by Gates, Moses
• • •
Upon returning to our hotel I get an e-mail from QX:
Hey mate.
Hope all is well.
OK, here’s the low down: Still coming, but one or two notes:
1. I need to go to Turkey tomorrow to get some shit sorted. All going to plan, I will still be arriving in Egypt as planned. All not going to plan, I’ll call you.
2. French [ex] gf took the breakup amazingly well (we’d only been together a few weeks)—and still wants to come to climb shit. So even if I’m not there, you’ll have French climbing partner.
At first read, I’m heartened. The guy I’m doing this climb with flits between France, Nepal, Turkey, and Egypt at a moment’s notice in order to “get some shit sorted.” It’s a bit more James Bond than Indiana Jones, but pretty cool nonetheless. However, this is quickly outweighed by a sneaking suspicion that this is a slow setup for backing out of the climb.
I type my reply. “Oh, no. I’m not hearing ‘even if I’m not there.’ I fall into a certain pattern with these things. As part of this, I need a certain kind of person there—namely a bad-ass ninja motherfucker. It’s too late to switch patterns now, and a random French girl won’t cut it.”
Shortly afterward I get the following response:
There’s no bailing out of anything. This fucking pyramid is getting climbed. By all of us.
I’ll be there whatever happens. From Turkey, from France, whatever.
Despite the tone, I’m still worried that everything is falling apart. My brother headed back home a couple days ago, and I go to the airport solo to fly to Cairo. I land in Egypt. As I fear, three hours after landing, I get the following text from QX.
Sorry mate. Actually ends up I’m not going to make it. Feel bad about it. Julie (French Girl) is still coming though.
And this is how I end up in Egypt not with a daredevil Australian adventurer but with his French ex-girlfriend.
Cairo, December 2010
Everything in my head is scattered, my carefully laid path to the top of the Great Pyramid completely thrown off course. I marvel that my gut feeling has failed me. It’s the first time.
I meet Julie at the hotel. She’s lovely company, and speaks enough English for us to communicate passably if not fluently. But I’m not in much mood for company or communication. I’ve already put the pyramids behind me after my loss of QX, accepted that it’s not going to happen like an artist who’s dropped his brush down a drain accepts he isn’t going to paint a picture that day. I’m inclined to just wander the streets, walking off my disappointment alone, but Julie feels bad about the situation, wants to see the town together and maybe even still give the pyramids a shot. In my frustration, I don’t stop to think what this must be like for her—to be a French woman in Egypt, ditched at the last minute by your traveling partner, with the only person you know your ex-fling’s American friend, who doesn’t even speak your language.
She asks what our plan was, wants to see if we can still make it work. I don’t have the inclination or the mutual language fluency to try to explain my process, how it’s just not going to happen now, so I just tersely answer her questions. Our plan was first to try to hide inside after the complex closes. If that didn’t work, jump the wall. Either way, head up the pyramid at about two a.m., stay on top long enough to take a couple photos, and then head down and bail back out over the wall. And if we run into anybody, do what everyone whom I’ve talked to online who has pulled off the climb has told me to do: bribe early and often.
Bribing cultures are annoying as all hell. It was summed up to me once by the following explanation: “You bribe someone to do their job, not to not do their job.” Bribes aren’t there so that you can do all this great stuff you’re not allowed to simply by discreetly slipping a guy a ten-spot. They’re there to clean out your pockets.
For instance, the following is a scenario encountered fairly often in Egypt: there is a rope a few feet away from something—the edge of an observation platform, the pyramids, whatever. The guard will then motion for you that it’s perfectly OK to cross the rope and take pictures. Then you’re supposed to give the guard—or whoever it might be—money. They could, of course, just not put the rope there, but then there would be no bribe. This is how bribing cultures work. The word for this in Egypt, “baksheesh,” isn’t even actually translated as “bribe”; it really means more like “tip.” It’s so ingrained in the culture they even mention it in the official guidebook they give you on the airplane.
This has been going on at least since Twain’s time. As part of his climb he’s “harried and be-deviled for bucksheesh from the foundation clear to the summit.” Of course, this is not in order to actually climb the pyramids, an excursion he’s already contracted and fully paid for. Instead it’s because the escorts “had a way of asking sweetly and flatteringly for bucksheesh, which was seductive, and of looking fierce and threatening to throw us down the precipice, which was persuasive and convincing.”
The next day we have some small successes going the baksheesh route. Twenty pounds to the squatters gets us into a beautiful abandoned mansion next to the Dutch embassy. And that evening we find ourselves alone on one of the minarets of the Bab Zuweila gate, the oldest remaining gate of the medieval Islamic city. I don’t know if the man we talked to works there or not. But he has the keys, takes our bribe, opens the door, and leaves us alone to climb the narrow spiral staircase and squeeze out onto the small deck high above the old city of Cairo.
We still want to go see the pyramids, of course. And our small successes with baksheesh have Julie thinking that maybe it will work for the pyramids. I’m skeptical, but I know Julie feels bad about this, so I figure I’ll give it enough of an attempt with her that at least she’ll feel like we tried.
We hail a cab and tell the driver we’re going to the pyramids. About two-thirds of the way there, a man standing on the side of the road flags down the cab and the cab pulls over. The man exchanges a few words with the driver and then gets in the front seat. At first I think he’s simply hitching a ride, but then he starts to talk to us in English, asking our names and where we’re from. After a couple pleasantries, the sale begins.
MINARET, CAIRO.
“You are going to the pyramids? Don’t go the tourist way, my friends. You can go the Egyptian way. I have a company. You come with me. You don’t go the tourist way. You can do everything, it is cheaper. Just come . . .”
I’m a tour guide. I know something about hustling tourists. And in my two days in Egypt, I have discovered most Egyptians who speak English know something about this also. I am not going for this sale at all.
“Thank you, but we’ll just go the tourist way,” I tell him.
The man takes great offense at this, like he’s just offered us the deal of the century and in return we’ve spat in his face. I realize we bantered a bit too long with him during the niceties at the beginning, indicated just enough interest for him to think he’d be able to hook us.
“OK, OK. Look into my eyes. Look. You think I am lying?”
I don’t think I’ve indicated any distrust in the guy, but he seems to believe this is the main obstacle in his path to a sale. “OK, OK. Look into my eyes” continues to be his go-to line.
For a little while I fall into the trap, trying to reassure him that I don’t think he’s lying, just that we don’t want to buy whatever it is he’s selling. Quickly, however, I accept that there’s no way out without mortally offending him, and realize the best course of action is just to continue to repeat “Thank you, but we’ll just go the tourist way.” I have to repeat this at least ten times before the cab pulls over and the man gets out of the car. He tries one last attempt at the sale.
“Thank you, but we’ll just go the tourist way,” I say again, and motion to the driver to start going already.
“OK, OK. Fuck you,” I hear as we drive of
f.
We buy our tickets and enter the complex. The pyramids are exactly what I expected: majestic, swarming with tourists, and with various cynical sales attempts (the most popular being a ride on a sad-looking camel) being constantly hawked by the touts. I think about whether I’d trade the niceties of the trip in the twenty-first century for the freedom of the trip in the nineteenth, when the cynical sales attempts and tourist hustling at least involved climbing the pyramids instead of bumping along on a dromedary. My answer is a resounding “Yes,” until I remember that the next day I’m due to take a flying metal cylinder 5,600 miles across the ocean back to New York in approximately as much time as it took Twain to boat from his hometown of Hannibal, Missouri, down to St. Louis.
We stay for a while. I waste five Egyptian pounds baksheeshing the guard to let me take a photo of myself next to one of the pyramids. I’m tired, and the one time I lie down and close my eyes, I’m awoken by another guard after ten minutes on the stone bench. The complex closes and the tourists begin to get ushered out.
If we want to try to baksheesh someone into letting us stay and climb, now’s the time. Julie looks around for the people who seem to be in charge. Finding one with a uniform, she asks if we can stay here, inside the complex, while I stand next to her, semi-discreetly holding money in my palm with the corner sticking out, like I’ve been taught. The man doesn’t speak any English and, confused, points us to another man. This one has a different uniform. We try the same trick. He speaks better English and seems to understand what we’re looking for. He directs us to a third person, this one in street clothes. This must be the guy in charge. “Wait a minute, this actually might be going somewhere,” I think to myself. We talk to the man, Julie giving the spiel again while I make sure the money in my hand is noticed. He listens intently, nodding along and glancing at my hand. Then he speaks.
“I don’t understand what you are asking. But tell me where you need to go. The car is right here, I can take you anywhere.” We have just tried to baksheesh a taxi driver into letting us climb the pyramids.
As I fly home the next day, I can’t tell if I’m even disappointed.
Julie says: Cairo, what a strange adventure!
Meant to be a physical exploration of the legendary pyramids, it was an unexpected emotional experience, the only landmark a formidable unknown.
We had three days. Three days to reorganize and meet the challenge we had launched. But we must admit that our hearts were no longer in it, neither Moses’ nor mine. The enclosure with the pyramids and the Sphinx looked very sad to me. At the site, the camels were disguised as Christmas trees for an eventual scenic ride, and the pyramids were dressed each evening in light for a musical spectacle, unique perhaps for its absurdity. In short, it had nothing to do with the sublime and imposing image I’d had of them before I arrived. The story seemed to have been sold off to tourists. In the end, for me, the most beautiful moments in the capital were our visits to Old Cairo and the neighborhood of the Citadel.
Today, except for some personal feelings, when I look back on this trip I see neither pyramids nor any emblematic neighborhood, but rather a cluster of buildings on the verge of collapse, clapped on the discharge of a city bathed in the palpable cloud of pollution and saturated with the noise of traffic. No space, no dreams—and yet, a population that seems so peaceful. Children play in the streets, men smoke shisha, and women . . . well, in my time there, I don’t remember having come across many women. At night the streets are illuminated with a lot of custom lighting. The colorful garlands replace a nonexistent lighting, and music takes over local car horns. For me, that is Cairo!
Yet in this pretense of peace, the Egyptian revolution was not far away, and though my short visit was a small thing, I share in their revolt.
Translated from the original French:
Le Caire, quelle drôle d’aventure que celle-ci!
Programmée comme une exploration physique des mythiques pyramides, elle fut une épreuve émotionnelle inattendue, avec comme seul point de repère un formidable inconnu.
Nous avions trois jours. Trois jours pour nous réorganiser et relever le défi que nous nous étions lancé. Mais il faut avouer que le coeur n’y était plus, ni pour Moses, ni pour moi. L’enclos qui regroupait Khéphren–Khéops–Mykérinos et le Sphinx m’a paru bien triste. Sur le site, les chameaux étaient déguisés en sapin de Noël pour une éventuelle ballade pittoresque et les pyramides étaient habillées chaque soir d’effets de lumières pour un spectacle musical unique (par son absurdité peut-être). En bref, rien à voir avec l’image imposante et sublime que j’avais pu me faire avant mon arrivée. L’histoire semblait avoir été ici bradée aux touristes. Au final, les plus beaux moments passés dans cette capitale furent à mes yeux: nos visites du Vieux Caire et du quartier de la Citadelle.
Aujourd’hui, hormis quelques sentiments personnels, lorsque je repense à ce voyage, je ne vois ni pyramides, ni aucun quartier emblématique, mais plutôt un amas d’immeubles au bord de l’effondrement, bâtis sur la décharge d’une ville baignée dans le nuage palpable de la pollution et le bruit d’un trafic saturé. Pas d’espace, pas de rêve—et pourtant, une population qui paraît si paisible. Les enfants jouent dans les rues, les hommes fument la chicha et les femmes . . . ma foi, je ne me souviens pas avoir croisé beaucoup de femmes. La nuit les ruelles s’illuminent de tout un tas d’éclairages personnalisés. Les guirlandes colorées remplacent un éclairage inexistant et la musique locale prend la relève des klaxons. Pour moi, Le Caire, c’est ça!
Et pourtant, dans ce faux-semblant de tranquillité, la révolution égyptienne n’était pas loin et bien que ma courte visite ait été peu de chose, je partage une partie de leur révolte.
THIRTY-THREE
New York City, December 2010
Who dropped that? WHO DROPPED THAT? Was it you, Stevie?” The woman cocks her head, narrows her eyes, and glares suspiciously at Steve, who is sitting a few feet away.
“No, wasn’t me,” Steve says innocently. Immediately the woman’s face softens. Once again Steve’s angelic looks have allowed him to get away with a bald-faced lie.
The woman turns to me. I don’t get the benefit of a suspicious glare. I get one in which the suspicion has already been confirmed as guilt.
“You! You dropped it! I told you I like to keep it clean in here!” Right now we’re in a graffiti-covered emergency exit in a train tunnel under Riverside Park.
Before I have time to protest that I was not the one who dropped the empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s down the staircase, causing it to shatter, I feel rough rubber press hard against my cheek. This is what I’m choosing to do a few weeks past my thirty-fifth year on the planet: have a homeless woman kick me in the face in a train tunnel at two in the morning.
THE PARTY LOCATION.
We’re at a birthday party. It’s for Brooklyn—not the borough, the lady who’s just put her sneaker imprint next to my ear. She claims to have lived in this tunnel for the last twenty-nine years. The party has so far been going pretty well, and has consisted mostly of everyone drinking copious amounts of whiskey and singing. Steve keeps trying to get her to sing Johnny Cash, but Brooklyn is partial to the Jay-Z and Alicia Keys song “Empire State of Mind.” She’s also a pretty good beatboxer, and I’ve managed a throwback to my high school days rhyming in the playground to kick a fairly decent freestyle over it. (Think very 1991. Sample lyric: “Well, I’m on mic, and Brooklyn’s on the beatbox; it’s her birthday, so you know she don’t stop.”) The gang was pretty impressed with me, Brooklyn included. This wasn’t the first time I had talked to Brooklyn, and I had, incorrectly, thought that this shared performance had now cemented our friendship—or at least established the kind of bond that precludes a boot to the face as a means of expressing displeasure.
PARTYING WITH BROOKLYN.
© ERLING KAGGE
Before the bott
le incident, the biggest snag had been when Brooklyn’s boyfriend, B.K., arrived. B.K. was none too happy to come home to a New York Times reporter, a Norwegian polar explorer, and half a dozen assorted hipsters partying with his girlfriend. In addition, the whole thing is being filmed. For the past year an energetic NYU cinema student named Andrew has been recording Steve’s adventures with the intention of making a short film or TV show about him.
“This kid is great,” Steve told me after meeting him. “Not only does he think I’m awesome, he’ll go with me in sewers and not complain.” A willingness to go in sewers and general ego stroking are two easy ways to get Steve to like you.
Anyway, there’s something to be said for “A man’s home is his castle,” no matter where that castle happens to be, and a good half-hour was spent in a shouting match between the couple before B.K. begrudgingly ambled off into a distant nook to go to sleep for the night.
“I told him it’s my party tonight,” said Brooklyn. “This is my house, anyway.” Brooklyn has, essentially, a duplex suite. On the other side of the concrete wall from the train tracks there are several small “rooms” in a row that are separated by pillars. This area is accessed by going one flight up the emergency exit staircase. You can also duck under the back wall in a couple of places and slide down a pile of dirt to the lower level. Move this setup a few hundred feet east and about fifty feet straight up, pour some concrete floors, and slap on a coat of paint, and the “raw, loft-like space” would probably go for $5,000 a month.
The main tunnel itself is gigantic: two and a half miles long, perhaps twenty feet high, and about three times as wide as it is tall. Two sets of railroad tracks run down the middle, on which Amtrak trains, swift and surprisingly silent, will barrel down every hour or two. There are also grates in the ceiling spaced a few dozen feet apart. These grates let in diagonal beams of light, which give the impression you’re inside a huge cathedral. They also provide a link to the outside world, making the space less like a tunnel and more like the basement of the park above. They let in sound—you can have a normal conversation with someone in Riverside Park above without raising your voice at all—and they let in light, rain, snow, and air. This leads the tunnel to have a diurnal and seasonal cycle similar to the outside world. Most tunnels are continually dark and have a consistent temperature and humidity, leading to an entirely disassociated relationship with the natural cycles of the day and year. The Riverside Park Tunnel is different. When it’s light outside, there’s light in the tunnel. When it’s raining, it’s wet; when it’s winter, it’s cold. Burrowing into the hole in the side of the hill in Riverside Park and sliding down into the tunnel doesn’t really lead you to feel like you’ve entered a different world, gone down Alice’s rabbit hole or through a closet into Narnia. It feels more like you’ve found a secret compartment or passageway in your own house—something hidden from the world at large but close enough to home that you can still hear your mother calling you for dinner.
