……….Is a long one
VOYAGE TO THE ORIGIN OF WRITING
We’ll take
to the sky, and fly to Egypt, leave winter behind.
Relax in
the sun, have fun by the Red Sea,
go visit
Muftis, Sheiks, Bedouins!
LUXOR,
KARNACK and THEBES!
THIS IS A
BEAUTIFUL PLANET!
MIRACULOUS!
GRANDIOSE!
So much to
discover!
Besides, -
I want to
visit a friend,
in a place
called ABYDOS,…
…who
recently had come upon new knowledge, in regards to the genesis of writing,
discovering its origins in Egypt, dating to 5000B.C.
Until now,
Cuneiform script of Mesopotamia was thought to be the oldest form of script.
Everybody
knows,-
WITHOUT
WRITING, WE’D BE NOTHING.
The news
reached me reading the NY Times at VESELKA Coffee Shop, Rainbow in Ukrainian, 2nd
Ave. and 9th Street in Manhattan.
HOLY
CASSIOPEIA!
THERE HE
WAS!
OUT OF THE
BLUE!
GERONIMO!
NR.1 BUDDY
OF YOUTH!
GERONIMO
DREYER!
HIS IMAGE,
ON PAGE 3!
IN THE
FLESH!
RESURRECTED!
ON HIS
KNEES,
IN A GRAVE,
sampling
the sands of Egypt!
…dressed in
a Safari outfit, chapeau, sunglasses, a flashy smile, pole to a mischievous
spark exploding around his auras edge, one hand holding on to ancient rock.
An episode
under the Neon lights of ‘AM STERN’ in Bremen, thirty years ago, came to my
mind then, when a vision had visited suddenly, delirious, out of nothingness,
and placed him smack in the middle of the intersection of parallels, traversing
the universe, the infinite.
Moments
like this told of greatness to be realized!
Every now
and then, working on it, this feature visited me on The Lower East Side, like a
hallo from the old Sweden of Youth.
TURBULENCE
FROM THE EAST
THERMAL
TOWERS OF POWER……………………
AN ARIA
OVER BULGARIA
ANNOUNCES
NUTRITION-
IN MY
CONDITION
DREAMING
PYRAMIDS, PYTHAGORAS,
FROM SWEET
SLUMBER ME AWAKE
SCATTERED BELOW
BY A MAGIC HAND
.ISLANDS….WATER….LIGHT!…
AFTER THE
MOVIE
ONLY THE
SAND
OF A NEW
CONTINENT!
AFRICA!
SAHARA!
Full of
myth
little
play,
where women
got nothing
to say
…yet
NUTE-RULES!
…who had
spit out the sun a few hours prior, to burn cooked stone of dehydrated
riverbed, air brushing mountains a deep red, adobe the desert in all variations
of beige, spread wrinkled batik along the hot beach, then goes for a dip into
the blue Red Sea, and reappears
a few miles
out, a white washed island.
Inside the
echo hall of Hurgada International many tongued hum, arrivals string along in
bazaar like ambience, run smooth through Customs and Immigration. One officer,
seated behind a long banquet of wooden tables, decorates my passport with
stamps and hieroglyphs, flowing from my pen,- his had run out of ink.
A little
later, I feel:
Pen gone!
Inside the
crowd, Immigration man is looking for me, waving fine point pen, as if he knew
the importance, having a pen along, on the road to the origin of scripture….
A tropical
wait of ten Egyptian minutes, more or less half hour Greenwich, brings a polar
storm, blowing onto passengers in a bus
to their
destinations. Various hairdo flattened, wigs pasted to the skull, riding on hot
clouds of asphalt hovering in suspense,
past
skeletons of palaces, abandoned in the desert, toward the Avenue by the sea.
We got off
at Hotel El Samaka.
Three
porters in red uniform, impressive golden bandoliers making for shoulders like
football players, insist on carrying the little luggage we had. Squeezed tight
in their midst, afraid we might escape, the gladiators guide us toward bungalow
143.
The grass
is green, flower bushes in full bloom, are laughing at the sun. A big, white
bird majestically traverses the lawn, an ocean nearby begs for a visit…
But there
is in odour out there!…
Offensive,
faecal, penetrating the idyll, floating invisible, yet prominent in competition
with the perfume of the orange trees and hyacinths.
The odour
of shit!-
A plumbing
problem, no doubt.
Located
next to the source of this odour lies Bungalow 143.
An open
sinkhole’s over flow, floods the biosphere with diluted pogo.
I found out
later, that this is the common way, watering the lawn.
We upgrade
to heights, where oxygen is plenty. A wind shade balcony’s view of the Red Sea
makes us captain, on the bridge of our ship Destiny.
In search
of a drink, I head for the Lobby.
Eastern
European flair is in the air. Russian Pin-Ups exude feelings of belonging, or
the need of it.
Stereo pops
80’s and 90’s.
Behind the
bar, a certain Monsieur Achmed carries a friendly smile above his bow tie,
serves cool Egyptian beer. called Stella.
Magnum in
size, she is capable, as good as any German brew, to bestow a positive,
stimulating, invigorating state, and mobilize lazy warriors of consciousness,
hang in out at synapse junction, to put their shorts on, and sail towards
adventures in euphoric, human, oriental intercourse.
Monsieur
Achmed! Would you play Egyptian music for us?
Watt?
You have
Egyptian music?
Not CD!
Cassette only!
Who are
your Stars, Top Pop, in Egypt?
Oh yes,
understand! Star Singer! Mohamed Munir! Very good! Latifa! Um Kulzum!.. BEAUTIFUL!
How do you
say beautiful, in Egyptian, please?
Gameel!
You want
Egyptian music? Ashtere
cassette, no problem!
Ashtere -
to buy?
Oui
monsieur.
How do you
say: my name is?
Iz-me!
Is me?
Cool!
How do you
say: what is your name?
Achmed!
Oh,….Izmak-eh!
…and one
beer please?
Wuachid
bira!
Two beers?
Itnin bira!
…gives us
two more.
Thanks,
shukran Monsieur Achmed!
MinFatlak
Fat luck to
you too!
See you
later!
Alligator!
In a while!
Crocodile!
and dive
for Life
inside the divan.
HOLY
CROCODILE MAKER
of Hurgada!
IZ-MI
ITS ME!
WELLCOME!
IMSHALLAH!
UNBELIEVABLY
UNBELIEVABLE
UNBELIEF-
UNBELIEVING
BELIEVER!
INFIDEL
BLESSED
WITH A BUZZ
BLITZED
BLISS
BLISSED-OUT!
KISSED BY
THE HALF MOON
SCARAB ON
THE RUN
LEVITATING
LIKE PARACELSUS
SHELLEY AND
ELVIS
HELIOSPHERICAL
UN-CLERICAL
LOOSE AND
EASY
MY LEFT
SHOE
ON PLANET
MU
THE SETTING
SUN’S
COPTIC
DEFORMED SMILE
ENLIGHTENS
THE ANCIENT
SPHINX
DISPOSSESSED
REDEEMERS
GENUFLECT
TOWARDS MECCA-
PRAYERS
PERCOLATE BELOW
THE
PIPELINE
TO HELL
MOTHER OF
ALL SMOKING GUNS.
IN THE
LOBBY
ENTRANCE OF
GLADIATORS!
INTERNET
GIN AND
TONIC
CYBER SPACE
PROKOFIEFF
KALASCHNIKOW
DISCO-CD
SAUCE
TRILOGY
TOSSED
GENOME SALAD
HALLO,
WHEN IS
LUNCH AND WHAT’S FOR DINNER?
ENTA AHMEL:E
KEFAHLAK
There is
Egyptian music playing now. Outside, a hammered new moon lies on its back,
looking into a cloudless, starry night. Amr-moon.
Bedded
underneath mushrooms, wind walls woven palm leave,
watching
life on other coloured colonies sprayed along the bay,
the Red Sea
Caribbean blue waters lie wave less.
In the
west, a row of sharp bad teeth stretches a black and red silhouette of the
Eastern Mountain Range.
It is from
there, that a cool, sandy wind blows, to mingle with the mist, embracing the
islands to Arabia and Sinai.
On a trail
to the beach of the 4 Star Hotel Princess, visited by many Russians, a Bedouin
hauls a above it all camel through the dust. Hysterical banana boats draw
circles in foam, dump screaming human cargo into the cold sea. Unperturbed
little nakedness continues building castles of sand, made to last forever, and
a minute.
Every now
and then, agile like balloons, feisty silicon titties pop into the optic. While
Muftis pull a damaged glass bottom boat to shore, a waiter battles armful of
empty whiskey bottles.
Ships move
along the horizon, slow as snails, towards Suez, or the Horn of Africa.
Internet
finds the number of the German Archaeological Institute.
A first
step, getting in touch with my buddy from late puberty. Telephone Operator
plugs the connections into the same wooden switchboard, Bogey used to call
Ingrid in Casablanca, to exchange whispered secrets.
In Cairo,
the friendly voice of the Institute’s secretary supplies all the info, of the
bat, - GD’s mobile phone number, and present location.
Switchboard,
busy connecting with Abydos, had me ruminate about time, and how much, or
little of it there might be, for a coryphée in the pantheon of deeper
knowledge.
GERONIMO
DREYERS BRAIN MIGHT HAVE TRANSFORMED INTO A SINGLE TEMPLE COMPLEX, filled with
gods, visions, ancient worlds, shadows that know, hieroglyphs, mummies, pharaonic fungi, extra terrestrial messages even!
Worst
scenario,-memories tossed to the wayside, gone, faded, obsolete,
…and
friends forgotten!
He might be
on another planet all together, -what did I know.
Come what
may. People change.
LIFE IS A
GAS!
The
receiver pressed to the ear, I listen to the flow of my first electronic crossing
of the Nile.
This is
exciting!
On the
other side of the great river, an Egyptian picks up, shouts something into
space, and hands the phone to GD.
I announce
my return, from formative years, and I feel a whirlpool, bubbling with grey, in
perfect absence of fungi, or other planetary memory depleted brain cells!
ALLAH IS
MIGHTY, says he
ALLAH IS
GREAT, says I
THREE METER
SIXTY, says he
NEVER LATE,
BUT
UNEMPLOYED! Says I.
Deep
inside, the original Swede had remained.
GD
recommended, that we jump into a cab, and see him in Abydos, right away, -he’d
be delighted to pay for the trip!
As a matter
of fact, his calendar offered slack time till the weekend. Something about an
ambassadors visit, taking his every minute then.
The
economic, alternative transportation would be the bus to Qena, the train north,
along the Nile to Balayana, the rest to Beth el Almani in Abydos, by cab and
escort.
The
distance of about 400km, could take two days.
No matter
how we’d get there, we were on our way, and said Salaam.
Inquiring
about a cab, Telephone Operator recommended one of his many Taxi driving
cousins.
One hour
later, Hosni, in best of years, proud owner of a thirty year old, white Renault
Station Wagon Cab, meets me by the bar.
Cool Stella
at hand, I ask about the fare to Abydos.
A
thoughtful pause, a gesture like Heyerdahl 500 miles off Barbados, finally: “
One way? Round Trip?”
“One way,”
and add, that we would stay a few days.
Sucking on
his Marlboro, which are cheap, Hosni draws a number.
“Seven
hundred and fifty pounds- One way, ok?”, he goes.
Holy Rhino!
It didn’t
take much to feign shock over the lofty altitude of this particular number.
A sudden
attack lifts me off the sofa, drops me on the mirror marble floor
cold,-accompanied by shouts of help and calls for a doctor!
This clever
tactic drew the interest of believers and infidels alike.
Reanimated
by Stella, I get off the floor, an unbeaten pilgrim:
”Four
hundred fifty pounds, cold Egyptian cash! Take it or leave it!”
Hosni took
it, because, “you are a gentleman”, as he put it.
Of course I
am, obvious, and left me secure in the illusion, being a great talent, a wizard
in the art of bargain.
Departure
set for six A.M., the Convoy would leave from a check point on the outskirts,
at seven.
Russian
roadblocks of childhood forced their image to my here and now, on a fucked
planet.
Who fucked
the planet?
We all did.
Repressive
Imams of Islam did not help much either.
On the
contrary.
Just
recently, one respected, bespectacled, authentic, original old-timer, a highly
holy Saudi sheikh had declared the earth a plate, and anyone who believed other
wise, a damned, ignorant, victim of dirty propaganda, spread by crusaders,
Christians, Jews, Americans. Heavenly virgins awaited the dinosaurs of Allah
for fucking in paradise, under the influence, as a reward for foreskins pulled
over the ears of Infidels, ambushed in the mountains, and halt Tourism once and
for all.
That’s why
they travel in convoy.
A kick to
the tires, intended to assure the perfect condition of his vehicle, Hosni
remarked, that one incarnation of Egyptian Mike Schumacher, actually was
himself.
Below the
rear view mirror, gently beckoning, the hand of Fatima waves.
Dawns early
light struggles across the crack between Nutes front teeth, again.
Driving
south, the gods of pigment paint mountains a ever deeper red, wash the
continent in yet another glorious morning, beyond borders, all the way to the
Sudan.
Starvation,
slavery, killing in gods name and what not, are the Amen in churches, and
mosques of power hungry, greedy mother fuckers there.
Checkpoint
1 collects busses, Pick-Ups, cars, trucks, 4by4, taxi-vans to make the convoy
one mile long.
General and
driver are at the ready inside a blue Toyota, soldiers armed with machine guns
sit astern, on benches beneath a canvas roof.
Military
loiters at the roadblock.
Hosni left
the car for an audience with black and green uniformed warriors,-granted after
a humble wait of several minutes.
The
experience makes him wear a satisfied smile on his return.
He had
managed to arrange for the number ONE position, behind the Generals car,
official, sanctioned.
Egypt
Shoomi would show us, where a pro hangs his hammer!
Drunk with
morning light, and high from high octane, the caravan gets moving, sets into
motion, lifts off.
Full blood
Egyptian sounds arise to heaven, or wonder longingly from dune to dune. In
front lies the dark silhouette of the Eastern Mountains, ready to swallow the
column. Soon serpentines begin to reach for fast approaching heights, past
snakes, dead cars, through canyons with summits, decorated along the edge with
stone sculptures. In regular interval, these great aesthetics a la Moore,
remind to natures perfection.
Suddenly
centrifugal powers take hold, prop us from side to side.
The drivers
joy in driving became more and more apparent.
A few dare
devils began playful, to initiate risky manoeuvrings.
By luck or
purpose, the divider line inside the windy ascent had been dug to a ditch,
preventing cars from passing each other.
-a
marvellous occasion to the Sultans of asphalt though, to pump a little life
into the old trot, and promote themselves to happy, cunning masters over Mensch
and Matter.
At the
hierarchy’s very top, lounge the captains inside their desert ship tourist
busses rich upholstery, pneumatic swaying thrones, sunken kings of horizons,
playing first trumpet, Toilette and TV on board.
Packing
600horses, twelve cylinders and Allah’s will between their legs, they kick the
dust for the rest of the world to swallow.
Pilgrims
packed tight in rickety rickshaws, fly blind through clouds of sand, a mighty
foghorn blowing down their necks.
Like a
melody steadily driven to greater heights of ecstasy and speed, sons of the
Sphinx take off their white gloves, anchor lead feet securely to accelerators,
and whip the shit out of screaming engines at their mercy.
Thus the
caravan urges on.
One road
warrior fades inside furious steam of a busted radiator. Black clouds of burned
oil explode to wobbling, foul farts.
Mantra on
lips, tickle the resolve in Allah,
moving on
the edge of a devils plot,
we drive
and pray,
will we
live,
or will we
rot.
The
privilege of position 1, behind the general, seemed to have made us object of
envy.
No wonder
the competition had us by the balls, before we knew it!
Sudden humiliation
visited upon Hosni like lightning, when under suppressed forbidden curses,
moistening the collar of his still fresh blue linen shirt, one member of the
fearless Fellahs road warrior, driving for the glory of Egypt, degrades us to
position number TWO.
As far as
Anke and I was concerned, it did not matter, how fast we progressed, really.
All we wanted, to enjoy the ride of our perpetual honeymoon, listen to Egyptian
music, get it on in the backseat…..
Hosni, a
man of ambitions, great belief in the future, and driven by emotions as well,
went to work.
His torso
squeezed to a wild vibrating steering wheel, he fought duel after duel of dare or die, struggling hard to re-conquer our legitimate, privileged position
ONE.
From the
start of his first determined attack, stoically maintaining an unforgiving,
intimidating attitude, that said:
YOU MIGHT
BE A MUSLIM, AND A BROTHER, BUT UNLESS I HAVE MY NUMBER BACK, I DON’T CARE,
IF YOU SEE
MECCA, EVER AGAIN!
Pushing the
metal to the limit, he ultimately grabbed the moment itself, passing half ass
on the side, leaving the asphalt, kicking a mean shower of gravel, cruel enough
to shatter a windshield or two. He passed them all,-three, four vehicles, side
by side, approaching the blind of a nasty curve.
Glued like
a dick to a donkey, welded to the general’s bumper,
he finally
did triumph.
Back in the
saddle, frantic Fellahs had no chance.
My
left/right foot imaginary brake pedal had begun to emit a musty odor during the
ordeal, and my thoughts drifted to Capricorn, scratching his hairy ass on the
mountain rim, poking horn at Moorish formations of stone, tempting a tumbling,
down upon our sorry asses.
Assassins
of some local prophet appear out of no where in Act 2, foreskin gone, money
gone, fucked.
But then
there is Fatima,
waving her
hand,
whispers:
Habibi,
Habibi-IKIMASU SUKI SUKI,
Darling
relax!
Enjoy Life,
my Love!
….and look
at here!
A bay opens
out, into a stretch of desert, says hallo and good bye. Close to the horizon, a
Bedouin wanders in a river of sand.
Now and
then, the skeleton of a dead car whizzes by, glitter of broken glass sparkle
like diamante necklaces, strung along the highway.
Keep that
lead!
Checkpoint
3
Coffee shop
line-up, plastic cup melting in hand,
woven reed
bucket register
greedy
greetings
gold leaf
the dessert.
I tell my
monkey to blow the place up.
Meanwhile
the bucket is full with Russian dollars.
Outside,
camels wait to be taken for a ride, children carry sheep in their arms. They
are not allowed to beg, but flout: Pen! Pen!
Are they
saying: Will I ever own a pen, and know to write, for you to read, what I would
like to say:
Cough up
some bread, gringo?!
The caravan
continues on its way, hops over asphalt sausages behind a roadblock, and
hurries down the mountain, towards the Eastern Desert.
A trembling
rear view mirror shows a collection of rusty buckets, held together by bed
springs, on tires without a profile, compete in hoot and honking horns.
Black
flatulence escapes their dented extremities. A bunch of Sunnis, Shiites,
Wahabis, only god knows where these brothers hail from,
are
determent to have a word also, get some respect, know what I mean?
Unimpressed,
Hosni deflects the first aggressive encounter with zigzags to the left, zigzags
to the right, distributes generous amounts of gravel in the process, whispering
defiant classic Arabic curses, mixed to flowery sounds of Radio Cairo.
The sons of
the desert, whoever they were, did appreciate the attention Hosni bestowed upon
them, and responded, lightening flashes in their eyes, crazy laughter,
supported by a hysterical, wicked singing of metal, that ignites to prominence
with a fiery display of furious sparks, little comets, thrown in for the hell
of it.
Flying
through the desert, there is no intimidating Hosni though, who knows how to
give zero inch skin of his teeth, bared steadfast at the enemy of fair
competition, nor a boisterous camel fart.
Allah the
merciful!
I had
increasingly become concerned about our well being by then, and offered a
whiff, for the Muftis to take at my stinky finger.
They liked
it, asking for more.
I offered
the fuck finger first, -without response whatsoever.
A resolute
pulling a truckers horn signal followed:
FUCK OFF
YOU GUYS!
Somewhat
taken, digesting, interpreting, they fall back a bit,
only to
return with vigor, a vengeance and enthusiasm, that is unique.
As a last
resort in the sphere of speechless communication, I paint the hieroglyph of the
bad finger itself, into the dust of the rear window.
The Sheiks
love it! Muftis are delighted! A smashing success!
Out of an
ancient, green bucket, RAMSES painted on its dented metal, his highness tooth
gapped laughter shines with joy and pride in his work, unarming, leaving me
with nothing but a Killroy, -
and faith
in fate.
In the end,
its all in Allah’s hand!
Frantically
waving, swinging from side to side like a window wiper, Fatimas hand conducts
the concerts agony of man and machine.
Hair is
standing out of my sweaty collar, like weed.
Each duel
is followed by an interlude of relaxation and tranquillity, when all parties
replenish their body fluids, lighten up another Marlboro or Cleopatra, and get
set for new challenges, that lie ahead, inside the mirror of collective
adrenalin.
This time,
a new species in quest of Allah’s will had to be dealt with: Ghost riders,
moving on track of incoming traffic, while a cloud of dirt and dust behind us,
regurgitates a formation a la Minneapolis 500, and thunders down the
Serpentines.
They are
motivated.
Driven by
one desire only, -to separate, un-weld, undo, unglue us from the bumper of ‘der
Führer’,
and shove
our crusade ass down the cliff!
Am I being
paranoied… or is it just having fun in Egypt?
I close my
eyes.
This is the
end!
Here it
comes!
And here it
is!….
Slightly
annoyed, the General projects his authority with delicate, manicured finger
spiel, of a gold embellished hand, a study in motion:
TAKE THE
LEAD OFF!
COOL IT,
BOYS!
We are
saved!
The
faithful slow down, everybody lines up in a prayer bead.
Time to
give praise!
Allah is
great !
…and Hosni
number One Tamam Shumi!
Down in the
flatland, a distant railroad track, mounted on a dyke made of stone and cement,
runs parallel the highway, through a hot dessert to Qena. Workers toile, attach
large slabs of rock to the ravine. Thermometers read 130 degrees. They say,
that it is winter here as well, and I don’t want to know what summer might be
like.
A donkey
limps near washed out adobe huts, investigates trapped garbage, announcing the
proximity of the city.
In Qena,
the convoy heads south, to the Valley of the Kings.
We drive
north on a country road.
Puffing on
his cigarette with relish, leisurely refuelling the tank, Hosni enjoys himself,
checks the oil, washes windows, empties ash trays, gets cold Colas from the
station, takes care of his passengers.
Our journey
continues underneath a canopy of trees, feeding from waters, running along both
sides of the highway.
Dusty
saturated green of palms shadow play reflect dramatic beauty, washed in intense
light and smoke, rising like dew from shaded groves below, where camels,
donkeys, chicken and egrets congregate.
Veiled
women squat by the river washing, as if entranced by Nubian melodies, coming
from the wall of reed nearby.
Matter of
fact, once in a while, a place by the river carries a Reed line:
There is
nothing to eat, that don’t carry the stink of human waste, dumped into the
Nile….
Fishermen
in blue boats and white caftans appear dancing, glide standing over the waters.
Others just hover about.
Huff’s and
puff’s pumps spit divine essence on the land and transform the Delta into
phosphorescent green of rice and sugar cane. That sugar cane that taste so
good!.
The brandy
is called BLIND MAKER in these parts.
No Bars by
the side of the road.
No way to
stop either. We are escorted, past miles of adobe,
three and
four storied, running on the western side of the canal,
and remind
of Indian Reservations in Arizona and New Mexico.
Opposite,
mysterious worlds carved in wood and stone,-mansions of landowners living in
1001.
The green
steadily grows greener, rivers widen, a cooling of air sets in.
Oh, the
smell of it!
Mother of
Africa!
The Nile is
near!
A bridge
approaches.
Another
checkpoint puts us to a stop, and wait of many precious Egyptian minutes, until
a new escort arrives.
This escort
thing proved to be a royal pain in the ass, since the very fact singled you out
like a polar bear, posing by the pyramids.
It
high-jacked the vision into the very future also, annihilated the view of the
here and now, replaced it with nervous machine guns, dancing on knees of
ambivalent soldiers, guarding us from wild hairy Fellahs, wearing grown
together eyebrows for a cap, swinging a Syrian blade, obsessed with getting
laid, and cutting off some Infidels balls….
Dense
traffic moved slow at this snug, shadowy bottleneck by the Nile. Congestion
plagues checkpoint 4, nestled in a narrow S-curve, lined with ancient trees.
Raggedy figures huddle in mighty mountains of sugarcane, carried by donkeys
graceful step, and scurry past. Trucks loaded like house squeeze by, expel all
movement to the sides of the rickety road.
A big woman
in black, fills a bucket of water from a tank, sitting next to the river. She
is the first woman, sighted since the coast.
Next to
her, a soldier embraces a civil friend, passionately circum navigates the black
cloth of his behind.
Its
touching, to see the troops happy, like children, walk hand in hand.
Along the
shores of the river, reflections of gold rise steep to the range of a mighty
mountain, and disappear at the top as the Eastern Dessert.
Another
Escort will deliver us into the Western.
Plain
clothed, an Egyptian V-man finally arrived.
He didn’t
say a word
Have you
heard
This one
from GRAUCHO:
VICTOR
MATURES TITS ARE BIGGER
THAN GRETA
GARBO AND CLEOPATRAS!
HE DIDN’T
BLINK
HIS SPHINX
LAND OF
FORBIDDEN LAUGHTER
NO GETTING
HI
JUST
GETTING BY
THE SKIN OF
YOUR TEETH
BITE
NOTHING
GREEDY
PEOPLE
ENEMIES OF
MERRIMENT
PLUNGE THE
PLANET
INTO
RECESSION
AND A DEEP
DEPRESSION
IN MUWASTED
EL- WAHIB
A HIPPO
THREE FEET DEEP
A SECRET
AGENT
WRITING
OPUS
ON A LOCUS
WITH A
LOTUS
WHILE WE
WAIT
AND
MEDITATE
THE SPHINX
SMILES
THE SMILE
OF ETERNITY
A MUEZZIN
CALLS FOR PRAYER
FROM HIS
MINARET GATE
A CLEAR
SIGN
ITS GETTING
LATE.
The last
stage of our voyage hurries us, escorted with Jeep, General and soldiers, along
a canal full of sand, towards downtown Abydos. The paved asphalt turns to a
sandy path, swings up a hill, past a fence, guarding the monumental Portal to
the Temple of SETHOS and RAMSES2 below.
The plaza
in front lies deserted, no welcome committees in sight.
Forbidden
streets open to taboo kasbahs of mud, with donkeys, goats and chicken. Children
congregate under the observant eye of a few camels, around smoky fires.
A turn into
the desert, and they are gone.
At the
horizon, the Western Mountain range rises to tectonic level, holding the
dessert from there to the beaches of Morocco and Senegal.
An oasis to
its feet sparkles with fauna and white washed adobe, like a jewel box:
Bet El Almani.
When we
halt, an elder gentleman, wearing an apron, swinging a cooking spoon, shows at
the kitchen door.
We had
arrived!
Despite
Ankes efforts to befriend two curious dogs, they dared not approach. No wonder!
A
vegetarian, she did not wave Wieners or Frankfurters.
In
intervals of a few hundred yards, military machine gun men guarded the compound
in 2 by 2 brick huts, a palm roof to protect from the sun.
Waving a
hallo, they cheerfully waved back.
Meanwhile
Hosni had unpacked our bag, looking expectations.
I thanked
him for a wonderful ride, and admirable driving expertise:
”Hosni
Tamam Number One Schummi, Shukran, Shukran!”,
handed him
his Egyptian pounds.
“When you
go back?” he wanted to know.
“In 2
days”.
“Ok. I
drive you”
“Wait one
Egypt minute, ok?”
“Tamam, ok”
“I speak
with Professor”
GD steps through
the gate laughing, loose, fit and happy to see us. We all embrace.
Somewhat
impatiently, the General seeks a signature on the receipt for his human cargo,-
says Salaam, and disappears in dune land.
Hosni steps
into the picture.
I let GD.
do the bargaining, and save one hundred pounds on the return trip, departure
set for 10 am, in two days time.
“Step right
in.”
Before we
enter a white room with a copula, the no women kitchen crew of two men, two
boys is assembled, and introduced with names, that are not easy to remember.
The light
of a setting sun projects rays of vibrant red, blue and green, shining through
coloured glass, dotting the dome.
“Can I
offer you something to drink? Water, Tea, Juice, Coffee, Wine?”
“I would
love some water!”, says Anke.
“I’ ld walk
a mile for a cold beer”, say I.
GD. gets
water and beer from a fridge, marks one down in a communal beer list.
Three feet
walls keep the chamber cool.
Underneath
the copula sits a table for ten, a rack for books, and a sofa to fall, like
stone in water.
A picture
on the wall shows two Ladies at the turn of the century, arms slung over each
other shoulders like buddies, cheery as if they had just found the grave of
OSIRIS.
For
company, a stern portrayal of a distinguished Gentleman of same period,
decorates the space next to it.
“I still
have a bit of work to do, take care of a few things….
The
Ambassador has to clear the excavations moneys for the coming season. This is
very important!… Dinner is at seven.
You meet
the colleagues then…We’ll have a bottle of wine in my place after”.
Through an
open door, the view wanders to a rich green, and flower grown courtyard, where
workers finish white wash walls, getting set, to call it a day.
Arabian
newspaper covers windows and doors.
Birds sing
in palm trees and flower bushes. A white stairway winds to the terrace, for a
view of Umm el Qaab,
Mother of
pots – Mother of shards.
Dinner
travelled through an opening from the kitchen, and arrived on our table, served
by a young Egyptian.
GD
introduced his colleagues, a crew of students, doctoral aspirants, women and
men, technical staff, all starved and digging in.
He and I
had plenty to reminisce, and continued where we left off thirty years ago.
Our common
scholarly domicile, a mysterious, musty, mossy forest embracing it, with a
promise of light, at its end and the grand adventure beyond: the quest, not for
enchantment and deeper knowledge alone, but excitement, adventure, and
mischief.
Anecdotes
of our boarding school years, with Stella’s invigorating power and sharp
cheese, amongst a variety of other good things, came back as easy as time
travel.
Looking for
Religion at the Haifish Bar by the lake,
Poetry of
Rum and Cola nights,
prayers for
sex
with an
experienced slut,
MUSE and
MADONNA,
all in one.
Curious,
yellow,
wishing,
-only to conclude, since nothing ever happened, that the kiss of THE MUSE
alone, was the real thing..
The reward
of the experience came in ungodly early morning hour, with heart tearing cries
of a tortured cat, tied to the arm of a violin, played by the sandman of
insanity.
We students
on the lower end of the food chain, housed by eight, in one room.
Indescribable
fascination, and electric charges emanated from girls dorm, next to ours, held
me in its feverish grip through out my career as a boarder, stimulated not only
my own glands to a point of no return, but tyrannized everyone’s hormones and
dreams, by day and night.
During
class break, unspeakable urges of pleasure and lust, drove each inmate to
disappear behind his pop up bed, and jerk off like a sweaty rabbit,
THE MYSTERY
OF PENETRATION BEFORE HIS VERY EYES!
Rediscovering
distant planet youth with hilarious laughter, colleagues of archaeology,
hailing from both parts of a united Germany seemed withdrawn, -
did they
worry about the dent I put into their beer supply?
Running
low, I offered to pick up a few six-packs downtown.
They
chuckled, ”…beer has to be ordered, and delivery of a case takes a week,
besides,- without an escort, there is no way out of here”.
A severe
Monsieur Malineau, a French man, who cleared a few graves a hundred years ago,
now looked out of the picture frame,
a musical
tyrant.
A little
grass from the Nile would have gone a long way here, but thinking about it,
seemed taboo 2.
Not so long
ago, cool Bedouins had gathered at this very place to pay homage to forbearers
and gods, cheer Ramses of numerous dynasties, rejoice in Sethos, celebrate
their ancestors long journey,
get hi and
supply their predecessors with all kind of intoxicating offerings,
That they
may have a good time, in their afterlife.
Unfortunately,
they did not stop at this Oases anymore.
.
THE EAR TO
THE GROUND
LISTENS TO
ANCIENT SYMPHONIES
EATEN BY
DUST,
THE SONGS
OF SLAVES,
AND LIONS
ROAR,
KEEP HIS
HIGHNESS
ENTERTAINED.
“To Life
and Love, old friend!”
“To Love
and Life!
“To the
originations of writing!”
“To the
mother of shards!”
“Cheers to
the mothers,
cheers to youth!”…
……when
premonition touched the world of our tender souls, sinking in pillow dreams, of
wild and sleepless nights, longing to be free, whatever that might be, drowning
the screech of streetcar number 16, switching track in the middle of the night.
Not long
after, pistol shots fired, ripped through the drum of
BILL
HALEY’s
ROCK AROUND
THE CLOCK, and
ANNOUNCED
THE GOLDEN DAWN
OF A NEW
ERA.
“CHEERS TO
THE STATIC OF UTE’S NYLONS!”
To her
feet, on our knees, we had listened, realized the magic resonance of static,
minuscule sparks, tiny lightning escaping the spheres of her black silken,
highly electromagnetic, yet transparent thighs, informally rubbing each other,
taking our breath away, to Breathless in Paris to
Breathless
in Prague
“To Ute!”
“To Nute!”
Nostalgic
for Poetry of books, lost in poker games,
smoking,
drinking at Brandy’s, the third man, wanted a recital.
After
thirty years, every line still in place, GD gave in to BENN: MENSCHEN
GETROFFEN.
I did my
ballad of FAT MARGOT, by VILLONS.
“The third
man is married, and living in Paris. A few days ago, I found out, that he is
professor for literature, teaching Love Poems by the ‘Young’ Goethe. Maybe we
should visit in the summer, have a little reunion?”
“To the
City of Love,… anytime!
But first
you got to tell me….What brought you to Abydos?
What made
you become an archaeologist, also
I AM CURIOUS
ABOUT THIS ORIGIN OF WRITING THING…”
“Well,
there is little to tell.”
Mandelbaum
Gate, that’s where his first voyage to the Orient ended. His VW died there. Out
of funds, and far from home, he hired out, picking oranges in a Kibbutz.
”There is
no tree by the Gate at the border,- its the sign at the supermarket, that says
Mandelbaum.”
Sudden
Enlightenment visited him in Jerusalem, on top of The Wall, on sunset, a inner
voice suggested:
”Mensch!
Archaeology!.. could be your thing!”,
He went to
study in Hamburg, and digging in Massada, and on to Egypt.
“That’s it
already!”
“That
easy?”
”Nothing to
it!”
“Amazing!”
GD. drew
another bottle out of the wooden closet.
Champagne
this time.
PANG, was
all she said, foaming at the mouth.
“I’ve been
living in Egypt, for close to twenty years,
-most of it
here, at the Mother of shards.”
His
thoughts seemed to drift back twenty for a second, and said, “well, in the end,
it was all worth it!”
“If shards
are supposed to bring luck, you should be swimming in it!”
“Luck is a
fickle thing”, he said, “I would love to write poems, get enchanted, fall in
love again!
Damn! I want to live! I want to fly again!”
“ Yeah,
sometimes you got to jump into the abyss, and spread your wings”, I
volunteered,
“…FLY THE
IKARIAN SEA FEARLESS MY BROTHER, THAT IT MAY MAKE YOU A BETTER, HAPPIER, MAN!”
“TAKE ME TO
THE SOURCE! REVEAL THE MYSTERY OF SCRIPT! TELL ME WHAT THE ORIGIN OF WRITING IS
ALL ABOUT!“
We sat by
the table with two large amphorae resting in beds of red velvet.
From the cotton,
inside a little box, GD carefully extracted stamp sized plates of ivory, stone
and clay, decorated with engravings and holes, incised on its upper sections,.
“The DIA is
an economic force in Abydos, and employs around one hundred and fifty people from
town, who shovel and sieve sand all day. Tons, mountains of it. Each bucket has
to be sieved through. Each sieve progressively gets finer, the probability of
an antique molecule found, becomes greater.
The lucky
finder is rewarded with a bonus!”
He hands me
some papers, titled: ‘AT THE BEGINNING OF TIME’ and heads for the john, leaves
me reading up on prehistoric Egypt.
First gods,
then half-gods reigned over Egypt,-
HORUS,
ARES, ANUBIS, HERAKLES, APPOLLO, AMMON, TITHEOS, SOSUS, ZEUS.
In
succession of the dead, half-gods, the first kingdom counted eight kings.
THIS, the
first, reigned for 52 years. He was carried away by a hippo and died. His son
ATHOTIS kept the throne for 27 years, and built his palace in MEMPHIS.
With the
successor of HORUS, someone called MENES, and with him arises the question, if
he was the king of the first dynasty, who united Upper and Lower Egypt?!
“From all
earlier dynasties, only two remain for an identification as MENES”, says GD,
“HORUS NAMER or HORUS AHA.
These gentlemen
lived around 3000BC, and show the first with an upper Egyptian crown and club,
hovering in conquerors pose, holding the enemy by his hair”.
Another
plaque portraits him as a falcon, holding people of the marshes, signified by a
papyrus leaf, on a nose string.
The next
event evolved around a club head, found at HIERAKONPOLIS, “representing king
SKORPION during a ritual in Lower Egypt, and here….now it gets interesting!…we
have so-called
Tax
statements, of the last pre dynastic sovereign, HORUS KA and IRJ-HOR, who
already differentiated commerce and taxes, of Upper and Lower Egypt,.
Just
recently, after a second investigation by the Institute, a piece of ivory
discovered in Abydos, turned out to be a so-called annual balance sheet,
fastened to a delivery of oil, as an etiquette,
telling of
the location it came from, as well as the year of delivery.
The number
of years were not yet determent then, by the time a king would rule, but by the
mention of a significant event of the year…here, have a look!” shoves a
magnifying glass under my nose.
A
collection of little Picassos, by the hand of HIS master, pattern and
hexagrams, engraved in ivory and stone.
“These are
accounts of quantity, how many tons of goods made it to where, when and what”,
points to the engraving under the magnifier:
“We took a
phonetic look at these figures: here a stork with a chair, here chair with
stork! It doesn’t make any sense, no matter how you shake it, except for the
phonetics of each hieroglyph, which give you a ‘ha’ for stork and an ‘st’ for
chair- together they make ‘bast’
and are
proof of a written statement, describing the name to a Delta town of the old
kingdom, called BASTA.”
Better
things were yet to come…!
“These are
predecessors to hieroglyphs … orientation of the signs, pointed to the
beginning,…
different
sign sequence from left to right, or right to left… the stork stands in front
of the chair”.
A snake
appears under the glass.
“Beneath
the snake, a mountain range with a zigzag engraved above. Both, snake with
phonetic ‘dshu and mountain, the snake only giving a consonant, the bow with a
zigzag is the hieroglyph for ‘gereh’,
night and
darkness, reads ‘dshu-gereh’, meaning mountains of darkness, the west, where
the sun goes down. These are just a few of many examples I’ll show you,-but the
simple fact, that I am reading, BY RECREATING THE MEANING OF ITS CONTENT
MAKES THIS
WRITING!
THIS IS
SCRIPT!”
We emptied
our glasses, congratulatory.
GD rose off
his chair, took the 5000 year old amphora out of her red, silken resting place,
to ceremonial and festive present a toast to this very special occasion, and
declare:
HEREWITH IS
PROVEN, THAT THE MOTIVATION
TO THE
CREATION OF WRITING,
DID NOT
ARISE
OUT OF
MAN’S TRANSCENDENTAL; POETIC NEEDS
AND
DESIRES,
BUT PURE
COMMERCE AND BUREAUCRACY!”…
…says it,
and awakes a genie sleeping inside the bottle!
Amphora
jumps to life as an oiled carp, trying to escape the frying pan. A diagonal
dance of hip hop and Houston inside his unfocused embrace, she tears at his
slippery grip. Following her every motion, eager to recapture her affection, GD
struggles for an awkward lead, tangos, gets lost catching butterflies, with his
bare hands, desperately trying to hold on to her gorgeous body.
To no
avail.
Renitent,
determined, she slips down the declining gorge of his outstretched arms, as if
he held the gates to time itself, and sails with a liberating loop de loop from
fates exhibitionistic existence,
decides,
despite advances in fusion, to return with ungracious capriole, and an awesome
bang, to the mother of shards!
WOW!
HOLY STRAW
MATRASS!
Surprised,
perplexed, baffled and amazed, we admire the drama of the mess to our feet.
Opportunity
to participate in feelings of guilt did not arise,
we had
arrived at the third bottle by then.
GD recommended,
that we relax.
“Don’t
worry! I did her once, I do her again!”
He did do,
and re-glue, I am not sure, he slept at all that night.
Hidden
under a magnifying cap, holding ,examining, searching for imperfections of her
slender filigree neck, and yet to be completed preciousness, I approached to
pay homage to her resurrection and resurrect-or.
To hip me
to its significance, GD. redrew the outline of a pregnant hippo, painted on her
body.
“This vase
tells about a hippo hunt, a pregnant hippo hunt, that is. Hunting was the main
occupation of the upper class. A large hippo carries a smaller hippo, drawn
inside her belly. Here is the hunter, wearing a feathered crown, attacking with
a spear. Another swings a lasso, or bola.
Maybe they
preferred to hunt animals, that are not fast”.
An hour
later, Amphora lay restored to original beauty, a virgin the day of first
adhesion, in a bed of red silk, emanating a breath of archaeological perfume of
germane UHU.
:
Morning
wakes Umm el Qaab, mother of shards.
Uncountable
red brown dots paint the sand to the horizon.
A shred of
shard connects directly to the Godheads, buried a few feet under, who once
inhaled the same miracle oxygen, and drank invigorating beer of wonderful life.
In respect
to the latter, they were far more progressive than the inhabitants of the
present, running shovel in hand, toward a distant hole in the desert.….
“This once
was the holiest place in all of Egypt”.
GD. marks
the area with a wide gesture.
“The old
Egyptians believed their god Osiris, who according to myth, was an early king,
to be buried in Abydos. They knew, here lay their oldest kings and began
searching for the grave of Osiris around 2000BC.
Already
then, excavations were done, partially identified and places of worship installed.
Every
devout Egyptian travelled here at least once in his life, to worship the dead.
This used to be a very busy place, a kind of Mecca of early days”, GD does a
little dance, lights up a cigarette, “what interests us most, are the graves of
the earliest kings themselves, from around 3000BC.
The
sovereigns, not only of the first and second dynasty lie buried beneath us, but
as we have ascertained, their predecessors up to
DYNASTY
ZERO,
as well”, adding with pleasure,
“WHICH WE
HAD TO INTRODUCE,
IN ORDER TO
FURTHER FOLLOW ANCIENT EGYPTIAN HISTORY ”.
“Sounds
like the end of the rainbow! He goes to Egypt, finds DYNASTY ZERO!”.
Pointing in
the direction of the Nile. “Somewhere in the fertile region over there, a
settlement existed, who’s inhabitants installed their ordinary cemetery here,-
up until the graves of kings finally emerged, including the ones of dynasty one
and two, which we are investigating”.
Strolling
towards the rim of a burial chamber, bedded deep inside the sand, he went on.
“These graves had been excavated a hundred
years ago, but with methods of those days insufficient documented, leaving many
a question wide open. That’s why we decided twenty years ago, to do the whole
thing over again, sift, sieve and strain the entire site, one more time.
Especially mountains of rubble and debris contain large amounts of supplements
and gifts still, are looked at close.
We also
investigate the architecture of the graves.
Why do they
look the way they look, how are they built, what’s the meaning of all this, and
have learned a lot about the early stages of pyramid building from it.”
At the rim
we looked down on rows of dozens of small excavated chambers…
“The first
dynasty contained large amount of side burials. Servants and followers were
killed, in order to serve their master on the other side. His dogs to accompany
him on hunting trips, lay buried there. Besides bones we did not find anything.
Grave robbers of pre Egyptian times had been at work, -anyway, once in while
something interesting makes it to the surface.”
Turning to
the main event, the main grave, the size of a small cathedral, resting twenty
feet below, GD explains:
“We are in
the process restoring this grave, to get in idea how something like this might
have looked like originally. The structure is in pretty bad shape,…. bricks
that carry a DIA stamp are produced by us, original fashion,… take care not to
step onto this old wall”.
Before we
reach the underground passage, leading to the inside of the grave, GD points to
a ravine in the south of the Western Mountain Range:
I SUSPECT
THE ENTRANCE TO THE LAND OF THE DEAD INSIDE THIS GORGE.
ACCORDING
TO OLD EGYPTIAN BELIEFS,
THE DEAD
TRAVELLED WITH THE SUN
THROUGH THE
NIGHT, TOWARD HIS RESURRECTION”.
He turned,
facing the direction of the Nile again.
“It is
thought, that the settlements are of special significance, because by and by,
chiefs and local warlords subjugated the surrounding land. The first kingdom to
conquer all of Egypt originated here. …”
“Did the
Nile run, where it is running today?” Anke wanted to know.
“Originally
the Nile ran near, closer to the desert.
Nowadays it
runs 10km away.
These early
kings were buried in the tradition of their ancestors, until the capitals
relocation created the city of MEMPHIS,- which was too far away.That’s when
building pyramids began, -near Cairo”.
Next to a
wooden, deserted guard shack, painted with graffiti men, a massive portal leads
down into the grave of DEWEN, one of the first dynasty’s remarkable kings.
Hunched over, we step down the decline of a cool hallway. Intense rays of sun
flood from below, reflect on walls, and light the ceilings lumber golden
mahagony, carrying the desert above.
“…and what
might this be?” Anke touches a piece of craftsmanship, a perfect modelled,
circular indentation with an extrusion for tying, made of burnt clay or stone,
recessed into the wall.
“ It’s a
loop. That’s where we found the imprint of a door hinge and a door strike. This
door turned, closed this way, locked and sealed with rope, tied through this loop-
a common principle for door construction.
Next to the
entrance, we found a pile of mud with an imprint of a seal, most likely
attached to the lock of the door, and depicts, next to the god CHONTAMENTI,
portrayed as a jackal, only the names of kings: CHONTAMENTI HORUS NARMER,
CHONTAMENTI HORUS AHA, CHONTAMENTI, in second succession:
HORUS DJER,
HORUS WADI the snake, HORUS DEWEN and king mother MERET NEI.
THIS SEAL
WAS VERY HELPFUL IN ESTABLISHING THE CHRONOLOGY OF THE KINGS.
This slab
of stone”, GD explains a elephant foot print, on the brick floor.
“PETRIE,
who dug after AMELINEAU, thought this to be the base for an upright post.
Since we
know, thanks to reconstructing the architecture inside out, it is clear that
there could never have been an upright, and can only be explained, as base for
a statue of the in STONE EMBODIED KING, TRANSFORMED TO SOUL, OR ETHEREAL BEING,
LEAVING VIA THE SOUTHERN STAIRWAYS TOWARDS THE CANYON, FOR THE LONG TRIP
THROUGH ETERNITY ”…
“…what
about air circulation?” Anke asks
“There
wasn’t any”
.”Slaves,
jewellery, animals needed……”
“There was plenty of air..”
“At least
in the early phase”..
Entering
into the chamber, GD recommended the DIA stamped brick for a step.
“Everything
is reconstructed original fashion, brick by brick, made from mud of the Nile,
air dried and set.
Each piece
is cartographic documented. All of this, just for the pleasure to know the
when, how, why, what for…those red bricks are originals, burned to stone in a
fire in 2000BC. Oil in amphorae created an immense heat that baked the place.
Initially this chamber was entirely laid out in granite”.
Round
indentations along the upper section of the wall, as well as on the floor, tell
of mighty crossbeams, that once carried the desert for a roof, and mightier
still ,the gigantic uprights supporting it all.
”By the
configuration of these indentations along the walls and floor, we were able to
determine and define the quadrant, then had architrave drawn…just imagine the
size of those beams, we won’t ever be able to replace”.
Five feet
above it, cedar beams ran the entire length of the chamber, followed by a layer
of reed matting, covered by tiles, once finished the actual roof.
“fragments
of a large wooden shrine we found there, and here imprints, rows of amphorae.
On the inside of the shrine lay the coffin with offerings…there’s nothing left
of it, plundered early on, but a few items fell wayside.
“ Yeah…like
we don’t need, .. trash it!” says Anke
“Sure, only
certain things interested grave robbers.
In 2000BC,
the old Egyptians found the grave of their god Osiris, excavated it, but were
only partially interested in antiques.
Nothing
further happened till a French man, Amelineau started digging the site, around
the turn of the century. Back then, they did not have the possibilities we have
today. I think, many things may have been lost or been plainly overlooked.
We have a
better, deeper insight today. One is the significance of the space in the SW
opening of each grave and side grave, leading to a stairwell, through which the
resurrecting king can leave for the realm of the dead in the west, as example.
That’s where the Western Mountain Range runs into the Wadi, entrance to the
Great Beyond…at least, that’s what I suspect!
Insofar,
the graves only seem to serve as way station to eternal life”.
Sitting on
a stone, in the shade inside the grave, smoking, GD keeps ruminating. “Our
predecessor archaeologists had excavated all this before, one of the reasons,
hardly ever anything turns up, except in the garbage mounds. That is why we
investigate each and every one of them. It will take years to do thousand of
cubic meters, anyway, there is gold in those yonder hills …”
Suddenly a
scarab appears, plays ball, manipulates his globe.
“Mr.
Scarab!….show us the way to the old gods!”
“He isn’t
alone, I looked!”
Triples
sideway, rushes forth, zigzags.
“ Now,
better shoot for higher ground!”
“Here comes
his buddy!”
“The old
Egyptians held the scarab in high esteem and thought him to be especially holy.
They were extremely impressed by his qualities, and said: HERE IS ONE WHO COMES
INTO BEING OUT OF NOTHINGNESS, HE MUST POSSESS A SPECIAL POWER OF LIFE.
They wanted
this essence, this power to use for their new life after resurrection.
The bug, as
hieroglyph reads: JHEBBA and means: to originate”.
“ Seems
like Mr. Scarab has been around for a while….like forever”.
“
Yeah……insects shall survive us all”.
We left the
grave to return to the desert. There, a rough breeze blew the words right of
your mouth.
We hop into
GD’s sand blasted jeep, and head in the direction of the gates of eternity.
At the feet of a steep rising Western
Mountain Range lie hills, criss-crossed by hundreds of tracks…
“ Whose
might those be?” Anke asked
“ Desert
fox”
“ There
must be a lot of them out there! I have not seen a single one”.
“ They are
rarely seen”.
On top of
the hill, a figure in blue caftan swings a voluminous turban, conducts an
invisible orchestra, claps hands and sings, recites sutras, undulates, calls
names: “Mustafa!” is one. On approach, an imposing moustache grows like an echo
chamber to his song, dedicated to the youth of Abydos, toiling down below in
the grave pit.
Schlepping
buckets of sand, dug from black and greyish ruins, urging across wooden planks,
raised above the sandy decline, they hurry towards the sieve on the surface. A
falcon eyed Native watches, recon neuters the exploit of prehistoric matter at
the base. None could be sighted this morning, as yet.
It was
still early, and the air refreshingly cool.
Late pre
dynastic chambers tell a man by his grave, -of human beings, contend with
humble arrangements as way stations to eternal life,- in contrast to the AHAs,
who would not do without luxury, the hunt, -buried in monumental chambers, in
company of followers and lions, a few feet off.
Some
masonry of large, intact walls, still show remaining traces of paint. Other
walls lie smashed, pressed together by powerful forces, stacked pancake of
nature. The riddles answer to prehistoric deformations occurred with a rain
storm four years ago, when one pleasant afternoon, the desert turned to a
fierce sea without warning, and a mighty river came rushing through the gate of
eternity, down the Wadi, flooding Beth El Almani, supplying sample proof of the
weight, compacted masses of wet sand contributed to the phenomenon of the
pancake mystery.
The day
after the flood, the desert turned green, with many beautiful flowers.
GD lead us
to another site.
“This grave
lies further back in time. It belongs to CHASECHEMUI, a sovereign of the second
dynasty from around 2700BC. It is 16m long and set much deeper …the original niveau of the desert is here”, points out change in a
layer of sand, “five meter below, we’ll get to the top of the wall. From there,
actual excavation begins.
All this
sand got to go!
According
to old, rough plans of our predecessors, twenty chambers are right beneath our
feet, which we re-excavated already once.”
“ In the
middle is the main chamber?”
“Cleared
last year, but refilled, it has a chamber, recessed deep into the ground and
set in lime stone, containing a wooden shrine. All other chambers around did
not constitute side graves, but stored provisions and grave endowments”.
“ Must have
been a mighty king!”
“
CHASECHEMUI was mighty, and the last king of the second dynasty. His chambers
were packed with thousands of clay vessels, stone receptacles, a good amount of
copper was found…..”
“Looks like
a lot of work!”
“….
supposed to be finished and completed at the end of this campaign “.
“In six
weeks?”
“…the end
of April 2001. Till then, we got to have it ship shape, cleared and documented.
Its going to be rough,-we might have to employ more workers”.
“ Darling!
Do we need a job?”
“They don’t pay much around here”.
“ What’s a
days pay worth?”
“Eight
Pounds”.
“ Well lets
see, 57 to a pound times 8 is 4.50DM, by2 gets yaw two bucks and a quarter!”
“We better
off, joining the Peace Corps!”
After a
communal lunch, Anke and I wander the dunes in company of an Egyptian, to visit
the temple of Ramses 2. in Abydos.
Our
protector delivers us at its portal to another, in uniform, armed with a
machine gun. Once he understands our wish to get inside, he hollers down an
empty plaza, for the key. Nothing is moving. Egyptian Siesta.
Infidels at
this unholy hour. We are the only Tourist anywhere.
Was it
fact, that the one eyed sheik of the 93 WTC bombing hailed from these parts?
After the
massacre in Luxor, any beard that did not come off, went to jail.
Tourists
stay home despite,- people go hungry still, believers go beardless,.
One of them
hurries up the rocky incline, beardless in black, windswept caftan, key in
hand.
The black
guard opens a heavy metal gate, lets us in, follows stuck on our heels, machine
gun face down. Getting very hot, the sun on vertical approach, I encourage our
protector to lay back in the shade, -an offer he could not refuse.
Inside the
roofless temple, the hands of gods hold the rays of the sun, burning down on
Central Egypt and us. Hieroglyphs are waiting, ready to tell their story. We
are illiterate, sorry.
“ Look here!”
Anke s
finger touch a turquoise spot of a relief, “could be a little tick, what do you
think?”
“ a
dynastic tick, maybe?!”
“…is it a
scarab?”
“ Probably
is, my love!”
Too hot for
comfort, the splendour of eternity fades before our eyes. Each rag of shade
sings unattainable Stella, cool Stella, Stella of the Nile., Stella of the
stars…. Outside a noisy quarrel ensues. We throw in the towel.
Now the
guard has to escort us back to Be El Almani.
To show us
one of the most magnificent temples on the planet, GD took us, duties of his
high office done for the day, on a second tour to Abydos, to the temple of SETHOS!
Temperatures had cooled, key procedure facilitated and
accelerated by his status, we entered the halls of the divinities sanctum,
quarrels echo, and guard in hot pursuit.
“ Let it
be, let it be! Calm down guys!” Anke encourages invisible, angry tempera-mental
Muftis outside.
Just behind
the entrance, GD points to the ceiling.
“ See the
Cornish up there, just below the ceiling, a jet fighter, the tail fin, flying
to the right?”
“ Yes, I do!”, says Anke
“ A strange
coincidence!”
“ Could be
a whale”, Anke always is for animals.
Then we
discover other high tech of destructive power: A submarine, tank, a helicopter.
“Machines
of modern warfare, for sure!”
“Däniken
put the hypothesis in the sixties, that these might be extra terrestrials
graffiti, or left behind art of a visionary …”
“I don’t
believe in any of it.
In second world war, this temple was filled
with sand, almost up to the ceiling. Bedouins used to live in this narrow
space. Maybe one talented camel driver painted these pictures after he saw the
German and British war machine.”
“Yeah, he
could have airbrushed it with the smoke of his kerosene lamp, maybe…”
From the
soot covered ceiling, stars begin to appear. Planets, figures and lines of gold
hide inside a blue mural.
“THIS
TEMPLE REPRESENTS THE WORLD. Columns grow out of papyrus plants here,- grow out
of marshes, are growing out of the earth. Above is the sky, with stars, and a
winged vulture, to symbolize heaven and earth”
Enchantment
of otherworldly beauty stretches to the ceiling in a golden light, descends
into my subconscious, and stays there an entire year…
We walk the
wall toward ancient Osiris.
“There he
is! wearing a large choker necklace, cobra snakes hanging from it, or something
similar are in fact garland of wheat, signifying that he not only is the god of
the dead, he also is the god of fertility, a god of vegetation, and carries the
idea, that vegetation dies and grows again- a resurrection to new life!
This bundle
of wheat is symbol of vegetation of the land, for which he is responsible. One
image has a frame in the outline of the god, filled with earth, and planted
with wheat, to sprout, so that the dead may rise to life, along with its
germination”.
“A
beautiful thought!” says Anke.
“What’s
this little guy up to?” I want to know.
“The
tadpole?… underneath the panicle?… stands for a million years, that are
bestowed upon the king”.
Another
step takes us into the realm of the goddess of World Order.
“This is
MARA. This figure of MARA is offered to OSIRIS by the king, conveying with it
not only his obligation to World Order, but to enforce it as well. OSIRIS is
sitting on his throne with his wife ISIS and child, a family triad. He is
sitting on a base inside a big box next to a shrine….”
An excited
mufti announces the end of Showtime.
Since Anke
had missed the party the night before, she wanted to recoup some insights of
the world in scripture, and share remaining reserves of GD wine depot as well.
Platinum voice of Whitney Houston for a backdrop, GD went to work, lining up
ivory. stone and clay platelets. Magnifying glass in place, he picks one
platelet.
“The
meaning of these engraved figures combined, result in a name of a town, and all
other platelets, in all probability are records of origin as well.
One of the
many beautiful samples will proof the thesis:
Once, a
king named KANIDE, a king called SCORPION, another ELEPHANT walked the earth”,
leafs through a big book, holds it at the
image of two statues, found a long time ago,
“this
figure here represents a fertility god. He is naked, but wears a belt with a
sash attached. On top of the sash”, adjusts the magnifying glass for a
close-up, “…are painted strange signs.
If you take
a closer look, you’ll find an elephant, the same, as on this platelet. Here is
an elephant with a mountain, here one with a tree…ok…now, ….from this plate
depicting a fish with a chisel, we can read the name NARMA, guaranteed to be
the name of a king, and raises the probability, that the other platelets depict
names of kings as well – they immortalized themselves on this statue, because
of a very special event inside the temple.
I come to
the conclusion, that these animal signs really are the names of kings, by a two
fold approach, a working hypothesis! Of course, plenty of statues and fragments
carry the theme further”, continues to leaf through the pages.
”Here we
can see animals, holding hooks in their hands, they are opening rings,
surrounding city fortifications,- meaning they are conquering these cities.
Amongst the
scorpion and lion on this seal, in combination with a tree, the name of a king
results.
This is a
historic document, mentioning different kings, conquering different cities. In this
way I am able, on hand of inscription on vessels and notices of origin, to
indirectly grasp dynasties of kings entirely unknown,
all
belonging to a pre dynastic era! Belonging to:
DYNASTY
ZERO!
Historically
pleasing and all, but still the question remains:
IS THIS
REALLY WRITING?
I tend to
plead in the affirmative..!
BACKING
THIS THING UP IS THE FACT, THAT ONE IS ABLE TO READ THE HIEROGLYPHS
PHONETICALLY CORRECT, MAKING SENSE AS PHONETIC SCRIPT..
A stork
with a chair does not make any as a symbol, but if you translate the phonetics
in ‘Bahrzeit,’ you suddenly end up with the name of a town, one does not know
of, except that it existed as a city of the Delta. This platelet originates
from the realm of king ELEPHANT, who gave his name to the locale.
There
arises the question of coincidence… but I got more! And prove once and for
all….”, presents another spread of platelets, “… a very peculiar assembly…a
snake above triangles, standing for mountains- next to a sickle moon, zigzags
below ….”
“ Whew, now
it gets complicated !”, Anke comments.
“Well, it
damn is! Believe me! We know from hieroglyphic script, that mountains reads and
is pronounced: DSHU. In hieroglyphic writing, sometimes a reading mark is
added, announcing the first or last consonant of a word,….and it perfectly
fits! Since the snake phonetics spell:
DJE…DJE DZU
DJU
IT CAN BE
READ !-
THIS IS
SCRIPT!”
Turning to
more samples, almost touching the figures with a dentist tool, GD kept right on
ploughing.
“This
represents the sky, this lightening symbol means night, darkness, because of
the zigzag,
I say: sky,
firmament! Lightening below, reads: GERECH, and therefore would mean, mountains
of the night, phonetically: darkness.
One might
say: Its all stipulation! Pure fantasy!”
Further
evidence lies in wait
“…Only
mountains are visible here, with the crest of ibis on top, another one has a
snake above.
These
reading marks are present on either plates. A pleasant fact is, that the crest
of ibis reads INRUNT meaning sunlight, lightness- just the opposite to night.
This cannot
be a coincidence!”
“That’s
right!”
“Now we can
read: mountains of darkness/ night/ mountains of lightness/ sunshine! What’s
that?
Here in upper Egypt, its clear as day…”
“The east,
the west!”
“…where the
sun rises, and goes down again, only are descriptions of origin,- near side, or
far side of the Nile, with its administration districts. All these have the
same origin and function, same as the platelet from city of BASTA, or the
economic installation of king KANIDE. It all only makes sense, if you read
phonetically.
There are
no mountains of the crest of ibis- only mountains of sunlight, lightness!
….This
MAKES IT CLEAR- THIS IS PHONETIC SCRIPT…
from early
on…older than anything ever found before…two hundred years worth….!”
“ 5000
years ago the rocket took off!”
“ From the
pit to the pyramid!” “
…from the
pyramid to the pit!”
“….and back
again?”.
“ That’s
life”.
“MALESH,…
it don’t matter, “says GDEGYPT.