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 There
was just one problem: a whole bunch of tourists. Prior to the massacre
in October 1997 of 60 tourists at Luxor, Egypt was expecting four
million visitors this year. It has become a theme park atmosphere,
replete with queues, a fleet of pink buses that would rival Greyhound
in number, a veritable Tower of Babel, adult Texans (as opposed
to children), acculturated, wearing the fetching, red-checkered
kaffiyehs (headdresses) with their names embroidered in hieroglyphic
on T-shirts, the Japanese still taking pictures of each other taking
pictures, and the ever-present fanny pack (FP) brigade. Those little
pouches, strapped around the waist, provide both a compact storage
place for valuables and an excellent, unambiguous, muted advertisement
for potential thieves. “Here is where all my money, passport, plane
tickets, and expensive jewelry are kept.” Make theft unchallenging;
wear an FP. The FP brigade has added a couple of new sartorial accessories—the
tethered water bottle encased in netting, preferably black, and
the battery-operated miniature fan either attached to some ridiculous-looking
brimmed hat or just hand held. Essential wear. Just a personal preference,
I’d rather don a Speedo and fry like an egg on the Sphinx’s ass
in the August heat at high noon in front of Girl Scout Troop Alpha,
hailing from Amazing Face, Kansas, than purposely dress myself as
if I were from planet Dementia. I was born on Halloween, and I’ve
never been to a costume party with people dressed that bizarrely.
 The
next day I did the Galilee trip, seeing the many churches enshrining
various events and miracles—Sermon on the Mount, the multiplication
miracle, and so on ad infinitum. I also went to the Jordan River,
just before it flows into the Sea of Galilee where Jesus was baptized
by John the Baptist. A stone monument rises out of the water where
the actual dunking occurred. It is a beautiful setting, with trees
embowering the tranquil, emerald-colored Jordan River while pilgrims
wade into the holy water near the monument, standing waist deep
in the river, entranced in a spiritual daze like the Hindus in the
holy Ganges River. When the feeling hits the pilgrims, down they
go in a splash of baptismal glorification. I was standing at a distance,
trying to take some pictures using my telephoto lens, and decided
to walk up closer and use my shorter lens. With my camera around
my neck, I walked up on a high point above the monument. I turned
suddenly to my right, with camera in hand, and there, ten feet from
me were six buxom and steatopygous Russian women, shucking parachute-size
bras and panties—World War II vintage textiles recycled into lingerie—and
on their way into the Jordan River in their naked glory. One of
the women spotted my camera and chased me, loudly cursing in Russian.
I had no intention of photographing them, but as we all know perception
often constitutes reality. (As an afterthought, a glossy blow-up
would be great fun on the wall in some college dorm.) I bolted and
ran straight to the car in mortal fear of having them catch me and
publicly accuse me of attempting to photograph 1,200 pounds of chalky,
naked female flesh at the holiest of holy baptism sites in the world.
I escaped. To this day, I count it as the weirdest nude beach to
which I have ever been.
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