Pyramids

I rise at 9:20 again. And go straight downstairs for breakfast.

In a wild move away from my usual approach, I start with fruit. Then move on to cheese and salad. What a wacky bloke I am!

A breakfast of cheese, tomato, fruit, tea and orange juice.

This is going to be a weird day. Andrew is off to a wedding at 5 PM. And I need to head to the airport at around midnight. I probably won’t see Andrew before I leave.

I’m feeling pretty shit. That’s why I had a very modest breakfast: no appetite. This is crap.

I manage to drag Andrew out of bed around 11 AM. And soon we’re headed towards Giza and the pyramids.

It’s quite a long drive. Obviously, quite a crazy one, too. Along motorway-like three- to five-lane roads. With people walking along the side. Or even in the road. Two people are standing on the inside lane having a photo taken. Not sure why, as the background looks pretty grim.

The road is bounded by bulky grey apartment blocks, with tiny streets between them. You could almost shake hands across the upper storeys. The dismal flats are interrupted every so often by mosques or Coptic churches, topped with four-armed crucifixes.

It would depress the fuck out of me if I lived here. Dust is everywhere and many buildings appear half-finished, sad fingers of rebar reaching up into the sky. Washing flaps on racks hung from windows

We stop next to a little shop. Our driver jumps out and returns with two bottles of water.

“You’ll need this at the pyramids. And they charge crazy prices there.”

That’s really nice of him. And he doesn’t ask for any money. He’ll be getting a good tip.

At a random point we branch off into one of the tiny side streets. Where children play. And a butcher is hacking up a cow carcass. An exposed ribcage grasps at the air. At a bakery trays of flat bread are piled up on wooden trays and whisked away. It’s all a bit medieval.

At the entrance to the pyramids, it’s total chaos. People randomly pushing towards the ticket windows. Great.

Pyramids with horses and carts in the foreground.

Not fancying walking up a hill in the full sun, we take a horse and cart. Wouldn’t have been my first choice. Except the other options were horseback or camel.

Rather than experiencing the ancient majesty of the pyramids, I’m mostly experiencing fear for my life. For some reason, rather than the relatively smooth toad, we take a stone track up the hill.

It’s not very even, pitted with potholes. With a scattering of rocks. Some around double the size of a cricket ball (For Europeans, that’s 0.33 of a metric football.) As we rock dramatically from side to side, I wonder how high the centre of gravity is. And how far it’s safe to lean.

A horse and cart on a rocky track.

Pulling completely off the road, it’s remarkably smoother than the track. Equally littered with rocks, but pothole-free.

We stop for a photo call with a good view of all three of the large pyramids. Not wanting the considerable faff of remounting, I stay back. While I’m alone, the horse of an empty cart comes along to say hello to our horse. Which, unimpressed, snorts and lashes out with a front leg. For an instant, I fear it’s going to bolt, dragging me to a stony death.

I’m just relieved when I can get off in one piece. Maybe we should have gone for the camel option.

Pushing our way through the Egyptian vendors of tack, we find a free space where we can order an Uber.

“That was an unforgettable experience.”

“Really, Dad?”

“Not necessarily for the right reasons.”

“OK . . .”

Andrew doesn’t ask, and I don’t explain, further. Wouldn’t want to ruin the experience for him.

Our return route is completely different. Equally grim. A forest of mid-rise blocks, their dull colours dimming the sun.

Empty chairs and tables in the Flamenco hotel bar.

“I’ve still got a couple of hours before the wedding. Do you fancy a drink in the hotel bar?”

“Well, it is bad luck to walk past an open pub.”

“I never believed you when you said that when I was little.”

“I think you did for a while.”

“Just humouring you, Dad. Like I still do,”

I don’t care to ask any further about that. And keep shtum.

Hurrah! It’s almost empty. And pretty much smoke-free. My throat is still aching from yesterday.

We sit at the end of bar again.

“Let me guess what you’re having, Andrew.”

“OK. Go on then.”

“A non-alcoholic beer.”

“Fuck off, Dad. And let me guess what you’re having. An octuple whisky. Like you pour yourself at home?”

Damn. He’s already said fuck off. I have to come back with something else witty. Something completely different.

“Go fuck yourself.”

We only have a couple of hours before Andrew needs to start making himself look beautiful. Time for him to knock back no more than half a dozen half litres. And me a similar number of whiskies. Just doubles.

Thankfully, few smokers appear.

It’s a bit strange after Andrew leaves. To be safe, I need to leave around midnight. I’ve seven hours to fill. What should I do? I don’t want to stray far. Maybe a meal in the hotel restaurant.

My stomach doesn’t feel great. Despite the whisky. I sit at my laptop and watch some YouTube. Despite setting the aircon to 20 C, it’s getting really chilly. I could open the window, Instead, I put on my coat. And zip it up. That’s better.

Andrew hasn’t got up for breakfast once. He did eat one breakfast, though. Just before he went to bed on the day we arrived.

Later, I lie in bed and watch Tripped. Then the first series of Spaced. Am I going down to the restaurant? Doesn’t seem worth it. I finish off the Irish cheese and drink some water. And then vomit. Glad I didn’t waste money on fancy food.