Thirty is the New Twenty, I Hope

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Gina managed to fill two sick sacks as our plane circled the Khartoum, Sudan airport in an electrical storm. We had been due to land thirty minutes prior, but involuntarily surrendered our position in the landing pattern to a diplomatic flight. Not one to usually succumb to motion sickness, Gina was overly apologetic about ruining the last day of my twenties as we bumped through the sky. By the time we eventually landed in Cairo later that evening, my watch read 11:59:31PM. Savoring the few remaining seconds of my twenties as the people around me pushed and shoved to deplane, I couldn’t help but wonder what the rest of my life held in store.

Trying her best to get the day off on the right foot, Gina managed a rendition of Happy Birthday with vomit-laden breath and then jokingly asked if I wanted to make out - I took a rain check.

The routine at Immigration was anything but. After examining our passports, the agent instructed us through broken English to purchase entry visas and fill-out several declaration forms - clearly, more hassle than I wanted to deal with within the first few minutes of being 30. Obligated to comply, Gina and I exchanged money and forms for what appeared to be orange and blue postage stamps that we licked and stuck in our passports before attempting another try. A smile and a rubberstamp later, we found ourselves at the luggage carousel awaiting two heavily saran wrapped pieces of luggage. Why chance fate twice?

Unfortunately, our prophylactic raised the suspicion of Egyptian Customs agents in the Nothing to Declare line who promptly questioned if we were sure we weren’t carrying any contraband. Like some secret password, all I had to mumble was the word “Nairobi” before Gina and I were granted safe passage.

A pack of hungry limo agents surrounded us as soon as we exited the terminal. In no mood to barter, I simply took the first offer, which Gina immediately informed me was the same cost as a Mercedes arranged through the Marriott - even so, it was only $10 US. I was too tired to care that we had to traverse three barriers to reach the waiting Nissan Pulsar, likely an unregistered and illegal taxi, or that a porter had aggressively seized our luggage and was pushing it ahead of us. Having fallen victim to similar shenanigans in other countries, we allowed the porter to load our luggage into the trunk before simply thanking him and closing the door. He was dumbfounded when he asked for a tip and I just smiled in return.

Our driver, a twenty-something Egyptian, introduced himself as Hussein. Gina and I exchanged pleasantries with the chauffer of our less than luxurious ride and promptly asked if he had any music. Within seconds, our passenger compartment was filled with the sweltering night air and the piercing voice of Celine Dion’s Arabic twin. As we thumped along to the foreign rhythms, I took a moment to ponder the situation and our trip as a whole before asking Hussein how far our drive was to the Marriott. “About an hour,” he coolly responded.

In no mood to waste any more of my birthday than absolutely necessary, I wondered aloud, “Could we do it any faster?”

“I have you there in 20 minutes,” he countered confidently.

Minutes later, as the Pulsar weaved through heavy traffic at high speed, Gina and me lacking seatbelts, I accepted that I should watch what I ask for. It took several near misses before the unthinkable happened. A rusted out Honda decided to exit the freeway across 4 lanes of traffic, directly in front of us. It took all of the strength in my left arm to brace Gina against the seat as Hussein locked-up the brakes - flashes of the motionless bodies in Nairobi earlier in the day raced through my mind. At least I made it to 30.
Unbelievably, no paint was traded, no metal twisted, and no lives lost. A tirade in Arabic ensued with some fist pumping interspersed before Hussein turned and apologized to us.

It was 1 AM when we arrived at the Marriott. Mario Andretti seemed shocked when I only tipped him 10%!f(MISSING)or the E-ticket ride, but I felt unusually unsympathetic since it was my birthday after all. The combination of being overtired and adrenaline pumping from our chance with fate resulted in a final bout of energy that lasted until 3 AM. When we entered the hotel room, Gina was peeved the concierge failed to acknowledge her request for balloons and again found herself apologizing for something out of her control. We laughed and joked for a couple of hours before having a birthday toast of Amarula, a liqueur fermented from marula tree fruit which we’d been introduced to in South Africa, that sealed our fate with the pillow.

The morning was upon us sooner than expected because Gina had arranged for a private tour of the Pyramids of Giza for 9 AM. I awoke to a birthday voicemail from Les Jones who put me in the celebratory spirit.

Due to our continued travel and her lack of privacy, Gina had gone out of her way to secure my birthday present while in Japan with Jess. However, the FedEx package that arrived at our hotel in Tokyo was too large to fit in her bag, so she had forced me to carry it for 2 months in my luggage, like some cruel taunt. Unwilling to allow the cardboard container to suffice, Gina set out to jury-rig a proper wrap job by cobbling together a few stray shopping bags and the leftover tape from our saran wrapped luggage. While the Cairo Marriott was littered with signs professing, “Yes is the answer, what is the question?” they’d failed miserably to deliver the scotch tape she’d requested at 2AM the night before.

While Gina toiled away with her Frankenstein gift wrap, I shouted that the kids, our affectionate term for the stuffed animals we’ve collected along our travels, felt left out of the festivities. Emerging a short while later, I couldn’t help but laugh hysterically as Gina carried out my wrapped present with a party hat clad Frog, Kiwi and Koala while singing Happy Birthday. To my surprise, some far away galactic beings are now worshipping a star named in my honor - G1.

We arrived at the Guest Relations counter ahead of schedule and patiently waited for our guide. An awkward looking woman appeared punctually at 9 AM and introduced herself as Christine. Eager to start the tour, she motioned for me and Gina to follow her to a waiting American Express van for our transfer to Giza. After a quick introduction to Abdul, the driver, we sat back as he eased the van into the morass of Cairo traffic.

Like many of the countries we’d visited, driving in Egypt was simply a free-for-all. With a daytime population surging towards 13 million, it came as little surprise that our 1- kilometer drive to the freeway took nearly an hour as pedestrians darted out between cars, mopeds cut lanes, taxis weaved across the double yellow and various animals, vehicles and construction debris wreaked havoc on the flow of traffic. The distance between Cairo’s urban core and the Giza pyramids was astonishingly short once our van was at speed. Along the way, Christine took time to explain how the fertile lands adjacent to the Nile have begun receding due to urban sprawl. Farmers have traded rows of corn and papyrus for rows of low-rise buildings to house their growing families. In fact, growth is so dynamic in Egyptian families, that the uppermost story of many buildings remains unfinished so that future stories can simply be stacked on top. The resulting effect is an eerie landscape of windowless brick buildings with rebar posts reaching for the sky.

One cannot truly understand the dominating presence of the Pyramids of Giza until they have stepped foot in front of them. As the American Express van pulled into the parking lot, Gina and I were simply awestruck. Like a pair of ducklings, we followed Christine to the tourism ticket booth and then proceeded through a conglomeration of security devices - as if anything we carried could threaten the 2 million-odd, three to ten ton blocks that form the monoliths. And even if we had, the guard was too involved in his cigarette to care.

Christine, a trained Egyptologist, began her lecture on the history of the Pyramids of Giza and how they are believed to have been constructed. Not the oldest example of pyramids - that distinction goes to the Step Pyramid in Saqqara - but the best preserved and largest illustration of pharaohic narcissism, the three act as mausoleums to various members of the Khufu dynasty. The blocks of limestone that form the structures were mined from a nearby quarry and transported on the Nile, which at that time ran adjacent to the pyramids. Theories vary on how the superhuman sized blocks were assembled, but most involve tracks of tree trunks, a lot of dedicated disciples (supposedly volunteers) and some tricky engineering. Naturally, every nuance is disputed.

The climax of our pyramid tour was entry into the burial chamber of Khafre, a claustrophobic’s nightmare. Sweat poured from my head halfway through the 100 meter long tunnel as the stale air slowly choked us. Crouched over, my back still managed to scrape the ceiling as we slinked our way past exiting Japanese tourists. Unable to ask whether the journey was worth the agony, Gina and I trudged on until we stood upright in a completely empty room somewhere in the bowels of the pyramid. A quick scan of our surroundings revealed no sarcophagi, no mummy and no artifacts - the broken, fifteen year-old box fan in the corner hardly counted as an antiquity. After an abbreviated laugh, we double backed the way we came, past the throng of unsuspecting tourists struggling through the tunnel.

We rendezvoused with Christine at the pyramid entrance and conveyed our disappointment with the burial chamber - she didn’t seem surprised. Pressing on with the tour, she phoned Abdul to transport us the half kilometer to an overlook of the three pyramids for photos before proceeding on to the sphinx. To my delight, I immediately noticed the several enterprising camel owners who had setup shop at the site offering rides to unsuspecting tourists and asked Gina if she wanted to take a ride. Whatever the birthday boy wants

Impatient, as always, I was hardly in the mood to barter with some camel jockey for a ride on his cranky ungulate and asked Christine what the ordeal should cost me. The owner started at 150 Egyptian Pounds (25 USD) and I immediately halved it. He hemmed and hawed before generously dropping his price to 140. I was not satisfied and laughed at his proposition before explaining that it was my thirtieth birthday and I was unwilling to pay anymore than 100. After a quick scan of his idle herd, the man begrudgingly accepted and assured me that it was a birthday present.

By the time I’d secured the deal, Gina was already tormenting a nearby camel that appeared to be peacefully resting. Luckily, she had the premonition to move her hand before the beast groaned and chomped violently in the air. “I like him,” she decided.

The camel owner took notice and instructed us to mount the kneeling animal, which now seemed disinterested with our presence and resumed chomping on its lunch. As we struggled onto the back of the one-humper (two hump camels are evidently ill tempered), Gina and I giggled at how absurd we must look. A flick of a crop is all it took to upright our joyride for what was an extremely short and awkward jaunt around the Giza sands. Definitely not a Cadillac suspension

Our time at Giza was capped with a brief visit to the Sphinx, a monument with a long forgotten purpose. Half man, half feline, and carved from the natural bedrock, little is known about who built it and why. After our curiosity was satisfied, Gina and I hurried back to the waiting van to escape the sweltering heat that had been building throughout the morning.

Prior to returning to the Marriott, we had Abdul detour to the train station so that we could reserve seats for the following night’s train to Luxor. We bid Christine adieu at the station and proceeded to flag a taxi for the remainder of our trip to the hotel. Knowing that no driver would abide by the law and use their meter, Gina and I proceeded to play their game. “How much to the Marriott?” I asked the man who was chomping on a pretzel outside of his cab.

“30,” he mumbled between bites.

“20,” I countered. He shook his head no.

Gina and I continued on to the next cab in the queue to start again, but before we could make it to the man’s trunk, his willpower crumbled, “OK, OK, 20.”

As the man inched his way into bumper-to-bumper traffic, he turned with a toothless grin and offered us a piece of his half-eaten pretzel. We, of course, politely declined. Not even seconds into our journey, the temperature inside the all black sedan was taking its toll on us. Perspiration poured from my brow as I frantically searched for a way to roll down the windows, but to my dismay the needed cranks had been purposely removed - a common practice in Egypt we’d come to find out. By the time we arrived back to Zamalek, Gina and I had probably sweated out every ounce of fluid in our bodies.

Egypt is not known for its gastronomic excellence, so finding a restaurant worthy of celebrating my thirtieth birthday had been a frustrating challenge for Gina. Ultimately, she gave me a choice between local fare or hotel restaurants with a more international focus. I chose the latter, which landed us at Windows on the World at the Cairo Hilton.

Prior to leaving on our tour of the pyramids that morning, we’d sent out two dress outfits for express dry cleaning as they’d been mashed in our bags for the better part of three months. With a promise to return them well in advance of our dinner reservation, Gina and I grew concerned when we found an empty closet upon our return from Giza. Accepting that things in Egypt may not be timely, we showered and napped hoping to be awoken by a knock at the door. It never came.

“Hello, I sent out laundry this morning for express service and it hasn’t returned,” I told the woman at reception who answered the phone.

“Check the closet,” she replied.

“I did and it isn’t there.”

“OK, let me transfer you to housekeeping,” she said, expecting to pawn the problem off on someone else.

“Housekeeping,” the man answered.

“Yes, I sent out laundry this morning for express service and it hasn’t returned,” I repeated with a sense of deja vu.

“Did you check the closet?” he inquired through broken English.

“Yes, I checked the closet. It was supposed to be here at 3 o’clock and it is now 6 o’clock,” I expressed with growing irritation.

“OK, what room are you in?”

“311, Sawyer is the name,” I answered.

“One minute,” as he put me on hold.

I relayed the situation to Gina, who was applying her face in the bathroom. She rolled her eyes as the man clicked back on the phone. “I can’t seem to find it. Are you sure it got picked up? Check your room.”

At this point, I was pissed and made it known. “It’s not in my room! We called you this morning at 7 AM and asked you to pick it up. You instructed us to leave the bag on the bed and it isn’t here anymore! The laundry was supposed to be back at 3 and it is now after 6. Even normal service should have been back by 6,” I rambled off without taking a breath.

He suspended the conversation, “Let me call you back.” The phone never rang.

Ten more minutes passed as I ranted and raved to Gina who listened with a sympathetic ear. Acknowledging our looming dinner reservation and lack of nice attire, I soon found myself demanding to speak with the hotel’s General Manager, who assured me that he’d get to the bottom of my issue. With less than 30 minutes to spare, there was a knock at the door. A wheezing man stood with our outfits, clearly having run from another portion of the hotel or the dry cleaner down the street. I wonder if it’s even clean.

Since Gina was the only familiar face to help me celebrate my birthday, she decided to bring along the kids and their party hats to dinner. While I had been receiving calls from family and friends throughout the day, I still felt distant from everyone and appreciated Gina’s effort to make it a true fete.

Expecting a fancy ordeal, Gina was a bit disappointed by the hotel feel of the elevated Nile-view restaurant. When she called to book the reservation, she had inquired about a window seat, to which the receptionist replied, “There are no guarantees, but we’ll see what we can do.” As we walked into the near empty restaurant that night, we had to laugh. We’ll see what we can do.

The waiter was a bit confused when Gina pulled the stuffed animals from her bag and placed them on our table, closely followed by a nice bottle of Syrah from South Africa we’d been toting. Having conveyed that it was my birthday and that we wished to not rush our meal, the waiter left us to enjoy the sunset over the Nile. Over the course of the next two hours, Gina and I soaked up the view, slowly imbibed the phenomenal wine and listened to a mixture of 80s music being piped into the restaurant. As we wound down our main course, the music compilation was replaced with a poor excuse for a live band. Since I was doing my best to mentally mute them out, I missed when they cued up “Happy Birthday to You.” It wasn’t until the group of waiters placed the candle-lit cake emblazoned with Happy Birthday Jene in front of me that I realized the raucous was in my honor.

Having heard Gina trying to coyly spell out my name a few days prior as she made the reservation, I couldn’t help but chuckle as I relished in the moment. Throwing up her hands in annoyance, Gina said, “At least you got a cake.”

I made a private wish and blew out the “3-0” candles atop the chocolate masterpiece, which Gina had been carrying since she forced Jess to buy them in Japan. When the waiter carried away the cake to have the kitchen slice it, the woman at the table next to us leaned over and commented, “It’s my birthday too, but my fiancé didn’t get me a cake,” as she shot a stare across the table at the man accompanying her. Doghouse

In a jovial mood and feeling somewhat sorry for the woman, I moved the party hat clad kids from our table to hers and said, “They’ll help you celebrate.”

Her fiancé seemed less than amused.

When the waiter returned with our slices, I motioned for him to come closer and asked him to present our neighbor with a candled piece as it was her birthday, too. He disappeared into the kitchen, but not before stopping to conspicuously whisper something in the woman’s fiancé’s ear. Before the waiter could reemerge, the band struck up another rendition of “Happy Birthday” and another table was encircled with chorus and a candlelit cake. The man next to us accepted his fortune by burying his face in his hands. Doghouse

The slice of cake we’d ordered for the unsuspecting birthday girl finally surfaced about ten minutes later as the band put forth its worst effort at “Happy Birthday” thus far. The fiancé was anything but pleased as his wife-to-be blew out her lone candle. Gina and I found the whole situation completely hilarious and promised to send the woman the photos we’d taken before retreating to the Marriott.

The first full day of my 30s was ended with candles and massage -hopefully the next 3,649 will go just as well.

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