.

The origin of the boomerang and other Egyptian tales
We all know that Australians have a reputation for claiming the best of New Zealand as their own, the ubiquitous pavlova, Phar Lap and Split Enz to name but a few. What we have learned is that such cultural theft is not confined to New Zealand. The National Egyptian Museum has an outstanding collection of boomerang: wooden, ivory, ceramic and even pottery ones, all used for hunting by early Egyptian in just the way we associate with out trans-Tasman neighbours. Our guide told us of the great pleasure he derives in telling Australian tourists that Egypt, not Australia, is the original home of the boomerang. The Australians do not believe it of course, but it transpires that the boomerang is truly international with origins traced to Europe, Africa, and India as well as Australia.
Depending on which source you believe, the Egyptian Museum houses as many as 250,000 artifacts dating back to the start of the country’s archaic period, around 3,100 BC. Perhaps the highlight was the galleries which hold many of the treasures uncovered from the tomb of King Tut Ankh Amon. This is gold to die for. His mummified body was placed in a solid gold inner casket, in turn that was put in a gold leaf outer casket and that, in turn, housed within a gilded one. These caskets were then contained within a series of gilded wooden containers, eight in all, each of which fitted inside the other, not in a manner dissimilar to the way Babushka dolls work. King Tut was about five foot tall, the largest box probably around the same size as a small shipping container. There was too the King’s crown and burial mask, a series of three elaborate mummification tables, a small throne, some beds and furniture, chariots, weapons and shields, jewelry and other trinkets. All of these entombed with him to assist in the afterlife.
Stone statues and carvings are an important feature of Egyptian history and there are literally tons of stonework here tracing the early history of the two lands, Upper and Lower Egypt, the development of hieroglyphics, the various dynasties, occupations and then the Roman and Greek influences. There is a replica of the Rosetta Stone which contains a Greek translation of hieroglyphic text, which allowed its modern interpretation. Like many other Egyptian treasures, the original Rosetta stone is housed in the British Museum. Dating from 196 BC, the stone was discovered by soldiers of Napoleon’s army in 1799.
Mummies too, perhaps one of the things Egypt is best known for, are here literally by the dozen: children, women and men, and people of different social standing. We learned how the mummification process takes place, the removal of the brain through the nose and the storage of the bodily organs in stone jars, wrapping of the body in bandages after a forty day salting process, and the painting of a mask depicting the person’s face on the outside of the mummy so the spirit knows which body to return to. Many paintings show the heart being weighed after death; if it is lighter than a feather then it is proof that the person has lived a worthy life.
Like many of the world’s great museums and galleries, a problem with having so much on display is that it becomes difficult to absorb so much information in a short time. Here the problem is compounded by the lack of facilities and any opportunity to simply sit down and contemplate. Even the bookshop is impossibly small to have a decent browse which was a disappointment. Given the money generated by the busloads of people constantly arriving some reinvestment in the museum would enhance the experience of visitors.

The red Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam
It is not often that Kaelene is given to criminal tendencies, but she didn’t hesitate to encourage Marty to steal cutlery from the hotel dining room on Saturday night in order to force the cork on the bottle of red wine that we had smuggled into our hotel room. Smuggled that is, against the express instruction of management that food and drink are not to be brought from outside the hotel to be consumed within. Cutlery it had to be as corkscrews are a rare commodity in an Islamic country, and impossible to find by scouring the local shops. We would be reduced to having to perform the delicate procedure of forcing the cork into the bottle rather than extracting it in the usual fashion, but more of that later.
We had found a selection of wine in a small shop in the trendy suburb of Zamalek, home to Cairo’s diplomatic quarter and intellectual university types, which is why we were there of course. At 40 Egyptian pounds per bottle (around $NZ14), our Omar Khayyam Vin Rouge was considerably less expensive than the 160 pounds we paid the previous evening at the Abou El Said restaurant, just off the unusually-named 26 July Street. We had gone there at the recommendation of our hotel concierge, and clearly this was a place frequented by Cairo’s beautiful people. Situated discretely behind elegant wooden doors and almost without signage, the place was beautiful, and we quickly gained the impression that a couple of hapless New Zealanders wearing little but jandals and shorts were not their preferred clientele. But there we were and could stay, as long as we were gone by eight, the Maitre’ D informed us.
As it turned out the food was delicious; an old Egyptian recipe of chicken on rice and covered with a rich walnut sauce. Also on the menu, as in many other restaurants here, pigeon, with one offering the choice of a single pigeon or a flock. If this is third-world Cairo, then let’s have more.
One night of excess, however, requires a week of moderation and we were subsequently forced to eat in our own hotel dining room (we were the only ones there) before scuttling back to the room for our tipple of contraband wine. But it is not a simple matter, trying to force a cork into a bottle using nothing more than a stolen teaspoon. Physicists will understand: the cork resists being pushed into the bottle because of the compression of air and liquid. Overcoming this requires brute force and, with it, the risk of red wine spraying all over the room at the very point the cork overcomes the resistance and slips into the bottle. Not a good look when wine is forbidden at all.
Thus it became our battle with the bottle. As could be predicted, the cork fought all attempts to successfully dislodge it and, fearing a catastrophic accident, a tactical decision was made to continue the operation in the bathroom. As the cork became more firmly entrenched halfway down the neck of the bottle so did Kaelene’s concern over possible damage to Marty’s only pair of jeans and shirt. There was no option but for them to be removed. So there he was, stark naked but for one sock, wresting the bottle on the bathroom floor, and the teaspoon abandoned in favour of a biro. With success came the first glass, resplendent with a nib and a little ink-colouring as mementos of the valiant struggle. For those extras there was no additional charge.
The travel tip we have learned from this experience is never to leave home without our waiter’s friend.

The baksheesh blues
Concierge is rather a rather flash title given to the doorman at our hotel. More accurately he could be described as a leader of the baksheesh boys, baksheesh being the colloquial term for a form of tipping, a charge which is applied on top of any fees or taxes for goods and services, and the oil which appears to make this city work. But it is not quite that simple, baksheesh extends the boundaries of paying a gratuity to things you didn’t expect, ask for, and usually don’t want. And this can become tiresome.
For example, on our guided trip to the pyramids, we stopped for lunch and immediately we alighted the van, a band assembled and ushered us into the restaurant to a particularly hideous din. Baksheesh please! We were then ushered to watch a local woman bake the flat bread we were about to eat. Baksheesh please! You are welcome to take a photo the guide says. Baksheesh please! Then there is the tip for the waiting staff, and then the tour guide, and so on and on and on it goes. A pound for the toilet attendant, another for the toilet paper, is nothing sacred?
It is an insidious practice and infiltrates everything, like osmosis. A local will ask where you are from, engage in banter and there you go, the hand goes out for as much as fifty local pounds, and you are left feeling obliged to pay and wondering how it happened, and what it was for. It is oppressive to the extent that you become guarded and suspicious when anyone engages you in conversation, even those who may not want anything.
No one is immune and we are easy prey. A casual nod from the Tourist policeman on his camel, indicating that it is okay to take his photo, results in a subsequent demand for baksheesh. Refusal meets with an aggressive response so who would? Another ten pounds changes hands.
Getting out of the hotel each morning is like the running of the bulls. The minute you are spotted the concierge starts a relentless interrogation to learn your plans and what opportunities might exist for him to assist you, usually starting by getting a conveniently situated driver to transport you at a higher than the going rate price to get you where you want to go. And again you are powerless to resist, because you rely on these people to give instructions to drivers and assist in daily advice. Life can be miserable if you cross them. And, of course, we want to get the airport intact when we leave.