Hugh Reilly: An instructive case of Nile desperandum

In ONE of my rare wistful moments, I recently let slip to my squeeze that I would love to see the pyramids before I die. In a move that caused me to question my current state of health, she promptly booked us a holiday to Egypt. However, on perusing the itinerary, I frantically searched for an asp to bite my man-boobs. Rather than admiring the last of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World, we would be sailing doon the watter of the River Nile from Luxor, a city some 300 miles distant from Giza. Working on the not unreasonable assumption that our vessel would not be a speedboat, I realised I had become a pyramid scheme victim.

On board the MS Monica, a wizened luggage porter showed us to our berth. To say the room was small would be an understatement; in the corner lay a semi-conscious cat, still recovering from being swung round by the previous occupant. Our first trip was a coach ride to the Valley of the Kings, burial home of Tutankhamun and Ramses the Builder. I was relieved we had risen early and arrived at the site at 7am, when it was a balmy 38C. Exhaling inside the tombs damages the walls, so tourist are permitted only ten minutes to view the breath-taking hieroglyphics and ceiling paintings. I saw wonderful things, but perhaps the best was the attempt by a tomb official to sell us bits of cardboard. He overcame the language barrier by fanning himself to demonstrate the benefits of cardboard ownership, while putting out his hand for hard cash. To a man, the Dragons Den of sightseers were out.

The temples of Luxor and Karnak are spellbinding, the experience of strolling through history only slightly spoiled by having to exit via a bazaar, where hawkers pester tourists. I found that avoiding eye contact and saying nothing worked, a skill learned from in-service days where education gurus tried to sell the latest faddish ideas to cynical chalkies. At the temple of Hatshepsut, a doom-monger in our party noted this was the place where 62 tourists were massacred by Islamist terrorists in 1997. His comment added an edge to the visit and helped explain the machine-gun-toting policemen.

Due to security concerns, cruise passengers were not encouraged to wander into town. However, I jumped at the opportunity to see Luxor by horse and carriage – feel the fear and do it, I suppose. In a convoy of a dozen or so careworn carriages, we clip-clopped through the crowded streets, enjoying the sights and smells. Children smiled and said hello, but many of the adults seemed sullen. As a well-off Westerner, I felt a tad uncomfortable at the voyeuristic nature of the journey into the poverty of Luxor: a middle-class visitor to Bedlam would have been more at ease.

BACK on the ship, it was time to cool down. Admittedly the water in the swimming pool was cloudy, but as someone who as a kid had swum in the Monklands canal with no ill effects, it was a chance I was willing to take. Next morning, it was clear I had developed what could be politely described as a liquidity problem in my bowel movements. By way of a pictorial representation, passengers were instructed to place used loo paper in the receptacle provided. I refused to comply on two grounds: firstly, such an unhygienic disposal of toilet paper was a recipe for further infection, and secondly, given the high frequency of my sprints to the cabin’s smallest room, a wheelie bin was required to meet my toilet paper disposal needs.

Fortunately, my girlfriend had brought a packet of Immodium Plus. Unluckily, however, she also caught the bug and had to swallow a few capsules. We now had used up four of the six tabs. Sitting on the toilet seat staring at the unopened section of the blister packaging, I felt like James Stewart in The Flight of the Phoenix as he sat in the cockpit facing disaster if neither of the two remaining cartridges managed to solve the problem.

I truly enjoyed my Nile cruise, but to be honest, I would only return to Egypt if the security situation greatly improved. Like heaven, the pyramids can wait.