As a schoolboy I was obsessed with ancient Egypt and the pharaohs. My great aim in life was to go to Cairo, and travel up the Nile and visit the site of Tel el Amarna, the capital city of Akhenaten. I dont know what I expected to find nearly 3,500 years later, but what I did find was rather a shock.
I looked out of the train window. There was nothing there. A few huts, the regulation cluster of palm trees, and miles and miles of desert. In the distance to the east was a line of cliffs.
I stood in the dust. Behind me was the river. I walked to the bank of the Nile, and looked up and down. There was nothing to see. What did I expect? Three and a half thousand years ago there was a new city built here with a complicated docking area operating on two levels. There were granaries for storing the corn. Where on earth did they get the corn? There was nowhere to grow anything. Was it fertile all those years ago?
I have for years read voraciously about the man who created this city, who created a new way of life, who created the first modern religion, not based upon fear and superstition. Here was the centre of his empire, and yet now there is nothing here to see of that world. There is absolutely nothing to show that this spot was where art blossomed in an amazing abundance, that culture bloomed, that thought was freed from the tyranny of religion. Human kind could have started a new chapter in history if only the iron fist of religion hadn't ruthlessly stamped it out.
It was here that Pharaoh sent out letters to his subject citizens that they should come and share the bounty of his stewardship in times of famine. It was here that the jews descended in what they called their exodus, and they were fed until the good times returned. And their thanks was a stream of invective against some supposed evil tyrant. I had read the Amarna letters in the British Museum welcoming the jews to share in the stored food in the great storerooms. This is where they were written. This was the centre of that great empire on which the sun touched with its hands every soul in the kingdom. This was the hub of an empire that lasted barely thirty years, and then wasted away, and Egypt sank lower and lower into a religious barbarism, until it ceased to exist in any important sense at all.
It was an object lesson in politics. The good do not survive. The fierce tyrants are the ones who survive, usually backed by a ruthless religion.
I turn round to face the village. There are two dozen children around me all calling for baksheesh. There are a couple of men standing on the edge of the group watching. Perhaps I am the first visitor for a month. Maybe I am the first visitor for a year, or even more.
I walk up to the first man. I do have a working knowledge of Arabic so I can ask him where the ancient tombs are. He points to the cliffs to the east.
"Is there nothing here? No buildings left?"
He shakes his head. "Nothing. You have to go to the hills. There are caves."
"Caves? No tombs?"
"There are no tombs here."
"Are there pictures in the caves?"
He smiles. "There are many pictures."
It's my turn to smile. This is really what I've come for, to see those amazing life-like pictures, where the sun shines above the prodigal fields, and the sun's rays end in hands touching the corn, and the people tilling the fields.
I start to walk towards the cliffs. They are a long way away. The man stops me. "Wait. I get you a donkey."
I sit under a tree. Someone brings me a drink of asir. It is crushed sugar cane. It tastes dusty but cold.
The children bustle round me looking in my bag, touching my clothes, grinning at me with mouths only half filled with teeth. Eventually the man with the donkey arrives, and my great trek into the past can start.
I am half a mile out from the village before I realise that this has turned into some kind of epic trail. I wish I had a movie camera. Most of the villagers have come along for the ride. There are two dozen children. One carries my bag, another carries my typewriter, a third carries my camera, a fourth carries my backgammon board.
We are indeed a caravanserai trekking across the desert. I am the only one riding. I look around at my camp followers. There are the children carrying my goods. There is the old man leading the donkey. There are at least three guides all intent on showing the way despite the fact that the way is blatantly obvious. They even stop every couple of hundred yards to argue about the best route to take. The rest of us patiently wait while this charade is acted out with all due seriousness, and then, when the obvious conclusion is reached, we all trudge forward until the next decision time.
At the back of the caravan is a group of woman all dressed in brightly coloured saris. I wrongly assumed they had come simply out of curiosity.
We crossed the level sands until we reached the bottom of the cliffs. There I dismounted, and the guides showed me the way up the cliffs to the mouth of a cave. There was a metal door across the mouth, and a little man sat by the side. He got up to greet me and we began a typically Egyptian pantomime.
Farouk had already taught me how to deal with difficult people.
"You must remember that for most people any transaction is a form of entertainment. It is also a game and you have to show you can play the game well.
I had been doing a bit of practising. It was fun. I am ready.
I start by explaining that I am a great fan of the pharaoh Akhenaten, and that I have come all the way from London especially to see the paintings in the custodian's cave. I am sure to make the point that it is his cave and not just any cave.
Then comes the first sticking point. He gives me a big smile. "You are most welcome. Please can you show me your ticket."
"Ticket? What ticket?"
"Everyone must have a ticket to view the paintings."
"But I dont have a ticket."
Another sweet smile. "Then, sir, I am sorry, but I cannot show you the paintings. I am the custodian. I must look after the paintings and I cannot let anybody inside without an official ticket."
"But I tell you I have come all the way from London just to see these paintings."
"I am sorry. I cannot help you."
"Where am I supposed to buy a ticket? Can you sell me a ticket?"
"No sir, I cannot sell you a ticket. You must buy a ticket from the ticket office at the museum of antiquities in Cairo."
"Cairo! But Cairo is hundreds of miles away. I cant get a ticket from Cairo."
"I am sorry, but without a ticket I cannot let you in."
I am about to lose my temper, but I turn and look back across the sand towards the village. My guides are back down with the rest of my entourage at the bottom of the rocks. It looks as if they are all settling down to a picnic. Losing my temper is not an option. I have to find a way round this.
I thought he would have been keen to sell me a ticket. He probably keeps all the genuine tickets and resells them whenever there is a new visitor. So why doesn't he sell me a ticket?
I think about this for a while. Maybe there are no visitors. Maybe nobody comes all this way just to look in a cave.
"Look. See all the people from the village who have come to help me see the treasures. I have to pay them all. I pay the children to carry my belongings. I pay for the donkey. I pay for the guides. But…." I have to get this right. I think for a moment, struggling with the arabic words. "But…. you know who is the most important man here?"
He is looking at me, but he doesn't say anything.
"The most important man here," I repeat, so he cant possibly miss the point, "is the man who holds the key."
He smiles. "But you need a ticket."
I am stunned. I was convinced he'd fall for the line I'd spun. I walk back to the edge of the rocks, and look out across the sea of sand. What am I supposed to do? Come on Farouk, tell me. What's the key to this?
I stand for a while thinking for a way round this impasse. The custodian has nothing to do. He sees no-one all day. Now he has half the village out here at his feet.
"When was the last time someone came here to look at the paintings?"
He shrugs. "Maybe last month. Maybe the month before."
“Maybe never”, I mutter to myself in English.
"Right. I shall go back to London and tell them about the reception I have received here in this miserable village." And I stomp back down to the group. I call for my donkey, mount, and instruct the man to take me back to the village.
It was only when we'd gone about two hundred yards that I was roused by a shout from behind. The donkey stopped, his owner turned him round, and there started part two of this particular play.
I looked back up to the cave. The old man was shouting to me. The words came crisp and clear across the space. "I have an important task. It is not my fault my instructions are to let no-one in without a ticket."
I notice that no-one else has moved. My entourage is still at the base of the cliffs. They look to be having lunch. Obviously we have only just played out act one of a three or even four act drama.
I spread my arms wide, and shrug.
The guardian is shouting again. I turn to the donkey man. "What is he saying?"
"He asks you to come back and share some lunch with him as you have come so far."
Aha! We have a bit of a breakthrough. But hold on, not so fast.
"Tell him I have a train to catch, but I thank him for his kind offer."
There is more shouting.
"He says there is no train for another six hours."
"Is that true?"
"Yes, it is true."
"Then tell him I cannot take his food. He will need it for himself, and I have nothing to offer to share with him"
The shouting went backwards and forwards for a few more minutes, until I thought it prudent to ask the donkey man. "Should I accept?"
"Yes sir, it would be good for you."
"Okay, take me back again." And we plod back to the group of picnickers, and I climb back up to the cave entrance.
We greet each other like long lost brothers, and he invites me to share a cup of tea with him, and we sit there chatting erratically for half an hour before I get up to go. I thank him profusely and tell him how much I have enjoyed our chat.
He smiles. "Before you go, would you like to see the paintings?"
I smile back at him, and clap him on the shoulder. "I would love to see the paintings but I don't want to get you into trouble."
He comes up close to me. "No-one will know. It will be a secret." And he grins at me and gets out the key.
He opens up the cave and in we go. It is pitch black.
"But how am I going to see the paintings?" I bleat.
"The Israelis have bombed our country."
"Yes but we are miles from….." I hastily stop. I was going to say we were miles from anywhere but realise just in time that would be regarded as an insult. "…..I mean, where is the electricity?"
"It is the war, The Israeli's want to stop us. They want to rule us. They bomb our electricity. They damage the dam. They think that way they will win. But they wont take our country. Never."
"Damn the Israelis!" I shout.
"Yes, damn them."
"But how am I to see the paintings?"
The guide fumbles in his djellaba, and brings out a box of matches. He strikes a match, and we peer at a picture, and the match goes out. He strikes another and we peer again till the match goes out.
"This is ridiculous. Have you no lamp?"
"I have a lamp somewhere here," he mutters, and strikes another match.
Ten minutes later he has finally unearthed the lamp, and with much pushing of the piston has got the pressure up and we have quite a bright blaze.
Together we walk around the cave admiring the paintings. They are wonderful, some still bright. They are rich beyond my wildest dreams. And as I sit on the donkey going back to the village, with the rest of the caravan following me this time, I feel like Livingstone in Central Africa with his bearers, and felt that I had been privileged to discover anew something really amazing from the incredibly distant past. I had actually seen with my own eyes the works of one of my great heroes.
Back in the village I pay off the bearers, donkey man and the guides, smile sweetly at the camp followers, embrace the donkey man and the main guide, and with protestations of undying friendship I catch the next train out of Tel el Amarna.
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