Read Online Beneath the Sands of Egypt by PhD Donald P. Ryan - Free Book Online

clothing in a matter of minutes.
    As we arrived at our first destination, the guide said, “Well, here it is, the Chephren Pyramid, built by King Chephren. Come, I’ll show you the palace of Cheops.” He turned around and headedback across the sand in more or less the general direction of the Great Pyramid. I foolishly followed, the camel man once again trailing in my path.
    At a convenient little dune, the guide stopped and pulled something “very old” from his robe. It was obviously a very cheap modern scarab—an amulet in the shape of a beetle—of the sort that are manufactured en masse for pennies apiece. “Special price for you, meester! America and Egypt, good friends. Look! Very, very old. For you? Fifty dollars!” I laughed and told him it was an obvious fake.
    â€œI’m an archaeologist,” I explained. “I study this kind of stuff!”
    â€œThen you know it’s old!” he replied. Not receiving the desired response, he continued his “tour” across the desert. “How about this so-called Cheops palace?” I asked incredulously.
    â€œJust a moment,” said he as we approached a group of dilapidated stone buildings. “This is the place! And here is Cheops’s throne!” he exclaimed, pointing to a space on a low wall where several large stone bricks had been removed. “And over here is where Cheops ate his dinner every night, and if he wanted a drink of water, he came over here.” The guide walked about the ruined walls pantomiming the activities as he described them. “And over here is where the king washed his hands after eating,” he said, rubbing his hands together. I sat on Cheops’s “throne,” secretly enjoying the absurd antics, until I realized that we should see some of the nice smaller tombs before time ran out. “And let me show you Cheops’s bathroom,” he insisted. We rounded a corner to a small walled enclosure with dried human waste on the floor, obviously a latrine more recent than the time of Cheops. Sensing my frustration, the guide attempted to step over a low barbed-wire fence only to be rebuked by a cemetery guard.
    â€œWhat happened to all your keys?” I inquired.
    â€œThis cemetery is closed for restoration today. I will show youanother one.” We proceeded down a path on the eastern side of the pyramid, passing numerous tombs, some with gates and locks. “How about this tomb?” I asked.
    â€œAh, it is not possible. The tomb is still full of gold, and inside there is the mummy of a small child.” Of course this was just one of many excuses to disguise the fact that he possessed no keys whatsoever that would lead to anything of significance. A short distance further, we reached a small opening carved into the rock. “This is where they found the mummy of Rameses II. Take a look!” The tomb door was open, and its interior was full of modern rubbish, its ceilings and walls blackened by fire. Rameses II? Hardly likely! His mummy was actually discovered in the late 1800s in an amazing secret cache several hundred miles south of Giza!
    Enough was enough. It wasn’t worth debating the facts with my alleged guide. The novelty of this escapade had worn off, and I suggested that he be freed from his contract and that I would pay him. As I handed him two pounds along with a one-pound tip, he looked at the money and placed it back in my hands. “Seven pounds!” he yelled. I reminded him of our agreement, and he became furious. Seeing that I wasn’t about to budge in this matter, he mentioned that he had a number of hungry children at home. Still finding no response from me, he insisted that seven pounds was the minimum amount he was entitled to by law for his services and that my failure to pay him would result in my incarceration. I wasn’t buying it. He then threatened to call the police. As a last resort, he clutched his chest