the crotch. I jump back and squeal like a small child.

Back on the boat, David isn't feeling well, so I leave him to sleep and I get into the scotch and start catching up on this journal. Mid-afternoon, a decent head of steam going, I go up to the bar to get a cappuccino. I'm chatting with the barista when one of the porters loitering behind the counter joins in and brags about being strong. I am unimpressed.

"Man is weak. Smarts are what matter. Killing from a distance. Sub-Saharan 12 year olds kill lions and they don't punch them to death. Weapons. Kill from distance. Smart."

He summarily dismisses me.

"I am army! Body builder!" he tells me.

Still unimpressed, I say, "I am warrior." I motion with my trigger finger. "Smart. That's what matters. Not strong. Man is weak. Animals strong."

And then I walk off with my cappuccino.

Surprisingly, I get back into the scotch. Some of the others get into some hooch as well. Like an idiot, I start trying to be magnanimous and expound my expansive, inclusive religious views. Kim, the Australian lawyer, a wisp of a woman, has had enough beer to have a go. She's an atheist. On an unrelated note, I don't remember much of what happens next, except for her indignantly and incredulously asking, "You think I'm a fool to raise my kids that way??!!"

Even in my condition, I know this isn't the best situation, so I vamoose back to my cabin and put myself to bed. I wake up in the middle of the night, uneasy about how things had played out and my mind swirling (not from the scotch...) and write what I cleverly name the Luxor Trilogy.

Aswan (Again)

Aswan is a huge city, with about 1.5 million inhabitants, according to Magdolin. It is her home town. I can't say why, but I like it much, much more than Cairo or Alexandria. I suspect it's the feluccas.

We don't wake up at an ungodly hour, but I'm exhausted nonetheless. I guzzle more coffee. This will be an easy day. We're looking at Aswan Dam, the Nasser Dam, and Philae Temple.

Our first stop of the day is the local quarry that was used for building projects all over Egypt. There's a massive unfinished obelisk partially shaped there, but it was abandoned because it developed cracks. I smile to myself. This is a tourist site, but only because of what's NOT here.

It does have all the requisite vendors and the exit can only be reached by running their gauntlet. Hassling comes fast and furious in multiple languages. I don't hear German. "Es tut mir leid. Ich spreche kein Englisch," I say. As with nearly everywhere that isn't a western chain store, none of the vendors have posted prices. They engage in "ethnic pricing." Egyptians get one price; others get much higher ones. Getting ripped off isn't that annoying even when they charge 3xs as much; it's still only a few dollars and they still have to live like that. At least I get to go home. And by "home", yes, I mean the war zone. I'd still rather be there than live as an Egyptian vendor.

We simply drive over the older English-built Aswan dam. I still can't help wondering why it was built. As we approach Nasser dam, Magdolin explains that Nasser wanted to build his dam but didn't have the money. He tried to get the money from the Brits and French, but they wouldn't give it to him. So, he nationalized the Suez Canal, which they'd financed the building of in exchange for 100 years of customs money. They were, understandably ticked off and wanted to go to war. For the 1st time in a very long time, the US said to our traditional allies, "We're not backing you up. Do what you want, but if the USSR does get involved, we're still out." England and France fumed. Nasser got customs money and a loan from the Russians, who also sent engineers to help with the project. To be fair, the dam is impressive.

As with all hotels and tourist sites, we go through a metal detector at the dam's visitor center. Without fail, I set it off as do most of us, but I've learned not to bat an eye. The security folks certainly don't. Metal Detector Profiling is alive and well in Egypt. If you're white, I suppose they don't figure you're going to blow up yourself or anyone else. Of course, I haven't witnessed many darker people go through the detectors (other than Magdolin and Ryan, but they're clearly with the tour), so I can't be sure the guards are profiling or if they're just stunningly lazy.

As I think back on it, they might have been stunningly lazy, at least at the dam. We walk from the bus, into the security shack, through the beeping metal detector, and right back outside to where the bus is to look at the lake on one side and the Nile on the other. So, the security is completely pointless, but that's okay. It would take a hydrogen bomb to damage the dam.

The Nasser Dam would qualify as a marvel were it in any other country but Egypt. If you look up the Great Pyramid on the internet, you'll find all sorts of theories as to how it was built. From aliens from outer space (no humans could possibly stack stones) to the enslaved Jewish nation. The Great Pyramid is comprised of about 2 million stones, all weighing many tons, and is emplaced so that it aligns with true North, East, South, and West. All the sides are virtually the same length (negligible difference). If the ancient Egyptians moved TEN of these massive blocks a day (all using bronze tools, mind you), it would have taken nearly 550 YEARS to build it. However, the three large pyramids at Giza were built by three successive pharaohs.

What most don't know is that when the Nile flooded, there wasn't anything for anyone to do other than to help with building until the waters subsided. You'd be surprised what you can do when you can draft the entire populace. It takes a village to raise a child; it takes a country to build a great wonder.

All of that is to give credit where it's due. To build the pyramids in the twenty or so years they took for each, think of how much that would cost? Today, each would come in 5-10 years late and $2 billion over estimate, easy. The Nasser Dam has 17xs the material of the Great Pyramid, holds back a several-hundred-miles-long lake, and was finished in 11 years. If we're still around in five thousand years and the dam is still there, no doubt our descendants will think "Aliens had to have built that", particularly if the futuristic, bizarre monument the Egyptians built to honor the Soviets for their help is still there. I'm not sure that I like the fact the dam was built, but I admit it's impressive.

From the dam, we go back into Aswan. This time we get on a boat on Lake Aswan (between the Nile and Lake Nasser) and head over to Philae Temple. Since we'd spent the morning at the quarry and the dam, the pier is bustling with other tourists. With absolutely no regard for either his boat (not a felucca; a covered motorboat) or anyone else's, our pilot batters his way out of the scrum. We joke amongst ourselves about "bumper boats", but make dam sure (groan...) to keep our hands and arms within the confines of our boat.

We get off the boat, walk up the ramp past the pest vendors, and there it is, our first temple. Philae Temple was built over the course of 400 years by the Ptolemies and Romans. Thus it's *only* 2200-1800 years old. I'm SO not impressed. As old or older than the ruins at Rome, Philae is in vastly superior shape. Other than defacements done in places by the Copts, and the need for a minor bit of touch-up, it looks like it could hold ceremonies today. Philae, like Abu Simbel, would have been covered by a lake, but it was disassembled and placed on an island in the middle of the lake.

As impressed by the temple as I am (and I AM impressed), what astonishes me is there is paint still on it in places. Let me repeat AFTER 1800 YEARS SINCE IT WAS COMPLETED, IT STILL HAS PAINT ON IT.

In the West, we think of what the Greeks and Romans left us and we think of the gleaming white of the Acropolis and the white statues in museums across the world. To the Greeks and Romans, they would have thought us deluded. All their temples and statues were actually painted. We think they left austere elegance, but they were probably closer to garish (in comparison to our current expectations).

This temple, massive and covered in reliefs and heiroglyphs from top to bottom, is overwhelming enough as it is. I reel imagining it completely painted, accustomed as I am to thinking it should all be sand colored as it is now. How the hell does any paint last that long? Sherwin Williams needs to step up to the plate. Dad has to repaint his house every five years.

Finished with the temple, we check into the ship that's going to take us to Luxor in the course of the next few days. I collapse onto my berth bed, exhausted.

Abu Simbel

I'm not going to lie. I was not on board with the 2:30am wake-up call. None of us were. I think the varying early wake-ups are the reason I've been so worn out on this trip.

We met in the lobby. I guzzled coffee.

For the bazillionth time, Magdolin assured us it was necessary to get up this early. Most tourists pile onto tour buses and link up for a convoy across the desert that takes three hours or so. Then, they all jostle amongst themselves to cram into Ramses II's and his wife Nefertary's famous temples. Then they get back on the buses and convoy back to Aswan.

We were getting up early, sure, but we'd be there by 4:30am and virtually alone at the temple when it opened at 5am. We grumbled, but off we went.

The temples at Abu Simbel are marvels of ancient and modern engineering. Ramses II built them as far south as he could to project his might. His temple was dug into the sandstone cliffs in such a way that the sun perfectly lined up and shone all the way through its central corridor to the sanctuary on his birthday and coronation day. Think about *that*.

When Lake Nasser was forming, the Egyptian government managed to disassemble the temple, build an artificial concrete mountain to house it sixty meters higher above the shores of the lake, and then reassemble it in such a way that the sun still struck the sanctuary on two days, though each day was one day later than originally because of the different elevation. Remarkable.

As we entered the park, I was actually much more interested in the sky. Abu Simbel is as close to true nowhere as most will ever get. Sure, there were lights around the park, but there have been few times I have been able to see the night sky and stars so clearly. I am eternally grateful whenever I can experience that.

Magdolin was 100% correct. It was SO worth it. As the fingers of dawn crept over the lake, we were given free reign of the temple. "No photos!" said the posted signs and the old man at the entrance. I turned off my flash and took pictures. Sorry.

We left as the hordes arrived. Back in Aswan, I decided against joining the group for shopping and visits to a church and mosque. I caught up on sleep for the rest of the day. I read, wrote and got into scotch before I met up with some of the others for dinner out on the patio at the hotel restaurant. Ordinarily, I don't eat supper, but I had a grotesquely large cheeseburger, which negated the rest I'd accomplished during the day by causing me to toss and turn with meat sweats the rest of the night.

Aswan

After such a stupendous day, anything following was going to be a letdown. The tour company factored that in. I like to think I'm fairly tough and this trip is the "comfort" tour. Still, even though we don't physically do much, I get worn out. I'm only (nearly) 32 years old, but age seems to be taking hold. After getting to the hotel, David and I walked along the banks of the Nile as we searched for food. We ate, marched right back to the hotel, and took hours-long naps.

We met up with the group and Magdolin took us down to the waterfront for a felucca ride around Elephantine island, the southern boundary for the Old Kingdom. I was bummed to discover that there are no longer crocs on the Nile. They've all been moved to Lake Nasser. The water of the Nile is therefore no longer dangerous, at least in that way. It looked clear and clean. Magdolin said kids swim in it. I'd have been tempted to take a plunge in it if I didn't know the Nile is the world's largest sewer.

How the felucca moved, I had no idea, as I felt no breeze. Trapped on the boat for a couple of hours, the captain motioned for his mate to bring out the trinkets. Joy! More vendors! Some of the others bought trinkets. I refrained. Where would I put them? I live in a 7' x 7' plywood box. I'm trying to *downsize* my possessions.

At sunset, we docked on the island, went to the Nubian village and had an authentic Nubian meal outdoors on the 2nd floor terrace as the day died and violet shrouded. Nubia is now under Lake Nasser. The Nubians were moved from their land they'd lived in since pre-pharaonic times. For progress and development. Surely not for the addition to Nasser's personal wealth.

I asked Magdolin, "Why build the dam?"

To her, it was obvious.

"To stop the floods."

"Right, but why?"

My question made no sense to her. It made complete sense to me. Yes, the Nile flooded, but Egypt was famous for the incomprehensible regularity of those floods, so much like clockwork that they used to mark the passing of the seasons, and thus years, by them. It took Nile years over 1400 solar years to have a 1 year solar year of error. Amazing.

The Nile floods were what defined Egypt and Egyptians. All the silt the flood spread over the Nile flood plain was responsible for making Egypt one of the most fertile places on earth, and thus one of the richest nations in historical times. Egypt was arguably the most valuable land in the Ptolemaic, Roman, and Byzantine worlds. If Egypt in modern ages wasn't an economic dynamo pre-dam, it surely was due to horrific mismanagement and spectacular corruption, and yet Egypt post-dam still can't produce. Nope Egypt nowadays needs tourism and baksheesh. Nature gave the Nile valley unmatched fertility; now pesticides and fertilizers do.

When the English (arrogant fools) built the first dam at Aswan in 1903 (or so), the population of Egypt was eight million. Now it's eighty million. Was it right to dam the Nile? I'm not arrogant enough to think I know, but I suspect not. "Progress" for "growth" always strikes me as foolish. There's probably a reason I haven't done all I can to replicate repeatedly.

Cairo (Part 3: Pyramids, Sphinx, Vendors, Eastern European Tourists, and the Egyptian Antiquities museum)

We went back to the Great Pyramid. It was time for the crawl inside. Tourists from all over the world were near the entrance, but few were going in. An American woman loudly and persistently complained because other people had the temerity to walk through her attempt at a photograph of the only surviving Great Wonder of the Ancient World. I hate American tourists.

The entrance was a grotto/cave-looking hole cut into the pyramid. No cameras allowed. We showed our tickets and went in. It was dimly lit and the tunnel passage was craggy and cave-like. Then we got to a forty degree (ish) shaft going up. Hunched over, we entered. It was surprisingly warm. I'm out of shape, thus the crab walk/lunging up the fifty or so yards to another chamber was painful and moderately unpleasant.

The new chamber had much higher ceilings so we could stand; unfortunately, I didn't stop being out of shape so, since it still went up at forty degrees and did so for fifty or more yards, it too was painful and, not surprisingly, unpleasant. At the end of that chamber was a leveled off platform at which we took the opportunity to pant and perspire. Then we ducked into a corridor and emerged into the King's Chamber.

They hadn't developed funerary carving when Cheops/Khufu built the pyramid so the King's Chamber is a smooth-walled, dark, granite room with an open, empty sarcophagus in it. There wasn't much to see, but I liked the idea that some day, should I ever propagate, my issue can go there and experience exactly what their forebear did. I had to be me, so I tested the acoustics of the room (excellent by the way) by Gregorian-Monk chanting "Ice Ice Baby," an appropriately immortal song. If that sacrilege didn't release the curse of Cheops, nothing will.

We clambered back down and when we exited, legs throbbing and worn out, I peg-legged to the other side of the pyramid, where Cheops/Khufu's 4800 funerary barge (Palestinian Cedar wood) was housed. What else can I say but "remarkable"?

We went to the Sphinx and the temple beside it. Vendors, carrying trinkets and post cards, descended like a swarm of mosquitos. I'd learned "Shukran" is "thank you" earlier. I quickly learned "la" is "no." I tried "la shukran." That didn't work so I got blunt. "La!" Then, I ignored them. That worked best. I felt like a rude Yankee. One of the vendors was wearing a purple, orange-pawed hat. My SC came flooding back.

"Your hat sucks! Boo Clemson! You need a new hat! I hope you die!" I unleashed on him.

Common decency and international norms of etiquette do not apply when it comes to my Clemson hatred.

"Your hat sucks! Your hat stupid! You die!" he shouted back to my Carolina hat and me.

"Go Cocks!" I yelled.

David, also a gamecock, was slightly taken aback, though amused; the rest of the group was in turns horrified/flummoxed. Whatever. When you dump as much money into something as I have into the University of South Carolina, you can handle that situation as you see fit. I was pleased.

There isn't much to say about the temple. Old. Impressive. I got so sick of the vendors I tore out a page from my note pad and wrote

"To: Vendors

From: Me

Subject: No! La!"

I tore a small hole in the center, affixed it on my shirt button, and wore it proudly. The vendors probably can't read English, but they can see sullen crazy, so they left me alone.

I people-watched the Eastern European tourists, men and women, strutting around dressed as though they were going to, coming from, or were, in fact, at a disco. Hot pants, tight pants, low-cut pants, pants that didn't cover modesty, all variations of pants in shiny or bright colors. Boobs, pecs, biceps, triceps, abs, legs, butts. Very intelligent and appropriate in an Islamic country where there have been major bombings. People are dumber than hammers. Myself included, of course.

We piled into our van, flabbergasted. We were also going to the Egyptian Antiquities Museum, home of Tut's treasures, and taking an overnight train. I'm not sure where else in the world you can see that much in one day. Paris, I suppose (Eiffel Tower, Arc de Triomphe, Notre Dame, the Louvre, Musee d'Orsay, etc) but this culture is so alien and exotic to me it's hard to compare.

We stopped at a restaurant for lunch. Complete tourist trap. I knew from all the other vans and buses and you know what? I didn't care. Especially after, while walking in, a man holding a lion cub asked if I wanted to hold it.

Um. Yes, please.

I handed him the 30LE and he handed me an apex predator, two feet long and about 30-40lbs. I was so excited I didn't wonder if it were defanged and declawed. It was gorgeous, adorable, and amazing. All of which makes me a hypocrite. It's a freaking lion. If it ripped open my abdomen and spilled my guts onto the ground and then bit out my neck, as I died a horrible death, I wouldn't have cared it was majestic and my death fittingly ironic (in light of my nearly mauling a small kid not three hours earlier).

As it was, the cub just seemed annoyed at how undignified it was to be passed around like a party favor. Lunch was great. They brought out small grills with sizzling pieces of chicken and lamb, which I promptly devoured. Ordinarily I'd focus more on that experience but when you've carried a king of the jungle, a good meal doesn't stack up.

I don't mean to gloss over the Egyptian Antiquities Museum. Really, I don't. But words can't properly express what it's like to be seeing many thousands of years worth of objects that were ancient and spectacular over a thousand years before the Romans went into Britain.

As I looked at King Tut's funerary cache, I paused to consider what had happened to all the other pharaohs. Tut's tomb was a spectacular find. Rich beyond measure. But he was a king of little note who died around age 19 rather suddenly and so his tomb was probably unimpressive by pharaonic standards. What on earth was in Pepys II tomb? He ruled, not lived, ruled ninety-six years. What was in Ramses II tomb? Ozymandias. King of Kings. Look on my works, Ye mighty, and despair. Reigned sixty seven years. Left awe inspiring temples and statues everwhere. What soul-stirring treasures did he accumulate to accompany him to the afterlife?

No one knows. All stolen millennia ago. I would wonder what happened to all of it, but I already know. Having a priceless work of art doesn't mean anything to the uncultured. History, craftsmanship, majesty, artistry, all melted down or broken up into comparatively worthless ordinary gold. I hate people sometimes.

Some of the others paid for the extra ticket to see the royal mummies. Dead bodies. Ho hum. In my opinion, the passage of a certain amount of time doesn't make it uncreepy to look at someone's dead body, especially the body of a person who did pretty much all that was humanly possible at the time of his death to make it so no one could disturb his corpse. Something about paying a fee and doing the voyeurism in a museum doesn't legitimize it for me.

Instead, I went to the animal mummy room. It was free. Dogs, cats, crocodiles, cows, monkeys. I thought of the story of the Monkey's Paw, got creeped out, and left.

We made our way to the train station and got on the overnight train to Aswan. In my berth, I drank scotch, read parts of a history of the Crusades, and tried to process what I'd experienced.