After an epic journey from Amritsar, via Doha, we arrived in Cairo 18 hours later, dog tired and once again disoriented by our new surroundings.
The Miami Cairo hostel on Talaat Haab Street was, it transpired, a more significant destination than we had realised both in terms of its position and its history.
The revolution was threatening to rekindle itself in Tahrir Square, one block away.
The Yacoubian building of which the Miami occupied the second floor, was the doyen of Egyptian society in the 1930’s. Between 1930 and 1964 the nation’s film industry blazed a trail that is now looked back at with fondness and nostalgia. Egypt immortalised its own Bogarts and Hepburns in celluloid and down town street sellers still offer the home grown greats alongside the more recent Hollywood imports.
After sleeping off the journey courtesy of Mustapha’s gratuitous Miami upgrade, we surfaced to breakfast to the accompaniment of Steven Segal going in hard at the local strip joint in his unique style that blends a dash of modern dance with a pinch of mullet.
And then the fateful and oft quoted words were uttered as we piled into the back of the Mitsubishi and headed for the Pyramids.
“Don’t worry. You’re with Khaled now!” said K, as he flicked some ash and casually set the controls for the heart of the sun.
K was, if it is possible, simultaneously an enigma and anathema; Charming and offensive, languid and animated. He was a 47 year old chain-smoking, patriot with more tips for aphrodisiacs than Benny Hill after a weekend break in the Valley of the Super-Vixen.
There were dates soaked in milk for twelve hours for which he promised a veritable Vesuvius in the trouser department. Then came the milk of the papyrus plant. Good for men or women, he guaranteed explosions in the bedroom. Finally, Oil of the Lotus Flower - the daddy of priapic promises. Add a sprinkle to your food and nail a warning to the church doors. “Lock up your daughters. You’re with Khaled now!”.
Sadly, it was all a warm up for the day ahead. There was the date market, the oil shop and finally the Papyrus emporium. We batted away the small fry but did not emerge from the melee entirely unscathed. After a prolonged soft sell at the papyrus shop, another one made it into the collection.
But the best was yet to come.
Through a complex web of agents and commission bearing referrals, we ended up in the hands of Abdul-Ali and his horses, with a three hour ride around the pyramids beckoning on these unknown quantities. Alessi was thin and bony mare. Moses was yet another stallion in full possession of his faculties. We wobbled and wavered. Were the pyramids stony? Did the horses throw people often? If we died, would the ponies still love us?
It was all too much to bear and after a desultory effort at haggling, Ali led us towards the desert with expressions half way between terror and delight. If the horses took off, there really was nothing between us and Libya. But Ali laughed and snapped his whip behind Moses and off we trotted.
We needn’t have worried as they were good as gold. They knew every rock and for the next three hours proceeded as sure footedly as we could have hoped. The greatest injury either of us sustained was caused by a nail protruding illicitly from the underside of the saddle strap that left my hand bleeding profusely and poor Moses mopping up the crimson tide as I tried to staunch the flow with my handkerchief. Pressing the flapping skin back into place and laughing through the pain, we circumnavigated the greatest constructions on earth in an other-worldly trance.
The statistics alone are mind boggling, even with today’s modern construction techniques; 2,300,000 blocks weighing an average of 60 tonnes erected at a religiously significant 43.5 degrees elevation. Joints so tight that even 4,300 years after the blocks were first laid, there is not even a needle’s breadth between them. And the list goes on. To stand in their presence is to be drawn backwards through time. Your imagination doesn’t even have to work at it as nothing has changed here – apart from the encroachment of Giza, which you can easily turn your back to – for 2,000 lifetimes.
Later haggling over baksheesh for unauthorised photos of the internal artwork, we visited the lesser known of the 7 great pyramids, all of which form a geometrically perfect line over 25km long. The Dashur and Saqqara complexes enclose the Bent Pyramid – which is the only one to inauspiciously depart from the sacred angles - and the massive Red Pyramid, open to the public but completely forsaken. Entirely alone, we descended a 250m, 30 degree tunnel into the heart of the tomb. Salt water rising through the foundations, has filled the lower levels with a strong smell of ammonia but it is just tolerable. Alone and deep within the tunnels, the strange isolation can become suddenly and distressingly overpowering. Even the deep breaths required to still your racing heart are impossible because of the stifling atmosphere.
Emerging, tight-chested, into the blinding light and thrusting more baksheesh into the expectant hands of the waiting attendant, the hot desert air never smelled so sweet.
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