Beneath the Sands of Egypt (22 page)

Luxor seems to have two faces, one that caters to tourists and another that maintains itself as a typical, large Egyptian town. In the former capacity, it can be as obnoxious as the Giza Plateau once was, with aggressive taxi and carriage drivers, souvenir sellers, restaurateurs, shoeshine boys, peanut salesmen, and boatmen all vying for one's attention. Some will relentlessly follow and harangue anyone who appears to be a foreigner—it must be a technique that works, otherwise such tactics would probably go extinct. As annoying as some may find them, most of these folks are just trying to make a living, and with full knowledge that the average tourist is only in town for a few days at most, they see it as their one chance to make a sale. And besides, some of the souvenirs are very nice, there are numerous places to eat with wonderful food, and a good cleaning of one's shoes after a day exploring ancient monuments can be therapeutic. In fact, many of these street rascals are quite nice once you get to know them.

As for the tourists themselves, they range from the respectful to the crass. Some make a genuine attempt to engage with the local culture, striving to garner as much as possible from their Egypt visit. Others seem to treat the whole thing as some sort of pharaonic
theme-park vacation, where attractions are superficially viewed and dismissed for the next sight to check off on the list. Some rarely leave their hotel and instead spend their time baking at the hotel pool. Sure, you could do that at thousands of locations worldwide, but right outside the door are unique and amazing things to see and experience, like nowhere else you'll ever be.

My dig team and I enjoy renting a felucca—a traditional wooden sailboat—once in a while just about an hour before sunset. If the winds are adequate, a great triangular sail is hoisted, often assisted by a young boy scampering up the mast as the captain takes the rudder. Crossing to the west side of the river, one can quietly glide along its green banks while admiring the rich local population of birds performing their early-evening activities. The sunsets are spectacular. Even after a difficult day, all is made well. Conditions aren't always perfect, and sometimes the wind dies and the feluccas drift north with the current, only to be collected by a motorboat that will tow home a string of stranded boats.

There is a felucca captain in Luxor who goes by the nickname “Shakespeare.” It's a well-earned name, as English literature is his forte and he can ably recite from the Bard and any number of other prominent authors. He is also a master of accents, from Cockney to cowboy, and if you're in the proper mood, a journey on the Nile can be as entertaining as it is beautiful. You might even end up at Banana Island.

Over the years I had many times been solicited for a boat ride to the legendary Banana Island, which was said to be located on the river just south of Luxor. “What goes on there?” I'd ask, and each time my question was answered evasively, with a smile, a wink, and a nod. Although I'd never met anyone who'd ever been there, the constant implications were that it was some wild place where the normal rules of society didn't apply. “So,” I asked many times,
“what happens on Banana Island?” “Bananas, my friend, bananas!” Smile, wink, nod.

One day we decided to have a look ourselves and hired a motorboat that took us to its shores, where we were greeted by the “mayor of Banana Island” with his wide, toothless grin and his hand outstretched to receive “entrance fees.” We were led to a small, open-walled shack and told to wait. Soon a surly teenage boy emerged from the trees and angrily threw a freshly cut stalk of bananas at our feet, then stomped off. Two dogs came out of nowhere, attacked the stalk, and separated, peeled, and ate bananas while we watched. We joined in—the bananas were delicious. Afterward we took a walk around the island and finally learned the truth: Banana Island was exactly what they said it was—one big banana plantation. But we tend to keep that our secret and let others find out for themselves. “Oh, yes, I've been to Banana Island!” Smile, wink, nod. Yes, the sun sets and rises again, and it's another day in Luxor.

 

R
ETURNING HOME FROM WORKING
in Egypt can be a startling transition, and sometimes it seems as if the work never ends. There are reports to write, classes to be taught, family matters to attend to, and house repairs to be made. Data from the field season must be analyzed and made accessible, as scholarship in such fields as Egyptology is relatively useless unless the information can be shared. Traditionally, the results of one's research activities will be published in an appropriate journal, a formal report, or some other scientific venue. Before a formal publication is available, the information is often presented at conferences where the various players, contenders, aspirants, and armchair enthusiasts gather to consume the latest revelations. In North America the annual meeting of the American Research Center in Egypt is the primary such assem
bly attracting several hundred performers and spectators attending three days of talks and lectures.

The presentations, or “papers,” are really the core of such gatherings, with a constant stream being presented about every twenty minutes, organized by theme and held concurrently in adjacent lecture rooms. The result is a beehive of activity, with a transient audience rushing to catch the paper of choice, carefully selected from program booklets that they've marked off like a racing form. Decisions need to be made: Should I catch the latest discovery at El-Hibeh or the new perspectives on the god Osiris?

Mark Papworth occasionally railed at the state of scholarship often presented at such meetings. “A celebration of minutiae!” he'd derisively declare. “The exalting of the trivial!” It's often amazing to meet the players in one's field, some of whose papers are brilliant and expertly delivered, while other scholars, for whatever reasons, are completely incapable of giving an effective presentation. Some of the better presentations are animated and border on entertainment, no matter what the academic depth of the topic. I at least attempt to share a sense of fun and wonder in my work, in hopes that people will go away feeling that the twenty minutes spent with me were worthwhile, insightful, and maybe even amusing. Most conference lectures fall under the category of “competent.” They state their business well, even if the topic is absolutely obscure. I have, however, seen some real disasters—for example, a graduate student, eager to impress with his first paper only to be shut down by the moderator because his slide illustrations are out of order.

As a moderator myself, I've seen a speaker show up with illustrations for a completely different presentation, which she discovered only after about five minutes into her talk. And then there are those who refuse to stop talking when their time is up, having
shown up with an hour-long lecture that they try to compress into fifteen or twenty minutes by speaking as rapidly and incomprehensibly as possible. If the old vaudeville gaffer's hook were available, I could have put it to use several times. And so it goes. I gave my first conference paper on the subject of, you guessed it, rope. I was in the same session with another fellow who was talking about ancient baskets from the Roman era.

The papers are only a part of the conference experience. For all the expense involved in travel and registration fees, social and professional networking opportunities perhaps offer the most value for participation. Advice is sought, inside knowledge is exchanged, and plans are made. For students it's an opportunity to meet the professionals, make a good (or bad) impression, facilitate their own research, and sometimes get invited on digs. Especially fun are the many reunions with friends one might see in person just once a year at such events, and don't forget the formal receptions and impromptu parties in hotel rooms.

I've attended international Egyptology conferences where the host cities sponsored lavish soirees. In Munich there was fresh beer tapped from kegs and large, delicious pretzels in the shape of the ankh, the ancient Egyptian symbol of life. In Cairo many of the foreign archaeological institutions seemed to compete to see who could put on the most impressive party, and the Egyptians themselves likewise organized some splendid events. In 1990 my friend Nick Reeves, then a curator at the British Museum, organized what would be a watershed event in the history of Valley of the Kings scholarship. The event, called After Tutankhamun, was held at Highclere Castle, the ancestral home of Lord Carnarvon, Howard Carter's sponsor when he discovered the boy king's tomb. The castle, with its soaring walls, seemed an appropriate venue, with commodious Victorian salons capable of accommodating a
sizable crowd of registered attendees. As one of the invited speakers, I found it a genuine privilege to discuss my work in a program featuring truly great scholars and a serious, attentive audience.

 

W
HAT HAS ALWAYS
impressed me about archaeology and Egyptology is the large number of folks outside the vocation who are actively involved, some in an almost obsessive manner. I've met quite a few for whom ancient Egypt is a deep infatuation and has become their principal pastime. Some of them are as informed, if not more so, than the professionals, and others have a very admirable armchair knowledge paired with irrepressible enthusiasm. Maintaining one's interest as a serious hobbyist rather than as a practicing professional has its advantages. For one thing, there really aren't that many jobs to be had in archaeology and in Egyptology; in fact, I'd use the word “scarce” to describe employment opportunities. The competition can be fierce, and years of study are necessary for one to even be a contender. There's instruction in history, art history, religion, archaeology, and lots and lots of languages. The literature of Egyptology is written primarily in French, German, and English, and one must have at least a reading knowledge of each, and a listening and speaking ability certainly helps at international gatherings. In addition, if one actually conducts research in Egypt, some Arabic is useful, if not necessary, to enable one to politely and effectively carry out one's work.

And then there are the ancient languages. The classical Egyptian language from the time of the pharaohs is extinct, but it must be learned in order to take good advantage of the wealth of ancient texts that form the core of much Egyptological research. And as with all languages, Egyptian grammar and vocabulary evolved through time, so there are at least five identifiable stages that many
students study. The hieroglyphic script must be mastered, and there are cursive versions as well.

It's a tall order to be an Egyptologist. It can make one a specialist, which can potentially limit one's employment opportunities. I'm an archaeologist first, but an archaeologist also trained in Egyptology. As an archaeologist I possess many of the broad skills needed to conduct work in many parts of the world, assisted by specialists as needed to lend a hand in matters of detail. A good general education can certainly be helpful, as I found out when I went job hunting in the aftermath of graduate school. I literally knocked on doors at small community colleges in search of available classes to teach. Could I teach History of Western Civilization? I was asked. “Of course I can!” I answered, even though my knowledge of the Greeks and Romans was rather sketchy. I sure knew a lot about ancient Mesopotamia and Egypt, and I quickly learned Greek and Roman history and culture, actually finding that I enjoyed these relative latecomers to the ancient world. I rarely turned down a class opportunity and taught courses in archaeology, cultural anthropology, physical anthropology, history of the Middle East, and even “geography for travel agents.” At Pacific Lutheran, I taught in several different programs, including interdisciplinary courses on “viewing the past” and critical thinking for college-bound high-schoolers.

It's very sad that so many incredibly bright scholars holding advanced degrees in esoteric fields are virtually unemployed in their areas of expertise. One of the sharpest Egyptologists I have ever met now teaches foreign languages at a public junior high school, out of necessity. (But he does a splendid job of it!) Another is quite prominent but steadily unemployed, apart from taking on a variety of little jobs throughout the year to support his archaeological work. In graduate school I met a very competent but frustrated scholar of
ancient languages who finally had had enough, sold his books, and was retrained as a machinist, making specialized nuts and bolts. And then there are the academic nomads, who might teach one course at three different colleges in a single day for miserable wages with a lot of driving in between. I know—I've done it.

Those lucky enough to be employed in what they love are lucky indeed. I've managed to cobble together several occupations to make it work for me, including teaching, writing, and consulting, but in the back of every archaeologist's mind probably lurks a simple truth: We're basically overeducated ditchdiggers. Then again, as my friend Rick likes to cynically tease, “It's a great way to get paid to go camping!”

I'm often approached by young people who insist that their life goal is to be an archaeologist or an Egyptologist. For some it's just a phase, but for others it's a driving passion. I give the same advice to all of them: Go in with your eyes wide open, your mind steady, and a good sense of reality. Far be it for me to squelch someone's dreams; they very well might come true. Many of mine have.

T
HE WONDERFUL STORIES REVEALED
by archaeology were first made known to me through the printed page, which I could read, and reread, and return to again to marvel at the fascinating accompanying illustrations. Television, too, brought the world of the past directly into my home, with broadcasts of old films, dramas on ancient themes, and news reports of fresh discoveries. Occasionally there would be a real treat like the
National Geographic
specials,
c
one of the earliest in my memory featuring Louis Leakey excavating ancient stones and bones at Olduvai Gorge. His white hair and his mustache, his jumpsuit and his British accent produced an endurring image of a dedicated and energetic scholar, working in difficult terrain in search of the depths of human antiquity.

The popularity of such programs has greatly increased, and today we can find a plethora of television offerings featuring historical exposés and field exploration ranging from the sensationalist and absurd to the scholarly and finely crafted. In between are a lot
of mediocre offerings, many dealing with what appears to be one of the most popular subjects of them all: Egypt. There seems to be an endless appetite for ancient Egypt on television. The most cheaply produced programs will incorporate a selection of still images that the camera can pan across and zoom in on, interspersed by “talking heads”: experts, so to speak, who comment on the given topic and are paid little or no money. On the other end of the spectrum are those that are finely produced, with careful research and an eye for aesthetics. I was lucky to begin my television adventures in the latter arena, experiencing some of the quality for which the medium has the potential.

During the 1990 Valley of the Kings conference at Highclere Castle, I was approached by a producer for the BBC about a program that was being discussed for the 1992 commemoration of the seventieth anniversary of the discovery of the tomb of Tutankhamun, and I was invited to participate. The program would consist of five episodes. The first two would examine the life of Howard Carter and the events surrounding the opening of the tomb, asking the questions: Who was this man whose name is perhaps the most famous in archaeology? He was forty-eight years old when he encountered Tut's tomb, but what had he been doing all those years before, and whatever became of him afterward? And there was plenty of drama to share, too, with the politics involving the tomb and Carter's somewhat obstinate personality thrown into the mix. Other episodes would discuss the aftereffects of the tomb's discovery, including its impact on popular culture.

The idea of working on such a program was appealing. It would be a new angle from which to approach archaeology, as a participant in television rather than a viewer. And with the BBC no less, which I considered to be at the pinnacle of quality in broadcasting. There was also another benefit: an opportunity for me to learn
more about Howard Carter, whose life had intersected with mine in the Valley of the Kings. I truly had mixed feelings about Carter. On one hand there was the man who'd made what might still be considered one of the greatest, if not
the
greatest, archaeological discoveries of all time. This was the man whose image was well known to me through the countless childhood hours I'd spent poring through his three-volume account of finding the tomb. The glow of the treasures themselves seemed to cast a golden sheen upon Carter, who appeared genuinely heroic. On the other hand, there was the Howard Carter in whose wake I had excavated, who presented an image of haste, carelessness, and perhaps a sense of intellectual shallowness. What I had found in KV 44 and 45 shocked me; it looked as if Carter had recklessly shoveled through the debris in a hunt for anything pretty. In Tomb 60 his brief published reports and archival notes neglected to mention an entire chamber and seemed to reflect a genuine disinterest. He seemed to be infected with the hunt for the grandiose decorated tombs and lacked the subtlety to appreciate the smaller monuments in the royal valley.

Harry James was in the process of writing the authoritative biography of Carter and he kindly provided us with copies of the unpublished manuscript chapters. The book,
Howard Carter: The Path to Tutankhamun,
contained wonderful insights into Carter's fascinating, little-known past and his somewhat perplexing personality. Carter was a bit of a stubborn loner, set in his ways and confident in his own righteousness, a man with a lot of acquaintances but few close friends. He seemed far more comfortable among the poor workmen of the Egyptian villages than around the wealthy and noble on whom he often relied for funding. Harry's book also revealed that Carter was adventurous, dedicated, and persistent. The television program would show all of this and reveal Carter as a man who first came to Egypt at age seventeen as a semiedu
cated artist and spent most of his life there involved with antiquities before hitting the ultimate archaeological “jackpot” several decades later, only to eventually vanish into obscurity.

In the months leading up to the series' production, I served as a consultant, making many suggestions for various sequences and film locations. As such, I had an opportunity to inject a little adventure into an archaeological program, something I noticed to be surprisingly lacking in many documentaries. I had often found myself utterly bored by lackluster presentations of what is intrinsically one of the most fascinating subjects around. In our program there would be actual, potentially dangerous visits to tombs never before seen on television. This, I hoped, would be a program unlike anything presented on Tut or on Egypt before.

The director, Derek Towers, seemed impressed with my suggestions but at one point began to appear concerned. “We have contracted a presenter for the series, Christopher Frayling, and I'm not sure if he's up to many of the things you've proposed.” I was quite discouraged with this news. I had never heard of Christopher Frayling, and my response to Towers was to suggest that this fellow get himself into a gym and start training. Frayling, as I learned, was a very distinguished fellow indeed, being professor of cultural history at the Royal College of Art, an expert on film and modern design, and an erudite television host. “We don't want you killing our presenter,” Towers warned.

Frayling and I would deal with that later, but first I would travel to Egypt in April 1992 to scout out locations in advance of the BBC film crew, which even then was filming sequences in Cairo. The scenes in the Valley of the Kings wouldn't be too much of a problem, except for a visit to KV 20, the royal tomb of Hatshepsut. The valley I knew well, but of more pressing concern was another tomb of Hatshepsut, situated in a very remote and somewhat perilous
location in the southern region of the Theban mountains. The tomb, carved into the middle of an intimidating cliff face, was built for the young princess or queen before she became pharaoh, thereafter being entitled to a tomb in the Valley of the Kings. Its role in the story of Howard Carter, in my opinion, was essential, as it revealed so much of his character.

In 1916, Carter caught wind of the fact that robbers had found a tomb and were actively in the process of clearing it out. Crossing the mountains at night, Carter found the robbers' rope dangling down the side of a cliff. He cut it loose and, substituting his own rope, descended to the entrance of the tomb, where he boldly confronted the thieves. They were ordered to get out and ascend his rope or be left stranded in a hole in the middle of a rock face. They did the prudent thing and departed, and Carter spent the next few weeks emptying the tomb of flood debris and finding an unused stone sarcophagus. He was baffled as to how the ancients had managed to move this incredibly heavy object into the tomb. It is a mystery that remains unsolved. A few years later French Egyptologist Émile Baraize managed to remove the sarcophagus, but not until he'd expanded the tomb's natural entrance and built a road to the base of the cliff.

I had seen the site of the tomb once before, but only from below, while on a hiking trip the previous year with a couple of archaeological colleagues. In preparing for the BBC program, I would need to revisit the site with the aim of discovering all the logistics necessary to film an adventure sequence there. I recruited one of my young workmen from the Valley of the Kings, Tayyib, and hired a car to drive us across the desert to the southern end of the mountains, where we continued on foot. The approach requires a hike up a narrow, sinuous wadi to a rock wall, and there one can spot the hole mid-cliff, frightening yet enticing to any climber such as myself.

I'd brought a standard climbing rope with me and a minimal amount of gear, the idea being to find out if such a rope would be capable of reaching both the tomb and the ground from whatever reasonable spot I could find to anchor it from above. Tayyib and I reached the end of the wadi and then ascended a loose slope, which brought us to a flat shelf above the cliff. A narrow crevice descended steeply to a ledge directly above a long drop to the tomb. We scrambled down the crack, and indeed there was a ledge, but one treacherously covered with loose stones and sloping at an angle toward a precipice. I gingerly clambered out to the edge and looked down. The entrance of the tomb could be seen directly below and well down. The big question was: Would the rope reach at least that far?

A large wedged boulder in the crevice provided an anchor, and I threw the rope over the cliff, its end landing soundly on a shelf at the tomb's entrance. I was overwhelmed with temptation. Although I hadn't brought the usual required equipment, I carried my climber's mental bag of tricks, which allowed me to improvise a means of descent down the vertical cliff. It wasn't the most comfortable setup—basically a nylon sling tied around my waist and a couple of carabiners—but soon I was at the tomb's entrance. I decided then to wait for the filming before examining the tomb's interior.

The next big question was the same as the first: Would the rope reach, this time to the ground? If it didn't, I would again have to improvise in order to ascend the rope up the side of the vertical cliff, perhaps with the aid of my sturdy bootlaces or whatever odds and ends I had in my rucksack. Fortunately, the rope did reach, just barely, and I descended to the cliff base and then returned to the top to retrieve both the rope and a perplexed Tayyib, who had never witnessed such a curious thing. The reconnaissance was a success, and I gained sufficient knowledge to facilitate the retelling of what must have been a truly exciting episode in Carter's life.

Eventually the film crew arrived in Luxor, and Derek Towers was anxious for me to meet Christopher Frayling in hopes that the two of us, a distinguished scholar paired with a rambunctious field archaeologist, could somehow get along. A dinner was arranged for all at the luxurious Winter Palace Hotel, and I eyed Frayling across the table with great suspicion. Nattily dressed and with curly brown hair and a mustache, he spoke with an upper-class British accent well used to throwing out a steady stream of clever quips. He'd last about five minutes in the desert, I concluded. As the odd man out in this group of jovial Brits, I barely got a word in, and I imagined my various adventure sequences being tossed aside for the usual safe fare.

After dinner Derek insisted that Frayling and I go for a walk along the Nile corniche. Wincing at the thought, I went along and quickly found that away from his expected role of formality and academic erudition, Christopher was at heart a fun and funny fellow, game for whatever might come his way, a surprising and encouraging revelation indeed.

Filming began immediately in the Valley of the Kings. I was very impressed by the professionalism of the team. Every shot was carefully constructed, even those that would appear for just a few seconds in the final product. Quality was foremost, and for those appearing on camera the sitting around between setups seemed endless. Frayling, though, was brilliant. With a quick glance at his notes, he could deliver an articulate stream of wonderful commentary, often requiring only one take. Eventually we opened KV 60, and I conducted a short tour of the tomb followed by a journey into KV 43, the tomb of Thutmose IV with its surviving evidence of an ancient tomb robbery. Both were discovered in 1903 by Howard Carter and added much to the telling of his story.

The real drama, though, would begin with our descent into the
depths of KV 20, the valley tomb of Hatshepsut, one of the steepest, deepest, longest, most dangerous, and nastiest tombs in all of Egypt. Howard Carter had excavated the tomb beginning in 1903 while working for Theodore Davis. It is very likely the first tomb ever carved in the valley, initiated by the pharaoh Thutmose I and continued by his daughter, Hatshepsut. In many ways the tomb appears experimental, as if its builders really didn't understand the geology of the valley. Its single long corridor snakes down through a thick bed of solid, beautiful limestone before penetrating into the underlying shale, which is exceedingly loose and dangerous. At the point where the two beds intersect, one can actually look up at the ceiling and see the underside of the limestone bedrock.

Clearing KV 20 was an ordeal for Carter and his workmen, its corridor and lower chambers being packed with solidified flood debris. The sheer length and steepness of the tomb made the work extremely grueling, and the air was hot, foul, and imbued with the stench of bat dung. Carter described it as “one of the most irksome projects I have ever undertaken.” It is indeed a nasty place, and even now, cleared of most of the debris, it is an arduous and extremely unpleasant tomb to explore. I first visited the tomb in 1984 with two friends. At the time its broken door lay wide open, and we began to descend with increasing trepidation. About two-thirds of the way down, my companions, overwhelmed by the dust and bat stink, had had enough. I proceeded on my own and reached the lower chambers with their crumbling shale walls and hordes of bats quivering from the ceiling. I was satisfied to scan the rooms quickly with the dust-opaqued light of my headlamp and beat a quick retreat, but not before unintentionally arousing the ire of the occupants. Pursued by a veritable flock of bats, I scrambled quickly to join my waiting friends, and we struggled to leave the wretched confines of the tomb as quickly as possible. The bats kept
coming, and our heads were filled with thoughts of rabies or other bat-inflicted maladies as we lay prone on the tomb's floor within sight of its entrance above. Looking up at the square light at the end of the dark tunnel, we could see the bats flitting about the entrance like a swarm of angry mosquitoes, their flapping wings translucent from the light of the sun. Eventually they all darted speedily back into the depths of their lair, and we emerged from the tomb, savoring every breath of fresh air.