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A couple of years ago, I wrote a list of things I wanted to do before I die — and just to be clear, this was way before that retarded Bucket List movie. Anyway, last week, my list got one entry shorter — I went to Egypt and, in an ironic twist, almost died doing it.
My friend Ashley and I were in the Valley of the Kings (previous resting place of Tutankhamun and a bunch of Ramses), checking out the tombs, marveling at hieroglyphs and generally sweating our asses off (turns out, early May is the meteorological equivalent of our mid-August — in Death Valley). From the Valley of the Kings, our plan was to hike over the mountain to Hatshepsut Temple, a mortuary dedicated to the sun god Amon-Ra and site of the infamous 1997 massacre of 60 tourists by an Islamic terrorist group. Though it was clearly delineated on our map, we could not find the trail that would lead us to the other side. Instead, there were various criss-crossing paths peopled with groups of Egyptian boys waiting for hapless tourists to try their luck at navigating them.