The Sands of Time

I never liked tours and when I travel, I usually create my own. I write my itinerary each day, sometimes not knowing where I’ll stay until I arrive in a town or city late at night. Occasionally, I’ve done all-nighters in food stalls eating rice and veggies and drinking tea because the hotels were locked tight.

Alas, my trip to Egypt was a tour. It was a gift from an old friend. I’d always wanted to visit the ancient and mysterious land of pyramids and sand dunes and here was my opportunity. So even though it wasn’t my favorite milieu, I decided to take it. It was too good to pass up.

In Cairo we stayed at the Nile Hotel with a view of the Giza Pyramids. It was a bland sort of place with westernized versions of Egyptian food: foul, falafel, eggplant, and koshoury. .At dinner I sat listening to well proportioned sixtyish Americans talking about finagling good deals out of vendors in the gift shops for bronze-cast-iron statues of pharaohs—little did they know that those trinkets cost pennies to make and they were the ones who got taken.

The excursion the next day to the Cheops and Chephrin Pyramids and to the Sphinx was more of the same. After fighting traffic and standing in long lines, we listened to tour guides repeat meaningless facts about dynasties. A balding man from Philadelphia talk about how the cartouches on the walls would go well in the living room in his” walk-up”. The leader didn’t miss the opportunity to ask each of us for extra money, a common practice in Egypt. I knew I was about ready to blow . . . it was only a matter of time.

That evening I walked through Giza near the hotel. Vendors were selling prepared meals, fruit, coffee, and gift items from carts on the crowded streets. When I stopped to ask a question or buy something, the sellers would often ask, “What country are you from?” When I’d say America, they’d say, “We like Americans, but we don’t like your government. They want to tell us how to run our country and who to elect for president. The big countries should leave the small ones alone!”

The next day we planned to visit the camel markets about sixty kilometers outside of the city. Now this was something I was looking forward to—I loved animals and camels, of course, were Egypt. We arrived at the Sun Hotel at 6:45 am and took a caravan of mini-vans out of town.

It was a clear, cool spring day; just the kind of day that made you love being outdoors and glad you weren’t sequestered in your apartment in yet another spring snowstorm on the East Coast. We drove over a small ridge and there below us were hundreds of camels, goats, sheep and their keepers milling around an area about the size of four football fields. I could see that our guide was going to narrate the events like an announcer at a high school football game—time to take things into my own hands.

I saunter a few feet away from our group and slipped under the barrier rope while everyone was watching a bleating camel outrun its master. I wandered through the milling mass of animals and vendors. They kept their “merchandise” in pens or tethered together in small herds and then stood nearby telling prospective buyers about the qualities of the animals they were hawking. Like buyers of a cow at a cattle show or a used car off of a car lot, the customers downgraded the animals and made offers. Some of the animals sold for meat, such as goats and sheep, and were slaughter on the spot; a shocking scene if you hadn’t grown up on a farm or worked in a slaughterhouse.

Some of the negotiations turned quite heated—sometimes a client would stomp off. One of the transactions morphed into fisticuffs and the drawing of knives before other vendors subdued the pugilists. During my short stay in Egypt, I’d already learned that conflict was “business as usual” in the marketplace—one would see such rough and crude behavior on most any street in Cairo.

I ambled past a vendor who was friendly and spoke English. He was a Bedouin from the Western Desert who made the trip to the oasis for the camel sale once a week. He let me pet his camels and I immediately took a liking to a female called Tutu. She was well proportioned and her single hump stood particularly high. She had long, dark, silky blonde hair and long, supple eye lashes. When she looked at me, she seemed to have a sort of smile on her thin brown lips.

The vendor Abdoule said his camels sold for about 2100 Egyptian Pounds ($300 U.S.) and some went for a little more. When I asked him what one could do with a camel at this time of year, he said, “A camel can easily trek from one oasis to another without water.” He knew I was with the tour group, but jokingly said, “If you buy Tutu, you can travel with me from camel market to camel market. When you grow tired of the lifestyle, you could always sell her for more then you paid.”

Since I was ready for an adventure and ready to break away from my group, I said, “If you’ll take $300 U.S. dollars—I don’t have enough pounds with me—I’ll take her.”

“It’s a deal!” We shook hands, both of us with smiles on our faces.

I had made two friends, Tutu and Abdoule. And more importantly, I’d escaped another twelve deadly days on that tour. If worse came to worse, I could hook up with my group at the airport for my return flight.

It was best that I was out of Cairo and other large cities in Egypt because of the revolution and the imminent presidential elections. There had been on-going demonstrations—many of them violent. And there had been attacks on tourist such as the bombing of a tour bus near Dehab. One could tell the state of things by looking at the government buildings—literally all of them were protected by barbed wire, tanks, and truckloads of soldiers or police. There had even been the kidnapping of a few tourists.

To return order to the country, the courts had condemned 512 demonstrators to death for killing policemen and four times that amount to long prison sentences for breaking into buildings and destroying property. The presidential elections were due in a few days and the US and other foreign governments were warning that violence would likely increase when the elections were over.

I sent a cab driver to my hotel to retrieve my small piece of luggage and then wondered around the camel market for a few hours. When the vendors began to close up, I helped Abdoule pack his things. We headed west out of the market, past clusters of settlements, through fields of truck crops of lettuce, tomatoes, squash, and finally through groves of oranges, apricots, and various agricultural concerns. For this was the delta, roughly five percent of Egypt’s total land mass. It had access to water for irrigation, so every inch of it was used to grow crops and generate a living.

Inevitably, we came to the desert . . . “the wasteland” as the Egyptians called it. We followed a path over a semi hard surface, which eventually gave way to the sand dunes. I asked Abdoule how he knew where to go when there was no trail and no landmarks, only sand.

“Instinct.”

For several hours, we continued to trek over the dunes. Then the wind picked up. Abdoule was telling me about his family—he had three sons and four daughters and three wives. Two of his sons had moved to Cairo to study and were now working as engineers for large international companies. One daughter was in Cairo studying “media”. The rest of his children lived at home and attended public schools. He said that some of them accompanied him on his camel selling excursions when they were on vacation.

He pontificated on the custom of multiple wives, “In the Arab world, the younger generation is abandoning the custom primarily out of necessity—they can’t afford to support a large family and several spouses. In fact in Cairo, the cost of living is so prohibitive that young men wait well into their thirties and forties before marrying. They must first buy or rent an apartment which they will occupy with their family for the remainder of their lives.

The wind continued to increase and Abdoule got a worried look on his face. The 500,000 Bedouin in the desert live a different life from those in the city and many continue the tradition of having more than one wife. This may be a Simoon.”

I said, “A what?” with a puzzled look on my face.

A Simoon, a deadly windstorm . . . they blow so fiercely across the open desert that they can smother and bury a man and his camels resulting in death.

“They usually arrive in the spring or fall and always come from the south. The wind storms move in fast and the sky turns a violet opaque color. The air is hot and dry—so hot they you feel as if you’re in an oven. The dry air sears the lungs and draws out the moisture resulting in suffocation. The only way to survive is to cover your mouth with a wet cloth and to cover the camels with tarps. The camels instinctively bury their noses in the sand to protect themselves. When the storm is over, your only hope is that all is not buried too deeply, so you can dig out from so many tons of sand.

We dismounted and crouched ourselves and the camels behind several tall dunes, then covered everything with large tapestries Abdoule had bought for his wives. The wind got no worse, however, and after a half-hour, Abdoule signaled that we could continue our journey.

We traveled on for several more hours through the dunes. Then, off in the distance I began to see images of something dark . . . it would come and go . . . I thought it was a mirage until he said, “Our oasis—it is not far now.”

As we neared the settlement, I could see small square and rectangular structures made of grey and brown blocks scattered among the palm trees and occasional bougainvilleas. Near the center of the oasis was a sort of meadow of waist high grass.

Two children—a boy and a girl—came running towards us shouting in Arabic. She jumped into the air and flew in Abdoule’s arms; he swung her around in a circle while hugging her. Then a parade of dogs, chickens, and cats emerged from a home to meet us.

The boy asked, “Who is this?”

“This is Ken. He’s my American friend. He bought a camel and will travel with me. He will stay with us tonight. Ken this is Mohammed and Aya. ”

I said, “Mahabba,” arabic for hello. They laughed.

We entered the rectangular concrete structure with a black and white striped tent attached to the side of it. A woman in a heavy blouse, a sweater, a black skirt, and a scarf covering her hair greeted us. She was about thirty and quite pretty. There were two other women in the room—one was sitting at a rectangular wooden table cutting up vegetables and the other was weaving on a loom in a far corner of the room.

“Ken, My wives, Misa, Heli, and Deca.”

“Mahabba,” I said.

Deca, the youngest one said, “Hello, how are you.” Everyone laughed.

Abdoule and I sat at the table and were immediately served tea and the traditional meal of foul, eggplant, and flat bread.

A group of children surrounded me . . . some leaning on my arms and chair when Deca began asking me about my life and visit to Egypt. The children listened wide-eyed and laughed and giggled when I answered. Deca interpreted for them.

After a while, we settled down to eating our meal. Then I began asking questions. “I saw cars and trucks parked outside many of the homes. There is even one outside of yours. Do people still use camels for their day to day lives?”

Abdoule said, “Life is changing among my people. Although many still wonder the desert on camels, make their own clothes, and live the simple life, more and more of us are driving cars and using cell phones and other modern conveniences. We drive into the cities to buy the articles from the department stores and malls or trade for what we need. Some of us even work jobs. Then the children, when they are older, want to move away to the city to find work and get married. Life is easier that way. The desert is a harsh place and offers little in resources. It is only because of necessity that my people have survived in it for so long.

“Tomorrow we go to sell camels. It is Saturday, so the children will join us.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

I woke to the sound of chanting on the Muezzin at 4:30 am, the loud speaker that shouts out the prayers and chants outside every mosque in Muslim countries. Abdoule and his family prayed while I went outdoors to use the facilities. I cleaned up and shaved with a washcloth and a small bowl of water. The children were still asleep and Heli had to prod them several times to get up. She said, “Once they get going they’re fine. But they’ll sleep until noon if I don’t wake them.”

While we were eating, I asked Hela about weddings in Egypt. I told her that in Cairo I’d seen processions of cars with honking horns with their lights on. Draped on the hood of the first car, occupied with the bride and groom, were magnificent flower bouquets—exactly like weddings in the U.S.

She said Egypt is a traditional country. “The families choose the brides and grooms for their children, although sometimes when students go to the universities, they fall in love and find their own spouses. Weddings are usually held in the homes of one of the families and men from the mosque preside over the ceremonies. Celebrations last for three days. There are cakes and eating and dancing. Then the husband and wife go on a honeymoon.”

“Three days. That’s much more involved that what we do in the States. Weddings last part of a day and well into the night.”

“How about funerals in your country?”

Misa answered this one—a very sad time with tears in her eyes. I lost my mother last year.”

As we were getting ready to go, Deca caught Abdoule by the arm and said, “I’ve got to run out to my parents to help with a minor emergency. Could I get you to stop by the outdoor market to pick up a side of mutton and some vegetables?”

Abdoule said, “Of course, my love,” and he kissed her. “It will give me a chance to show our guest the bazaar.”

On the edge of the meadow sat a dozen large multicolored umbrellas to protect people from the sun. Vendors sold fruit (oranges, bananas, apricots, watermelons, mangos, tangerines) vegetables, (squash, white and sweet potatoes, green peppers, and an assortment of greens), meat, dried beans, and grains. Other vendors sold kitchen utensils, gadgets, spices, bottled water, soap, and beauty products. There was constant chattering and several of the vendors were boisterous and forceful in their negotiations. It seemed that except for the wearing of western clothing, the scene could have taken place in the oasis 2000 years ago.

I stopped to buy an apple for one Egyptian Pound ($.12 U.S.). The seller said, “An American . . . an American,” in a loud voice that resounded throughout the oasis. He kept repeating it as I walked away.

We loaded our camels and set out on our journey with Mohammed and Aya, the two children, in tow.

Abdoule said, “We have a four hour ride to the oasis.”

“I like your family . . . your children are lively, but not wild.”

“We raise them differently now. In the past, the women stayed with her family away from others for most of their lives. The girls had the “operation” when they were entering puberty, so they lived life as duty, not seeking pleasure. But today women mix with other men and woman in the villages or even travel on their own or with friends to the towns and cities. And the young ones move away to study and work. During the Presidency of Muburrak, public open shifted againstst the “operation”. Now, more and more women are left to seek their own pleasure.

The children were talking and pointing behind us. When I looked, I saw camels and men approaching. Abdoule said, “More camel traders.”

Two men, wearing gallabiyyas the long white tunic worn by men with a head covering, were in the lead followed by six camels and two teenage boys. When they caught up with us, they greeted Abdoule. The two boys moved up behind Mohammed and Aya. Suddenly, the menl raised AK-47 automatic assault rifles from the far sides of their camels and pointed them at us while the boys behind Mohammed and Aya did the same.

The leader said, “So you have an American with you?”

Abdoule calmly said, “My friend is an American, yes. But I advise you to leave us alone. He has connection with the American government and if he disappears, there will be a search.”

“We will see.”

Abdoule said to me in English, “Do what they tell you to do.” Then to the men he said, “What do you want?”

“We want hostages. Our people have been suppressed long enough! They live like animals in Cairo and the big cities—fighting in bread lines for enough to eat, prostrating themselves in front of businessmen and tourists for a few pounds, crowding into over-priced rooms or sleeping on the streets for a place to live. The military candidate will win the election and will rule like Mubarrak, sucking the people dry and holding onto office even when he looses elections. We will not let it happen again.”

“Abdoule said to his children, “Mohammed, Aya, do what they say and they will not harm you.”

I said to Abdoule, “Tell them that I will go with them and do what they want. Ask them to let you and your family go.”

“But you will be worse off if you are alone.”

“Abdoule, your family needs you and you are of no value to these men. They want an American hostages, so they can negotiate for money or the release of prisoners or some other prize.”

“OK, I’ll tell them.” He conversed with the leader for several minutes. There was arguing back and forth.

Finally he said to me, “They agreed, but they said to me, “We know where you live, if you tell the police, we will strip you and your family naked and tie you out in the desert to let the sun and jackals kill you.. He looked at me with a gleam in his eyes. “Don’t worry, I know what to do. Everything will be alright.”

The two men tied my hands in front of me and led me west off the path across the dunes. At least I still had one friend with me; I was riding Tutu. I followed behind the two men, in front of the leader of the band. It was a long silent trek over flat, yellow dunes. The wind tugged at my clothes and the sun burnt down on my face and neck and hands. After a while, I fell asleep with my head resting on my chest.

After an interminable amount of time, someone shook me. When I woke, the man cut the ropes on my hands and pulled on me to signal that I must dismount. We’d reached a rise near a cluster of huge boulders . The man tied a rope to a belt loop on my pants and pulled. I followed. We wove in among the boulders and then entered a doorway hewn out of the rock like the entrance to a gold mine.

We walked down a narrow corridor with worn, ancient Egyptian paintings on the walls. We were entering an ancient tomb. The walkway slanted downward to an anteroom and then opened up into a large room approximately eight by eight meters and two meters high. Two men dressed in dirty Gallabiyyas were sitting at a table in the far corner playing dominoes. In the opposite corner were two young women—one white and one black—who looked like tourists captured on their “spring break”.

The men who brought me in probably said something like this in Arabic, “We’ve got another one for you. Where do you want him?”

“Tie his hands and feet and put him with the others.”

When I walked towards the women, the black one put her tied hands to her lips as if to say, “Shhhh, the captors don’t want us to talk.”

I smiled and mouthed while pointing to myself, “American.”

She responded, “British.”

The two men who had brought me, departed and the guards at the table continued to play dominoes. Occasionally, they brought a bucket with a ladle and gave us some water. They were reluctant to take us outside to relieve ourselves, but they had no choice—not if they wanted to sit in a pleasant smelling room.

I dozed on and off and at some point woke when someone put a hand on my shoulder. It was dark and I couldn’t see who it was. The woman whispered in my ear, “We were taken while we were walking along a deserted beach near Marsa Matrouh, a town on the Mediterranean Sea. We’ve been here two days. We’re archaeologists doing preparation for an excavation next spring.”

I told her about my capture and asked, “What do they plan to do with us?”

“I’m Katie and this is Kathy.”

“I’m Jackson.”

“I don’t think they plan on putting us up at the Ritz Carlton. She thinks they want to keep us as insurance to get what they want. They’re planning on taking over something or capturing something we’re not sure what. Kathy understands some Arabic, so she’s trying to figure out what they’re up to.”

“Any chance of escape?”

“Most of the time it’s just those two—except for when their buddies come into camp. But then how do we cut the ropes, get out of here with the two men watching us, and make our way in the desert on foot?”

“It seemed like it was a four hour ride on camelback from the caravan trail and two more hours to the oasis. It’s possible we could make it with a little luck.”

“Yea, devine intervention.”

“If we could get our hands and feet free, we could sneak out when they’re asleep like they are now. Perhaps they’ve left a couple camels outside.”

“Or maybe a Toyota four by four pickup truck with the keys in the ignition.”

“Once I was capture, I watched the sun. We seemed to be traveling directly west. So if we head east, we’d reach the trail. How is your sense of direction?”

“Kathy’s done lots of wilderness training. She could lead us.”

“If worse comes to worse we could hide in the dunes until sunrise and then walk towards the rising sun.”

“I’ll tell Kathy.”

I began working on my bindings—they were tied tight, but there was a little give when I moved my wrists. I chewed on the rope for a while, but that didn’t seem to work. Then I tried moving my wrists back and forth to stretch the bindings—they gave slightly but not enough to slip a hand free.

In the morning, I looked around the room for sharp objects I could commandeer while walking outside to relieve myself. I had seen them throw empty tin cans in a trash container near the entrance. Perhaps I could create a diversion and pick one up.

Now that it was light and I was over the shock of being captured, I noticed the room. The walls were covered with worn paintings, probably 6th Dynasty—scenes of food: fish, bread, meat, grain, fruit, and vegetables—items the occupants of the tomb were purported to take with them for sustenance in the after life. On one wall was a beautiful pond with images of a husband and a wife pulling in fish they had caught in a net. Yes, this was most likely a burial chamber.

There was another opening in the wall adjacent to where the men sat. One of the men would leave and return with artifacts in his arms. He would then take them out the main entrance, probably to pack and store them. They were looting another burial chamber in this ancient tomb.

I planned it all out while I was walking outside on a restroom break; when we returned, I would stop to tie my shoe near the trash bag and reach over and grab a tin can, then stuff it under my shirt. When I tried the maneuver, however, the guard immediately pushed me from behind with the barrel of his rifle and he said, “Get up.” I did as I was told.

I didn’t see any camels (or Toyota 4x4’s with the keys in them), so we would have to walk if we escaped. However, there were several six liter containers of water near the door along with a large cloth sack filled with Egyptian flat bread—supplies we could use if we escaped.

When we returned from our break, one of the men laid down against a wall and slept while the other one kept guard. Then he dozed. While they slept, Katie, the black girl, backed up against me and put her hands against mine—she had something sharp—it felt like a piece of glass. She whispered, “Kathy found it in the sand. Shall we leave tonight?”

“Yes.” I mentioned the water and bread and that it would be enough to get us to an oasis.

She said, “Have you noticed that the one guard keeps going through the side door and then returning with his arms full of ancient statues and pots? We think this is an unexcavated site.”

“You’re welcome to stay and offer your archaeological service to these fine fellows, but I think I’ll make my exit as soon as I can.“

“No, we’re with you. As soon as it’s dark and they’re asleep, we’ll cut our bindings and pass the piece of glass to you.”

“Agreed. We’ll need to leave quickly and silently with a short stop at the door for supplies.”

The ladies were more anxious to go than I thought. As soon as the guards were snoring, Katie cut my bindings and we were out the door with two bottles of water and the sack of bread.

* * *

We made our way through the boulders and into the dunes in what Kathy thought was a easterly direction. We traveled well off the trail to avoid our pursuers. A strong breeze covered our tracks with sand. There was no moon and the stars in the crystal clear sky were as bright as beacons to light our way. Kathy used the North Star to plot our course. It was breezy and cool, a perfect night for an escape.

Kathy said, “I finally figured out what the brotherhood has planned. Since they believe that the election will not bring democracy and the way of life they desire, they want to take over a huge section of the desert from the Mediterranean Coast at Marsa Matrouh to the Libyan border and all the way south to Aswan. They will call it Sudesia.”

Katie said, “Dream on. A daring bold plan that will fall flat on its face. Egypt has been surrounded by enemies and violence for sixty years. It has a strong military with jets and tanks and thousands of soldiers. Just let those “scum” try it.”

“Their plan seems to involve capturing key government, tourist, and international personalities to use as shields to prevent military attacks.”

“Israel has the right strategy for dealing with hostage situations: they send in sharp shooters and assault teams no matter how many hostages are taken.”

Kathy said, “An excellent strategy as long as you’re not one of the hostages.”

I said, “At any rate, we not only have our own lives at stake, but those of other tourists and high ranking officials. We may be the only ones who know about this scheme.”

Kathy said, “Your right—we have a responsibility to get word to the authorities.”

“Kath, did they say who they are planning to kidnap?”

“They talked about hotels in Giza—those are the high priced “jobbies” where the wealthy tourists stay. Then they mentioned embassies: U.S., German, British, French. And of course they included the current political candidates.”

I said, “It’s going to be a real mess if they aren’t stopped.”

Katie said, “I think we should travel all night and stay off the main trails.”

I said, “Agreed. Let’s keep an eye out for trails, lights, and any evidence of people. Maybe we’ll get lucky. If things go as planned, we could reach an oasis as soon as dawn.”

We redoubled our efforts to find a trail, stopping every now and then to get down on hands and knees and inspect the ground. It was better to take extra time to find the trail than to miss it and have to backtrack. It was only a matter of time before our pursuers noticed we were gone. They had cell phones, too, so they could call for backup.

We continued waking through the night, frequently stopping because the water jugs were heavy and the effort of climbing up and down over the dunes was tiring.“

The environment contributed to the fatigue and stress of the journey. There is something about the vast, empty, barren desert that speaks to a man or woman’s soul. I felt it after only spending a short time on the trail. The emptiness becomes a mirror to your being that brings forth a feeling of sadness and desolation. I constantly longed for a tropical jungle, a mountain forest, a beautiful garden of plants and flowers— grass, birds, insects and animals, streams and lakes and ponds—the rich variation of life on this earth.

Katie said, “Is that the dawn I see lightening the sky?”

Kathy said, “Perhaps so.”

“If that’s true, we may have passed the trail. We left the tomb at 9:00 pm and it’s now 6:00 am. That’s nine hours. I didn’t think the walk to the trail would take us that long.”

“Yes, it’s dawn, I’m sure of it. At least we’ve been heading in the right direction. Let’s keep walking for a little while. If we don’t see a path soon, we’ll have to turn around.”

Katie said, “I’m worried about spending the day on the dunes—exposure to the hot midday sun and wind could incapacitate us in a few hours.”

I said, “If we have to, we can rest in the shade of the dunes and make a sort of protective cover with our bread bag or gunny sack. If worse comes to worse, we could burry ourselves to stay cool and keep off the sun.”

“You mean dig our own graves.”

Kathy said, “Negative, negative, my dear. Don’t worry, we’re more than half way there.”

As it got lighter and the sun began to rise, it was like watching a movie go from black and white to color. The horizon became a streak of pink then changed into yellow mirroring the ubiquitous sand dunes. Welcome sights. Now we were examining every stone for signs of a trail and human occupation. Katie sidestepped what looked like a rock and kicked it— it was a crushed soda pop can.”

Kathy said, “Let’s scour the area.”

We found nothing more and continued walking. Soon, however, we came to a distinct trail over hard packed soil—we saw camel prints, spoor, and bits of trash. We turned north and after a short distance, moved into the dunes and walking parallel to the path to avoid being seen by possible pursuers.

We had been running on fear and adrenalin. Now, lifted by hope, we redoubled our efforts. We would keep going until we got to an oasis or collapsed from fatigue. At 9:00 am, it was getting hot. At 11:00, the heat was unimaginable—I felt like I was swimming in a dry furnace; the heat was so concentrated and severe that I was sure it would float me up into the sky like a hot air balloon.

Katie wanted to stop and wait for nightfall, but Kathy said, “I have a feeling we’re almost at our destination. Let’s keep going as long as we can.”

Now we were stopping every few minutes. Katie fell onto her knees and refused to go on. Kathy and I helped her to her feet and rested some of her weight on our shoulders. At noon, the heat was in full force and the wind picked up. We were ready to quit and began looking for a place to spend the afternoon.

Kathy pointed and said, “Is that one of the rebels following us?”

I saw a vague outline in the distance moving towards us, “Let’s hide behind these dune.”

We waited for perhaps ten minutes, and then peaked our heads over the top of the hill. Standing above us was a camel. It had a tall hump and thin, brown lips; I knew it was Tutu! We crowded around her showering her with petting and love. She too had been able to foil the revolutionaries.

We helped Katie onto the camel’s back and walked on for another hour.

I noticed something ahead. Is that the proverbial mirage, or perhaps . . . . “

Another ten minutes brought us to Abdoule’s oasis. I hated to bother him after the threat that was made by the captors towards his family. Nonetheless, I thought that explaining our situation and getting his help would be much more expedient that knocking on someone’s door and reciting our situation in a language that the residents did not understand.

My heart sank when I saw that Abdoule’s pick up truck was gone, He had probably taken his family away to protect them. I knocked on the door anyway. Someone shouted from inside, “Mohammed, go away, I don’t want to talk about it any more.” He obviously thought we were a neighbor. I knocked again. Abdoule opened the door and peaked out. He opened it again and stared wide eyed at us, “Jackson!” He pulled me inside and motioned for the others to follow. “Allah be praised.”

He brought us water then fruit and Koshoury, then the traditional Egyptian dish of rice, noodles, lentils, and onions while we told him our story. Kathy held a glass to Katie’s lips, for by this time, she was nearly unconscious. We emphasized that we were probably being chased by the terrorists and they could arrive any minute.

“After the threat, I sent my family away in the truck to Dehab on the Sinai to stay with my wife’s sister’s family. I called the police, but they wanted to wait twenty-four hours before they began a costly search in the desert.”

“I will leave my camels with my brother and borrow his truck, then we will drive into Cairo for help.” He brought us traditional clothes to disguise ourselves in, black abbayas that covered the face and body for the women, and a gallayiyyas and headdress for me. He covered his own head to disguise his appearance. He said, “I will return with the vehicle in a few minutes.“

Katie slowly recovered and was able to walk haltingly on her on. We heard a truck pull up; it was just what we needed, a Toyota 4x4 with a roll bar and a double row of seats. In a few minutes, we were speeding across the oasis and pulling onto the main highway that would takes us into Cairo.

The road was a two-lane thoroughfare. Abdoule drove at a good pace, but not recklessly to attract attention. We were about thirty miles from the city, a forty-five minute drive without traffic. Unfortunately, traffic in Cairo is the worst in the world, bar none (London, Beijing, New York City, Los Angeles are nothing in comparison), so we expected horrendous delays as soon as we neared the city. After an hour, it looked like we were home free. Then a black Toyota pickup passed us, made a quick U-turn and headed back towards the desert.

A few minutes later Abdoule said, “We’ve got company.” The black Toyota was on our tail; it wasn’t doing anything except follow us as if the driver wasn’t sure if we were the escapees. We continued at our pace and the Toyota stayed right behind us. Then our luck ran out. Up ahead was the inevitable traffic jam.

Abdoule decided to play it cool and acted as if nothing was the matter. He slowed and stopped. The car in front of us moved twenty meters, we moved twenty meters, then the black Toyota moved. Then we stopped. We did this several times and then came to a dead stand still.

Abdoule said, “Here come our friends.”

Katie said, “I recognize them and they’ve got guns.”

The driver of the black Toyota had left a space between the vehicles for maneuvering. Now the two men were in that space directly behind our 4x4. Abdoule jambed the car into reverse and accelerated—the men dove out of the way and then our Toyota smashed into their truck. Abdoule drove on the right shoulder of the road, passing the stalled cars, and took the first exit off the freeway. He sped down back streets, past narrow alleyways, and through lanes packed with pedestrians.

“Where do you want to go?”

Kathy said, “An embassy, British or American.”

“We’re in Central Cairo. The American Embassy is just off Tahir Square.”

I said, “I stopped in the American Embassy a few days ago to get additional pages for my passport because my current ones were all used up. The whole area is guarded by the Egyptian army and police. These renegades would have to think twice about following us into that gauntlet.”

The black Toyota, however, was right on our tail. One of the men was firing bursts from his AK-47 at us, trying to disable the vehicle or the driver.

Kathy said, “If they get us, which is only inevitable, we’ll have to run for it. Get ready.”

We hit the City of Giza, and were on our way towards Central Cairo and just coming up to an orange and white barricade with two guards when we heard a thud, thud, thud.

“They got the rear tires.”

“Let’s run.”

We ran towards the barricade but the guards came out to meet us, “Hey, you can’t go in there, they’re making a movie.”

Abdoule said in Arabic, “Tell it to them,” as gun fire raked across the road.

We jumped the barrier and ran into the film. It was an exclusive residential street and cameras and spotlights were set up with people sitting on the sidewalks in chairs and on blankets watching the action. The director was getting ready to film two cars in a chase scene, a black and white police car a la New York City, and a sporty 1970’s red and chrome Chevrolet. Just as we ran down the street, the man with the clapboard came out next to the cars and said, “Take four.”

The cars accelerated and approached us as real gunfire sprayed the black and white. The front car was driven by a monkey, no less—or a man in a monkey suit—and next to him was a suave looking fellow who could only be a detective or a secret agent. More bullets raked the scene and the rear window of the monkey’s car shatter. Only then, did he realize that the gunfire was real and not part of the filming.

When the monkey slowed down to see “Who the heck are those actors who aren’t in the movie script,” quick witted Kathy opened the rear door of the Chevrolet, took Katie’s hand and jumped in. Aboule and I followed. The monkey still thinking in movie script, spoke, well, in monkey, “###$%%%, ##@@$$%%&.”

Kathy said, “We were kidnapped by those goons. Take us to the U.S. Embassy. We’ve got to warn the authorities about a plot to kidnap tourists and high ranking officials.”

The monkey retorted, “$$5%$##$#.”

The other man in the front seat said, “Hello, I’m Mohammed Gonzi, the star of this movie. I’m playing a secret agent.” He reached his hand into the back seat to shake someones hand.

Abdoule shook it. “They plan on capturing tourists, government officials, and the current presidential candidates to use as hostages to form their own country in the Western Desert.”

“You don’t say.”

“If you can get us to the embassy, we’ll be safe. You may want to join us. since you two, as movie stars, are potential hostage material.”

“Al, this could get us anotherTV appearance. I’ll need to brush my hair and tidy up my makeup. This is Griza, the chimp. Of course, he’s actually Al Baeirat, the well-known Egyptian actor. And he does speak Arabic and some English. Al, this real shooting and chase scene will be on the evening news which means more publicity for our movie!”

The monkey said, “Right on!”

The monkey, (or Griza or Al) drove around the embassy with the Toyota in pursuit. He came to one small street with a wood barricade and a guard sitting off to the side surfing the web on his cell phone. Al accelerated, drove down the street, smashed through the barrier, made a right, and another right. He drove past two truckloads of soldiers who were sitting on the steps of their vehicles and on a nearby lawn. They stared with opened mouths at the audacity of the car and the monkey driving right past them.

Al said, “Where’s the entrance.”

“Make a right at the corner of the building; it’s half way down the street.”

He smashed through another wood barrier and then skidded to a stop in front of the American Services entrance of the embassy. We ran over to the kiosk.

I said, “We’ve been kidnapped. The perpetrators have a plot to capture key tourist, embassy, and government officials and use them as hostages. We’ve got to warn the Ambassador.”

Just then the black Toyota rounded the corner and gunfire sprayed across the concrete barrier as we dove behind it. The intrepid guard stood his ground in the street, retuning the terrorist’s fire.

An agent on the inside of the embassy opened the door to let us in as the guard in the street took a bullet in the leg and went down. Grize, the monkey, frog walked around the side the barrier, lifted the guard up onto his shoulder, and carrier him inside of the embassy. We were right behind him.

Kathy said, “Jackson’s an American citizen, Katie and I are British, and the rest of these folks are Egyptian.” We showed the woman at the desk our ID’s as bullets sprayed the protective windows behind us.

* * *

The dune colored American Embassy covered an entire city block. It was surrounded by seven meter high walls topped with coiled barbed wire and was compassed by tree lined streets. Some of the trees overhung the building.

At the intake desk, I told the clerk our story. Mohammed added, “Miss, this monkey is Al Baeirat, the Egyptian actor. We were filming a movie when these folks jumped into our car and we were shot at by the men in the black Toyota. And I suggest you call an ambulance if you want to see your guard alive again.”

Somehow, we made it past the checkpoint and the scanner and were buzzed through a door into a pleasantly landscaped courtyard. We walked through another door, down a long stairway into a lobby with rows of seating. We could here gunfire outside.

Our escort quipped, “Don’t worry about taking a number from the machine—just follow me.”

“We have an emergency,” Kathy explained to the clerk wearing a scarf over her hair at the window, “we’ve been kidnapped by terrorist and discovered a plot to abduct embassy, tourist, and government officials. We need to talk to the Ambassador.”

She left and returned a few minutes later with a dark complexioned, short haired woman in western dress. The gunfire was getting louder. “May I help you?”

I repeated our story. “We escaped but were followed by the black Toyota pickup. Those are the men who are outside shooting automatic rifles at your embassy. Furthermore, we have uncovered a plot—they intend to kidnap large numbers of tourists, embassy staff, and government officials to use as hostages to form a new country in the Western Desert. We’d like to speak to your ambassador.”

“Just a minute.”

She returned with the Vice Ambassador, a fiftyish woman with graying neck length hair. She led us through a side door and into a conference room. “Would you care for coffee or tea.”

“Yes thank you. We could use some refreshments after what we’ve been through.”

“Now please tell me your story.”

Kathy began, “Katie and I had been exploring a site in the Western Desert when we were captured on the beach at Marsa Matrouh and then taken . . . .”

A tall dark haired man dressed in a business suit rushed in, “Madam Vice Ambassador, excuse me for interrupting, I thought you’d want to know that the terrorists have scaled the trees overhanging the building and are now on the roof attempting to break into the embassy. Our chief of security doesn’t think he can hold them off much longer.”

The gunfire was almost deafening and seemed to be coming from directly above us. Mrs. Godfry said, “Evacuate the staff following Emergency procedure 1321. “The rest of you come with me; we’ll move to our secure quarters under the building. When this embassy was built, the Ambassador was concerned about attacks and hostage situations, so he constructed a concrete vault 200 feet below the surface. It’s furnished with a month’s supply of food and water and has oblique ventilation systems. We’ll be safe there. You can tell me your story and then I’ll call the appropriate Egyptian and American Agencies.”

We look up at the pyramid shaped glass roof and saw shadowy figures shooting at each other and some engaged in hand-to-hand combat. Suddenly, one of the terrorists smashed through the glass ceiling and tumbled onto the conference table—Kathy and Katie screamed and Mrs. Godfry said as she reached for the automatic rifle that slid to the floor, “Quick, through that door behind me. Bullets raked the wall on our left and Vice Ambassador returned the fire. We made our way to safety and the telling of our adventure.