Valley of the Kings of the Open Road

There’s a special guilt that comes with whizzing past four centuries of history on a motorcycle. Maybe it’s because ancient Egypt always seems enveloped in mummies’ whispers. Maybe because here in Egypt, the tales of history still sound their hollow echo between temple columns older than Jesus.

But not this weekend. This weekend smelled like speed and went by just as fast.

I traveled with my friend Dave – we’re two Americans studying at the American University of Cairo, in Egypt We’re both doing the things Americans finally do since the Twin Towers fell: seriously study this area, this people, this language. What makes the Middle East tick? We’re finding out.

But not this weekend.

It’s nine hours up the Nile to Luxor, in Egypt’s south. Here is the home of the fantastic temples of Karnak and the ancient Egyptian capital of Thebes, where pharaoh after pharaoh attempted to one-up the previous king’s monuments to his own glory.

Just across the river lay the hills containing the Valley of the Kings: home to the celebrated monarchs of old: Rameses II, King Tut, Thutmosis III. The whole gang lay buried within a stone’s throw of each other. The days only their tombs remain, the mummies either destroyed in the past or in present-day museums.

After a day in Luxor’s east bank – Luxor temple, Karnak’s Amun-Re temple – we hard-bargained a ride on a “felucca,” the triangular-sailed boats that have plied the Nile for centuries. Captain Sambol was our vessel’s master, but even the mighty captain couldn’t blow enough wind into our sails to fight the steady northward current of the Nile.

We drifted over to shore, only to be accosted by a surly man in a rowboat. Beer, he was selling. Ah, the joys of an Islamic country. After a bit of haggling, we continued to straggle up the Nile, Stella beers now firmly in-hand. The day winding down, we headed over to the west bank to bed down for the night.

The next day – the usual morning tea at the shop. But this day, something different: two motorcycles awaited us just outside – the results of a deal Dave had made with a random guy. Nothing official, mind you. “If the police ask, I’m just your friend,” he said, smiling nervously. We promised not to rat him out.

Here in Egypt, it’s not unusual for two men to ride one motorcycle – one driving and one holding on for dear life. It’s just practical. So the man was a bit confused when we insisted on one each. “No, no,” one said. “Your friend drive for awhile, then you drive. You take turns.”

Dave and I looked at each other. We both knew what each other were thinking. No way.
If we’re renting bikes, we both get our own. It’s the just way it’s done where we come from, and we were willing to plunk down the necessary cash,

After we embarrassing admitted that neither of us had ever ridden a motorcycle before, the man gave us a crash course in not crashing. He quickly realized we had more enthusiasm than ability, and worriedly cautioned us to go slow, for both our sakes and most importantly, the survival of his motorcycles. We promised to behave.

Minutes later we rumbled into a crowd of tourists in the parking lot next to the fabled Colossi of Memnon. The tourists looked at us, we looked at them. We weren’t one-bit jealous of their air-conditioned behemoth tour bus. I think I smelled their awe. It was probably just my own sweat.

For the rest of the day, we did the tourist thing: Medinat Habu, Hatshepsut’s temple, Valley of the Kings. I studied Egyptology last semester. I love this stuff. But even I quickly realized the motorcycles were slightly more fun than the temples of “big rocks,” as Dave called them, tongue firmly planted in his cheek.

As the sun dropped low in the sky, we cruised aimlessly, ending up on the road to Qena – 50 kilometers north of Luxor. The open road was anything but – chickens, children, pickups. The occasional donkey cart. It didn’t matter: riding was the joy, the rest was just distraction.

It got dark. It was getting late. With a touch of sadness, we turned around and headed back to Luxor, the beams of the setting sun on our backs. We were overdue returning the bikes. “Mish qwis,” the man said, “not good.” He demanded we pay more.

No way. Not this day. We had breathed exhaust fumes, held power in our hands; the wind on our cheeks had given us the world. For that day, for those hours, we – not the dead-and-gone-pharaohs – were gods.

No, we weren’t paying more.

Our kind doesn’t take that kind of lip from anyone.