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and began breathing heavily. Exasperated, I reached into my pocket and grabbed another pound note and forced it into his hand before stomping away. The guide counted the money, smiled, and yelled “Thanks, man!” I am now convinced that Herodotus visited Egypt. And he probably had a local guide, perhaps a direct descendant of my “well-informed” escort.
    Shaking my head in disbelief at the performance I had just witnessed, I continued to walk about the area as the late afternoon brought cooler temperatures. It was a Friday, the weekly day of rest, and there were many Egyptian families sitting around the base of the pyramids enjoying picnics, music, and dancing with their friends. An uneventful taxi ride returned me to Garden City House and thus ended my first of many unforgettable days in a land that had filled my dreams for years.
    Because the Fayyum expedition wouldn’t be assembling for departure until Sunday, I had a second free day to spend as I pleased, and I wanted to see the Giza Plateau yet again, vowing that I would not be misled or otherwise relieved of my money. This time I took the bus, which was far cheaper and an adventure in and of itself. It deposited me close enough to my destination, and I walked up the hill to the pyramids’ plateau, where the daily routines were already in progress. Turbaned heads popped up over walls and inquired about my desire for a camel, the clandestine postcard boy was making his rounds, and the cola-vending children were filling their buckets with warm bottles from the back of an old truck.
    A ticket is required to go inside the pyramids, and as I approached the sales kiosk, I noticed a young English couple negotiating for an educational tour with my guide from the previous day. “Don’t bother,” I informed them. “He has no authority here, no keys to anything, and he doesn’t know a thing. You’re better off reading your guidebook.” At this the guide became extremely angry, cursed vulgarly in English, and stalked off in a rage.
    I purchased my ticket and approached the steps to a tunnel that led into the Great Pyramid. There a guard directed me inside through a crude passageway that led to an ascending ramp. The tunnel had been carved by early treasure seekers, who forced their way through stone blocks until they intersected an interior feature.It has since become the most common means of entering the structure. As I learned from many subsequent visits, the ascent through the galleries to the burial or “King’s” chamber can be relatively simple or quite hellish, depending on the number of tourists. The interior can be sweltering from the humidity brought on by the accumulation of human breath and perspiration, and certain passageways require one to bend over while descending groups pass by. The uncomfortable and variable climes mean that few people stay in the pyramid for long.
    The King’s Chamber is an incredible, smooth-walled granite room, empty except for a large stone sarcophagus. The body of Cheops likely lay here over several millennia ago, but, as is the case with all known Egyptian pyramids, his mummy never survived despite the incredible efforts to secure it for eternity.
    The chamber is a draw for various and sundry New Age metaphysical persuasions, and their numbers can sometimes be seen wielding dowsing rods or pendulums in search of some sort of truth. Others come to meditate, to chant, or to “absorb the vibrations” there. Fortunately, pyramid explorers of any stripe were few during my initial visit, but I nonetheless left the pyramid drenched with sweat, thankful to be cooled by the light breezes outside. In moments it was time to run the gauntlet of vendors and camels again.
    My second day in Egypt was as wonderful as the first, but carefree pyramid viewing was coming to an end, at least for a while, as the Fayyum expedition was about to begin the very next day. It must be mentioned