Destination Truth: Memoirs of a Monster Hunter (23 page)

Whisperings of the Pharaoh’s Curse began almost immediately. At the moment of the tomb’s discovery, all the lights in Cairo were said to flicker. Shortly after, a cobra, the symbol of royal rule, was discovered lurking in Carter’s house. Several months later, Lord Carnarvon died “mysteriously” after a shaving nick on a mosquito bite became infected. It was declared thereafter that any person who disturbed the tomb of Tut would fall victim to the powerful and ancient curse. While as many as a dozen other people connected with the discovery of the tomb did suffer early deaths, many workers present at the tomb’s discovery suffered no ill effects, and Carter himself lived to the reasonable age of sixty-four before dying of natural causes.

Though the factual fabric of the curse may be showing a few holes, the myth of Tut’s wrath continues to echo down through history. Our own interest in the story stemmed from curious recent events that transpired when a team of specialists moved Tut’s body for a CT scan. One researcher’s vehicle nearly ran over a small child on the way to the site, the state-of-the-art equipment malfunctioned in the presence of the mummy, and a storm kicked up over the usually peaceful valley. Many Egyptians still hold to the belief that these are signs of the infamous curse, and we took this as the perfect opportunity to test the merits of a purportedly three-thousand-year-old vengeance. That is, if I could get inside the tomb.

Good to his word, in one hour flat, Ramy calls back with promising news. He thinks he can arrange a private date with the most famous pharaoh of the ancient world. We land in Cairo and are met by Ramy Romany. His mane of black hair goes well with his dark suit and flashy smile. Ramy is a coil of enthusiasm in a rail-thin frame. He knows absolutely everybody in sight, shaking more hands than a politician in a primary. In the streets, Ramy parts a sea of rabid taxi drivers and airport hustlers like a modern-day Moses and throws me the keys to the beautifully beat-up Land Rover of my dreams. I could get used to this guy. We discover a
Drifters—Greatest Hits
cassette in the glove compartment and groove into Cairo. Because nothing says ancient Egypt like the dulcet tones of “Under the Boardwalk.”

We drive straight to the Egyptian Museum. For those who have never set foot in this place, it’s a complete sensory overload and, in a literal sense, the worst museum on the planet (which makes it my favorite). A depository disaster without equal, this is like God’s garage—if God were a hoarder. There’s no way to overstate the obscenity of volume within the 107 halls of this sprawling warehouse. There is zero regard for presentation; packing crates, dusty treasures, and precariously placed statues occupy every square inch of available space, teetering boxes piled to the ceiling. I shit you not, you could literally get killed by a falling mummy in here. Half of the displays aren’t even labeled. The immensely significant Palette of Narmer, a five-thousand- year-old siltstone relic, sits by the front door and is given all the presentational gravitas of a bag of Doritos in a 7-Eleven. Most people walk right by it, unaware that they just ignored one of the oldest hieroglyphic inscriptions ever discovered.

Ramy has arranged for us to film Tut’s death mask and is able to get us into the museum a full thirty minutes before it opens to the general public. This is a blessing, since the museum routinely suffers from a crushing sea of tourists that literally spills through the gates like a great wave the moment the doors open. After ushering us through a side entrance, Ramy motions us to wait patiently, as we’re not the only ones to come into the museum early. It turns out that Dr. Zahi Hawass is giving an interview on the second floor.

Hawass holds the position of secretary general of the Egyptian Supreme Council of Antiquities. If that sounds like an impressive title, it is. Hawass administers all of Egypt’s excavations and is personally responsible for allowing, denying, and overseeing projects all over the country. Though he is a polarizing figure who undeniably enjoys the media spotlight, Hawass has probably done more for Egyptology than the pharaohs. He’s established order over the thousands of archaeological sites, passionately advocated for a new museum, and worked to institute a culture of historical preservation across the country. He also directed the recent CT scan on Tut and has attested publicly to his unwillingness to dismiss the power of the curse.

Once Hawass vacates the museum, my team and I are turned loose. The experience of being alone here is such a privilege. The normally bustling galleries are eerily silent, and the sound of our footsteps echoes through the main hall. There are no shoving crowds, no shouting guides, and no snapping cameras. Under the watchful eye of megalithic statues, I roam past endless cases of papyrus fragments, gold coins, and mummified remains.

On the second floor, the spoils from Tut’s tomb take up most of the atrium. We navigate past Tut’s reassembled chariots and shimmering golden shrines into room three. Here, in a glass case, is the singular symbol of Egyptian antiquity: the death mask of Tutankhamun. I can hear the guards downstairs opening the front doors, and I know that in a matter of minutes this gallery will be bursting at the seams. But in the fleeting silence I stand face-to-face with a golden portrait of the boy king. His obsidian-and-lapis-lined eyes convey a distant yet unmistakably powerful gaze that is utterly hypnotic. After my moment of zoning out in the gallery, Evan interjects. “Um, Josh? Can you move?”

“Sorry,” I say, jumping out of the way. “Shoot it!” The team films fast and furiously as the sound of hundreds of footsteps rumble up the stairs.

After our visit to the museum, we make our way across town to the Giza Plateau to take in the iconic Pyramids. Here’s the thing about iconic places. After repeated exposure to these legendary locales and objects in magazines, in movies, and on postcards, it’s always amazing when they still manage to inspire awe in person. I’m similarly amazed when these touristic golden calves turn out to be deflating letdowns. Incidentally, my three-way tie for the most disappointing up-close icons on earth are:

The
Mona Lisa.
Even if you do manage to get past any one of the six million people a year that crowd into the Louvre to see Da Vinci’s masterwork, be prepared to be kept at bay by airport security dividers and a thick veneer of bulletproof glass. And the kicker: the painting is only twenty inches long.

Mount Rushmore.
First of all, it’s in the middle of nowhere—the Black Hills of South Dakota. The real problem, though, is that once you’re close to it, the monument looks downright silly. The megalithic busts sit above a sloping pile of loose rocks. They look like they’re perched atop a hill rather than commanding a mountain (get whatever
North by Northwest
fantasy you have out of your head). More importantly, the proportions are wrong, and the execution is all-around sloppy. Also, it’s hard for me to get too worked up over a public-works project on seized Indian land that was carved by a card-carrying member of the Ku Klux Klan. I’m just saying.

The Hollywood Sign.
We all know the nine white letters that overlook the Hollywood Hills from more movies than we can count. The problem? In real life, we don’t see them via a swooping helicopter flyby. Instead, we view them from afar, and unfortunately, they look tiny. When friends come to visit me, they always ask where the Hollywood sign is. I point up into the hills and watch them squint, inevitably, in disappointment.

On the other end of the spectrum, there are a number of contenders for best in-person jaw-dropper. The Taj Mahal really is a staggering monument to love, Angkor Wat in Cambodia is all it’s cracked up to be, the Grand Canyon is incomprehensibly bonkers to behold, and the Christ the Redeemer Statue above Rio will knock your socks off. But for me, the choice is simple. The Pyramids at Giza.

Yes, the Giza Plateau sits on the western edge of Cairo and isn’t as remote as you’ve been led to believe. Yes, the site is crawling with guys selling camel rides, papyrus hawkers, and scammers galore, but it doesn’t matter. With each step toward these four-thousand-year-old marvels, it’s impossible to resist the urge to shake your head in disbelief. More than two million limestone blocks make up these otherworldly monuments, the only surviving member of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. The scale, symmetry, and flawless execution are simply beyond comprehension.

We tour the Pyramids and speak with a few officials before setting off to our true destination: Luxor. The city appears out of nowhere, hugging the wide and gentle east bank of the Nile like a desert mirage. Compared to the frenetic chaos of Cairo’s endless alleys, the relative serenity of Luxor’s broad streets is dramatic. Originally known as Thebes, this once shimmering capital city is now a stunning playground of ruination. Across the river, the desert landscape rises up into a breathtaking escarpment, concealing the Valley of the Kings.

The Luxor Temple shares common borders with the city’s main street and a colorful market. Replete with larger-than-life statues of Ramses II and the remains of massive courts and halls, the temple manages to retain immense dignity even under the weight of so many gawking tourists. It’s easy to overlook the adjacent Avenue of Sphinxes just outside the temple. This cobblestone corridor, originally lined with more than 1,300 human-headed sphinxes, once connected the Temple of Luxor to Karnak, more than three kilometers away. Today, only about seventy of the graceful statues have been excavated. The rest are literally buried beneath the modern streets of the city.

We have an uncharacteristic patch of downtime in Luxor, and I hop a cab to the temple complex of Karnak. This sprawling enclave spans a staggering two square kilometers, and the largest structure, the Temple of Amun, is one of the largest religious buildings ever constructed. Once inside, I make straight for the Great Hypostyle Hall.

If there’s a runner-up in Egypt to the Great Pyramids, this might well be it. Dominated by 134 thick papyrus-shaped columns that rise up like gigantic stone reeds, it was designed to emulate a massive swamp. In antiquity, the hall would even flood with several feet of water when the Nile overflowed, a spectacle that I imagine with great pleasure as I weave between the pillars.

Back in Luxor, we depart for the Valley of the Kings from the eastern shore of the Nile. Past throngs of dockside merchants, we cast off in a felucca, a traditional wooden sailing boat, which will ferry us to the opposite shore. From the middle of the Nile, it’s possible, if only for a moment, to find respite from the tourist hordes and aggressive hawkers. Here, between the banks, there is a brief and ephemeral silence that reveals the natural splendor of this place.

Since we’ve been granted permission to enter the Valley of the Kings after it closes to visitors, we’re under our own steam. No air-conditioned buses or organized tours for us. Once across the river, we transfer our many cases of gear to camels to continue our journey.

As anyone who has seen
Destination Truth
can attest, I really hate camels. And before you start writing me letters about how they’re masters of the desert and one of the planet’s evolutionary wonders, save your breath. I’ve heard it all before. They spit, they bite, they’re uncomfortable to ride, and they’re utterly uncooperative. Many people aren’t aware that there was once a North American camel, which went extinct. Take that as a lesson, modern camel: we can survive without you, and you should really check your attitude.