April 28, 2001
How We Got Stung
This dream literally happened.
First, you won’t believe it even if I told you. We were there and still don’t believe it. I’ll give away the ending in the great tradition of the world’s best mystery writers: we saw Sting backstage and had front row seats about 10 feet from The Man.
All evening, Timmy knew we were leaving. And we didn’t make things any easier on him by coming and going and picking him up then running away and hiding. So naturally he was crying and we were worrying and arguing over who was to blame when we went to the Maadi Grand Mall (which isn’t so grand) to wait for Amr and Mona to pick us up.
They were an hour and a half late getting to us, which set the stage so to speak. We knew we’d miss the opening acts for the show. And since we had the cheapest general admission standing room only tickets at the Pyramids we knew we’d be lucky to distinguish Sting from the Sphinx.
Mona, Amr’s wife, is a trip. She’s Egyptian-Australian. Got this big time Aussie accent from the Land Down Unda, holding two cell phones, and using the earphone so you can’t really tell if she’s talking to you or not. Tricky. So she’s rallying the troops. Turns out we’re still supposed to pick up some people who’ve been out ice-skating. In Cairo. Don’t ask. Meanwhile, the show starts in something like twenty minutes. And we’re an hour away from the venue.
So naturally we stop to pick up Mo’s bro, Emir, who turns out to be a good acquisition, and a case of beer, which turns out to be even better. Naturally, Emir, the youngest of the group at 20, carries the beer.
Now officially late, we drive by Cairo Mall so Mona can buy this fabulous ring she saw earlier that day. And pick up the two ice-skaters. Go figure. KT takes advantage of the pit stop to walk into the Mickey D’s across the street for a Q-pounder with cheese, fries, and a Sprite. Got to make the best of this and go with the flow.
It’s something like 8:00 by this time. So the consensus opinion is that we need to get to a hotel fast and pee. Most of us. From there, we walked a short way (the Pyramids of Giza are right across the street, so I figured we’d just walk there – but nooo….) to catch a minibus. Fortunately, the seven of us (all officially friends by this point because hey, why not?) just fit into this aging Soviet bus and we’re off.
Almost. We drove for at least 45 minutes. Man, by this time, I’m sure that we’re going to the other pyramids. The ones not in Egypt. The whole thing was surreal. Speaking English, Arabic, Russian, and Australian. Cruising past donkeys and walkers. Driving at one point onto the sand and contemplating a trek across the desert. Watching the red taillights in front of us and wondering where the hell everyone’s going. It was just surreal.
Fortunately, Emir is excellent. 20, tall, talkative, funny and hip. He should audition for a job as an MTV veejay because he’s the real deal. He was made for that. It’s his calling – you know, like some people are born poets or priests? I’ll vote for him.
So we finally make it to our destination: the top of a ridge overlooking the pyramids where all the other old buses and hapless tourists have gathered in a huge Egyptian tailgate party. We naturally pay the guy (turns out there was an empty seat on the minibus that “we” occupied so had to pay for that too) and get out. 5 kilometers (3 miles) from the stage. No kidding.
But that didn’t really matter, because they weren’t letting anyone in anyway. Check this out: they sold too many tickets. Five thousand too many. Who you gonna call, Ticketmaster? Your congressman? You’re in Egypt for crying out loud.
But the beauty of life in Cairo is that just when things seem most disorganized and chaotic – when you’ve almost given up hope that there is a light at the end of the tunnel or even a tunnel at all – that’s when the most amazing things happen. You just gotta step back and put it all in the perspective of six thousand years of history, that’s all.
Fortunately, we had beer. Well, Emir had beer and being a kindhearted, generous soul who happens not to drink alcohol, he handed out the cans. So there we were, resigned to our fate, drinking beer at moonlight within sight of the pyramids, but not within earshot of the concert. Watching the crowds gather, trying to call home, straining to see minor skirmishes as folks find out they overpaid for the view and realize that’s all they’re gonna get.
Suddenly, we realize we are backstage. Three miles from the music. We’re behind the ring of riot troops with batons and shields, watching the chaos. A dusty truck drove up to us, loaded with dusty men dressed in rags, commanding a couple of cannon/howitzers and looking eerily like those warlord gangs in Somalia. How weird is that? But even they couldn’t get through the blockade and had to turn back.
Then – there is movement. Someone has negotiated safe passage. For one bus and one bus only. Lesya and I try to sneak past in the wake of the bus, but nothing doing. We’re pushed back by the baton and shield platoon. Another bus moves forward – coming within one inch of our toes – and this time we get in.
Now they tell us we’ve got a five kilometer walk. Across the desert. To the promised land. Isn’t this place famous for that sort of thing? Talk about déjà vu.
I’m walking on a bum ankle, twisted two months ago at a soccer match. Fun fun fun. Especially because they don’t make deserts flat like they used to. We’re walking on sand, stones, and bones. It’s a rave party – a desert rave. Streams of people thousands of people high on air walking to get somewhere because it’s there. Lesya and I look up and can barely discern a couple stars in the hazy Cairo sky. Star light… Kids chatter on their cell phones nonstop trying to meet up and relate with friends.
I’m walking and talking and joking, wondering when we’ll laugh about this crazy adventure – tomorrow or never? I suggest that we repeat this little exercise as a team building event for our project. Amr wonders if I want everyone to quit. Then I stumble and twist my ankle and lean on Lesya. Thank God. Damn thing. I’m fragile and thirty something.
We plan to leave as soon as we arrive. We arrive. They’re playing Beatles tunes (“Come Together”) on the sound system. Lesya looks at the crowd and looks for the exit. I say it’s easier to go through the crowd to the exit than go back. Ain’t no way I’m going back.
So we go forward. And we keep on going forward, waiving our tickets and shouting in Arabic, all the while moving and looking too busy to explain to these stupid guards that we’re important people in a rush to get to our expensive reserved seats. That we paid $12 for.
Now we’re in the special reserved section for those crazy enough to shell out $35 to listen to Sting through speakers that sound worse than the engine of a ’78 Camaro. But at least we’ve upgraded. We’re chillin, staking out our space, checking out the jumbotron screen hoping that we’ll be able to catch a televised glimpse of our hero, when Amr comes back from a scouting trip.
C’mon. Let’s go. Where? To the bathroom. Are you crazy? I don’t got to go. Yes, you do. Let’s go.
Yes, I do. We are suddenly back stage. The real stage. We’re there, just walking slow, cool, like you gotta do when you’re where you don’t belong. Watching the cameramen and the handlers wake up and line up because here he comes. Sting exits his dressing room, walks to the stage, says a few words to one of his roadies, takes off his shirt, and puts on his guitar … right in front of me. He would have shaken my hand if he knew who I am.
Then Lesya walks up and I whisper (without looking back cause you don’t want to miss this), There’s Sting! Where? Right there! Where? See the dude with the guitar? What? You mean…? Wow!
Nobody says a word. It’s funny how you’ll scream out anything in a crowd when you’re convinced he can’t tell it’s you. But when the man is right there and looks you in the eye, well, you’re less likely to yell out, “Yo! Sting! You rock!”
So there we are. Sting decides our five minutes are up and goes on stage. We exit stage right to take our spots – in the front row. We are on now. The kids are alright know what I’m saying?
Got the girl, got the live action front and center, got a cold case of beer, and we are off and running. The pyramids loomed in the background, brightly lit for the occasion, just an unbelievable backdrop to Sting and his band.
The drummer stepped up and gave a little impromptu rap in French. The shy long-haired guitar player reminded us a little of my uncle Patrick and a little of Hugh Grant. He kept tossing his guitar picks into the crowd causing us to feel the crush of those cheap-seaters in the back. The two keyboard players alternated on solos – during the same song. It was amazing how they traded off and on without missing a beat. And the trumpet player was there because Branford wasn’t. Nice filler.
The music was fun – but he could have played polkas and we would have loved it just the same. Still, it was nice to hear Roxanne, Englishman in New York, Moon over Bourbon Street, Bring on the Night, All Four Seasons, and of course the duet Desert Rose with Cheb (pro. “Sheb”) Mami, an Algerian singer with an amazing voice (he sings in Arabic and French). Cheb was fun to watch – he really got the crowd going and loved it. We went out and bought his “greatest hits” just yesterday. Recommended. Particularly if you can catch his show at the Pyramids with a certain English friend of his.
Told ya you wouldn’t believe it.
Love,
Kevin and Lesya
P.S. We were in a rush to get home and taxis were scarce, so agreed to pay the driver four times the normal fare. A couple ran up behind us and asked to share the cab. I resisted (naturally) but Lesya convinced me to be nice. We drove to their car – and they drove us the rest of the way home. Don’t say there’s no such thing as a free ride.