Lost in the Valley of the Kings

by Jonathan van Bilsen

Thank you all for taking the time to read the first instalment of my new column, ‘Not Part of the Plan’. Over the years, I have spent a great deal of time travelling the world, and have experienced some interesting events and calamities along the way. I will share some of these, in this monthly column, which will appear in the Standard Newspaper, as well as on my website, photosNtravel.com and your favourite podcast channel.

The question of course is, where to begin. I am currently planning a trip to Egypt, so I thought it might be nice to relay an experience which happened on my first visit. I was visiting the Valley of the Kings, with the express intent to photograph King Tut’s tomb.

Upon my arrival I was told I needed a permit to take pictures and it would take a week to obtain one. Well, that would never do, so I started discreetly shooting from the hip. It was a matter of minutes when I heard shouting, no doubt directed at me. I glanced over my shoulder and saw two security guards yelling at me. The risk of losing my camera and gear, made me decide to run, and run I did, high into the hills. The 45°+ heat was tough and there was no sign of the guards letting up.

I ran for at least 45 minutes and when I came over a hill, I saw one of the hundreds of abandoned tombs. Without hesitation, I slipped inside and pressed myself against the cool stone, remaining as still as possible. Eventually, the guards gave up their search and headed back to the valley. I was about to leave when I heard a noise behind me. My first thought was whether Egypt had bears, but that question quickly faded as a young boy, no older than eight, appeared from the shadows.

He smiled and invited me into the dark recesses of the tomb. I followed and there, in a mud brick part of the chamber, stood, who I assumed were his parents, his sister and his grandfather, who was seated on the only chair available. The older gentlemen stood up and offered me the seat. Out of respect I took it, and appeared grateful when they handed me a cup of what tasted like something I would place on a flowerbed.

Reluctantly I drank it, not wanting to be disrespectful, but grimaced with each sip. After 30 minutes or so, my tummy began to rumble and I asked where the toilet was. It took a bit of translation to get my point across and when at last they understood, the boy led me outside, to an area behind the tomb. He showed me a box of newspaper, neatly cut into 12 inch squares, and when I thanked him he said, “Baksheesh,” a word I know means tip or gratuity.