Saturday, Luxor

Headache. I absolutely refuse to explain what made us raid the AMSTEL Beer supplies of most of the better hotels in Luxor, and two or three establishments we'd never have set foot in otherwise. The sheer thought of blushing Teresa making use of that stepladder to get within reach of - as I said, yards of - erected granite in that grotto palace translates automatically into "Get me another Amstel, Mustapha, and make it an ice-cold one this time!"

The ladies had a party of their own in room 431, according to Hella, "smoking, having some iced chocolate and a little gossip..."

I really don't want to know what they were nattering on about. Dr. Garigolli, an adept to just a few too many Eastern mysteries, brought my already low self esteem to new depths with remarks about a freak cult in South Yemen, monks who attach weights to their private parts from childhood on, so when they're buried they have what he called "a middle leg". I wish I had taken that tae kwan do course back in 1969... instead of fooling around with girls.

  Later...

We stay on the Luxor side of the River Nile today, wandering through the vast temple area of Karnak. That's where Napoleon stole that huge obelisk that is now one of Paris' many attractions. Like most beautiful things they originally came in pairs, but the second one had tumbled down when the Corsican was around, so he left it behind for us to see. Impressive: once you start thinking about phallic symbols, they seem to be everywhere. No kid guides in Karnak, most likely all the erotic stuff was already sold to tourists or followed the obelisk.

We have an astoundingly pretty guide, a Coptic woman named Nesrin, from the Sinai. TraX claims he saw her day two days ago in the hotel's "wellness rooms"... She's incredible well-endowed, soft yet firm, with flaring hips and - according to traX - buttocks to die for. The mere thought of that goddess doing push-ups in the same building... I'll have to make an appointment with Mr. Al-Faq, the trainer. Have to do something about that developing potbelly of mine.

But back to the temples: with a guide like this even giant dung beetles are beautiful. Because that's what the "sacred scarabs" are. Pharaohs had them gold-plated and let them crawl about, on a chain, of course. Nesrin (doesn't the name mean "the sweet one"?) claims that living gold-encrusted beetles were used as jewelry. The ladies shudder. I have my doubts: being gold-plated is fatal, and not only in James Bond movies...

After dinner traX, Dr. Garigolli and I go to the Spa Section of our hotel. Of course we don't expect to meet Nesrin, she's still guiding busloads through the monotonous temple area. But, you never know... In fact, one of the receptionists is working out at the ballet barre. She's clad in tight innocent white aerobics gear, but our combined fantasy-efforts have her stripped down (mentally) in about 0.2 seconds. TraX and Dr. G. drag me to a strange electrified Iron Maiden, replete with flashing lights and whirling attachments; my escorts attach sensors to my hand and earlobe(?), and tell me to "grab it". There are numerous handles, apparently I'm supposed to pull this one...

Twenty seconds later I join my pals at the whirlpool. As for my potbelly, well, that's the way Mother Nature intended me to be. Who am I to do struggle against her will? And there's a bar as well at the whirlpool, so we seem to have everything we need. A few beers later traX wanders off in search for what some Britishers might call "The Gentlemen's Powder Room" (though I once heard one say he was "off to point Percy at the porcelain").

Another few beers later: traX returns with that certain smile... must have met that receptionist under rather private circumstances.

I've seen his rendered version, and I daresay, if that's even close to what he saw... I should make it a habit to carry every single bottle of Amstel directly to the loo (that would also have the advantage of eliminating the middleman).

We leave tomorrow, meet Jockel in Cairo. Our administrator was able to make it there for a four-day-trip, and, experienced travelers that we feel we are, we promised to show him around. Trax and the Doctor wake us up early, "No, Teresa, it's boys only...", and down to the torture chambers. According to traX it's Nesrin's time. We choose machines that don't look too bone-crushing and embark on our daily routine. After half a minute or so my glasses are all fogged and I have aches in body parts that I didn't even know existed. Mr. Al-Faq distributes towels, Evian water and suspicious-looking pills - "power minerals..." All you can hear are our occasional groans and sighs. No Nesrin, no receptionist, just the three of us oozing sweat.

After the longest five minutes I've ever watched, some sensors decide I'm in imminent danger, an alarm goes off, and I'm evacuated to the bar. Sipping some calcinated, vitaminated, enriched bodybuilder's drink I witness the ladies marching in. Hella, who shares my NO SPORTS credo, joins me at the bar, while Teresa, Mona and, yes, Nesrin walk on through to their special torture section.

TraX & the Doc join me on my expedition to the gents', and the gals, more or less expecting us to peep in, laugh and wave at us as we pass by the ballet barre.

And that, folks, will serve as our farewell to Mona and Nesrin...

I won't bore you with all the petty details, what we did in Cairo, where we went, what Jockel said when he saw the hidden sphinx ("WHOA!!", what else? ), or how he managed to import illegal substances (a six-pack of BECK'S). Pretty much our usual routine, nothing to talk about.