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On 2nd November 1989, I performed my first trip to Cairo for SIA. Coming from a Bangkok layover, we were required to fly across Saudi Arabia, and, as we approached Wejh on the Red Sea’s east coast, Jeddah Control instructed us to contact Cairo Control at waypoint “SILKA,” located in the middle of the Red Sea, on 126.60; a VHF frequency.
At that moment I felt the Saudi Controller
had screwed up; he should have given us an HF frequency. Because way back in 1982, when I operated my
last 707 flight to Cairo for SAUDIA, their Russian VHF radios could barely
reach as far as one could spit - hence requiring WWII HF radio contact. With all its static noise, plus a “Gypo”
controller who didn’t at once respond (on a goat-break no doubt) and, after
calling him repeatedly, when he finally did reply, his Arab-accented, broken
English was difficult to understand.
Boy was I in for a surprise, dear reader;
in fact three big surprises.
As we reached “SILKA,” with trepidation I
attempted contact with Cairo Control on the VHF frequency; fully expecting dead
air in reply. Instead an Egyptian male
voice, with an American accent, instantly responded, clearing me to Cairo via
airway A10. The transmission was crystal
clear and quite strong.
“What the hell!” I thought. Then repeated his instructions; after which
the USAF’s “Red Flag” exercise popped to mind.
“PING.”
I recalled the Air Force Colonel I flew
from Silverbow back to Nellis AFB, in Nevada, who told me that most of the
Russian fighters used in Red Flag had come from the Egyptian Air Force. Evidently, after the Egyptians kicked the
Russians out of bed, the Americans climbed in; bringing fighters, better radio
equipment and training.
That brings me to my second huge surprise,
which confirmed my suspicion. For as we
neared Cairo International Airport, the controller handed us off to Cairo
Approach Control, who, without delay, began radar vectoring us for final
approach to Runway Five Right (050°/230° magnetic, NE/SW).
“This is impossible!” my stunned brain
concluded. “Egyptian Controllers don’t
know how to radar vector! At least they
didn’t back in 1982.”
So what’s a “radar vector,” dear
reader? Using his radar screen, the
controller gives us headings to fly, keeping other air traffic away from us,
while allowing us to use short cuts to final approach. It saves a ton of fuel and money; plus getting
us on the ground faster.
And when we rolled out on final approach,
which was at night, I was presented with surprise number three.
Back in 1982 roughly half of the approach
lights were usually burned out!
Resembling jewels scattered across the sand, making little sense, and
not helping a pilot whatsoever in locating the runway’s touchdown zone; as the
“Gypos” were either too lazy, or too broke, to change the light bulbs.
Tonight however, in 1987, all approach
lights were operating perfectly, making our landing a lot easier and safer. Thank God for the USAF’s “Yankee invasion” of
Egypt, dear reader!
The airline then put us up at a very
unique hotel: the Cairo Marriott.
In the heart of Cairo, and in the middle
of the River Nile, there is an island called Gezira. Under the 19th century
ruler, Pasha Khediva Isma’il, the island was
first called "Jardin des Plantes" (French for "Garden of
Plants"), for its monumental collection of exotic plants shipped from all over the world.
In addition, upon the opening of the Suez
Canal, in 1869, the Pasha invited Napoleon III and
his wife, the Empress Eugenie, for the opening ceremonies. In preparation for this event, and to make
the Empress feel more at home, the Pasha had
the Gezirah Palace built on this island; ordering it to be constructed
along the lines of the French palace at Versailles.
Could it be that
the Pasha had a bit of a crush on
Eugenie? That’s really none of your
business, dear reader.
Since then the Gezirah Palace changed
hands many times, until being snapped up by Marriott in 1970. Who eventually flanked the original palace,
with two 20 storied towers; making it the largest hotel with a thousand rooms.
On
one of my layovers, purely by accident, I wound up at the Saraya Gallery for breakfast with a South African Flight
Engineer named Patrick. We sat at a
plush corner of the old Gezirah Palace,
in overstuffed leather chairs, with Persian carpets covering the marbled floor,
plus ornate brass lanterns producing a soft light, and two, bigger-than-life,
portraits of Napoleon III and Empress Eugenie.
Who, despite the fact I was having a French breakfast of coffee and
croissants, appeared to be looking snootily down on me with disdain.
Somehow the subject of how we chose flying for an occupation came up,
and Pat told me a rather strange tale.
It seems under the South African training scheme, ship’s engineers and flight engineers start out taking identical courses. At the appropriate interval, Pat selected ships and continued his training on a South African tanker, where he had the misfortune of ending up in a violent storm off the South Carolina Coast in the States. Their tanker was full of crude oil, which helped them to ride out the storm. Subsequently, another tanker came down the coast in the opposite direction. And as they passed Pat’s ship, because it was empty, this strange tanker started to flex in the trough of the massive waves. So much so, that Pat actually saw it break in half!
Pat’s tanker stopped to pick up survivors. In
horror, Pat witnessed the broken tanker’s lifeboats being smashed to splinters
as the storm slammed them against the ship’s iron hull; spilling sailors into
the sea’s maelstrom. Not one crewmember
survived. Consequently, Pat was forced
to view the broken tanker slip beneath the gigantic, violent waves.
Upon
his return to South Africa, Pat immediately transferred to aircraft and
ultimately got hired by South African Airways.
Upon retirement, he joined Singapore Airlines as a 747 Flight Engineer,
winding up here on my crew at Cairo.
On
another layover at Cairo, I had the good fortune to hook up with Jason and
Ursula, from Athens, who were performing in a Cairo nightclub. After their show they took me, and several other
dancers, to another nightclub where we were joined by three of Egyptian
President Mubarak’s bodyguards. These
polite, swarthy gentlemen were neatly dressed, clean-cut, and resembled husky
clones; who were dating girls in the show.
At
which point the other dancers joined in: “Break the bottle. Break the bottle.”
As
for me, dear reader, I sat there totally in the dark completely mum. What in Christ’s good name was going on here?
All
the while everyone, except baffled me, is still chanting: “Break the
bottle. Break the bottle.”
On
the third stroke, the bodyguard brought the flat of his hand down with
tremendous force at lightning speed! I
got the impression he was in reality attempting to drive his hand through the
bottle! At the instant he made
contact...the bottom of the bottle broke in a neat circle of solid glass...showering
the floor in cheap wine.
Wow! I’d never want to meet this
guy in a dark alley, dear reader.
We
all applauded; the bodyguard took a bow.
When
we left the club, Jason and Ursula snagged a taxi and we went to the apartment
they were sharing with other dancers.
They told me to wait in the taxi – holding it – while they changed to
sweaters, jeans and sneakers. Rejoining
me, we then went to my hotel, where I also changed clothes.
Returning to the taxi, Jason and Ursula instructed the driver to take us
out of Cairo. After leaving the city’s
limit far behind, entering the desert, we reached a stable. Jason and Ursula
picked out their favorite horses, and I wound up with a nag two steps away from
the glue factory. Luckily they gave us
western saddles – so I could hang onto the horn – for I had exceeded my booze
limit that night.
It
was dark when a guide on horseback, with a pack donkey in tow, led us single
file out to the black bowels of the desert.
So
far I haven’t a clue, dear reader, as to where we are, or for that matter what
in hell we’re doing out here. Whenever I
ask Jason or Ursula – they look at each other and snicker.
Should I be worried, dear reader?
After traveling along, with my nag stumbling in the dark, on a journey
that seemed to last forever, the guide at length brought our caravan to a
halt. After hobbling the livestock, the
guide made camp; building a fire to boil Arabic coffee.
As
we sit around our small campfire on prayer rugs, munching freshly baked flat bread
and dates - sipping thick, sweet black coffee – it begins to get light towards
the east. In so doing, I subsequently
figured out what my good friends have arranged for me.
Completely
dumb-founded, and in great awe, I stood up and muttered: “S-Son of a
bitch...those are the fucking p-pyramids!”
Looming
out of the gloom to the east of us, the monumental silhouettes of the Pyramids at
Giza slowly took shape, as the ancient Egyptian God Ra embarked on His ascent.
Jason and Ursula laughed with glee; their joke paid off handsomely.
Crumpling back down to my rug on the sand, I felt as if I’m a blind man
suddenly being given the gift of sight.
At last the sun crested the horizon to the
east, spilling the pyramids long shadows across the desert floor. Roughly a quarter-mile off to our right, I
observed the smallest pyramids of Menkaure and
the three Pyramids of the Queens. In front of us was the much larger Pyramid
of Khafre, and beyond, to our left, was
the Great Pyramid of Khufu.
From left to right: the Great Pyramid of Khufu, the Pyramid of Khafre, the pyramid of Menkaure and the three Pyramids of the Queens.
I couldn’t see the Sphinx as it was hidden on the other side of
the Pyramid of Khafre.
When
Julius Caesar first viewed them from the deck of a luxury galley being rowed up
the Nile, with Cleopatra on his arm, the pyramids were already well over 2,000
years old. I wondered if they had the
same impact on him, as they were having on me.
I honestly knew, dear reader, this was the closest I’d ever come to a
religious experience.
One of my favorite hangouts during my Cairo
layovers was the Museum of Egyptian
Antiquities. An assistant curator there once informed me
that the museum held over 120,000 items, with merely a few hundred on display;
the remainder being locked up in storerooms and vaults. After wandering amongst all the oversized
statues, plus King Tut’s treasure, including his world-famous golden funerary
mask, and hundreds of other artifacts of antiquity; here was the kicker: The curator said, since the Egyptians had
been at it for more than 5,000 years, the museum’s collection hadn’t even
scratched the surface. There are tons,
upon tons, of ancient Egyptian stuff lying out there under the sand; patiently waiting
for the next Howard Carter to dig them up.
And as I sat on my rug, sipping coffee in the early golden light of that Egyptian dawn – still thunderstruck by the pyramids - I tore my eyes away from them; glancing at the empty desert stretching endlessly for miles behind us. I just knew, dear reader - from the tingling in the bottom of my left testicle - I was looking at a ton of ancient Egyptian stuff dying to be dug up out there, somewhere under all that sand.
Where’s my Indiana Jones hat and shovel?
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