Sana'a, Yemen "Don't Worry. You Are in Yemen."

The next time you've got a layover in Cairo airport, remember to go up. The gates are all on the first floor, which is smelly and ugly. The few available seats are occupied and everyone is yelling at each other.

One floor up, things are quieter. This is where all the VIP lounges are.

The top floor, inexplicably empty, features a sea of comfy couches courtesy of a 24 hour Starbucks and adjoining Cinnabon. It also has free wi-fi. The food options aren't particularly cheaper downstairs and there are no gatekeepers to this upper oasis, but there's a clear class distinction. My theory: a lot of folks just feel more comfortable down there.

It's interesting how the Starbucks aesthetic has a way of casually warding some people off; a way of saying "This is not for you. You don't belong here." I wonder if that's deliberate.

Got into Yemen at 3am. My first impression was that the people are very shovey. But perhaps the immigration line isn't the best place to draw conclusions.

When the doors opened up into passport control, everyone charged the counter like it was a wedding dress sale at Filene's Basement. One guy tried to push me out of the doorway and squeeze past. I elbowed him in the gut. Lovely!

By the will of Allah, my bag managed to catch all my flights and arrive concurrently. It is a loyal and durable sidekick.

The buildings of Old Sana'a would be considered modest skyscrapers if they were built out of concrete and steel. As it happens, they are built out of mud, which makes them tremendously immodest.

The city is thousands of years old. Its structures are packed tightly to maximize shade in the winding alleys and corridors. Few cars dare to risk scraping through the place, so the sounds that can be heard have little to compete with. They bounce great distances to haunting effect.

Driving into the city, hours before dawn, all you can hear are those few scattered voices. My driver had no idea where the hotel was, so he woke every urchin we passed to ask directions.

I saw a lot of dead cats. That's not particularly unusual, but the pools of fresh, trickling blood were unsettling.

Believe it or not, Sana'a is extremely high up; 2200 meters, well over a mile from sea level. I always had the sense that the Saudi peninsula was just endless, flat desert. Not so. The altitude keeps Sana'a relatively cool, but I lost my breath quickly on the stairs up to my room.

I slept miraculously well on the flights, so I was up and ready to go before lunch. I spent the rest of the day wandering through the city.

No street goes in the same direction for more than a few meters, so navigating was hopeless. I spent about an hour looking around, and four hours trying to find my way back.

At least half the people I passed said "hello" and "welcome." Lots of smiles. They'd ask me where I'm from and I'd tell them. Big thumbs up. "America! Very good!"

Motorcycle in sheep's clothing.

This is one of the gates of Old Sana'a. Beyond it is the far less interesting New Sana'a, which looks like every other impoverished city in the world.

This is a very bad picture of a shop wall that has a portrait of Saddam Hussein hanging on it. It's one of those things that, as an American, I really didn't want to get caught snapping a photo of, so I was sneaky about it.

Pictures of Saddam Hussein aren't at all unusual in Yemen. Lots of shops have them. I'm not sure what the significance is, but I imagine his image means something very different to Yemenis than it does to me. I'd speculate that he's seen as a sort of Teddy Roosevelt figure; strong, willful, defiant. From a certain point of view, Saddam was a real Can-Do guy.

What I didn't see was any photos of their hometown boy, the pride of Yemen, Osama "Sammy Bean" Bin Laden (his father was Yemeni). I'm guessing those are probably hanging under the counter.

Some guy stopped me and demanded I take a picture of this minaret.

He had a lot to say -- all of it in Arabic. I think he asked if I was Spanish. He kept going and going and I kept shrugging and trying to walk away. An English speaker finally passed by.

"He wants you to take a picture of him."

Ah. Easy enough.

This did not make him happy. He wanted it close up on his face. Sure. No problem.

Nope. Too squinty. He turned me away from the sun.

Better, but he still seemed displeased.

Some other guy passed by and wanted in on the next one.

Praise be to Allah that pictures don't cost anything these days.

The guy still wanted something more. I couldn't figure out what. Probably money. This is where the language barrier comes in handy.

He reached out to shake my hand, and as I shook it I realized he was missing a couple fingers. That's always fun.

I later learned that Arab handshakes are a little different than ours. It's not just shake-and-be-done-with-it. You shake, you greet, you smile, you shake some more, more greetings, still shaking, rinse, repeat. It got to the point where we were actually walking down the street together, hand in hand, still shaking, still feeling fleshy stumps where fingers should be, still talking without either party having a clue what the other was saying.

This girl made me sad. When she saw me coming, she lit up and said "Sura!" I had no idea what that meant, assumed she wanted money, so I kept walking.

"Sura! Sura!"

She stood, somber and alone in the alley as I walked away.

"Sura?..."

I waved goodbye and turned the corner.

"...sura."

Sura means picture. That's all she wanted.

I don't know why there isn't more talk about how much digital cameras have changed and enhanced international travel. Suddenly I have an infinite supply of something that's easy to give and as fun for me as it is for those who request it. Images are disposable to us, but they really are profound things.

I don't take my portable printer around much anymore. Small as it was, it still filled a good chunk of my luggage space. I often wish I had it.

Anyway, once I found out what it meant, I never missed another sura.

This is the main road through the old city. I'm fuzzy on this, but I think it actually used to be a river, and then when it dried up they just started letting cars through.

Water is a big problem in Yemen. The air is bone-dry and they're having to dig further and further down to get it. Of the water they do have, a crazy amount of it goes into growing Qat. Qat is a chewable leaf that acts as a stimulant, like tobacco. It's sold at a premium, so farmers abandon other crops in favor of it, but it also requires a whole lot of water to grow, hence the problem. They're chewing themselves into a famine.

At least a few people are still growing real food, but it doesn't taste as good as it looks. One of those apples in there is the second-worst I've ever tasted. The worst was in a decorative bowl at a fancy hotel, and that one was fake, so I don't think it counts.

Yemen is predominantly Sunni. It isn't the most radical Islamic country, but their spring breaks aren't very impressive either. Full burkes are the norm, and for the most part women don't speak to men outside the family. It feels very much like a world without women.

I was skittish about photographing people without their consent, but those usually make the best pictures, so I snuck a lot of quick shots that didn't turn out. I also took a lot of pictures of people from the back.

At least with the women, you can't really tell the difference between front and back. They're all just kinda shadowy blobs.

In my last post I mentioned reading that it's common to carry around assault rifles. Well, I didn't see a single one on a civilian. Instead, the men in Yemen all wear ornate, jeweled daggers in their belts. These are called jambia (not sure of the spelling, but that's how it sounds).

They're part of the formal dress -- kind of like neckties, except easier to kill people with.

Jambia are passed down through generations. Older ones, I'm told, are worth thousands.

I fumbled through some crude attempts at communicating with these kids. Dig the ammo belt with the live rounds.

The picture-taking attracted attention and soon I had a small crowd.

I pulled out the video camera and started shooting. The kids were hamming it up, and it was a smooth transition into setting up the tripod and getting them to dance with me.

I showed them the first take and they sort of got what I was doing. We moved back in position to shoot it again. This time, just as I started dancing, they all pulled out their daggers and waved them in my face. Everyone was still smiling and laughing, so I took it for granted that I wasn't being robbed. I eventually cottoned on that it's how they dance.

Okay, then.

They circled around me, thrusting and twirling their not-at-all-unsharp blades. One dagger slipped out of a kid's hand and landed at my feet. I pretended not to be terrified and kept on dancing.

This batch of kids really wanted me to eat their cookies. I politely declined. That was deemed unacceptable.

I ate a cookie. It was fine. They immediately produced another one. Fine. Okay. I ate that too.

Out came a third cookie. What the hell kind of game is this? I let them know I was done eating cookies. So they took my backpack, opened the main pouch, and stuffed the entire bag of cookies inside.

I still don't know what was going on there. I guess they just really wanted to get rid of those cookies.

I pulled out the video camera again. The second it went on, the kid in the hummer T-shirt broke into some crazed comedy routine. I think he was pretending to be a sportscaster or reporter. I took a step back to open up the frame a bit. He stepped forward right along with me. I kept moving back down the alley, and he and his friends stayed right in step. We ended up shooting a sort of impromptu Beastie Boys video. Does anyone have any idea what these kids are saying?

Anyone who's ever spent the night in a Muslim country knows what I woke up to the next morning. At 4:30am, the city shakes to the sound of pre-recorded prayer sputtering out atop the minarets from old, scratchy bullhorns; a call to all good Muslims to get up, scoop water over their private parts and mask their odors so they are fit to praise Allah at sunrise.

A few minutes later, Melissa called from Seattle to make sure I was still alive with all my parts (private and public) attached. Turns out three mortars had just been fired at a compound in the city that houses US oil workers. Al-Qaeda took credit.

No one was hurt. That's because al-Qaeda are a bunch of bozos. I think I can safely say that without offending anyone. Al-Qaeda and the Amish are pretty much my only risk-free punching bags, as they will never read this. Anyway, they are bumbling ignoramuses. Two weeks ago they tried the same thing on the US Embassy in Sana'a. Wanna know what happened? They missed and hit a girls' school across the street.

But I suppose that doesn't matter, right? They were, after all, only girls.

Bozos!

I'd planned to hire a driver and visit some nearby villages, but that plan seemed ambitious considering the circumstances. I spoke to Abdul, the hotel manager who'd arranged things for me, anticipating that he would dismiss my concerns.

"It is not for you that they are angry, Mr. Matt. You must not be afraid. These men, they are not from Yemen. They come from Egypt and other places and they make trouble, but Yemeni people will not harm you."

I stewed for a bit. I agreed with his point about not being afraid. You know, "the terrorists win" and all that.

Also, what had really changed? I already knew those guys were lurking. Like most humans, my caveman brain responds enthusiastically to sudden, visceral events like explosions (and is listless about gradual crises like climate change). That's why terrorism works. But was the actual risk any greater than it was the day before?

There was no one around to discourage me, so I decided to go ahead with the plan. I met my driver, Mujahad, which, I must admit, sounded a bit more like mujahadeen than I would have liked it to.

Mujahad has been driving tourists around Yemen for 20 years. Mostly Europeans, he says. But, of course, "Americans are the best!"

He was curious about prices in America. He wanted a sense of the relative cost of goods, so he chose the most universal of purchases.

"How much for a chicken?"
"...Uh, cooked?"
"Yes."
"I don't know. Maybe $20?"
"$20! Amazing. And how much without cook."
"Sorry?"
"How much for the whole chicken. Still alive."

I couldn't think of ever having seen a live chicken for sale. You want the price on a can of Coke, a loaf of bread? No problem. But we don't really do the live chicken thing. I'm not sure how I should feel about that. Embarassed? Ashamed? Relieved?

This guy accidentally drove his truck over a cliff when his brakes stopped working. He'd been waiting beside it all day. I suppose help is coming at some point.

We visited the villages of Thille, Kawkaban, Shibam, and Habebah (palindrome, yay!). It was all a big mish-mash and I came to the conclusion that Yemen is mostly rocks.

There's no oil in Yemen. There's hardly any mining. Just rocks.

...and people.

Some goats too.

Kids in Yemen spend a lot of time peering out of windows. I suppose I would've too if I hadn't had a TV growing up. They would yell to me from way up high and I'd have to spend a minute or two tracking the echoes to pinpoint their location.

Look close. They're in there.

This kid in the dark blazer is highly photogenic.

Take a couple hundred pictures and eventually you will accidentally snap a really really good one.

I hope, hope, hope these kids aren't gathering drinking water. Mujahad insisted they weren't. I think he said it's for washing.

These kids were ferocious. They wanted money, pens, paper -- anything I had on me.

Their mothers hid in a corner, watching me closely. I smiled and waved, then realized I had no idea what their expressions were. The veiled look comes across as just sort of superior and maybe a little bit sinister -- an effect that definitely has its uses.

I pulled out the video camera to shoot some dancing clips with the kids. At this, the moms were very excited, although I had to take care not to include any of them in the shot, lest their vanity should piss off God.

Once I finished, I felt obliged to give the kids something for participating. There were loads of them, so the coins ran out fast and only led to pushing and hitting. I realized I needed a whole lot of something.

Aha!

There are those that assume part of my job is to wander the planet handing out Stride.

I don't.

But I do keep some in my bag all the time and it definitely helped out in this situation. Once the wrapper came off, though, the grabbing hands were all over me, going into my bag, in my pockets. It was a bad scene. I handed the gum off to one of the moms, figuring she'd do a better job of keeping them at bay.

She did not. And I felt really bad for redirecting the frenzy upon her. She resorted to breaking sticks into smaller and smaller pieces to keep up with demand. Meanwhile, I made my escape.

Mujahad and I stopped for lunch in Shibam. I attribute the sanitation woes of our dining establishment to chronic, acute maleness syndrome. It was like eating in a bathroom. Seriously guys, think about getting some women involved in this operation. They've really kinda got their heads on straighter than us in a lot of key ways. At the very least, your restaurant will smell way better.

Those issues aside, the arrangement was fun. It was in the traditional Arabic style. We got a couple huge pieces of khobz, which is a round flat bread kinda like a pizza but without anything on it, and then we had a couple plates of meat and vegetables. No utensils involved, just rip off some bread and use it to pick up clumps of the messy stuff.

The meat was pretty rough. You can kinda tell when the animal you're eating lived on garbage scraps.

All the other men in the restaurant were pretty amused to see me in there. Lots of questions, all very friendly. What part of America am I from? How much does it cost to get there? How long does it take?

I was made to try the dishes at the surrounding tables, which was a bit dicey, but I got through it.

Today was my last day in Yemen. I was going to spend it wandering around Sana'a a bit more. Instead, I organized my mp3s. Not because of terrorists, mind you, but because I am very lazy.

Aswan, Egypt I Stink of Africa

I’m waylaid in the Aswan “International” Airport waiting for the only remaining flight of the day, still four hours off.

I flew in from Abu Simbel on the standby list for a continuing flight to Cairo. But the flight was full, so I’m stuck.

A week ago, a bomb went off in the beach town of Dahab and killed a couple dozen tourists. This happened the day after Osama released a new single, so it is believed at this time that Al Qaeda was responsible.

Dahab is an Israeli tourist destination. Why there’s an Israeli tourist destination in a country full of Muslims, I don't know.

Israelis shouldn’t be vacationing in Egypt. They should be vacationing in their basements. With the lights out. Wearing gasmasks.

Anyway, you’d think there’d be a few empty seats.

Aswan is close to the Sudanese border, thus the airport is crawling with military. They have nothing to do all day while awaiting a caravan of airport-hating Sudanese rebels, so the rituals of ticket and passport checking are relatively exciting for them. They insist on doing it every time I move from one room to another, even though I’m the only passenger in the airport and I’ve been here most of the day.

The metal detectors are cranked so high, they donk if there was too much iron in your breakfast cereal. After removing my belt, my boots, my eyeglasses, and everything in all my pockets, it came down to that or my zipper.

One guy got upset when I abandoned my bags to walk to the other side of the room and check for a better wifi signal. He reprimanded me in Arabic. I told him with my eyes that his gun and uniform didn’t impress me and he should go sit down. Maybe not the most diplomatic reaction, but I’m tired of men trying to show me how important they are.

The wifi signal turned out to be a phantom. I didn’t expect it, but it showed up faintly and I’m obligated by my nature to track these things down.

Abu Simbel was built 3000 years ago by Ramses II. Well, he didn’t actually build it. I think he hired contractors. It was placed along the Nile near the Nubian border – now Sudan – largely to scare the crap out of anyone heading down-river.

Best not to wander any further, fellas. We’re all 90 feet tall here.

The colossi guarding the entrance are all depictions of Ramses II himself, which makes one imagine the planning meeting must have gone something like this:

One colossus isn’t scary enough. There should be four. The first one should be me. The second one also should be me. The third one, I don’t know, I’m thinking me. And the last, well, if it was anyone else it’d just look weird, wouldn’t it?

The enormous size of the figures is striking from any distance, at any angle. As a child of Nintendo, I can’t help but imagine them rising to battle in defense of whatever power ring or medallion is kept inside. I figure they’ve probably got a weak spot. Just look for the part that glows between attacks.

Pondering their size, I’m once again transported to that meeting room.

They’re not big enough. Can’t you make them taller? Okay, what if they’re sitting down? That way you’ll look at them and think, ‘Boy, I really hope those guys don’t stand up.’ You think you can do that? Great. Done. And what about the shoulders? Can't you bring those out a bit? And maybe make the chin a little stronger.

The inside of the temple is almost, but not quite as impressive as the outside. It has eight more giant sentinels standing guard -- and guess who they depict. But for the shapes of their heads and their coloring, they’d be identical to the guys protecting the Ark of the Covenant. It would, no doubt, be a tourist draw if they covered the floor in poisonous snakes to complete the effect.

The walls are covered in elaborate murals and hieroglyphics. I haven’t a damn clue what any of it has to do with, but it’s very impressive. Photography is forbidden inside the temple, so you’ll have to take my word for it. Alas, no power rings. No medallions.

Such things were probably removed in the 60s, when the entire structure had to be urgently relocated to higher ground. Turns out some dumbasses decided to build a dam nearby. It raised the water level dramatically, AS TENDS TO HAPPEN, and Abu Simbel would have been submerged along with several other ancient sites if the UN hadn’t come in with $80 million, some construction equipment, and a little bit of simple Goddam common sense.

I speak now to the Arab Egyptian government. Look fellas, we know this stuff isn’t a part of your heritage. It doesn’t belong to you any more than it belonged to the British or the French, the Romans, the Greeks, or the freakin Hyksos. No, Muhammad didn’t take a dump here, but you were sitting in this chair when the music stopped and you profit enormously from the existence of these sites. They represent the very origins of human development beyond picking berries and clubbing goats, so can we pay your jacked-up entrance fees and trust in your stewardship? Can we count on you to at least not destroy them?

...that said, if it had been submerged, Abu Simbel would've made one helluva dive site.

The relocation was astonishingly well-done, but there was no getting around the absence of adequate cliffside at the new elevation. An artificial mountain had to be made, which extends only as far as it needs to. It gives the whole place an even more jarring resemblance to a movie set.

The next door Temple of Hathor would be impressive if it were located anywhere on the planet other than where it is.

It has six standing figures at the entrance, not quite as tall as the other guys. Ramses showed a little bit of humility on this one; only four of the figures are him. The other two are his wife...well, one of his 200 wives, anyway.

That had to have been insulting to the other 199.

I shall build another great temple, and for once I'm not going to make every colossus be me. Two shall be set aside to represent my many wives. Actually, just make them both wife number 173. I suppose I could spread it around, but nah -- just her. Isn't she super?

Accommodation options near Abu Simbel are extremely limited. Pretty much the only game in town is the four-star Nefertari Hotel (named after wife 173), walking distance from the site and built for large tour groups, but mercifully affordable for the lone goofball. I relaxed by the pool and used the bathtub and complimentary soap to do laundry for the first time since Botswana.

It’s not that I’m a slob. It’s just that I’m moving very quickly and I rarely stay anywhere long enough for a shirt to dry. Drying machines aren’t so widespread over here, and I’m not going to miss a flight because I’m waiting for some lady to check on the clothesline.

As the tub filled, I watched the visible stink pour from my clothing like ink from a mollusk. Most of it wasn’t my own smell, it was the smells of fellow passengers on planes and buses in Southern Africa. Their body odor has the same adhesive property as skunk scent. It crawls into fabrics. It sinks into skin.

In many regions below the Sahara, you can literally smell people walk up behind you.

Soap. Blessed soap. You cleanser of pores. You wonder of civilization.

The morning after my arrival, I woke at 5am. The colossi face the rising sun, so I wanted to see if anything fancy happened. I also figured it'd be a good chance to see the site without so many French and Italians -- who for some reason dominate the visitor registry.

The only other folks with the same idea were a Japanese chain gang. They stared in silence at the horizon and applauded when the sun peeked out. The sun replied bashfully, first dimming itself slightly and then returning behind the mountains to wait for them to leave.

I got a young guy named Satoshi to hold the camera for me. He turned out to be traveling on his own, which I found heartwarming. I'm hoping Japan has some cultural epiphany that traveling in herds not only ruins the experience for them, it ruins it for everyone else. I'm not expecting results anytime soon, but meeting Satoshi was a good sign.

Here's a little something for the ladies.

The Japanese aren't the only herds, though. Tour groups are pretty much the only way foreigners get around here. I didn’t realize this until I landed on a packed flight and watched the baggage carousel spit my one piece out and then go back to sleep. All the other luggage was carted straight into awaiting buses.

I guess they’re figuring on safety in numbers. Meanwhile, Islamic fundamentalists are figuring on publicity in numbers.

I didn’t get to see much of Egypt. I arrived in Cairo three days ago having done little research and made no arrangements. At this point in the trip, I’m unable to plan more than a few hours ahead.

I spent my first night in the Windsor Hotel; a former British officer’s club built in the 1930s.

It has one of those hand-cranked elevators running through the stairwell like the Bradbury building in Los Angeles.

…lemme try that again.

It has one of those hand-cranked elevators like in the end of Blade Runner when Dekkard confronts Roy Batty.

Michael Palin stayed at the Windsor while filming his BBC travel series, so I figured it was good enough for me.

The next day I set off with an ambitious agenda: figure out how to get to Luxor, Abu Simbel, and back in three days; see the Egyptian Museum; and watch the sun set over the pyramids.

The findings of task #1 were disappointing. The night train requires booking way in advance, buses would leave me unrested, and all the flights were both overpriced and fully booked.

I handled this information as I always do: ignore it. Next stop, Egyptian Museum.

Already I was getting really tired of Cairo’s citizenry. Every person I encountered, excepting the ones I was actively buying something from, had been eager to spout whatever nonsense they felt was necessary to get me into their store.

And that’s fine. I mean, I’m fair game. I'm a big fat trout among hungry fisherfolk and I accept that. But there’s a line, and that line is this: don’t lie to me or misdirect me from my course when I didn’t even ask for your help in the first place.

“You go to pyramids? Oh, you cannot take taxi. You must go with tour group. I sell you ticket. ₤150.”

“Egyptian Museum? Oh, no. It's impossible. They are closed for lunch. You must try again later. Tell me, sir, you like nice rugs?”

It happens in a lot of places. India is the worst I’ve experienced. Thailand and Vietnam trail behind. It’s a nuisance, and it means you quickly learn not to trust anyone. I ignore people who try to talk to me because if I give so much as a flicker of eye contact, they’ll never give up.

I don’t like myself when I behave that way.

On my way to the museum, I stumbled into a mass protest. Everyone was clustered together looking bored and listless, waiting for something to happen. I moved deeper and deeper into the throng, obliviously navigating with my map until it got to the point where I could squeeze my body no further. I had to turn and go around.

The scene didn't appear to be brimming with riot potential, but someone clearly felt differently.

Turns out they were right. I just learned the riot that broke out moments later made the front page of the New York Times.

Evidently some uppity judges formally criticized the recent parliamentary elections for being a little bit on the "rigged" side. I stumbled onto the scene of a punitive hearing in which -- get ready for it -- the judges were being reprimanded for having the nerve to speak up.

Two thousand protestors came out. Things turned ugly. Arrests were made. Folks got beaten. But it's all okay, cause I made it to the museum.

To enter the fabled den of antiquity, I had to pass through two car bomber blockades, two passport checks, a metal detector, a bag inspection, a ticket booth, a ticket tearer, another metal detector, and another bag inspection. At the last inspection, the guy deigned to mention that cameras aren’t allowed in the museum and I had to go back to the holding desk at the start.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”

No, they weren’t kidding.

It wasn’t the policy itself that upset me, of course – even though it’s a bit of a double standard; most of the exhibits are unprotected, so visitors touch, lean on, and sit on them with no apparent reluctance. What annoyed me was the lack of signage and the failure of any of the trained monkeys to mention it earlier.

I suspect the camera ban has a lot less to do with protecting artifacts than it does with selling postcards and photo books.

I voiced my frustration, which can’t be uncommon, and earned myself a place on their terrorist watch list.

The museum is very interesting, and certainly not to be missed on a visit to Cairo. I saw Tutankhamen’s mask, an astonishingly beautiful bust of Nefertiti, and for an extra $13, the mummified corpse of Ramses II – which is considerably less than 90 feet tall.

But watching the way the artifacts were treated, I was struck once again with the pangs of culturally insensitive anger that've been dogging me these last couple weeks. If Europe hadn't bullied its way into this region and set the museum up in the first place, there can be little doubt that most of these priceless relics would be serving as TV stands for rich Saudis.

Exiting the museum, I decided it was easier to start walking to the pyramids than try to negotiate a fare with a taxi driver. I meandered for a couple hours and got maybe halfway there.

That's a Seuss-like donkey cart on a main traffic road.

The guidebook said the site closes at 7:30pm. Turns out they’re closing it at 4 now. Forget about watching the sun set – or rise for that matter. What kind of weirdo would have such an esoteric desire, anyway?

You can see the pyramids on their clock, and to prevent you from sneaking a free glimpse, they’ve built a concrete wall around the whole thing.

Undeterred, I began circumambulating the wall. A procession of guides on horseback whistled and shouted at me. I ignored them. They followed two steps behind me, outraged that I'd dare to wander, unable to grasp how I could possibly prefer to find my own way over riding with them.

…well, I guess they had a point.

I got to the far side, where the Sphinx lives. The guards were equally thrilled at the opportunity to turn me away. One of them even yelled at me for taking a picture of the open-air public site from well outside the gates.

In a last ditch effort, I unsheathed the laptop and showed them my dancing video. A small mob of soldiers gathered. It took them a while to grasp that the idiot on the screen was me. Once that was established, an English-speaking officer tried to draw my confession that the dancing was digitally composited over false backgrounds and it was all a big hoax.

“That’s right, Einstein. I’m standing here in Egypt, at the base of the pyramids, showing you my fake video from my fake trip around the world.”

The video kept playing on a loop and soldiers of higher and higher rank kept appearing out of nowhere. I finally got an audience with a guy who could grant my wish: 10 seconds of dancing a stone’s throw from where we were standing.

“Who will hold the camera?”
“Uh, actually, I’m here by myself. I was hoping one of you could do it.”
“…fine. I will hold your camera. But do it quickly, and then you must go!”

Mission accomplished. I danced and left. But truth be told, I didn’t really want the dumb clip anyway. I had my sites set on Abu Simbel – a much less obvious setting that is, in many ways, far more stunning.

I got it, by the way. It’s fantastic.

With no hope of getting any more time beyond the gates, I crossed the street and watched the sun set over the pyramids from the window of a traditional Egyptian eating establishment.

Taxi back to the city to grab my bag, 2am ride to the airport to try to get on the 5am flight to Abu Simbel.

Passed this merry wedding caravan.

I bought a ticket on the waiting list going both ways, then sat in the terminal through the wee hours of the night. I had to give up on reaching Luxor at this point; which also meant missing Karnak, the Valley of the Kings, and all that other stuff I wouldn't have had enough time to see even if I did make it there.

I'm thinking this might be a good place to come back to when I'm an old fart. I'd go the tour group route and hop on one of those luxurious Nile ferries. The sites are pretty much all in a straight line along the banks of the river anyway, and the ferry would insure minimal interaction with braying, obnoxious touts.

...granted, there would be maximum contact with braying, obnoxious tourists. I'd get to know Walter, the retired Account Supervisor from Martinez, California...perhaps better than I need to.

It'd be worth it, though. I've been able to leave a lot of the places I've visited feeling little urge to return. I've become the tourist equivalent of a speed-reader, usually taking in a region to my satisfaction in a couple days, but the ruins of Egypt demand a fair amount of time.

I might have been able to make it on the 5am – I don’t know. When I went to the check-in desk, the guy told me the plane had already left.

“Daylight savings. Didn’t you know?”

…no. I didn’t know. It happened while I was sitting in that chair 50 feet away. Windows XP is supposed to automatically adjust for that stuff. Way to go, Windows XP.

They put me on a flight leaving a few hours later through Aswan. I had to pay extra for it. The same thing happened this morning as I was heading back, and here I am in Aswan again. In five minutes I have to go to the check-in counter and see if they can get me on the night plane. If not, I guess I’m heading into town to find a bed.

Here’s hoping.