Copyright © Tanya Piejus, 1999

It was the first time in my life when I thought I would die. For a few confused moments I was sure that the third day of a much-anticipated holiday to Egypt would be my last.

Dahshur is a strange set-up. The four pyramids are on military property and it was only recently that the Egyptian army has moved back the boundary of its training camp to allow tourists in to see this lesser-known part of their country's 7000-year heritage. The only pyramid today's pilgrims can experience is the iron-stained Red Pyramid. A short distance away is the so-called Bent Pyramid, an oddly-shaped engineering failure on the way to the true pyramid form. All the Egyptian government will allow their guests to do at Dahshur is climb inside the Red Pyramid and walk round one side of it to photograph the Bent Pyramid.

My boyfriend, Scott, and I arrived over-heated and sick of giving tips for minor conveniences like opening doors, switching on lights and unwanted commentaries. Hands always seemed to be open for that extra pound or two of baksheesh. It was our last bout of obligatory pyramid-bashing before heading back to Cairo and we handed over yet another EŁ10 for our ticket into the past. Dahshur is far off the usual tourist trail and, except for another British couple, we were visiting alone.

We left our driver dozing through the midday heat in his rattle-trap taxi. As we read the information board, a young Tourist Policeman with atrocious teeth and a Kalashnikov approached. He beckoned to us to go with him for 'five moments'. As it was a military zone and the area round the pyramids restricted, I thought that maybe he had to escort us to take our photos. His English was limited and what little he had was not good. It seemed like a reasonable supposition that he should accompany us - and he was carrying a gun. We didn't feel like we were in a position to argue.

He led the way, beckoning, and we followed him. As we walked further round the side of the pyramid and he had finished the usual halting, banal enquiries about were we married and where did we come from, my vague sense of unease became more sharply defined, despite his constant assurance that he was Tourist Police. He kept pointing to his official armband but it was tatty and dirty and didn't look like the crisp new ones we'd seen paraded at the Giza pyramids. We were miles from the nearest habitation, the few people who were there could no longer see us and he was carrying a rifle. Something was very wrong. When he exclaimed 'Russian rifle!' and yanked out the clip to show us the live ammunition, I felt a sudden sense of unambiguous horror. All I could think of was being anywhere but there.

He turned and walked away from us and rammed the clip back into the barrel of the Kalashnikov with a metallic clunk that made my stomach muscles clench. News headlines from a year before flashed up from my memory: '67 Tourists Gunned Down in Egypt', 'Fundamentalists Murder Holiday-makers in Luxor'. 'He's a terrorist. He's going to shoot us!' clattered through my mind. Scott blurted out 'He's going to shoot it into the desert!', making my confusion worse. I wanted to shout 'What the Hell is going on?' - but realised with a sudden, strange sense of relief that it was pointless. Whatever happened next, whether I lived or died, it wasn't up to me any more.

We waited. When he turned to us again, the rifle was on his shoulder, not aimed at our heads. He beckoned us on again, saying 'It OK. Come!' Fate had let us off this time. With legs like jelly and still no clearer about his true intentions, we tentatively followed him to a miniature model pyramid. Just as I was starting to feel reassured that we weren't experiencing our last few seconds on Earth, he suddenly thrust the Kalashnikov into Scott's hands. Scott was shocked by this unexpected manoeuvre and I was taken aback. Now what was he doing? I stammered 'No guns in England' which the policeman seemed to appreciate. He took the clip out again and tossed it to the base of the little pyramid when he saw from our wide eyes and lack of colour that we really didn't like this at all. He pushed his radio into my sweating hand and put his grubby beret askew on Scott's head. Feeling like innocents trapped in a surrealist's nightmare, we went along with it.

Finally, he pointed to my camera and it all became ridiculously clear. He stepped back and photographed us in his macho, pseudo-military paraphernalia, grinning like idiots, in front of the mini-pyramid. He then cajoled us over to stand where he could take a picture of us with the 'Benty Pyramid', as he called it, behind us, still dressed like teenage guerrillas from a banana republic. He held the camera at a jaunty angle and snapped away as we stood there with mixed feelings of relief, subsiding fear and self-consciousness at looking so obviously foolish.

I was suddenly angry at being made to feel that my life was in danger for the sake of a lame excuse to ask for baksheesh, which I could then see was all it had been. I said firmly 'OK. Enough, thank you very much' and we gave him his gear back and made to leave. Of course, he wanted money for the photos. He asked for EŁ10 but we were now in the position of power and gave him just EŁ5. Even that was extortionate.

He begged us not to tell anyone what he'd done. We assured him that we wouldn't shop him to the military and started walking determinedly away. He kept putting his fingers to his lips and asking 'OK? OK?' until we made it clear that his grubby little secret was safe. Now he just seemed pathetic. He wasn't evil, he wasn't really dangerous. He was just a low-ranking, bored policeman onto a cushy little number out in the desert where no-one could see him fleecing the tourists. He would probably go back to his guardroom moaning that he had only got EŁ5 from the stingy English.

Not until we were back in our hotel room did we fully realise the implications of his little scam. He obviously intended no harm and was just scrounging extra cash to clothe and feed his alleged three babies and wife, but it was a frightening and irresponsible abuse of his position of power and trust that could have gone terribly wrong. What if we had panicked and tried to run back to the taxi? What if we'd threatened to tell his superiors? What if the rifle had gone off in Scott's hands?

All I have to show for what we now jokingly refer to as 'The Mr Kalashnikov Incident' is two bad photos in my holiday album and the knowledge that a bent policeman is probably still out in the desert at Dahshur, dressing up more terrified tourists for a few pounds in baksheesh.

Back to Africa page...