I had to do a short essay with that title for a mini course i did last year. I'm going to be totally uncool and post it for all you pricks. When i was eleven years old, my family went on holiday to Egypt. After spending a week in the lively, bustling city of Cairo, we flew further south to the tranquility of Luxor to see the Valley of the Kings. Cairo was extremely hot, but the heat in Luxor was so intense it slowed everything down to a near halt. I remember as i walked alongside the ruins of the ancient temple of Luxor one day, gazing up at the monumental columns, and suddenly feeling overwhelmed by the scale, timelessness and culture shock all being warped together by the baking rays of the Egyptian sun as it beat down on my head. The Valley of the Kings was located across the Nile that ran right through Luxor and up, over and beyond the barren, sandy hills that could be seen on the horizon. My mother, who was always drawn towards the most authentic and picturesque sightseeing experiences (as opposed to following a track well beaten by swarming hordes of tourists) noticed a sign advertising donkey rides, and so our mode of transport was settled. Off we went to find the donkey man - who turned out to be a rather surly character - and we booked our rides for the following day. We had to get up at the crack of dawn (about 5am), and blearily made our way down to the boat that would take us across the Nile. We were all armed with our reed fly swishes (essential due to the aggressive nature of the horse flies there), sun hats, one big bottle of mineral water and woefully little else. My father had brought a broad sheet newspaper for some unknown reason, which was an incredible stroke of luck, as we would later discover. At the other side of the river we were met by the donkey man who introduced us to our donkeys. My donkey was called Boo-Boo, and we were told that if we wanted them to stop, we were to pull their reigns tight and shout "whoooosh!". That seemed straightforward enough, and off we set. We made our way along a narrow, tarmac road that stretched out towards the distant hills, with nothing much around but flat, sandy ground, some small farms growing mainly sugar cane and two giant statues sitting side by side (the Colossi of Memnon) which we stopped to have a quick look at, before heading for the hills again. I was thouroughly enjoying riding my donkey, getting quite carried away with the image and even started sitting with my back rigidly upright like some mini-colonialist from 'A Passage to India', to my cringing embarassment in later years. My bubble was soon to be burst, however, when a car eventually appeared and approached us head on. Everything seemed under control as we kept our donkeys over to the far right hand side of the road, up until the car was about fifteen yards away, at which point Boo-boo suddenly went berserk and bolted out into the middle of the road, charging towards the speeding car and baying angrily. I grabbed the reigns and cried "whooosh! WHOOOOOOOOOOSH!" and could hear my parents alarm as they called out 'Caroline!' - as well as the donkey man shrieking "my donkey! my donkey!" Fortunately, the car managed to slam its' brakes on in time and came to a halt about six yards in front of Boo-Boo who had now stopped triumphantly in the car's path. We eventually arrived at the foot of the hills and started our ascent. There was no real path as we made our way along the dusty route. There was no shade to shield us from the increasingly ferocious sun, which also reflected back at us from the sandy ground. Deeper into the hills we trekked, and higher we climbed, at some points the path getting treacherously narrow and crumbling away, at which point the donkey man scathingly exclaimed that "other tourists GALLOP at this point!" I think it was at this stage my mother wished she'd chosen a slightly more conventional means of travel. Later, as the sun was directly overhead we were told to dismount and walk part of the way due to the precarious state of the path which had a steep incline down one side. As we walked, the sandy ground below me turned darker and darker, and realising i was about to faint, i mumbled that we had to stop. My parents were very concerned, believing that i may have sunstroke and used some of our bottled water to soak my head and then devised a makeshift shelter from the newspaper my father was still (luckily) carrying. This enabled me to recover enough to finish the last small stretch of the journey slouched on the back of his donkey. We eventually arrived. As we made our way down into the valley, we saw the openings to several tombs - including Tutankhamun's. However, in our parched and wilted condition, they paled into insignificance next to the dilapidated cafe with 'coca-cola' and '7up' signs that sat squarely in the middle of The Valley of the Kings. Groaning with relief, we made a beeline for the oasis. What we did not foresee was the modern, air-conditioned coach parked nearby (having arrived via some mysterious route built to accommodate the needs of the swarming hordes of tourists) unloading its' passengers just as we approached the doorway...and about twenty wheelchair-bound disabled people and their helpers who sternly pushed us aside with a look of disgust that we would even consider going in ahead of a group of handicapped people. One by one they were all slowly wheeled in while we stood aside, stunned and speechless in our exhausted states. By the time we did get to the bar, the 'oasis' - like a desert mirage - had vanished...all the soft drinks and water were sold out! There wasn't any running water from the taps, or in the toilets for that matter. All that was left to drink was cold beer. I had to settle for what was left of the warm mineral water we had brought. After we had taken in the sights, it was time to make our long way back. It had cooled a little by that time, making the journey much less taxing. By around five o'clock we were nearly back where we had started. On seeing us, the donkeys in the fields by the road 'hee-hawed' to our donkeys who all started enthusiastically replying. We were aching all over and completely drained by the whole experience, feeling as though we were walking with bandy legs for the rest of the day. But one thing is for sure, i am so glad my mother chose the 'road less travelled', as it is now - most definately - an experience i will never forget.
Had that been my family, my mom wouldn't be allowed to even hold a map for a while. You know, sometimes it's some of the most uncomfortable experiences in life that actually turn into a fond, funny memory later. I really like people who can be in an experience with me... for instance... driving and getting lost repeatedly, trying to find a store, etc. only to find out that the place is no longer open and instead of pitching a fit, start roaring with laughter.. Some of the best laughter I have ever experienced have been times similar to those and in those few moments, my normal pessimistic attitude floats away and the world just doesn't seem that bad. I also like really arguing with someone only in the end to come out laughing. Okay, so now it is someone else's turn to be "uncool".
