Day one of a three-day Egypt fest: solo parenting, 34 weeks pregnant, with four and five-year-old boys and no Ritalin at hand. Would it be worth it?
I departed with a ‘To Don’t List’. “Don’t eat the salads, or drink the water, not even to brush your teeth, don’t go into any pyramids and don’t you dare get on any camels.” The primary fear was that my sons and I would depart as a trio and return a quartet.
I had placed my trust in the folks at Cyprus Airways Holidays, although given they had initially issued two tickets to one son and none to the other I was a little wary. I was insanely pleased to see the face of Zakaria, our tour organizer, who ably led us through customs with just one delay. One of the zealous guards stopped us to examine me suspiciously, asking a flurry of questions. “What was that about?” I asked Zak later. Apparently a flight had also arrived from Sudan and the guard suspected I might be Sudanese using a foreign passport. The blonde hair, green eyes, two fair headed children and Scottish sounding last name were, it seemed, taken as an elaborate ploy to slip in to Egypt unnoticed.
I found myself traipsing through the pyramids with our local guide Rania and our friendly driver. To my delight our tour group consisted of just us. Happily I ticked an item off my ‘To Don’t List’ as I ambled down into the tomb of Chepfren to look at an empty, dusty stone box. The little raisin-faced attendant greeted us warmly but soon, fearing he would be acting as a subterranean midwife hustled us back up to the surface.
Tired and happy with the day’s photo session of rock piles and necrotic mummies, we risked our lives crossing the Pyramids Road to eat at McDonalds (you can decide which part was life-threatening). All went well until, having turned my back for a moment, I realised our camera had been stolen. My normally verbose five year old was able to offer a detailed description of the thief as he had been sitting at the opposite side of the table calmly chomping on a chicken nugget and taking the crime in. Rushing to the street I asked him to ID the suspect, which, of course, was fruitless but did provide the local Cairenes an opportunity to learn some colourful English words.
Though angry with my stupidity, I asked my chief witness why he didn‘t say anything. “Well,” he replied thoughtfully, “I was thinking of a plan.”
Encountered the cheesy side of Egyptian tourism at the Pharoanic Village, where we “stepped back in time to ancient Egypt”. I can say with great confidence that none of those re-enactment actors will ever have their names preceded by the phrase, “And the Oscar goes to…” The children were more taken by a toad they found hopping around in the café, so it was our cue to leave, sailing the nearest Felucca down the Nile.
We were in time for lunch at the Four Seasons whose staff showed the slick flip side to the ‘village people’s’ performance. I defiantly downed a salad and ordered a drink with ice, thumbing my nose at the possibility of stomach cramping bacteria (life on the edge as an expectant mother).
Charged valiantly to Giza Zoo leaving common sense behind and ready to support what I now refer to as the local baksheesh industry. Having seen the luscious surroundings of Australia Zoo, Giza Zoo and its demented “dancing monkey” was a fright. The primate, we were informed, was called Michael Jackson. I was hesitant to ask if this meant it did unspeakable things to little boys or merely shared its cage. More intimidating were the doors that a little extra money opened. One minute you are holding a baby lion cub and the next… I can’t have been the only mother washing giraffe slobber out of my children’s hair that evening. What are safety rails?
Our last day was time to mark off my last ‘Don’t’. As the camel meandered along I uttered a silent prayer for my waters not to break and offered thanks that I had issued a strict ten minute time limit. Our guide Moses haggled like a Wall Street trader despite being dressed as if he was born centuries ago. He stopped the negotiations briefly to answer his mobile phone.
This weird but engaging juxtaposition of ancient and modern came up again that evening as we sat eating at Pizza Hut, a few hundred metres from the Sphinx. Later as the sound and light show flicked across the pyramid walls I struggled to keep my eyes open after three frenetic days of bargaining, baksheeshing and list ticking. Unexpectedly I hit parental pay dirt. My five year old leaned across to whisper in the dark; “You’re the best Mum in the whole world.” It was worth it.
