Elizabeth Peters: The Golden One

Do you have a schedule?

No. I am not an organized person. However, when a deadline looms I can work like a demon, eight hours a day, seven days a week. Set schedules work for some people, not for others; but any writer who waits for "inspiration" to strike will never finish a book. Inspiration is all very well, but it will never replace sheer dogged determination.

Over the 2000 Christmas holiday, Bill and Nancy Petty, of Museum Tours, led The Amelia Peabody Expedition in Egypt. I had dealt with them in the past, to my great satisfaction. Despite the unrest in the Middle East, which caused a few cautious souls to cancel, fifty people joined the tour – most of them Egypt buffs and fans of Amelia’s. I decided to go out a few weeks early, with a couple of friends, Dennis and Joel, before I joined the Expedition. Here are a few semi-coherent excerpts from the diary I kept as I went.

Dec. 11. It’s wonderful to be back in Cairo; makes the grisly ten-plus hours flight and the hours of waiting worthwhile. We arrived late afternoon Cairo time and were met by Khaled, one of Bill Petty’s super-efficient staff. He drove us straight to the hotel – though "straight" isn’t an accurate description, considering Cairo traffic. An early dinner and straight to bed, and tomorrow morning I’ll be back on schedule with no jet lag. It works.

Dec. 13. Off to Dahshur today, one of my favorite sites. I had hoped to get into the Bent Pyramid. It’s the only one of the major pyramids whose interior I have not visited. The SCA [the Egyptian Supreme Council of Antiquities] had said they were planning to open it, but when we got there the scaffolding was still up and the entrance was closed. I was not inspired to make an illegal entry, though I’m sure Amelia would have. In her day it wasn’t illegal – just dangerous.

The Red Pyramid is open, but I’ve been there, done that. Not many tourists here, though it is a lovely day. The absence of tourist amenities – a rest house and souvenir stands – may deter some people. We ambled around the Red – circling pyramids is a tradition with us now – and then headed for the Black Pyramid. It really is an ominous-looking structure, having slumped into a sort of tower after the stone casing blocks were removed, exposing the dark mud brick core.

Can’t get into it, either! I would love to see the subterranean burial chamber, where Amelia and Emerson were tossed by the Master Criminal, and explore the maze-like passages within. (Twelfth Dynasty pyramids, unlike the earlier ones, have very complicated substructures; the tricks and traps didn’t stop thieves, though.) It would probably be an impossible job to shore up the collapsing walls and roofs, which were in bad shape even in Amelia’s day.

Dec. 14. Ramadan is in its last couple of weeks, which makes social engagements complicated. People have to wait until the official announcement of sundown, around five, before they can pitch into an elaborate meal, their first since before dawn – it’s called iftar , and one "takes iftar ." So you don’t invite people to dinner at seven.

We had an engagement this evening with Mohammed Saleh, the charming and talented former director of the Cairo Museum, who took us to a cafe off in the city somewhere (I have no sense of direction) where we had shisha (water pipe) and coffee and plates of sweeties while we discussed a number of things. He offered to show us some of the restorations and behind-the-scenes stuff at the museum on Saturday.

In my usual state of profound confusion I called Khaled and asked him to postpone our trip to Luxor by one day, whereupon he patiently informed me that we weren’t due to leave until Sunday, anyhow. These senior moments are getting embarrassing.

Dec. 15. Dinner with Jocelyn this evening at the Oberoi restaurant in the Khan el Khalili. She had fed her family first; says that Ramadan is like cooking Sunday dinner every day; she starts around one p.m. (Apparently nobody has started a takeout for iftar. This expedient would be frowned on, no doubt. I get the impression that the meal must be home-cooked, elaborate, and of course prepared by the female.) So we had a good gossip and cruised the Khan, where I bought a few little things.

Dec. 17. Off to Luxor and the Old Winter Palace. The W.P. is no longer Luxor ’s most elegant hotel – there are several newer, gaudier, five-star hotels. Nor is it the oldest: the Luxor, a favorite haunt of the Emersons, is still in operation. I wouldn’t stay anywhere but the W.P., though. The corridors are twelve feet wide, the ceilings are eighteen feet high, and it doesn’t take much imagination to see the halls and public rooms as much the way they were in the old days. The exterior is exactly the same, and it makes me feel like a Victorian lady archaeologist to walk up the curving stairs and cross the terrace. My suite has a balcony facing the river and I can look straight across toward Deir el Bahri and the Valley of the Kings.

Dec 23. I had contacted my archaeologist friends Debbie and John and made arrangements to go into the Western Desert with them. Their inspector – foreign archaeologists are required to have an Egyptian inspector with them – said it was okay for me to go, too. So on Saturday I hauled myself out of bed and got myself over to the West Bank by 8:30.

The process is somewhat complex. Usually we hire a boat and a car and driver for the West Bank and keep them for the entire stay. So the Mubarak was waiting for me at twenty past eight, its captain up above on the embankment to make sure no other boatman would steal me away. In order to reach the boat you have to go down a series of ramps and steps, then along a cluttered, rusty sort of pier, stepping over coils of rope and various debris.

Then the captain puts out the gangplank – a piece of wood about eight inches wide, with a few strips of wood nailed across it – at a precarious angle and anchored equally precariously. I do not scruple to grab at any hand offered me. (Every time I come back from Egypt I think, "Well, I’ve done that forty or fifty times, and I haven’t fallen into the Nile yet.") Once in the boat you are standing on the seat, which is about a yard from the floor. I do not descend gracefully.

There were six of us in the Land Rover – John and Debbie and me, their inspector, the driver, and a guard. The guard is de rigueur for those going into remote areas. It’s remote, all right – I never know where I am, anyhow, but this terrain would baffle most people. There are some roads of sorts, but a good deal of the time one bounces over rocks the size of toasters, up and down slopes and into and out of small wadis . John and Debbie are doing some extraordinary work out here; they’ve added whole new chapters to parts of Egyptian history, and I’d suffer worse than a sore bum to see some of their sites. However, I did bring along a pillow from the hotel to sit on! Here’s an entry scribbled at the time:

"I sit high on the gebel at the Place of Horses – a defile at the top of a steep climb. How I got here, I don’t know; with great difficulty is the right answer. Remains of crude workmen’s huts at the base of one cliff, graffiti over a stretch of the rock face. (The barking dog is cute – Arabic words meaning ’woof woof’ come out of its mouth. But its implication isn’t so cute, since it represents a watchdog and was scratched there by modern locals who resent archaeologists messing around in their territory.) There are many spirited, if crude, sketches of horses and a prayer to Amon, Lord of the Silent, who saved the writer from drowning. Some so faint, hardly visible to the naked eye – with modern Arabic and older Coptic scribbles on top."